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So Long, Farewell...Until Fall 2016!

So Long, Farewell…Until Fall 2016!

So long, farewell. 2015 was a crazy year. SO many firsts for me and so many bookish things happened in my life. I went to ALA. I released my first full length novel. I released another horror anthology. I wrote more than I ever have in my life on personal, collaborative, and fun projects. I read more than ever. I have exciting news and details to come, I pinkie swear it! As we kick off the new…

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#amwriting #break #farewell #saying no

Now and Again Blog Tour Wrap Up & a GIVEAWAY!

All good things must come to an end. And while we’re sad that Now And Again’s blog tour is over, we’re happy that it happened. We had such fantastic bloggers to work with and an amazing author. Let’s check out some of the highlights of the tour, shall we? Oh and remember, you can still enter the giveaway at the bottom to win! Blog Tour Stops 1/24 SUNDAY Pen and Muse Press We kicked off the tour…

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Blog Tour: Now and Again by Jennifer Ellision + Giveaway!

Today is a special day because we’ve been visited by awesome author Jennifer Ellision, author of several novels including Now and Again (new adult romance), the Threats of Sky and Sea series (YA fantasy) and more, as part of her book release blog tour. Here’s what you need to know about Now and Again. Check out this gorgeous trailer. Now and Again Book Trailer…

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#giveaway #jennifer ellision #new adult #now and again #Romance

Blog Tour Kick-off: Now and Again by Jennifer Ellision

We’re celebrating over here! Why? Because tomorrow our newest blog tour kicks off. We have a fantastic line up of bloggers that can’t wait to share music, interviews, teasers, and more with you! And not only that, we’ve got a giveaway happening where you can win not only the books but also a fantastic prize! Here are the sweet details! Now and Again by Jennifer Ellision New Adult Romance 01/25/16…

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Happy Thanksgiving!

I can’t believe that it’s November again…almost December! Where has the year gone? I feel like I’ve been saying that a whole lot this year. Another Thanksgiving is here and today I’ve been reflecting on how lucky I am. The book community is incredible, from readers to authors to book bloggers to publishers and I’m so grateful for the passion, friendship, enthusiasm, and imagination that all of…

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#grateful #Thanksgiving

Happy Birthday Kristen Jett!

Today is a very special day. Why, you may ask? We have a very special birthday today! Hint: Her name is Kristen and she’s a co-founder of Pen and Muse! But more than that she’s a mama, an author, a social media guru, a marketing genius, a lover of baking (seriously just follow her on Pinterest), a pink and glitter kinda gal, a fellow Hardy Boys fanatic, and list-making Queen. Happy Birthday…

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#birthday #Kristen Jett

Night Harvest: One True Desire by Kathleen Palm

Welcome to the Night Harvest. This October and November, we’re be featuring scary stories and illustrations from talented authors and artists around the globe. I hope you stay awhile. After all, the Night Harvest is quite a scream. You can see the live list of participants and their posts dates on this link. Follow the buzz on twitter using the official hashtag #NightHarvest. Oh, and don’t…

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#halloween #kathleen palm #Kathy Palm #night harvest #one true desire #scary stories #Short Stories

Night Harvest: One True Desire by Kathleen Palm

Follow the buzz on twitter using the official hashtag #NightHarvest. Oh, and don’t forget to scroll to the bottom of this post for a giveaway!

One True Desire

by Kathleen Palm

Cornstalks slash across my cheeks as I race through the field. My celebratory calls echo in the night. I’m free. Finally. Energy pulses through me, but each flicker of power dimmer than the last. My bare feet sink into the rich black dirt. The glow from the moon spills orange-tinted light over my arms as I push through the rustling leaves. The harvest moon. The reason my chains have been cut.

A simple spell, magic to ask for a clean slate. I’m never going back. Never again being who they want me to be, a me hidden behind a mask of false perfection, of forced happiness.

A rush of wings thunders through the air. Hundreds of birds take flight, and I stop. The roar of caws swallows the chaotic rhythm of my breathing. Their cries weave into words.

Gone…

All gone…

Shadows creep into my joy and dispel the haze of manic glee. My triumphant laugh quivers and dies. The chill September night air burns my lungs and touches the sweat on my face with frozen fingers. The flock disappears into the night, their din fading into the past. Panic brushes my mind and my heart stutters. I drop my gaze and take in the rough stalks, the black soil, and the endless field. My hair creeps over my shoulders, the blood-red ends ominous in the moonlight.

The wind falls quiet. The buzz of insects and creak of stalks cease. The still of the night descends on me in a rush of silence.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Why am I here?

The scent of damp dirt crawls up my nose. I squint into the field, my frantic breathing a sound of unease. Row after row of corn continues until the night devours them, the eerie light unable to penetrate the dark. A lone bird caws. My stomach clenches, for it calls my name.

Rae…

…Rae…

I snap my gaze up in time to spot the dark shape drift across the moon. The harvest moon. Huge and magnificent, it hangs low in the sky, ripe with magic.

I had been in my room.

Sitting on the floor.

Staring at that same moon.

Had the spell worked?

It must have been only hours since I settled the tattered book in a puddle of moonlight, surrounded by flickering candles. The creepy tome covered with strange symbols, the almost-letters of lines and circles. The book I stole.

My deepest need clear in my mind, I chanted the odd phrases, stumbling over words with no meaning. Then closed my eyes.

But how did I get from my room to here?

The lilting melody of freedom hums in the back of my mind. But how can I believe it if I can’t remember confronting Mom and Dad, telling them how my life will be? I have to go home. See if it worked. But which way?

A breeze weaves through the field, sending the dried leaves into whispered conversations. Darkness clings to the stalks and the ground. I shiver at the cold embrace of the wind, which rises with a growl. The corn’s hushed tones morph into frantic chatter. A scream slices the fall chill with an icy claw. I press my hands to my ears as fear spreads through my thoughts like a fire across a dead forest. I gaze into the field, at places hidden from the moon. Every sound sends me spinning. Who is there?

Only the wind playing chase in the field?

Only animals hunting at night?

Only my imagination?

Except my stomach twists as if caught in a lie. Trapped in my mind, the terrible cry lurks, repeats and insists it is reality. The screech of my name rides the cold air, the bird calls me. Warns me? Unease creeps up my spine. The moon hovers, watching, waiting. It knows how I got here. This is part of the plan. The shining orb has done its job, cast its magic. Unfettered me.

But why am I in a field? I search for the way back to where ever I began. The light of the moon brushes the edges of footprints. My prints. The way I had come. A way back home?

I follow the path and tuck my hands under my arms to capture a bit of warmth, my sweat-damped shirt only welcoming the chill. My long, extra-comfy shorts ripple against my thighs in the breeze. Goosebumps spread over my arms and legs. Is this the field behind our house? Had I fallen asleep? Maybe wandered out here under the spell? The book didn’t say anything about forgetting, losing time, sleep-walking.

Maybe I did it wrong.

Mom’s words that I can’t do anything right, that I’m not good enough scatter my thoughts. She will be waiting at the back door, a lecture perched on her lips. I hit leaves out of my way, my anger rising. More words.

To teach.

To punish.

To control.

When Mom and Dad discovered my deceit, they attacked with those words. It had been inevitable. Anger flares in my stomach at Mom’s actions. Just this morning, the moment she crossed the line. I don’t care, not anymore. The wind blows my hair in my face and freedom whispers in my ear. Being away from home offered choices. The choice to change my brown locks to black and red. The choice to not go to class.

At home choices didn’t exist. Only orders. Only expectations.

I walk through the field, a brave new me.

A me who defies Mom.

A me who takes a stand.

A me who casts spells.

Shadows dance at the edges of my vision. Cornstalks tap-tap-tap against each other as if sharing secrets, sending ripples of fear along my back. I glance over my shoulder at every creak, crack, and crunch. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home, telling Mom and Dad my true desires. If the spell worked, I can do that. I will do that. Unless the ritual went wrong. When I sat in front of the book to practice, hesitation made me trip over the words, the chance of failure clear in my mind.

But after this morning, after being told over and over of their disappointment. How I disregarded the path they had set for me. How I dared show such disrespect when they wanted what was best for me. But they never asked me. I opened my mouth to tell her everything. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t perfect. She wouldn’t listen. They didn’t care. Magic became the only choice.

I had never gone against them, never spoken a word, only ever cowered in a corner. How many times had tears streamed along my cheeks as I made wish after wish to be alone, to be rid of them? Mom and Dad with their rules and expectations. Gaby with her need to please them, her smiles at their praise. But I couldn’t get away, until now.

A shiver of air races through the stalks, playing the leaves like a raspy instrument, until tugging on my hair, pulling a memory free of the dark place in my head. When the spell had been completed, a gust swept through my room and snuffed the candle flames with a roar. The currents whipped around my body, and the light of the moon rushed into me. I breathed it in. Power smells of smoke, of spice, of eternity. Then…

I can’t remember.

The magic took control.

A control I happily gave.

I pause. My shirt sticks to my arms as I raise my hands to my head. Annoyed and disgusted, I peel away the fabric and gaze at the dark stain splattered across my oversized night shirt. I slide my finger across the mess and catch my breath. The same stuff covers my fingers, my hands, my arms.

Black paint?

I hadn’t used paint in the spell.

Had I?

A blurry memory plays. Smoke swirling in the air. Moonlight pulsing around my feet as I cross my room and open my door. The dim hall leading to the stairs. The voices of Mom, Dad, and my perfect little sister drifting up from the first floor.

The scene fades to darkness. The rest of the answer to how I got here stays hidden. I shudder at the rustle of plants, the shadows and dim light dance like malevolent spirits. I stare at my hands. Confusion and worry slip into my mind like unwanted guests. The substance makes my stomach churn.

Is it paint?

What else could it be?

Blood.

The thought echoes through my brain. I wipe my hands along my shirt over and over. Magic can demand a sacrifice. Spells can require symbols drawn on walls and floors.

Had I killed some animal to make the magic work? Or was it paint? Was our house covered in pentagrams and curving lines?

Shoving cornstalks aside, I hurry along the row, worry creeping farther into my mind. I have to return. I have to know that I am truly free.

If it hadn’t been for Mom, her deciding what school I attended and what courses I took, I would never have been on campus, pretending to be in class. I would never have overheard the five girls, their hair twisted and tucked into numerous braids, who sat on the floor in a dark corner of the university’s library. Strange pendants, circles like the moon with sweeping lines curling at the edges, hung from chains around their necks as they chanted words of praise. I hid behind the shelves, listening to their plans to use magic.

The power of the harvest moon.

An easy spell to wipe the slate clean.

All it takes is need.

A strong want. A true desire. To start over. To be free. Could it be real? Magic? While they weren’t looking, I took the book because I didn’t care if it was a lie, I wanted to try. The spell needed me, candles, and words. Magic, fueled by dreams, the moon able to grant my wish.

I glance up. The great orb continues to wait, to watch in silence. What wish had it seen in my heart that the magic sent me here?

My need is to be free. Always has been.

The quiet of the night presses on my ears. My toes sink into the cold dirt as I push forward. I shiver, but refuse to touch my arms to my chest for warmth.

Because of the stain.

Because of the blood.

Because of what I might have done.

Wind howls at my back, I turn and it hits me in the face, carrying a mind-numbing scream. I stop and run my sticky hands along my shirt. Is something out here with me? Something upset with what I have done, with the ritual I performed? Did I call it forth? The solitary bird flits across the moon as if trying to catch its light. Its cry rings in my ears.

Rae…

…Rae…

The towering cornstalks bend over me, threatening. The blackness deepens and closes in around me. My gaze darts to every shadow, to every trembling leaf.

I run. My hands block the stinging slap of the reaching field. Why can’t I remember? What happened after I left my room? A scene tumbles into the light of discovery. I skid to a stop. The forgotten memory erases my surroundings, consumes me. And in my mind, I’m home. Instead of dirt, my feet sink into the soft carpet of the stairs. My hand runs along perfectly straight picture frames, which hold the perfect smiles on the faces of the perfect family, my family. Arms folded, Gaby sits at the dining room table dutifully reading a book. The wave of disgust breaks in my mind at how she shares our parents’ fake smiles. Over her head, the glittering chandelier throws broken lines of light on the sterile white walls. Behind the formal table with its twelve high-backed chairs Dad paces the living room, sending orders through his phone—every statement ends with a snap. The click-clack of Mom typing marches from the kitchen.

The memories unfold, closing on the end of the story. Anger and excitement build. As if a puppet, I reach for the door to the kitchen, but meet crisp, rough leaves. My mind snaps back to reality, the answers remain out of reach.

Why am I in the field?

Did the magic work?

Is it blood?

My breathing becomes an unsteady rhythm. The wet front of my shirt sways unnaturally. I hold my arms out to keep them from touching me… from touching anything.

Is it blood?

What will I find when I get home? Either the harvest moon granted my wish or Mom will sit me down for another lecture to attempt to brainwash me into being her good girl—not Rae, but her Rachel.

More scenes emerge from the nothingness, and my missing memories engulf me. The field disappears and I enter the kitchen. My body buzzes with power. Mom’s voice cuts through the haze, asking if I thought about our conversation. If I reconsidered my actions. If I am prepared to be responsible. I don’t answer as I turn to get a glass from the cabinet.

Orange light filters through the image of the kitchen and the memory shatters. With a growl, I sprint and smack every plant that invades my space. Mom appeared at my dorm room this morning. Her dark brown eyes twitched with displeasure as she inspected my newly colored hair. Her mouth bent in a frown, she ordered me to pack clothes for the weekend. We were going home to talk.

Talk. Mom doesn’t talk, she preaches. She demands.

She paced my room, and I shoved shirts and pants in a bag. My chest heated with rage at being dragged home like a five-year-old. She’d called the school. I wasn’t failing, her voice hitching on that word. Her hands flew through the air as she informed me that my non-existent scores didn’t qualify as failing.

She wanted to know what I had been thinking?

I want to make my own choices.

I want to go to a different school.

I want her to stop controlling me.

Fatigue in my legs brings me to a halt, and my gaze drifts to the moon. I curl my fingers into fists as a dark beast of wrath growls from the black corners of myself.

I resist the urge to scream at the piece of rock in the sky, to demand it answer my question. The spell. Did it work?

Am I free?

As Mom ranted about my lack of good decision making, my gaze fell on the book of spells.

All I need is desire.

We rode home in the car, my hands bouncing in my lap, knuckles white. Mom talked the entire three hours. She reminded me of the work it takes to be a doctor. She told me I would get my act together and go back Monday ready to face my professors. When we reached the house, Mom ended the speech with a curt nod, as if everything had been decided.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t hide. I didn’t run to my room and cry about not being good enough. Maybe being away at college had cut a rebellious streak through my usual passiveness.

I told Mom that I wasn’t going back.

She laughed, as if I was a silly kid who didn’t know any better.

She laughed.

And I slammed the car door.

And I wished that Mom would disappear.

And I wished to be free of them all.

I stare at the dark stain covering my clenched fists. Desire. It wasn’t the first time that need to be alone, to be free of my family had surfaced. I remember the peace of the empty house, just me. I remember wishing that Mom, Dad, and Gaby wouldn’t come home from the store. In the early morning hours, I remember hoping they wouldn’t wake up, wouldn’t be there…

…to talk…

…and talk…

…and talk.

How many times have I wished for home to be swallowed by dark? How many?

I hurry through the field. My heart pounds with the rhythm of my thoughts. One thought. The magic knew my desire. The harvest moon brought the power to life.

A lost memory crawls out of the back of my mind. The knives tucked into their wooden block. The squeak of Mom’s chair on the tile floor.

A shiver traces my spine.

Blood on my hands.

I break free of the field and gasp for breath. Drenched in dim moonlight, my yard stands before me. Lights burn steady from the windows of the two story brick house. As if nothing is wrong. But the light lies. The yellow rectangles drown the moonlight as they stretch across the grass, welcoming me home. Or maybe accusing me. Maybe reaching for me only to put me in a new prison, one of my making.

I remember wrapping my fingers around the handle of the knife.

I remember the surge of elation as the magic sought to fulfill my desires.

I remember Mom’s screams as the blade struck her heart.

My body shakes. I rub my hands along my hips over and over, hoping to wipe away the blood. Because it isn’t only Mom’s screams that haunt me. Dad rushed into the kitchen, and a simple flick of my wrist sent a red wave down his neck. His death reduced to strangled pleas.

I collapse to my knees. My fingers dig into the ground. Tears fall like rain, a storm of regret.

Magic has consequences. But I didn’t understand.

Until now.

A sliver of light shines in the grass. I inch forward until my fingers close on the wood handle of the knife.

The knife covered with blood.

The knife I dropped as I ran from the house.

The knife the magic used to grant my wish.

I wanted to be free.

As I stared at my parents, blood pooling on the tile, Gaby called from the other room. Her voice quivered with fear. I exited the kitchen, the knife hidden behind my back, and found her standing by her chair in the dining room. Her green eyes tracked me. She shifted from one foot to another and asked what was going on.

And I told her nothing.

And she shook her head, tears dripping along her cheeks.

And I attacked.

She tried to run, but the magic was faster. I stopped her tears. Her perfect tears.

Her cries ring loudest in my mind.

Hours ago, by the power of the harvest moon uncovered my true desire. Memories flood my head, of my escape into the field, not caring where I was headed, only that I was free. Yet I paid a great price. My family’s dying screams echo in the black. Thoughts of their final moments lodge in my mind. Forever.

No more lectures. No more expectations. No more being told how my life will be.

I can choose. I did choose.

A clean slate. But I will never be free.

When a portal didn’t whisk her away to another world, Kathleen Palm decided she’d have to create them.

As a kid, she filled sketchpads with drawings of strange creatures and wondrous worlds. She dreamed of being an illustrator and studied art in college. However, in the middle of being a stay-at-home mom with two toddlers, the desire to write her own stories struck. She embarked on the journey of insanity and never looked back, except to keep an eye out for the TARDIS or faeries because, well… because. She loves the weird, the scary, and the fantastical, believing that magic makes the world a better place.

Her kids, husband, cats, dog, and tortoises add laughter and general chaos to her life, which includes writing, reading, or watching strange television shows, featuring demons or time travel.

Her stories can be found in the anthology Fairly Twisted Tales for a Horribly Ever After and Halloween Night: Trick or Treat.

Her debut book Doors is scheduled for release in the winter of 2016.

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Night Harvest: The Girl In The Tree by Colleen Britton

Welcome to the Night Harvest. For the entire month of October, we’ll be featuring scary stories and illustrations from talented authors and artists around the globe. I hope you stay awhile. After all, the Night Harvest is quite a scream. You can see the live list of participants and their posts dates on this link. Follow the buzz on twitter using the official hashtag #NightHarvest. Oh,…

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#Colleen Britton #halloween #night harvest #October #scary stories #the girl in the tree

Night Harvest: The Girl In The Tree by Colleen Britton

Follow the buzz on twitter using the official hashtag #NightHarvest. Oh, and don’t forget to scroll to the bottom of this post for a giveaway!

The Girl in the Tree

by Colleen Britton

The trees cast no shadows with the setting of the sun, a wan, white disc that was neither bright nor warm. Mist wove through the trunks and beaded on the fingertips of the branches and along the apple skins. It was the eve of November, and the harvest was about to begin.

A girl sat in the crook of a tree, kicking her feet and blowing on cold hands. Her breath whistled through her fingers like the cry of a mourning dove. She wore her hair in two braids over her shoulders, and her clothes were a rumple of patchwork. A coarse cloth bag hung at her waist.

A lantern hung from the branch above her. It glowed brighter and more brilliant as darkness descended, casting a golden pool on the beaten grass beneath the tree. Shadows appeared, crawling out from unseen places. But the girl was not afraid. She was waiting.

She had been waiting an entire year for this night, just as she had waited every year, for many years. The people in the village beyond the trees used to wait, too. Once, they would have lit fires and sang songs in a language they no longer remembered. But not now. Those days had long since passed, and the memory of the girl was passing, too. Swinging her feet, she could almost taste the crackling smoke of the ancient bone fires.

The first to come arrived after vespers. A hulking shape that appeared in the darkness and settled just beyond the lantern light. It was a hut, if you could even call it that, on chicken feet. The feet scratched at the earth, then settled down like a hen over her nest. After a moment, the ragged cloth over the doorway twitched, and a withered crone stepped nose-first into the night.

“Good evening,” said the girl.

The crone narrowed her birdlike black eyes. Skirts dragging on the wet grass, she approached the tree with the help of a knotty walking stick. The girl knew better—this woman needed no help. She stood, chewing her gums, scrutinizing the apples on the tree.

“It’s a fine harvest this year,” said the girl. She thrust out her hand. “What have you brought me for one of my apples?”

The crone screwed up her face, working her jaw as if she would speak. She did not. Instead, she opened her palm, and from thin air, produced an egg, its shell black and cracked. The girl took it, and shook it next to her ear. Something rattled inside and uttered dark oaths in a gravelly voice.

“I accept,” said the girl, slipping the egg into her bag.

The crone pushed her open hand toward the girl, clutching her fingers expectantly.

“Of course, of course,” said the girl. She reached up into the branches of the tree and picked an apple. Its golden skin seemed to glow in the lantern light. “Take this,” she said. “Use it as you will.”

The crone snatched it from her with lightning quickness. She snuffled it with her long nose. Apparently satisfied, she gave the slightest of nods, the barest respects. With that, she turned and galloped back to her hut, her knotty stick all but forgotten. She disappeared behind the cloth, and the hut shot up on its chicken feet. Digging its claws into the earth, it darted into the night.

The girl patted the egg through the bag. It snarled curses at her, but she paid it no mind. It was a promising start. She laughed like the tinkling of bells. The leaves rustled in the trees.

At the witching hour, hoof beats rang out against the frost-hardened ground. A horse pulling a vardo emerged from the darkness. Its driver, a bent old woman, hauled back on the reins, jerking the animal to a stop. She crawled down the wagon wheel, and the girl slid out of the tree to meet her.

“You got a new horse,” said the girl. She patted its foamy neck, admiring its rolling human eyes.

“A fine one, yes. It’s the innkeeper,” said the old woman. “I wore the blacksmith out.”

The girl stroked the trembling creature. “A shame,” she said. “But come, friend. What have you brought me?”

The old woman pulled a paper-wrapped package out of the folds of her cloak. She handed it to the girl. “Gingerbread,” she said. “Spicy and sweet, from the shingles of my house.”

The girl put the gingerbread into her bag. The old woman brought the same thing every year, but that was alright. She was very old—although not nearly as old as she—and the girl knew that sometimes, when you got old, you forgot things. What gifts you gave, the languages you once spoke, and the smell of bone fires.

“Thank you,” said the girl. She reached up into the tree, and picked an apple with brilliant green flesh. It was the kind you could cover with caramel to cover what was inside. “Take this. Use it as you will.”

The old woman accepted the apple gratefully, and the two beamed at each other like a grandmother to her ancient daughter. Then the girl helped her climb back into her wagon, and as soon as her old friend had settled, she landed a sharp smack on the horse’s rump. Its human eyes rolled, and it bolted into the night.

As the girl clambered back up into the branches, she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. The egg and the gingerbread were both good, but once she had received more and better. When times were wilder and the bone fires burned high. When people still believed in the girl in the tree. No matter. Dawn was hours off yet. There was still time.

The black of night began to pale. Soon, bakers would rise to make their bread, and holy men would chant their matins. The girl blew another breath through her hands. Somewhere, a mourning dove answered.

Nighttime was nearly over, and only the two had come. Once, people would have fought to see her, offering anything to take part in the harvest. Animals, blood, children. Now it was cursed eggs and paltry sweets, gifts fit for something far less than she. It seemed even the nightwalkers were starting to forget. The girl leaned her cheek on her fist and sighed. She would wait just a little longer.

All but the brightest of the stars had vanished when the girl heard the footsteps. A fox, she thought, or a cat, but as it stepped into the lantern light, she could see it was a woman. A very pretty, actually beautiful woman, wearing beautiful clothes. She held up her skirts as she walked, and picked her way carefully through the grass. The girl had never seen her before.

“Are you lost?” she asked, leering down from the tree.

The beautiful woman dropped the hem of her skirts. She smoothed them, then clasped her hands in front of her. “I have something,” she said. “For you.”

The girl smiled. “Go home, child. You know not what you ask.”

The beautiful woman lifted her chin, eyes haughty. She was clearly not used to being told what to do. “I won’t leave until you give me what I came for.”

The girl laughed, the tinkling of bells. “I’ll give you another chance—are you sure you’re not lost?”

The beautiful woman flushed with anger, red spots staining white cheeks. “I know what you are. And I know what you do. Take my offering, and give me one of your apples.”

The girl slipped out of the tree and meandered toward the beautiful woman. Such rudeness from someone who claimed to know her! She held out her hand. “What have you brought me?”

The beautiful woman looked down at her as though she were a beggar. She pulled a purse from her belt and shook five gold coins into the girl’s open palm. The girl stared at them.

“Is that not enough?” asked the woman with a sneer.

The girl turned her hand, tipping the coins onto the ground. “That you would offer such a thing tells me you do not know who you’re dealing with,” she said. “But, perhaps we can strike a deal.”

The beautiful woman eyed the coins in the grass. She lifted her gaze back to the girl. “What do you want?”

“First,” said the girl, “tell me why you want one of my apples. Why have you come to the harvest?”

The beautiful woman’s pretty mouth twisted. “My business is my own.”

Such manners would have made the girl angry once. In another time, she might have risen up and done something terrible, something they would remember for years to come. But she only shrugged and turned back toward her tree.

“There is a girl,” the beautiful woman said quickly. “My husband’s daughter. She is the fairest—”

The girl shared a private smile with the shadows. She waved her hand, silencing the beautiful woman. “Say no more. I’ll give you what you came for.”

Jealousy was such a pitiful thing, but it was also full of power. She went back to her tree and searched its branches, fists on her hips. At last, she found what she was looking for—an apple, bright and red. She plucked it and offered it to the beautiful woman. The sight of it made her pretty eyes grow big, and even the girl’s own mouth watered. The temptation to take even one bite was terrible.

“Take this,” said the girl. “Use it as you will. I ask for nothing in return.”

The beautiful woman wondered at it, transfixed. Her gaze shifted slowly back to the girl. “Why do you take nothing for it?”

“Well, if you don’t want it…” The girl began to slip the apple into her bag.

“Wait.”

The beautiful woman’s face was pale now, and there was a hungry look about her. A starving fox. A skinny cat.

The girl held the fruit at arm’s length. Hesitantly, the beautiful woman reached out and took the apple. She cupped it in both hands, its shiny red skin reflecting onto her face. The color of blood.

The girl only smiled. “Go. It is nearly dawn, and there’s no time to waste.”

The beautiful woman, unused to orders, flushed again. She began to stoop as if to pick up the coins, but she picked up her skirts instead, clutching the apple to her chest. She did not look back as she fled into the trees.

The girl scooped up one of the coins and bit it. The soft gold bent under her sharp teeth. She flipped it into the grass, a grin splitting her face. The beautiful woman thought she had gotten something for nothing, but the true price would be paid when the apple was bitten. It didn’t matter if the she succumbed and ate it or if she fed it to her fair stepdaughter. It was a blood sacrifice one way, the sale of a soul the other. A true offering, a good offering, one from days of old. The beautiful woman could never forget the girl in the tree for as long as she lived and after. That alone would keep the memory of the bone fires warm for years to come.

Humming an ancient song, the girl swung up into the branches. She turned the lantern down, drowning the wick, bathing herself in shadow. A cool wind shook the trees, and a few wizened apples dropped to the ground. The first hint of morning appeared in the sky, a white blush that promised nothing. It was November now, and the harvest was over.

END

Colleen Britton is the author of several short stories, including The Unnamed, a YA horror published by the Young Adult Review Network.

She lives and writes in Michigan. You can find her on twitter @BrittonColleen.

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Night Harvest: Shine On, Harvest Moon by Emily McKeon

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Night Harvest: Shine On, Harvest Moon by Emily McKeon

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Shine On, Harvest Moon

by Emily McKeon

The moon rose orange behind the farmhouse. A Harvest Moon, bathing the cornfields in an amber glow. Far off in the distance, laughter and music filled the silence as the town gathered for the annual Harvest Festival.

In the cooling night, a breeze kicked up. The sudden wind rustled the cornstalks, making them whisper to the darkness and the great pumpkin moon overhead.

“Jerry.” The voice was soft. Brittle. The first words spoken by someone who long ago had forgotten how to. “Jerry.”

Inside the farmhouse, Jeremiah Dunne sat at his kitchen table. Across his lap lay the shotgun he knew would do no good. On the table, clutched in his fist, was half a tumbler of whiskey. His own brew from last year’s harvest.

“Jerry.”

He swigged the last of his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. He dared not refill it. He foolishly left the bottle on the counter and would have to stand to reach it.

Standing led to walking.

Walking led to answering the call.

Answering the call led to…something he’d rather not think about.

God, he could use another drink.

“Jerry.” The voice grew stronger. A child’s teasing sing-song.

How had he allowed himself to be trapped, alone, on this of all nights?

Because he hadn’t counted. He hadn’t checked the calendar. Because he thought he still had a few more days.

Because he and Helen had a fight earlier and she stormed off to join their neighbors at the festival, leaving him to brood alone until the voices started.

“Jer-ry.”

Married near thirty years with less than a dozen cross words between them. Two hours ago, she got bent out of shape over something he had said. He couldn’t even remember the comment now. That’s how important it was.

The fight escalated. Thirty years of imagined slights on both sides. Screaming and yelling until the hound dog over at the Turner place joined in, baying at the top of his lungs.

“Jerry. Jerry.”

Now the fight made sense. Those words weren’t his or Helen’s. Those hateful words belonged to the Moon.

But why hadn’t she answered her phone when he called to apologize? He came to his senses shortly after she stormed off, pie in hand, to join the rest of the town. When he called, her phone went right to voice mail. Not even a ring.

“Jerry.” The voice matured, deepened. A young girl calling to him, just past childhood.

Helen was gone. Deep down, Jeremiah knew he would never see her again. Divide and conquer, that’s what the Moon did. Split them up so he wouldn’t have her to lean on. Nothing stopped It from claiming him now.

The Moon was never strong enough to take him and Helen on together, so It tricked them.

He should have anticipated the situation progressing to this stage. Should have seen it coming. Only so long a man can deter the Old Ones before they grapple him into submission with something new.

But Helen didn’t need to go. She was never part of the deal.

“Jerry.” Always Jerry. Never Jeremiah. Ever since he was a boy, the corn whispers were always Jerry.

“Jerry.” A woman now, past her girlhood, but still young. A mother to the children he and Helen never had.

No children. That had been the stipulation he made when he asked Helen to marry him. No children to hear the whispers in the corn at night. No children to pass this curse down to.

Jeremiah had Great-Great-Great-Great Grandpa Dunne to thank for his farm and the consistently good harvests year after year. The Dunne Farm yielded the sweetest corn in all of Kansas. In all the world.

That distinction came with a price. All the Dunne men paid it.

Jeremiah had the same long-gone grandfather to thank for that as well.

Harvest spirits were nothing to play around with.

“Jerry.”

He clutched the gun tighter. A bullet wouldn’t save him. Nothing would. Already he lived past his expiration date. Years ago he should have entered the corn to join all the Dunne men who went before him. Only his stubbornness and Helen kept him alive this long.

Helen.

That’s why she went off to the festival. To the noise invading the air and masking any screams for help. She would never hear his good-bye to her. His final cry out to her would be lost among the shrieks of the Spinning Shell riders. She’d never return to him in time to stop him from venturing outside.

With Helen around, Jeremiah would never enter the corn when it called to him. The Moon knew all this. It had gotten rid of the obstacle and cleared the path for Jeremiah.

Through the kitchen window, the Harvest Moon smiled its jack-o-lantern grin. People say there’s a man who lives on the moon. Jeremiah knew better. That was no man gazing benevolently down on the Earth.

Hiding was not an option. The Moon claimed all his ancestors. It would claim him, too. All it needed was time.

The Moon had lots of time. Jeremiah was all out.

“Jerry.”

The gun clattered when he dropped it on the table, bumping against his whiskey tumbler. He didn’t bother to glance around one last time at the house he grew up in. What was the point? What memory would it hold once he entered the corn?

The door swung in the breeze. No sense locking it. Let whoever was unlucky enough to claim his thriving farm claim his curse, too.

Buttered popcorn and burnt sugar assailed his nose as he walked. Whatever Helen was doing, he hoped she was enjoying herself. Eating all the treats she denied herself every other day. Riding the Ferris wheel and staring out at the fields, too far to see details. That’s when everything is the prettiest.

“Jerry. We’re waiting.” The voice sounded familiar. But, it couldn’t be.

“Helen?”

“Here. Come join us.”

The Moon brightened as the old man stumbled among the corn. His skin drying and cracking, like an ear of corn left out in the sun too long.

He tripped, falling over a withered stalk. Jeremiah lay on his side, winded from the impact and unable to stand. The voice he heard…was it another of the Moon’s tricks?

Gulping air, he rolled over to face the cause of his downfall.

“Jerry. You came.”

Jeremiah opened his mouth to scream, but all sound was cut off. His own husk encased him from head to toe. His face pressed against the covering in a permanent scream, identical to Helen’s laying next to him.

Emily is a writer on the go! Her first book, WHO WILL DANCE WITH ME? is now available.

You can find more about her at her blog and Twitter.

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Night Harvest: White Trash by Lucas Hargis

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Night Harvest: White Trash by Lucas Hargis

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White Trash

by Lucas Hargis

It makes sense that I’d die in a thrift store.

My breath’s hot and steamy inside my trash bag. It’s clinging to me with all its wetness. Its neon-whiteness glowing in the dark. A black one would sink into the shadows, but even the kind rich people stuff dead leaves into are turning into body bags tonight.

Most of me wishes I hadn’t torn these eyeholes.

Two of my classmates’ bodies slump against the storefront window. Over by the musty dressing room, the freckle-faced guy who once loaned me his gluestick in Art begged for mercy. They didn’t care. Another limp body’s leaking all over the checkout counter, blood dripping onto a stack of old, cut up magazines. The quiet girl who eats lunch in the library is spilling out from a shelf of dirty shoes.

They’re actually killing us.

I have to be the last of the Crops, as they’re calling us, to keep breathing. But as silently as I can. And I must fight the urge to rip off this sweaty bag smothering me like some suffocating ghost. If I can do those things, maybe I’ll be the one to survive. As long as the Reapers, as they’re calling themselves, follow their own rules.

I’m at the back of the store, camouflaged in the pile of black and white donation bags Mama sifts through to save the best clothes for me. I scrambled, laughing at first, when the Reapers started counting to twenty. At eighteen, I ditched the furniture section because this hiding place popped in my head.

Being a trash bag hiding with other trash bags might save my life.

There are five Reapers. All wearing masks. I recognized their muffled voices when they locked us clueless Crops in the pitch-black store and explained the full rules. It’s the same group that’s always putting us worthless kids in our place. But they had to be joking about the killing part. Just messing with us.

They weren’t.

Two of them are silhouetted against the front window. One’s guarding the door, swinging a machete and daring us to try to escape. The other’s poking a pitchfork into the clothes racks. An ax, a familiar pair of scissors, and a sickle are slicing somewhere in the darkness.

Behind the two Reapers I can see, the bonfire’s raging in the town square. People are crunching expensive candied apples and squealing on all the rides they want. A few blocks farther, the tip-top of the Ferris wheel. I was heading towards it, gripping the only three tickets Mama could afford, when a gloved hand tapped my shoulder.

I pissed myself, just a little, with excitement. I didn’t think, there was no way, I’d be chosen. Not being who I am, on the social scale between a slug and whatever animal has the smallest bladder, living in the Roach Apartments, wearing clothes from the exact thrift store I’m cowering in.

The snippets I overheard the popular kids whispering in school sounded fun and mysterious. I pretended not to know the details. But Gavin, whose family stuffs leaves into gold-plated bags, bent that rule this year. In English, he angled the handmade flyer being passed around so I could read over his shoulder. I smirked along with him and acted like I’d never seen it before.

Oh God, a scream. To my left. Only a few feet away. Chopping, chopping. I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t dare move to cover my ears. A juicy sound. Crunching. The rustle of plastic. A bag. A garbage bag with pieces of a now-silent person inside.

Footsteps. Closer. My white bag glowing.

From far away. “How many more sorry-ass Crops left to harvest? I need some cotton candy.”

The closest Reaper’s so close his body count rattles my bag. “I got three, all black bags.”

“Asshole. I only harvested one. Also black.”

That’s four.

“Same.”

Five.

“You’re all losers. Four for me, black bags.”

Nine out of twelve us already dead. I have a one-in-three chance.

The last voice. I recognize its golden tone. Gavin. “No one got that pathetic, white-bag pisser yet?”

Even though I helped him. Even though I’ve done every single thing he’s ever—

The bag next to me, touching mine, shifts the slightest bit. A quiet whimper squeezes through its plastic and into mine, mixing with the echo of Gavin’s words, the stifling humidity and darkness in here with me.

Metal rips through plastic, squishes into wet flesh. Thrashing. The sob, it’s a girl, chokes into a gurgle. More punctures, each thrust jolting me, stabbing me with her pain. I try to hold in my own scream, my unstoppable tears, the warmth flooding my jeans.

“Somebody help me harvest all these pissy-smelling bags of junk. That stinky fucker can’t win.”

“Please.” A new voice. Crying from the far corner. Maybe by the donated toys.

The Reaper hovering over me shuffles towards the begging Crop. I let myself exhale.

“I want out.” The Crop’s silhouette is backlit by the distant bonfire. He shucks his bag and keeps his hands raised in surrender. “I thought it was a game. Not real. Not this.”

Machete girl abandons her post by the door. “You know the rules, Crop.”

All the Reapers, blurred blackness, swarm him.

Gavin, the masked shadow with the sickle, raises it. “If the bag comes off, so does your head.”

My heartbeat thumps against my hands pressed so tightly to my ears. If there’s a scream or a thud, I don’t hear them. My eyes are closed. All I can see is the flyer burning against my eyelids, the intentionally misspelled Festicle, as Gavin calls it, the letters I cut out and glued down like he told me. My chest is heaving. I’m crying now. I’m sure of it. Out loud and I can’t stop. My white bag’s suffocating me. I’m the last one, but there’s no way they’re letting anyone go.

Especially not me.

A million excruciating years tick by. One slow-motion second. Another. Another. I wait for the ax or pitchfork or sickle to erase the flyer, the urine smell, the memories of the crunching, screaming, wet, plastic sounds. Harvesting, forgetfulness, relief. I’m ready. I want them all.

Instead, the scents of bonfire wood and kettle corn nudge me. Faraway laughter ripples the flimsy ghost shrouding me. I open one eye and peek through the ragged holes. The thrift store’s door is propped open. No Reapers in sight. Just bodies of the losers and the other crap the rich people in town don’t want around anymore.

My bag slips up and off without me doing it. I cringe. Its sickly silhouette dangles from Gavin’s sickle. He’s still wearing his mask.

He plops onto the bags, the side opposite my chopped up classmate. “You better clean up this mess before the festical shuts down if you want to ride the Ferris wheel.”

I bump his knee with mine. “You actually killed them. The year you let me come.”

“I finally talked the other chicken-shit Reapers into it.” He takes off his mask. His rich-boy teeth shine in the darkness. “Covering your pathetic faces with trash bags was a genius idea.”

“You didn’t even warn me.” I wish the lights were on. “And why did you remind the other Reapers I was in a white bag?”

Gavin stands. “Next year, I’ll loan you a big, black one.”

“But you promised. If I made the annual flyer and let you use Mama’s store during fifth, sixth, and seventh grade—” My choked tears cut off the rest.

He uses my bag to scrape the blood off his sickle. “Fine, pisser, you can be, like, an Assistant Reaper or something next year.”

I stand, too, and try so hard to look him in the eyes. Maybe he really means it this time.

“New rule, though.” Then he’s behind me, his sickle blade cold and sharp against my throat. “You can’t piss yourself anymore.” His whispered breath is hot and gooey in my ear. “If you do, I’ll harvest your pathetic ass, wherever we are, on the spot.”

Gavin’s right. I’m pathetic white trash. Poor. Stupid. Worthless. I’ve tried so hard to change, to be different than I am, to somehow not be me. But there’s nothing I can do about it.

The pressure’s building. This urge, an undeniable need, so strong I can’t stop it. I hold my breath. Swallow hard. My Adam’s apple bobs beneath the sickle blade. I squeeze my thighs together like a million other times before. It doesn’t matter.

The oniony smell hits me. It hits Gavin, too.

And soggy warmth fills my thrift store shoes.

Call me Lucas. I’m an incurable nomad, YA writer, artist, arm knitter, antiques collector, spreadsheet guru, tarot reader, unicorn at large, and lover of all things weird. Currently querying my 5th novel, If Found, Return to Astropop.

CONTACT & CONNECT:

Twitter: @LucasMight Email: john.lucas.hargis [at] live [dot] com Instagram: http://instagram.com/thelucashargis Tumblr: http://phreakshownovel.tumblr.com/ Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/LucasMight/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/PhreakShowNovel Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/7982210-lucas-hargis Wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/user/JohnHargis

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Night Harvest: Wasting Away by Kat Daemon

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Night Harvest: Wasting Away by Kat Daemon

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Wasting Away

by Kat Daemon

“Dad, are you sure this place exists? We’ve been driving for over an hour.”

My daughter, Maggie, was always so impatient. “Yes.” I leaned forward and patted her shoulder. “Just a bit further.”

“The supermarket has pumpkins,” Joe groaned, eyes still set on his smart phone. Texting. I think that’s what they called it. I called it sending broken sentences to his girlfriend. Why would you have to type LOL? My daughter had to explain that one to me. I often found when he tapped those three letters down and hit send, he wasn’t even smiling. Back in my day, you courted a girl properly, and any letters you sent you agonized over, searching for the right words. That’s how I had done it with my Bethany. Different times I suppose.

“Amuse an old man, Joey. Picking a pumpkin off of the vine is fun.” Joe raised his eyes up from his screen long enough to glare at me. At seventeen he no longer wanted to be called Joey. Old habits are hard to break, especially at my age.

“You and I really disagree on fun, Gramps.” Sadie leaned over and changed the radio station. Loud thumping beats and inappropriate language roared out of the speakers. I sighed. We were listening to Billie Holiday, before she had changed the station. That was real music. What she had put on sounded more like an argument.

“Make a left here, Maggie.”“The GPS is telling me to go straight, dad.”

“And I’m telling you to make a right. C’mon, amuse your old man.” Maggie sighed and turned right. From her willingness to agree, I assumed she was probably telling herself that this was the last time she would have to “amuse” me. The nursing home attendants would be picking me up in the morning. It was bad enough when Bethany passed, and I had to move in with Maggie, but now… well she had two teenagers to take care of, and without a husband, I suppose I was too much work for her. One less mouth to feed and all.

“There!” I pointed to the farm that was growing in size as our vehicle approached. “Blue Moon Farms!” I clapped my hands, pleased that I still remembered how to get here. Not bad for an old guy.

“Joey, unplug yourself for a minute so you can take in this place.”

“Hold on… texting Adrienne.”

“Bah!” I shook my head, there was no reaching him. “Sadie, what do you think?”

She pulled out her lip gloss and coated her already pink mouth. Looking around, her eyes didn’t even so much as sparkle with the faintest hint of interest. “Uhh. It’s very… hick.”

Maggie pulled the car beside a parked tractor. “Dad, are you sure this place is even open? There’s no one here.”

“Good, we’ll have the pick of the patch.” I opened the door, eager to stretch my legs. At seventy-seven, they were stiff, but still working. I needed a cane, but enjoyed walking, and was grateful to be out of the car. With my family beside me, cane in hand, we headed over to the little stand that sold burlap bags to carry the pumpkins.

There was an older woman at the stand, listening to the radio. It was Bobby Darin, and I was so happy to hear real music again. “How can I help you?” she asked, a broad smile on her lips causing her eyes to crinkle.

“Afternoon! Here for some harvest traditions.” I pointed to the sign, “Look kids, a corn maze! Let’s do it.”

“I thought we were getting pumpkins, not corn,” Joe said, stuffing his phone into his back pocket.

“We are, but this is fun! Just look at it!” I pointed ahead, beyond the pumpkin patch, to the tall stalks of grass that were inviting us to wander about.

Maggie checked her watch, “Dad, I don’t think we have time. It’ a long drive back, and we still have to finish packing up your room.”

“Maggie, what’s twenty more minutes? Tomorrow I’m out of your hair. Let’s do one last thing as a family.”

“This isn’t our final interaction dad, for crying out loud you know we’ll see you on weekends, and you’ll be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“Twenty minutes,” I reiterated.

Maggie let out a rather exasperated breath. She had been overly dramatic for as long as I could recall. “Fine.”

“Four tickets, please.” I said to the cashier. Then turned to Maggie who was reaching inside her purse for her wallet. “My treat.”

We got to take a hayride along the pumpkin patch to the corn field. Our driver let us off at the entrance, tipped his hat and said in a low voice, “Try to find your way out before dark. Strange things have been known to transpire in there when the moon is out. Some say the sun is the only protection folks have in there. Shines some light on the demons, exposing them once and for all.”

“Thanks, that’s comforting,” Sadie snapped. I put my arm around her shoulder.

“He’s teasing you, hon. The only thing that can hurt you in there is your imagination.”

“Have fun, I’ll swing around and get you when you come out.” The driver tipped his dirty baseball hat and turned the wheel, returning the wagon back to the front of the farm.

“Ladies first,” I said to the girls. Joe and I stepped behind them. We were barely in the patch when Sadie complained.

“These stalks look sick.” She grabbed one pulling it toward her to inspect more closely, “Joe look at the leaves.” He glanced and nodded.

“Insects,” he muttered and reached for his phone.

“Joey, can you go five minutes without checking your phone?” I snapped.

He looked at the phone, then back at me. “Doesn’t matter any way. No service out here.”

“See? Hick,” Sadie confirmed.

“You need to get your kids out of the house more,” I said to Maggie. She chose to ignore me, walking faster through the maze until she turned and we found ourselves facing a dead end.

“I don’t get how this is fun. It’s freaky,” Sadie said. “And look at this corn! It’s really rotted. I don’t think the land is healthy. I bet the pumpkins are gross too.”

“Come on, try to be a bit optimistic. It hasn’t rained in awhile, the plants are probably just thirsty.”

I turned the corner and found a long clear path for us to follow. My family was quiet, and I wondered if they hated me in this moment. They most likely wanted to be anywhere but here. Joe had his girlfriend, Sadie was Miss. Popular, and Maggie already made it clear she was anxious to pack up my things.

But this was our last time together as a family. I knew the truth, even if they didn’t. People in nursing homes are forgotten. True, they would visit me at first, all three of them together, but then one day Joey would choose his girlfriend over me. Sadie would have a pep rally to cheer for, and it would just be Maggie and her excuses for the kids. Then Maggie’s visits would start to dwindle down. I had seen it with my own friends. It was inevitable. Nursing homes were where you sent people to waste away.

“Dad, how far back does this maze go? We’ve been walking for a while.”

“I’m not sure. I never went in. Always wanted to though.”

“So we’re lost in Gramps fantasy, fun.” Sadie tripped over a piece of corn and Joe caught her arm.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” She kicked the corn out of her way. It broke into pieces. “See? It’s all rotted.”

“Yeah, it smells weird in here too,” Joe agreed. “Let’s find a way out.” Joe pushed his way through the stalks, but I grabbed his hood.

“Farmers worked real hard to create this maze. You may not care for it, but I don’t need you destroying it.”

“Dad, he didn’t mean any harm. We experienced it, but now it’s time to go.”

“You’re missing the point! Half the fun is finding your way out.”

“I just hope we don’t find any field mice,” Sadie began to tip toe through the maze. We turned another corner, and Sadie was quick to point out her findings. “Look, the stalks are lower here, in fact I can see across the field. What’s the fun in that?”

Joe snapped off a leaf. “It’s really brown and dry, this must be the sickest part of the patch.”

“It’s not sick!” I was the one getting sick. Sick of their complaints. “It’s just thirsty! Perhaps instead of making fun of the maze you can feel bad for it. I don’t even recall the last time we had a good downpour.”

“You want me to feel sympathy for a vegetable?” Sadie looked at me like I had lost my mind. It was her mother’s look. Maggie looked at me that same way quite often. The family resemblance was strong in our line.

“Well, would you just toss it aside because it got old or weak? It’s not the corn’s fault! It can’t stop genetics!”

Maggie laid a gentle hand on my arm. “Dad, is this about the nursing home?”

I pulled my arm away, disgusted by her touch. “No, let’s just keep going.”

We were quiet as we walked around the maze. Despite the way it thinned out and the stalks seemed shorter, we still hadn’t found a way out. It just went on and on. Like the desert.

“The sun’s going down. How long have we been in here?” Joe asked, looking at his phone. The screen was black. I guess he had used up his battery life texting Adrienne in the car.

“Feels like hours,” Sadie whimpered. “I don’t feel good. I’m so… tired. I need to rest.” She sat on the ground, and started rubbing her heart. The poor child was out of breath.

“Sadie, get up, hon. We’ll find a way out and you can sleep in the car.” Maggie offered her hands, but Sadie just collapsed on the dry earth.

“No… I want to sleep here.”

“Sadie?” Maggie shrieked. “Get up! It’s getting dark, you need to keep moving!”

“Sadie, I refuse to sleep in a field tonight!” Joe looked pissed, more at me than her. I avoided his gaze.

“Five minutes,” Sadie grumbled, and nuzzled her face into the crook of her arm.

The stalks began to sway, the dry leaves creating a rustling sound as the wind flitted through the cracks. It was haunting and Maggie and Joe took a step closer to me.

“What is that sound?” Maggie asked softly looking at me rather concerned.

“The maze.” My voice cracked.

“We need to go,” Maggie confirmed. And that’s when it happened. The lowest leaves of the corn stalk reached out and lengthened, twisting their faded limbs around our Sadie. She did not fight back, nor did she scream, just submitted to their call as fast as one falls asleep.

Maggie didn’t think. She reacted; fighting with all the strength of a woman trying to protect her child. Joe pulled the cane out of my hands, and I fell back, watching as he began whacking the stalks as hard as he could.

Despite his valiant efforts, the stalks were no match for my family. They covered Sadie with their vines the way a spider wraps up its prey in a sticky web. The stalks pulled her into its wall of protection, shielding my granddaughter from view. The only sounds to be heard were Maggie’s screams as the dry earth became saturated with Sadie’s crimson blood.

She tried to go after her daughter, but I held her tight, as she trembled, cried, kicked and screamed. “She’s gone,” I whispered, recalling the words the driver had spoken. “Joe, we need to get out before the moon shows itself.”

“I can’t leave my daughter!” Maggie screamed.

“We can come back with help, but right now I need to get you and Joe out.” Joe was staring at the blood, his eyes wide in horror. Then he fell on all fours, and began vomiting violently.

“The maze is affecting him as well we have to go, now!” I shook my daughter.

“The maze isn’t affecting him, his sister was just taken… she’s probably dead! He’s in shock!”

“Maggie, we need to keep moving! Pretty soon we won’t be able to see a thing.”

Joe sat back onto his knees, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took a few deep breaths. “He’s right, let’s go.”

We ran as fast as we could, my daughter shouting at me to hurry as I pushed my body to work in a way it hadn’t in years. Every step felt like my thighs were on fire—I feared my brittle bones would shatter, but still I pushed myself, using the cane as a crutch to propel my withered body forward. But the maze seemed to have grown taller, no longer as frail as before. The purple sky was darkening, and soon there would only be stars to guide us. Every turn resulted in us just getting more lost.

“I can’t walk anymore.” Joe sat on the floor of the maze, his head in his hands. he was panting harder than I was if that were possible. “I can’t take one more step.” He lowered his head to the ground, the same way Sadie had.

Maggie, not about to lose another child, dropped to her knees and began to shake Joe violently. “Joe? Baby, wake up! Wake up!”

The winds came, and the stalks swayed. Maggie screamed, and I watched as my Joey was taken by the corn creatures. They left only his blood to water the dry, cracked ground.

Darkness had fallen, and Maggie went into a deep shock, rocking back and forth and mumbling about mazes and murder.

We stayed there for awhile, listening to the silence that seemed to mock us. Finally Maggie spoke. “Why has no one come to look for us? We’ve been in here for hours. My children…”

“Maybe they are looking for us. We should keep moving.”

“I can’t leave them. They… my children…” She began to sob and rub the ground that was now soiled with Joe’s blood.

“And you are my child, we need to keep moving. It’s dangerous here.”

Maggie agreed, more out of shock than actual desire. She didn’t care if she was taken now. Without her children, what did she have to live for?”

We stumbled along for hours. Through the darkest part of night we braved every step and waited for dawn. Maggie’s sobs were the only sound to be heard should anyone venture in and look for us.

Until the winds came.

“Is it my turn now?” She whispered, her eyes still glazed over in shock from what she had witnessed hours before. I looked up at the sky that was just starting to lighten. I didn’t answer, just squeezed her hand, as she walked away, her fingers slipping from my grasp.

Maggie did not wait to be taken. She walked boldly into the stalks and met death with her head high.

The leaves rustled. The stalks swayed, and my daughter’s blood seeped out of the thick rows of stems and onto the path. I stayed there for awhile, sitting on the cold ground, watching the earth drink in her red life. The winds had stopped whispering, the maze was very still.

When the sun came up, high in the sky, I looked around at the corn maze. It was different than last night. The stalks were taller, thicker, where they had once been sparse. A rich, vibrant green color masked the pale, faded yellow. The holes and blemishes were gone. No longer was the maze wasting away. It was young again. Healthy, and strong. The way I remembered it as a child.

I looked beside me at Maggie’s purse, then fished around until I found her car keys. I stood up and gave myself a stretch listening to how my bones cracked in the morning. Picking up my cane, I turned and saw a clear exit waiting for me.

Walking out of the maze, the pumpkins were a fiery sea of orange, the air smelled perfumed with life. The driver, as promised, was waiting to take me back. He looked out at the tall green stalks of corn and smiled. “The maze looks good today. Nice and healthy.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It was just thirsty.”

About the Author

Kat Daemon grew up in New York where her imagination always seemed to get the best of her. When she’s not hanging with vampires, demons, or dragons, she’s usually armed with a strong cup of coffee and dreaming up her next tormented character.

Kat also writes sweet contemporary romance as Karen Anne.

Her book, Death by Social Suicide is available now. Visit her on Amazon.

You can find out more about Kat and her books at www.katdaemon.com

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