Midnight Writers October 2022

Midnight

Table of Contents

Cover: “Rockit Rumble”, an illustration by Hecate

Page 3:

Ask Aphro & Dite

• Orpheus is overrated

• Burnt toast Verily Vérité

• A life update

Page 4:

“Lanterns”, an illustration by viento de levante “Fireblooms”, a story by Hamilede

Page 5:

“Fireblooms”, continued “Queen of Pentacles”, an illustration by Erebus Tree

Page 6:

“The Spooky Night at Farmland”, a story by Appollo

Page 7:

“The Spooky Night at Farmland”, continued “Silly Spookster”, an illustration by Hecate

Page 8:

“Hello, Darling”, an illustration and poem by Child 13

Page 9:

“Hello, Darling”, continued “the hidebehind”, a story by elody potoo

Page 10:

“The Figure at The Foot of the Bed”, a poem by Medea

“The Ghost in the Window”, a poem by Vérité

Page 11:

“A Word of Advice”, a poem by svnmii “every autumn”, a poem by svnmii

Page 12:

“Project Bardyl”, a story by Illois

Page 13:

“Project Bardyl”, continued “Ghost With A Pearl Earring”, an illustration by Yuridice

“The Price of Fame” a story by Victoria Desrosiers

Page 14:

“The Price of Fame”, continued “The Man”, a story by Medea

Page 15:

“The Man”, continued “Where Are You”, an illustration by Cupid

Page 16-18:

“Scapegoat”, a story by Medea

Ask Aphro & Dite

Hey Aphro,

So this guy was like kind of in love with me and then I died which was, like, kind of sad. He followed me down into the un derworld to try to get me back but I kind of like… Don’t want to go back? So how do I get him to look back, without making it obvious that I’m trying to make him look back because like I really don’t want to go back with him but I also don’t want to hurt his feelings?

Signed, Blurrydice

Dear Blurrydice,

What a dilemma! A wiser, sager version of I would counsel you to be honest about your feelings, as you have very little left to lose. However, it seems circumstances have progressed past that. So, below are my suggestions as follows:

1) Trip. A simple and inelegant but effective solution. If you trip, he’ll look back and try to help you up. If he doesn’t, shame on him.

2) Yell or shout. He’ll likely look back more on instinct than anything. Pretend you saw a bat or spider or something similarly spooky.

3) As a last resort: Just walk back while he’s not looking. When he gets out he’ll just think it didn’t work, and you can go back to living your best life in the under world.

Best of luck!

With love, Aphro

issuu.com/midnightwriters

Verily Vérité

Dear Dite, Do you know any exorcists that would be willing to come and exorcize my toaster for free? All my bread keeps coming out burnt and I know it’s that jerk Brenda who’s been haunting it for years. Sincerely, Sick of Burnt Toast

Dear Sick of Burnt Toast,

I am not an exorcist directory. I don’t know why you think I’d be an expert to contact for this situation, seeing as I have no experience in dealing with ghosts, spirits, and suspicious hauntings. I don’t know why people insist on assigning me with such an unchar acteristic reputation.

(Call 1-800-EXORCISTS and ask for Jen. Tell her it’s a case of Code 23A, second case scenario, Blue Herring. She’ll know what to do.)

With Love, Dite

Greetings, one and all, and welcome to another glorious first quarter! We’ve made it through October, which is just as much a tragedy as it is an accom plishment, as it is the objective truth that October is the best month of the year.

Most years. Except for this year.

Because this year, dear readers, is College Application Hell. And I’m not quite sure whether I want October to inch by slow as a snail so I have as much time as possible to pore over my essays, or for the whole month to speed by so I can just be done with it all al ready. Juniors, sophomores, freshmen, heed my warning: finish all your essays over the summer. This is not a good time.

In other news, Halloween is coming up! We already have four pumpkins and every day the orange leaves grow in number, so it’s looking like a win right now. Have fun with the costumes and decorations and all that jazz, and remember this key nugget of wisdom as you move forward in life: you’re never ever too old for free candy.

À la prochaîne, Vérité

Special thanks to Sra. Steele, Cupid, Vérité, and viento de levante.

Fireblooms by Halimede

There are fireblooms in her hair.

They’re a bright, burning red-orange, clashing against the summery-gold strands. Laced together like a crown, the flowers marking the Harvest Queen of the year almost seem to be scorching her. Aila watches, spellbound, as Laya prods at it.

Laya meets her eyes and grins with a teasing edge. “Does it suit me?”

“‘Course it does,” Aila says. “You look beautiful.”

Laya’s grin morphs into something like a shy, small smile. Not an expression Aila’s often seen on her face. Cheeks flushing, she looks away.

Laya, mistaking the gesture for something else, sighs. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know you wanted it to be you.” She fiddles with the cloth of her dress, hands in her lap. “If it’s any consolation, I think you would have made a fantastic Harvest Queen.”

Aila shakes her head. “You won it fair and square.” The flowers in your hair look like they were meant to be there your whole life, she doesn’t say. You look like you stepped right out of a fairytale, like one of those fae from the chil dren’s stories of enchanted toadstool circles.

Instead, she says, “Have they shared the secret with you yet?”

Laya quickly shakes her head. “No. I don’t know what’ll happen. Only that it’s meant to be a great honor.”

Neither of them know much about the Harvest Queen tradi tion. Only that it’s been a part of their village’s history for centuries and centuries. Last year, there hadn’t been any at all—there had been no girls of age. The years before, they had been too young to really pay attention. But this year, Laya’s mother had wept with joy when she had seen her daughter crowned. And Aila’s mother had simply given her a harsh, steely stare. Another disappointment for the books. Somehow, Aila didn’t think her mother was surprised.

“Well,” Aila says, wiping her hands off on her dress. “You still have time. And we have a festival to enjoy, don’t we?”

Laya clasps her hand readily, smiling all the way. “Just think--a whole world of prizes awaits us.”

They scamper off together, making their way through the stands, tossing red ribbons and trying sweet-scented pies and winding through corn mazes and dancing to the lively fiddle tunes. It’s a brilliant, breathless day and Aila can’t help but wish they could freeze time and live in these mo ments forever.

Only when dusk falls does a bell begin to ring.

Aila, pressed up against Laya as they lean exhausted against the hay bales, can feel Laya’s pulse start to flutter.

“Well,” Laya says, with a nervous twist of her lips. “I sup pose that’s my cue.”

Aila subconsciously tightens her grip on her hand. “Come on, we’ll go together.”

They make their way to the center of the field, where a cir cle of people has formed. No children, Aila notes. It’s only the adults of their village present tonight.

Aila’s mother fixes her with a strange look. “No children,” she says, echoing her thoughts, “Aila, you need to return home. The festival for you ends here.”

Anger flares within her so quickly it leaves her dizzy.

“Lanterns”,Illustration by viento de levante

“We’re both of age, Mother.” Not just Perfect-Laya.

“Your girl is right,” a man calls. Aila squints into the crowd; it’s the old librarian. She hasn’t spoken to him in years. “If she wants to stay, she can.”

Aila’s mother gives her a long look. Aila clutches Laya’s hand tighter.

“Fine,” her mother turns to Laya. “Step forward.”

Laya gives her a sympathetic look and lets go of her hand. She enters the circle.

“Wait,” Aila shouts, chills suddenly running through her. “Aren’t you going to tell her the secret?”

Eyes turn to her. The crowd looks hazy in the quickly-dy ing evening light. “Hush now,” her mother says.

“Yes,” another nods sharply. “She may be of age, but if she cannot respect the sanctity of the ritual, she must leave.”

“Ritual?” Aila jerks her head back towards her mother, eyes darting between her and the man that had spoken. “What ritual?”

“Aila. Hush, or leave.”

Aila snaps her mouth shut.

The circle joins hands, Laya in the center. Aila is left out, pushed aside. They begin to chant, an old melody rising through fragments and snapshots of childhood memories. Laya, in the middle, fiddles with her dress, confusion twist ing her features.

The song goes on. Aila narrows her eyes as the flowers lining Laya’s hair seem to grow brighter and brighter.

And then bursts aflame.

The scream is tearing through her lips before Aila has a chance to stop it. “Laya!”

She tears her way forward, trying to make it through. But the circle before her doesn’t part. Won’t part. Not a single note is missed in the endless sea of melody.

“Laya!” she shouts again. The girl locks eyes with her, gaze wide and frightened. False flames eat away at her limbs, her dress, her face.

What is happening? What are they doing to her? Why is no one stopping this? Aila looks around frantically—Laya’s

But Laya’s mother is in the circle too, chanting with her eyes closed, odd serenity laced through her expression.

In a last-ditch effort, Aila ducks under interlocked arms and pushes her way to the center. But it’s no use; it’s already far too late.

Laya burns away.

“Queen of Pentacles”, Illustration by Erebus Tree

The Spooky Night at Farmland by Apollo

Martin, Daniel and Nathaniel are three lifelong friends who love to celebrate holidays and go on some wacky adventures together. Just last year, they ventured into a haunted house by accident, when a cat led them into the place where they received the haunt of their lives. Other ad ventures of the trio included: trying to capture Santa Claus, venturing to see a Noctilucent Cloud, and competing in an April Fools’ challenge.

Now, the friends are back for another adventure. This time, they have been invited to a prestigious Halloween costume party in a small town called Farmland, named so because all the properties are farms. The three friends, who have never been invited to a costume party in their lifetimes, rejoiced over receiving this sudden invitation. While there is no evidence to suggest WHICH farm the three friends will be invited to, for them it was more important to decide on their costumes than the location of said party.

Martin chimed in first. “I’ve always wanted to be Dracula!”

“No way!” said Nathaniel in retaliation. “That’s what I always wanted to be as well!”

“Why don’t you just be Frankenstein?” Martin laughed. “You got the perfect neck and ears for that.”

“I believe you just described yourself,” smirked Daniel.

“So, what are you going to be?” chuckled Nathaniel in response.

“I’m going to be Scrooge’s Ghost of Christmas Fu ture from A Christmas Carol.” Daniel replied.

“Oooh, that’s good.” Said Nathaniel. “You ARE going to be a spooky scary…”

“Skeleton!” Martin blurted out.

Nathaniel paused, unamused, and said, “You are really going to be a spooky, terrifying creature.”

“Thanks,” Daniel replied.

The friends spent the next three days searching on line and in costume stores looking for their Halloween out fits. Martin got his costume first, as it was easy to find in the local store. Nathaniel purchased his costume online, which was delivered in three days. Daniel, on the other hand, got creative with his costume, as he took an old, black robe, adding material to make the sleeves drapey and the hood enlarged so that it covered all parts of his face. Soon enough, his robe looked just like the Ghost of Christmas Future, and he was pleased with the results.

Then came Ol’ Hallow’s Eve of October 31st, the day of the costume party. The three friends put on their Halloween costumes and hopped into Martin’s car. Daniel crouched down in the backseat by himself.

Martin entered the location of the village of the party into his GPS, as they did not know the actual address. They started off down the road with great anticipation. They drove for several miles, chatting about nothing in particular, when suddenly, the lights on his car illuminated an unexpected barricade.

“What’s this doing here?” Martin asked. “I didn’t know there was going to be any road work.”

“Did you?” Nathaniel asked.

“I didn’t see any of this reported on the traffic re ports.” Martin replied.

A large arrow pointed towards a sign that said “De tour”.

“I suppose we’ll have to take a new route,” Martin announced.

“Follow the arrows,” Daniel said.

They turned off the paved road and onto the dirt path. There were no visible landmarks and no street lamps to show the way clearly. Martin turned on the bright lights which didn’t do much good as the night had turned foggy. The road at that point had become full of ruts, rocks, and bumps.

“I can’t see where we’re going,” Nathaniel whined. “This is not going as planned.”

And when the three friends thought nothing could get worse than this, all of a sudden and out of nowhere, the car started to sputter and wheeze, before coming to a sudden halt. Martin tried to restart the engine, but it wouldn’t turn over. He heard several clinks, yet the engine would not ig nite. Then, he hopped out of the car and saw smoke coming from under the hood of the car.

“This has never happened before!” Martin ex claimed.

“It’s alright!” Daniel said. “We can make the rest of the journey by foot!”

“But it’s so dark and scary out there.” Nathaniel whined. He was right; it was a really foggy evening and wind was picking up. Plus, they still had no idea what direc tion to take. But the three friends knew they had to perse vere, even through the dark, foggy, cold weather. So, they all got out of the car and started walking, their eyes squinting and full of fear, their stomach full of butterflies, and their hearts full of palpitations.

“Hey, we can use my phone as a flashlight!” Na thaniel said as he whipped out his phone and turned on his flashlight. By the time they continued down the path another 50 yards, the sky cleared of fog and the moon shone in the night sky. All of a sudden, all three friends came across what they thought was a humble farmhouse.

“Is it just me, or is that a farmhouse?” Martin asked. “It’s probably a mirage.” Nathaniel replied. “I’ve had encounters with mirages when I was stranded in the Saharan desert years ago.”

Nonetheless, all three picked up the pace to make sure it really was a farmhouse, but the closer they got, the stranger the house appeared.

When they got to about 10 yards away, they began to notice some unusual similarities to the haunted house they got trapped in last Halloween.

“This looks eerily similar to that house that black cat ran into, don’t you think?” Martin gasped.

“Geez, yes, you are right!” Nathaniel said. “Are you sure we wanna go any closer?”

“What other options do we have?” Daniel said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Nathaniel replied. “Maybe the owner could help us out.”

“We might as well go check it out,” Martin ex plained. The other two agreed.

They all approached the door, but once Martin slightly touched the door, it opened automatically. The three friends were so shocked - they could not believe it! This really WAS going to be another haunted house, and the three friends were bracing themselves for what would be to come. They expected things like thumps, loud creaks, and barely visible traps. However, the first thing they - specifi cally Daniel - came across, was something that they did not expect at all.

Suddenly, a Ghost of Christmas Future appeared be fore them, and it looked just like Daniel in costume. Its slim, wrinkled arm was pointing ominously toward Daniel as if it wanted to grab him or his attention. Martin quickly came from the side and pulled the robe off of the Ghost, expecting it to be someone in a costume. However, once the robes were jerked away, it was not a person who was revealed, rather a mannequin, and it had a fake wrinkled arm and a shriveled skull which gave the illusion of the monster.

“Huh! That’s funny!” Martin exclaimed. “There isn’t a person there.”

Then suddenly, a resounding “BOO!” came forth from behind the mannequin. Martin and Daniel were both terrified at first, jumping back at least several feet and screeching at the top of their lungs. But then someone came from behind that mannequin. It was Daniel’s cousin, Helena. “Cousin Helena! What the heck are you doing here?” Daniel exclaimed with confusion and excitement.

“Ha ha! I scared you, didn’t I, cuz!” Helena teased before turning to Martin. “And who are you, vampire man?”

“I’m Martin,” Martin cautiously introduced himself. “I’m Daniel’s best friend.”

“Wait a minute! Isn’t Nathaniel also Daniel’s best friend?” Helena asked.

“I’d say he’s on par with Martin in terms of best friends,” Daniel told Helena. “My two friends and I embark on these crazy antics. They always have the strangest outcomes when Martin comes along, which is always!”

“Hmmm… I see.” Helena said. “I guess I under stand.”

“Anyway,” Daniel started. “We got an invitation to go to a costume party…”

“Our FIRST costume party!” Martin interrupted.

“Sure,” Daniel replied annoyingly. “And, and, and we ended up on this crazy road trip and our car broke down and we don’t know if we’d make it to the party.”

“Actually,” Helena said. “You’re in the right place!”

“Wait, really?!” Martin gasped. Nathaniel joined in with an equally loud gasp.

“Are you telling me this is actually the place where the party is?,” he said.

“It sure is, Nathaniel!” Helena replied. “And here come the rest of the guests now!”

A bunch of people in Daniel’s family began to show up, including some of his fellow co-workers and his boss from NORAD.

“No way!” Daniel exclaimed. “I can’t believe you guys are here as well.”

“Who the heck are all those people?” Martin asked. “And who invited you?”

“My family and co-workers!” Daniel replied. “And in terms of who invited them, it’s the best kept secret in Farmland!”

After four hours of non-stop partying and music, the three friends left the party just having experienced the most unusual and fun event of their lives! Even though it was their first costume party, they hoped it would be the first of many more Halloween parties to come. Helena drove the three friends back to their house, taking a shortcut the three friends had never seen before.

“Thank you so much, Helena!” Daniel said in grati tude.

“It’s the least I could do for you,” Helena replied. “Tomorrow I’ll help get someone to repair the car for you, then get it back to you.” Then, she instantly drove off.

“Actually, that was my car!” Martin shouted into the dark.

“So, what do you think about our first costume par ty?” Nathaniel asked.

“That was one wild, weird, crazy night.!” Daniel replied. “I’m not sure if I’d ever want to repeat that night but I’d have to admit it was really fun at the end.”

“I hope we’ll BOO-back next year!” Martin joked.

It’s quiet in my home.

Dad left a while ago, He said something along the lines of, Repenting or praying, Or mass.

Whatever that means. I’m not a church-crazy like him.

He tells me God is always watching me. So I should be a good boy. So I should listen to him.

Mom left a while ago. Never came back.

Dad said God took her by the hand, Led her to a good place far away. Never to see her again. He tells me God is always watching me. So I should be a good boy. So I should listen to him.

But as I Walk Up the Stairs, I start To Run. I start To Climb. I Start To Worry. I Start To Dread. It Builds in Me Like Fire ants. Crawling In my Skin.

I reach the top.

I stumble into the bathroom.

I splash water, bitter and cold, All over me.

I pant and pant. Like a Wild animal.

I Stare Into The Mirror.

Dad tells me God is always watching me.

So I should be a good boy.

So I should listen to him.

Mom left a while ago. Never came back.

Dad said God is always watching me.

But I don’t think,

A “God” is watching me now. And I almost feel, relieved.

- Hello Darling, by Child 13

the hidebehind

from the notebook of elody potoo, mythological researcher and documentarian

When you walk in the woods in the American West Coast, be sure to watch your back. According to local legends, there exists a crea ture there which will follow you until you leave, although no one has ever seen it. Those who believe in it call it the Hidebehind. By all accounts it is harm less, but it is best to beware. Many people enter those woods and never exit.

Whatever the creature may be, it is an exceptional escapist. During my time in that region, I noticed footsteps and twigs snapping behind me while investigating this myth. It felt as though piercing eyes watched every step I took in those woods. Upon my many attempts to turn around, I heard fran tic rustling in the fallen leaves, but there was otherwise no sign anyone or anything had been following me. As soon as I turned and resumed walking, so too did the Hidebehind, its audible trace quite obviously at my back.

I fortunately was not harmed during my research, but not once did I manage to catch a glimpse of the Hidebehind. I can only assume it’s quite small—because it seems to be able to hide so imme diately and completely—although the weight of its footsteps suggest otherwise. The Hidebehind is real, by my declaration, and I caution all who venture to its do main. You may choose to disregard this warning, but know that when you walk in those woods, you are being watched.

The Figure at the Foot of the Bed by Medea

I awoke in the night at a quarter past three

To a shadowy silhouette staring at me.

At the foot of my bed it sat silent and still; Its figure so murky it gave me a chill.

I couldn’t quite tell—was it human or ghost?

It sat there in silence beside my bed-post.

Its eyes were as wide and as dark as the night

I clutched my quilt blanket in terror and fright—

Its head was an ominous spheroid of doom

It was hunching, like it had just left from its tomb

Its hair matted and tangled like rusted old twine

And its eyes still had yet to break contact with mine.

Quaking, I leaned forward just a mere inch

And the figure leaned too, and this caused me to flinch.

I leapt backward, my cheeks flushing rosy with heat

And the figure, too, leapt without missing a beat.

Was I dreaming? Was it just a mere apparition?

Or the nightmares of first-graders come to fruition?

Why’d its movements match mine like a sly imitator?

And was it harmless or worse—a morose terminator?

What on earth had I done to cause it to pursue me?

Would its fresh-blood-stained chompers come ripping straight through me?

What phantom was this that beleaguered my sleep? And why, of all souls, did it choose mine to reap?

It looked to be human in several ways, But its form was obscured by a shadowy haze

And all I could see was its dim silhouette

So I couldn’t tell if it was truly a threat.

I sat still for eternity, facing the beast

And beseeching for sunlight to rise in the east.

What shall I do? I forlornly debated

As the two of us lingered, expected, and waited For the other to make the first movement or word

But for now, neither human nor poltergeist stirred. We were stuck in a deadlock—I still didn’t know If this shadow was dangerous—ally or foe.

At long last, I just couldn’t bear any more—

I must deal with this monster of Halloween lore!

I flicked on the switch of the lamp on my right

And within a mere second, the bulb did ignite. Out went the shadows, out went the gloom In came the glorious light of the room

Flooding the chamber and what did I see— Mid-hang on the wallpaper opposite me—

A smooth pane of glass that reflected my face

I slapped a hand ‘cross my mouth and I sighed in disgrace

There wasn’t a ghost or a monster; instead There was me and the mirror at the end of my bed.

The Ghost in the Window by Vérité

The ghost in the window sings a mournful tune, In autumn, in winter, and all throughout June She sings for the home and the love that’s been lost She sings of the joy and of all that it’s cost She floats there in limbo, through the dark and the cold Always hollowed, always longing, for the lively days of old

But the golden days past are never to come back And so she curses and rages and lets windows crack Be cautious of her, on those cold dreary days

The dark sky brings out the worst of her ways

But when it’s bright with the sun and the warmth in the air

She may have some lovely old stories to share But don’t leave her lonely, for that’s what she hates, That ghost in the window with that sorrowful face.

A

OF ADVICE by svnmii

when you don’t move on your soul remains trapped in a mortally bleak world yet that is when people fear you the most especially those you hold dear in your fragile heart (oh wait you don’t have one)

your presence is chilly even if you don’t sense it even if you had significance your moments will fade

your body has been cremated even if you didn’t expect it because everyone has embraced kept walking along the sidewalk while you remain in the middle of the road constantly looking so if everyone is healing slowly, you ask, when do you move on?

every autumn by svnmii

– a full milky circle gazes at the mortal world with much tender in its eyes

i gaze wistfully eyes fluttering with soul heavy with a lune siesta how wonderful it would be to run amongst other children playing with toys and games going down the streets to witness joy brightly lit lanterns from left and right you can smell the incense in the air which? i think red bean sounds good sweet paste stuck in the cracks of my teeth yet i would laugh anyway just like the moon i have my own beam. it will be in full power but not as powerful as this moment

Project Bardyl by Illios

A black-silver object floated through the dark void of space, headed towards a small rocky planet far away from its parent star. It was a small dagger of a spaceship, almost invisible against the deep blackness behind it. It was traveling at close to 300,000 meters per second in a set direction with little deviation from its path in the past four months. If an onlooker had traced its direction back to a source, they may have found a possible beginning in the nearby kingdom of Peleus, one of the warring kingdoms left behind by the legendary Empire’s collapse.

It had been a thousand years since the collapse of the Empire, and what followed was total anarchy through out the galaxy, with warring kingdoms vying for power but never controlling more than a few planets. Much of the knowledge from the Empire had been lost, plunging the galaxy into what became known as the “galactic dark ages”. All of the kingdoms continuously attempted to find any remnant of the Empire’s power, any information left behind or any piece of technology floating through space. None had been found, but some still searched for a myth ical deposit of all information of the Empire. Any leads to this deposit had been followed, but no deposit had been found.

The rocky destination of the ship was an insig nificant and uninhabited planet which had been home to a powerful energy surge recently. This energy surge was taken as a possible sign of the Empire (though more of a hope), and the nearby kingdom of Peleus had sent an expe dition to examine it.

Inside the ship was a small human figure. He had been the sole member of the crew of this voyage for the past four months. There hadn’t been much to do from his mission until he got within the star system of his planet, so he just kept himself busy, researching any topic that piqued his interest, programming systems, playing small games, or just staring into (he preferred the term “observing”) the deep void around him, watching the beauty of an unimpeded view of the stars shining like bright fires in the night. Despite being the sole crewmember of the voyage, he was still required to have a name tag on his uniform. His cur rent tag read “Odiseu.” He would have liked to have some fun with changing the tag a bit, but he had no control over it.

He stood in the cockpit, testing a simulation he had recently created while keeping an eye on the various screens and readings around him. As he got closer to the planet, the cockpit was starting to look more like a bus terminal, constantly surrounded by lights as more and more

onto the simulation, one of the monitors darkened, now reading “MONITOR OUT OF ORDER.” He sighed. This had been happening more and more as the ship hurtled closer and closer to the planet. He couldn’t find a source of the problem, but by now many of his communication sys tems had completely failed. He took control of the external camera to see if anything had struck the ship. Now that he was within the planet’s surprisingly small atmosphere, he was within view of the powerful storm the planet constantly surrounded itself in. No sci entist had been able to find the source of the storm, as the planet’s small atmosphere should have prevented any such storm from being possible.

Suddenly, the ship violently lurched to one side. Odiseu grabbed onto the steering joystick to attempt to win control back from the storm. He flew farther down towards the mile-wide chasm open on the ground. It was the only external cave on the planet’s surface, and was the desti nation of his mission. Soon, he realized that he only had control of the ship’s direction, and his speed was quickly rising. He appreciated the luck of crashing at his destina tion, but quickly realized that he would not be able to land without reacting soon. He grabbed the steering joystick and pulled upwards, timing it so that the ship’s reinforced bot tom half would hit the ground to protect the rest. He quickly extended the wings to provide resistance and activated the mounted boosters as well. The ship crashed onto the cave floor, losing several parts in the descent.

“Another successful landing,” Odiseu groaned, lifting himself onto the pilot’s seat as he congratulated himself on the successful landing of half of the ship. Well, no choice but to go on, he concluded, seeing his dead ship. Now where was that suit supposed to be? There had been an atmosphere-proof suit in case of an external expedition contained in the main hallway of the ship, but that hallway was a bit busy with not being attached to the ship anymore. Luckily, the bit that was only squished to 3 feet was where the compartment containing the suit was. Roomy here, isn’t it? he thought sarcastically as he retrieved the suit. Then again, it’s not too different from being in a tiny spaceship for four months.

After going through the procedures of putting on the suit, he exited the craft and landed lightly on the rocky floor of the cave. Taking in his surroundings, there seemed to be a general focus in the cave composition to go further down. This was a weird coincidence, as this was a naturally occurring cave. Nevertheless, he continued downwards. As he got further down, he noticed a smoothing of the floor. He started to get worried. Life was abundant in the galaxy, and planet parasites were among the less sought-after life forms to meet. The patterns of the tun nel were more smooth and seemed more developed than a simple worm track though, which made him stop in his

tracks. This planet was supposed to be uninhabited, so what caused this? As he continued downwards, the cave became much narrower and box-like, as if it was a tunnel leading him to his destination. It also became darker and darker as he went on as if the darkness itself was swallow ing the light around him. When it was almost pitch-black, he took out a flashlight, but stopped in his tracks. The flashlight, while meant to illuminate an area of up to three hundred meters in front of him, only barely lit up one. Stumbling through the tunnel, he found himself in a faint blue light, enough to see dark shapes in the dis tance. Wait, shapes in the distance? He stopped himself and looked around. He was no longer in a claustrophobic tunnel, but instead in a humongous room that seemed unending in all directions. The sides were now a deep black stone, with a blue light seemingly radiating from the air itself. That’s it, he thought, staring at the signs before him, I found it. I found it all.

He continued down a raised path in the center of the room. What surrounded the path was seemingly a straight drop into an abyss, with several raised boulders as big as the ship he arrived in faintly visible in the distance. He got closer to one of the boulders next to the hall. It seemed to be a smooth gray stone with almost plant-like growth on it. He looked to the path before him. There were no external sides, but he felt a feeling, as if the path was telling him to go forward.

He continued for a long time until he noticed the fog around him. He could not see the path he traveled anymore. Then, the ground in front of him was illuminated in a blue light. He turned around, and discovered that same light behind him. Slowly lifting his gaze, his eyes landed on one of the boulders, much closer than he had thought before, as if it had moved. The boulder was no longer dark and silent. Two large blue lights shone on its side, as if they were looking at him. It sat as if it were observing him, seeing his every twitch and breath, listening to the shuffle of his feet, observing him through ways not imaginable.

The figure slowly rose, as if the boulder he had seen was only the head of a much larger being, now getting to its feet. It continued to rise, showing a much larger body with two arms to the side, now seemingly standing in the large abyss below. A deep rumbling filled the cavern, but from the sound he could understand words.

“Welcome to Project Bardyl. User, what is it that you seek?”

The Price of Fame by Victoria Desrosiers

The reporter’s dress suit swished around her ankles. Both of her hands clutched her briefcase and it knocked against her knee as her heels clacked against the walkway. She turned her head up and glanced at the beautiful man sion in front of her. It was in the center of the glamor of Hollywood, just as its owner was. The reporter stared at the large oak door in front of her before reaching for the knocker. The noise echoed loudly throughout the court yard. The door creaked open and a mousy maid appeared. Her eyes were blue and watery, and she silently pointed the reporter to a dimly lit hallway.

The reporter quietly absorbed the oak paneled walls and flickering chandeliers. She wasn’t surprised. Most of these Hollywood-types that she had interviewed were always quite eccentric. They approached the end of the hallway and the maid meekly opened the door to what appeared to be a living room. The ceilings were high and plush velvet curtains covered every window. The reporter was hit by a dusty scent, mixed with something strangely

“Ghost With A Pearl Earring”, Illustration by Yuridice

metallic.

Diana Rivera sat on a plush chaise in the center of a room. She wore a black dress with sleeves that went up to her elbows, as well as a plunging neckline. Her famously long black hair had been pinned up and she was smoking a cigarette staring up at the reporter.

“So nice to meet you, Elizabeth, is it?” she said with a well-practiced trans-atlantic accent.

“Yes, but you can call me Beth.”

“Wonderful, shall we begin the interview?”

Diana ground her cigarette into an ashtray in front of her. Wisps of smoke rose up and framed her face and she smirked while Beth turned her head around, rummag ing through her briefcase for her pad of notes. She turned around clutching a pencil and notepad.

“So, why did you choose acting?” Beth said. She froze as she felt the metallic stench grow stronger and was overcome with a strong sense of dread. This wasn’t like the previous mansions she had interviewed in. Those never felt like this.

“Oh you know,” Diana said with a devious smile, “I’ve always had an affinity for the dramatic.”

“Ever since 1947, you have exclusively played these sort of vampiric characters. Can you explain why?”

“I empathize with the struggles of these monsters, I suppose.” Diana said, staring directly into Beth’s eyes and making her freeze up.

“Ummm… Okay, well how do you rehearse for these roles?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me this question,” she said with a smirk.

“Your fans have been wondering,” Beth said un comfortably.

“I’m a method actress.”

“Can you elaborate?” Beth said, a chill creeping up her neck.

“I can do you one better,” Diana said, “I can show you.”

She waved her hand and Beth suddenly felt a cold cloth press against her face. She tried to scream but was instead met with overwhelming darkness.

Beth awoke in a dark room. She was tied to a chair. She shook the chair but the results were futile. The mousy maid emerged from the shadowy corners of the room. She was holding a syringe. She stabbed into Beth’s arm, draw ing blood.

“Hurry it up,” came Diana’s voice as her face surfaced from the darkness, “I have an audition tonight.” The maid emptied the syringe into a wine glass before handing it to Diana. Diana took a generous sip before star ing at Beth.

“Ah, just what I needed,” she said. “Don’t look so scared, honey. This is what it takes to be a star.”

The Man by Medea

It was a crisp Monday morning, an unprecedented bit terness wafting through our rickety house. Once I stepped outside, I drew my jacket more tightly around me. There was an icy breeze today, the kind that settles into your bones. I cut between a few houses to get to the back alleys, in which I would begin the two-mile walk to school. I don’t take the main roads anymore, not since a kid got hit by a car there. I’d rather take the abandoned paths beyond the neighborhood, which are lined with dumpsters and gar bage.

It was then that things took a turn. I rounded a corner, and froze. About ten yards away from me was a very short man, about four feet tall, standing very still. His entire body was draped in a jet-black cloak, except for his face, which was wrinkled and pale and arranged in the most brutal smile I had ever seen. In his pudgy little hand was a razor-sharp knife. He seemed a more twisted and vile version of the Grim Reaper, yet he never moved a muscle.

For a moment, we both stood there, staring at each other. I brought my hand to my face and rubbed my eyes thoroughly. He must be a vision, I thought. But when I opened my eyes again, the Man was gone. He had disap peared in a split second, leaving no trace of his presence behind. Shaken, I continued on my way, but his face re mained in my memory.

When I arrived at school, I feigned serenity, though my sighting of the Man had unnerved me. I swallowed the growing lump in my throat, and managed to survive the first half of the day without a hitch. I should’ve known that my peace wouldn’t last.

During recess, I saw a boy from my class curled up by the fence with a book. It was Robbie, the most timid kid in my grade. Under normal circumstances, I would not have taken notice of him, but the cover of the novel he was reading sent a chill down my spine. The Strange One, it was titled, and sported an image of a short man with a remarkable likeness to the one I had encountered on my journey to school. I approached Robbie, quaking.

“Robbie?” I whispered. “What is that book about?”

His head snapped up from the page and he gazed at me curiously. “Want to have a look?”

Nervously, I took the book from him and thumbed through to a random chapter. My heart stopped as my eyes flickered to a sentence in the middle of the page. She saw a figure just beyond the tree, clad in a cloak with a pale face, and a knife in its hand.

Alarm bells chimed in my head and I goggled at Robbie, my eyes feral. “Is this… fiction?”

To my horror, Robbie’s answer offered no consola-

my closet. The fourth time was by far the eeriest: I was watching television when it began to flash and glitch, and a distinct image of the Man flickered onto the screen. On each occasion, the moment I blinked, he disappeared. I was concealing a terrifying secret. According to Robbie’s novel, I was supposed to die at the hands of the Man tomorrow, fourteen days succeed ing my first sighting of him.

That night, I had a restless sleep and was tormented by nightmares. At about three AM., I awoke to a persistent knocking on my bedroom door. I stumbled out of bed and ventured tentatively over to the door.

Under the crack of the doorframe, I could see a per son in a black cloak stationed mere inches from my nose. I knew without hesitation that it was the Man. I skidded backward and started shaking all over, shivering like I was cold. I sobbed, I moaned, I prayed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere out of reach of the Man.

I scrambled back to my bed and buried myself under the covers, crying. Abruptly the door burst open and a figure materialized in front of me. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw none other than the Man, his knife raised high above his veiled head. It was all I could do to console myself as I watched his dagger come down, down, down. My world dissolved into shadows.

tion. “I suppose it was written as such; however, it might be real. Why perceive something as fake just because you haven’t seen it with your own eyes?”

Whoever sees the Strange One will die within two weeks. It is an unavoidable destiny.

I tried to steady myself before I fainted. Deserting Robbie, I dashed back into the schoolhouse and towards the girls’ bathroom. At the sink, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My mouth was dry and my hands were trembling, but then I saw something that made my heart turn to ice.

I gawked wordlessly at the mirror. A few yards behind me perched the Man, grinning silently and creepily. The blood drained from my face. Slowly, I turned my head to look over my shoulder, but saw only the tiled back wall. I whirled back to the mirror. The Man had vanished. The air had grown frigid, as if I was in an icebox. In a fit of terror, I sank to my knees, not taking my eyes off of the place where the entity had been standing. Black dots danced in my vision, but I forced myself to rise. As soon as I was stable, I dashed out of the bathroom and ran for my life back outside to the schoolyard.

I did not utter a word about what had happened for the rest of the day.

Over the next two weeks I encountered the Man four times more: once peering into my window, once hid ing in the corner of an empty classroom, and once watching

Scapegoat by Medea

My senior year of high school was nothing short of hell on earth. And at Lakelands Boarding School for Girls, I felt ut terly out of place. The girls here were cutthroat; most of them had genius-level IQs, plus perfect SAT scores fit for Princeton and Yale. In comparison to them, I felt about as smart as a rain-bat tered fence post.

“Irene?” someone tapped me on the shoulder. “Here’s your test retake from last week.”

My history teacher laid the paper face down on my desk, ensuring she hid the score from my class mates around me. Reluc tantly, I lifted the corner of the paper with my thumb so I could see the grade peeking out from the other side: an eighty-nine percent. It might’ve seemed like a de cent score, but at Lakelands, it was laughable. And this was the retake. I failed the first time.

I heard snickers erupt from around me. I didn’t have to look to know that they were coming from Vivienne and Mirela, who promptly swallowed their giggles at my ex pense. Those two, they were poisonous. Vivienne was already slated to be valedictorian, as long as she didn’t combust or something. Mirela was her second-in-command. With the second-highest GPA in the class, she had a talent for making cutting remarks that targeted my deepest

insecurities. Mirela was sitting at the desk directly next to me. She turned her head and flashed me a toothy smile, her Bambi eyes all wide and innocent.“What’d you get, Irene?”

“An eighty-nine,” I muttered under my breath.

At this, Mirela’s fa cial expression melted into a falsely sympathetic frown. “Aww, you poor thing. Vivienne, the girl got an eightynine.”

Vivienne’s head snapped around from the desk in front of Mirela. “Oh? That’s tough, Irene. I know this material can be really hard for some peo ple.”

Vivienne had a way of making me feel bad about myself without directly say ing anything mean. That’s why I could never tell the teachers about her behavior: it wasn’t actually that awful on the surface, but laced underneath it was a venom so potent it could kill. Later I confided in my friend and roommate, Cassandra, about Vivienne and Mirela and how they were making me feel.

“They’re snakes and they’re just playing mind games,” Cassandra ex plained, staring off into the tree-speckled horizon. We were sitting on the grand white pavilion outside of the school, a place where many girls often came to study in peace and solitude. The evening sky was marbled with pink and orange hues so beautiful that they nearly took my breath away. “They probably feel threatened by

you because you’re in the running for the Secretary’s Scholarship!”

A derisive laugh burst forth through my lips. “You know I have no chance at that.”

The Secretary’s Scholarship was given to one member of the grad uating class each year. It covered the entire cost of tuition for that student’s college of choice. There was only one qualification need ed to receive it: you had to have the highest grades in your class. Vivienne and Mirela were the top two, and I was pretty sure Cas sandra was third highest. Me, well, I hadn’t checked my class rank in a while, but I was probably nowhere even close.

“You know, you could win it,” I put in, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Cassandra’s lips curled upwards in a long ing smile, her eyes glinting with greed. “That’d be nice. But it won’t happen. Not with those girls. I have the third-highest GPA in the class.”

“That’s really good.”

“Not good enough. I’d kill for that scholarship,” she joked, but her tone was piercingly bitter. In my heart, I hoped that she’d win it. But with Vivienne here, that’d be impossible.

* * *

In the dormitory, Cassandra was curled up on the bed adjacent to mine. It was already lights-out, but I was still frenzily scribbling words into my diary, squint ing in the darkness.

Vivienne is going to win that scholarship. I might be happy for her, if she wasn’t such a snake. And if she doesn’t win it, Mirela will. All of them are just awful. Earlier, Mirela tripped me in the hallway so that I was late for class. Sometimes I wish Mirela would just disappear.

I slammed the diary shut and tossed it carelessly onto my bedside table. Tension was running high with the Secretary’s Scholar ship in play. It seemed like everyone was ready to fight to the death for it, espe cially Vivienne and Mirela. Against them, the rest of us had no chance.

* * *

I walked onto the pavilion that morning, just wanting a breath of fresh air, and screamed.

There was a girl on the ground. A dead girl. It was Mirela.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I ran back towards the school and didn’t stop. Other students stared as I dashed through the hallways, my knees trembling from fatigue and terror. I burst into the headmaster’s office and the words came pouring out like water from a gutter.

“Mirela—she’s dead—the pavilion—” I sputtered. My entire body was shaking.

The headmaster’s eyes snapped up, and he stared at me like I was cra zy. “What?”

“Someone killed Mi rela!” I wailed.

The headmaster arose from his desk and

trudged past me briskly, yelling for security to help him. I could hear feet pounding through the hallway, heading towards the scene of the crime. I didn’t move. All I could think was that yesterday, I’d written that I wished Mirela would disappear into my diary. And it had come true in the most sickening, stomach-churning way. But it must’ve just been a coincidence. Right?

*

What happened next was the strangest thing I’d ever experienced. I had expected classes to be can celed in lieu of the tragedy, but they weren’t. The school day proceeded as normal. No police were called. Mirela’s body was taken to an undisclosed location to prepare for burial.

Mirela didn’t just drop dead. Her throat was slit; she’d been murdered. But somehow, nobody else seemed to care. I didn’t think this was what happened when a murder occured. Even though I’d hated Mirela, it didn’t seem right. A guilty feeling made my hands grow cold. Everyone was talking about it at lunch that day. Mirela, the girl with the second-highest GPA in the school, was dead. That meant there was still a chance someone could beat Vivienne and win the Secretary’s Scholarship. Cassandra was second in the class now—she could be salutatorian, but that won’t be enough to win her the scholarship. Nothing is ever enough.

* * *

My diary entry that night was frantic and heated.

Mirela is dead and nobody knows who did it. The headmaster didn’t even call the cops. What is going on? This can’t be normal. And Vivienne, she doesn’t seem sad. More like angry at everyone. I could’ve cared less if it was her body on that pavilion. Too bad it was Mirela’s.

I woke the next morning in a cold sweat, a feeling of impending doom settling over my shoulders. I chalked it up to the fact that university loomed on the horizon, and so did the dread of crippling student debt and loans. Debt that I could cover with the Secretary’s Scholarship, if only I was smart enough. Vivienne would win it for certain now.

Cassandra was al ready gone from the dormi tory. I dressed quickly so I could make it downstairs to breakfast in time—and when I did, I found some thing that chilled me to my core. The mood in the cafeteria was icily somber. Students were talking a mile a minute—some were weeping, and others were visibly quaking. Teachers conversed darkly between each other behind cupped palms. I sought out Cas sandra in the cafeteria and asked, terrified, “What’s going on?”

She looked at me de spondently with blank, soul less eyes, and I knew the words before they crossed her lips. They shocked me

anyway. “Vivienne was murdered last night.”

I dragged Cassan dra out of the cafeteria and into an empty hallway. “Cass, you’re never going to believe this, but I think I accidentally predicted—or manifested—both girls’ deaths.”

Cassandra looked at me, her face expression less. She didn’t understand. “What?”

I explained to her about how both girls had been murdered immediate ly after I wished for their deaths in the pages of my diary. It was a terrifying coincidence—at least, I hoped it was.

“You have to throw away the diary,” Cassan dra urged me. “It might be cursed.”

A breathy laugh escaped my lips. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am. Just do it. What do you have to lose?”

I stared at her for a moment, weighing the options. I loved that diary.

I had my entire senior year documented in that dia ry. But maybe… maybe I should just get rid of it. So I dashed back into my bed room to retrieve my diary and tossed it in the trash can in the dorm hallway.

I felt like I was living in some sort of nightmare. Two girls had been murdered in two days. And yet, the same thing happened just as it did yes terday. The police weren’t called. The school wasn’t shut down. Classes proceed ed as normal and nobody questioned a thing. The

whole time I was wondering who the killer could be—an intruder?

Someone in the school? Or did I really manifest the girls’ deaths through my diary? But that was impos sible…

Somebody here was killing the smartest people in the grade. Who was next?

“Irene Williams, please report to the head master’s office.” The words rang out over the loud speaker during the fifth period. I wasn’t sure what I was needed for, but I stood up and left the classroom anyway, and was painfully aware of my classmates’ eyes on my back as I exited.

When I got to the headmaster’s office, I froze. Something wasn’t right.

“Wh-what’s this about?” I tutted uneasily, avoiding eye contact with the headmaster.

He wasted no time getting to the point. “Irene,” he informed me gruffly, “You’re under suspicion for the murders of Mirela and Vivienne.”

My mouth dropped open. The headmaster pulled my diary—oh, sweet Jesus—out of his desk drawer and held it in the air. “This was found by another pupil in the garbage can, and its pages hold some rather incriminating evi dence. It seems you wished for Vivienne and Mirela to be dead… precisely the evenings before they were found murdered. And you were the one to report Mirela’s body on the pavil ion that morning. It was as

if you knew exactly where she’d be.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s not like that!” I pleaded, my knees nearly buckling. “I didn’t—”

“You don’t need to explain,” he said, cutting me off gruffly. “You aren’t under arrest. Yet. We’re still reviewing the forensic evi dence, but for now, you’re our prime suspect.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was all so surreal. How could this possibly be happening? “Well,” I challenged, “if I killed them, what would be my motive?”

“Simple,” the headmaster shot back. “You want the scholarship. You killed the two students with the highest GPAs in the grade and really thought that’d go unnoticed? Well, for your information, that doesn’t make you valedicto rian. Cassandra is in the top spot now.”

He sent me back to class after that. My mind was spinning, my hands were clammy, and a guilty lump sat in my throat. Who had discovered my diary? I was in the worst mess of my life.

To make matters worse, I had to take a quiz in science class later that day, and my brain wasn’t working properly amidst all the chaos. But some how I still managed to get a near-perfect score on the quiz. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that pushed me to work my hardest, or maybe it was just pure luck. Whatever the case, I was grateful; it was a small

mercy. Cassandra, though, admitted to me after class that she didn’t do so well. She had guessed on most of the questions, and was extremely anxious that it would drop her GPA and make her lose her chance at the scholarship. I didn’t know what to tell her; all I could do was listen.

* * *

It felt strange to crawl into bed that night without writing an entry in my diary. Goosebumps dot ted my arms, and I couldn’t help but shiver. It took me a while to fall asleep, but I didn’t stay that way for long. I awoke shortly after three a.m. to see a figure standing over my bed. I nearly jumped out of my skin before I recognized the person as Cassandra. She was staring at me in such an odd manner that I initially thought she was a ghost.

“Cassandra?” I asked, dragging myself up to a sitting position. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she said vaguely. “Just thinking about how I’m going to win the Secretary’s Scholarship. In all honesty, those girls deserved to die.”

“Pardon?” I asked in disbelief, pulling the quilted bed covers up to my chest.

“It’s a good thing my dad is the headmaster. He helped me cover up those murders.”

My breathing slowed to almost a complete stop. “You—the headmaster is your father? And you— no! You didn’t! Cassandra, tell me you didn’t!”

She sat down on my bed, pinning my legs to the mattress so I couldn’t move. I squirmed, and she said casually, “The headmaster wanted his daughter to win the scholarship. I wanted it so badly, but I couldn’t win it with Vivienne and Mire la in the way. When I read your diary—”

“You what?!”

“—and saw that you implied that you wanted Mirela to die, I knew that was my chance. My father just wiped the CCTV cameras of any footage that revealed what I’d done. By the way, Irene, that quiz earlier did drop my GPA. I fell to second-highest in the class. Now you’re first.”

My heart was beating so fast she could probably hear it. “I can’t be. I’m not that smart. I got an eighty-nine on my test!”

“Well, believe it or not, your average is still higher than the other girls in our grade. I checked it with the school administra tor. Shocking, I know. I’m very sorry, Irene—you were quite nice—but that means that you have to go.”

“No,” I said, coming to the realization that I was in imminent danger. “No, no, no no.”

“I’ll make it look like a suicide,” Cassandra said, pulling a knife out of her back pocket. “It won’t be difficult. After all, you were bullied. Your grades were bad. You never talked to anyone except me. It’ll be easy to craft a story and a motive and no one will question a thing.”

I thrashed and flailed

my arms, but I was too weak. “No! Don’t do this!

You set me up!”

“You set yourself up,” she said calmly. “You were the perfect scapegoat.”

I sobbed and begged her to stop, to let me go, to let me live. But she laughed cruelly as she curled her fingers around the handle of the knife in a subtly threat ening manner.

I wasn’t meant to die now. Not here. Not at the hands of my best friend.

“Like I said before,” uttered Cassandra, “I’d kill to get that scholarship.”

The blade connected with my throat, and I felt no more.