Science Fiction, Horror, and Fantasy Stories

"The layover was only two years." Hazel let out a breath and crinkled her already wrinkled forehead. "He told me about it." Keira bounced her newborn child, more to calm herself than to calm the baby. "We're newlyweds. How could he die? Was there a malfunction in stasis?"

I noticed the demon living in my right index fingernail because that nail grew ten times faster than any of the others.

Gerald saw the shadowy figure twice before; drifting between corpses in no-man's-land, wavering in the dark. Nerves, he convinced himself. But this time, as it stood in the trench only feet away, there was no easy explanation. His rifle leveled on the intruder. "Identify yourself!" Behind the folds of hood topping the black-robed figure, an even voice answered: "So, you can see me."

You now have the chance to adopt your very own hellhound puppy! Due to decreasing demand for eternal damnation over the last two millennia (yes, we're looking at you, J.C.) we've been forced to downsize our staff. That means we no longer have the demonpower necessary to take care of our four-legged friends. And you have the opportunity of a lifetime.

Gusting face-freezing wind displaced Sister Wendy Riley's bonnet, pushing it nearly off her dirty brown hair. No matter how many steps Wendy made toward Zion in the Great Salt Lake Valley, the wind seemed determine to blow her back to Liverpool. The annoying and ill timed gust that finally dislodged her bonnet came as she pulled her handcart up a rise. Releasing one hand from the crossbar to fix the errant bonnet meant losing the cart and her few belongings to the hill. With hair whipping her face, she prayed the tie string kept the bonnet around her neck until she reached flat ground ahead. Wendy stood to one side while pulling the handcart, as though her husband still might join her on his side of the cart. She turned down offers, even from the Wilson boys, to help her pull the handcart. She did not want anyone in his spot. It was silly, but a week was still too soon.

Father first awoke the topiaries the morning after Mother died. Shrubs wriggled loose from their dirt when he passed, dormant bushes burst free and scampered across the countryside. Thus it went for eighteen years. I lived my life knowing that Father could awaken plants, but I did not realize what I, his daughter, could awaken.

Thomas sat in his truck, glad to be out of the cold rain blowing in sheets against his windshield. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and as he glanced over to the right at the trees and brush, thought he saw a flash of movement. Sitting up now on full alert, he watched carefully through the rivulets of rain pouring down the window. A woman burst out into the clearing and started lurching forward, her arms extended towards him, her expression one of terror. He threw his truck door open, and as he got out, just for an instant, looked down to where he was stepping. By the time he raised his eyes again to the approaching figure, she was gone. He thought she must have collapsed into the long grass, until he reached the empty spot where he last saw her.

Andy sat on the edge of his bed, hands cuffed behind him. Uniformed police finished carrying the last folders out of Andy's apartment. His computer, all the contents of his filing cabinet, and even his checkbook left with the last of the uniformed officers. A suit-clad detective made one last sweep of the apartment. He spotted the phone sitting in its cradle by Andy's bed. "Almost forgot your phone." He grinned at Andy. "Not that we need it after what we found on your computer."

"They used to be bats, you know. That was before they lost their wings." "I beg your pardon?" It was going to be one of those kinds of conversations. "The story goes," the man persisted, "that when Noah built the ark, he sent invitations to the bats, but that they refused. 'Why should we ride on your smelly old boat?' they said. 'Even if there is a flood, we can just fly over it.'"

The young people living in Rose County had never seen Tom Crow on account of him living as a hermit somewhere up in the wooded hills. Everyone knew of him though; he was a legend in my growing-up time. The rumors were that he lived somewhere northeast of Culver’s Pass. When I was 12, Robby Lee and I decided to go hiking up that way and try to find his cabin, maybe get a glimpse of him, maybe steal something as a souvenir. That would sure enough give us bragging rights, that is, if anyone would believe we really did it.