The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
On a cold October night, a group of SCAD students circle the SCAD FASH terrace with high spirits, anticipating the horror tales of their peers. The presence of monsters lurking in the dark, mischievous witches and eldritch beings fill the crisp air. Who knows what else these writers will conjure under the faint light? Listed below are some of their selected stories.
“Streetlight” by Spades Rivera
She sighs through her nose as she hears the ringing in her ears.
“Again?” She asks herself, her mouth curling into a sneer.
She looks to the wall of the dark room. The street light from outside allows her to see the bright orange pumpkin sticker that mocks her from its spot on the calendar.
The ringing continued as she looked down at herself, her clothes and hands stained from her messy meal.
“Mom did say I was a messy eater.” Shrugging, she wipes her hands clean on her messy clothes, before looking into the dark corner of the room.
Sitting there is a teenage boy dressed in black, his trembling body curled in on itself as he whimpered.
“Please, please” she hears him.
Rolling her eyes, she steps over the mangled body of his friends, leaving him alone to cry at the carnage he had witnessed. The carnage he had caused his friends to suffer.
“You humans really don’t learn, do you?” She asks aloud. The boy doesn’t answer as his whimpers get louder. She shrugs again before walking into a dark hallway, her body fading into the dark. Her next meal was calling her.
Halloween was her busiest night, but it was also the best night for a meal.
“10-Minute Horror Prompt” by Amara Holland
I’m only a vessel. A shell of the person I once was. Only, no one knows the person I was when I was whole. I had a beating heart with no one to hold it. Blood warming my veins and no one to share the heat with. The thing is, I am not without fault. Every lover with the chance has died by my trembling hands. And now, I am the dead one although the police have pronounced me missing. They don’t know that I dance with the leftovers of my fallen lovers. We dance on every street, in every alleyway, inside every store and in the abandoned homes. We dance to the rhythm in the rattle of their skulls. I hum along as I caress the bodies they no longer inhabit. The bodies I now own forever. They are so long dead that they’ve been forgotten. I fall to my knees and kiss their rickety joints as I meet the same fate. Forgotten. I am forgotten.
“Fall” by Khalfani Hall
A tie of time to guide the show
Of solemn nightly gaze
The crack of bones from down below
To signal out the phase
My mind falls down with squelching sounds
My soul tears free from sanity
My past creeps through forgotten bounds
As I fall through reality
A fire, no, a light. Something dim, or shallow light.
Oh, it’s bright. I hear a loud ring.
It seems I’m back at it again. Back here to relive the life of hell.
I did try, try to escape, but to no avail, I suppose.
“Spooky Boat” by Harrison Steppe
Davis lay back in his hammock and sighed, giving in to a deep stretch. He’d just spent 9 hours navigating the S.S. Hertzstrum through some of the choppiest water he’s ever dealt with in the English Channel, but a good crew, a solid ship, and — smiling to himself — a good navigator make short work of the nastiest storms. Davis had left the night work to his apprentice, Charles. Now that the storm had died and the clouds were gone, it was a good time for him to put into practice what he’d be taught. And a good excuse for me to rest. He smirked. He closed his eyes, welcoming the embrace of sleep.
Moments passed, and the door to Davis’s cabin was thrust open, charts blowing off his navigation table. Angrily, Davis looked up at the intruder of his peace – only to see his apprentice, Charles, eyes lit by the fading lantern on Davis’s desk.
“Good God man, what are you bursting in here for? At what hour? Can you not manage the ship alone?”
“No sir, I could – I was! It ju-just”
He stutters out. A look of confusion and an irregular lack of confidence play across his fast.
“We…we’re not moving anymore. T-the tailwind stopped.”
Davis frowns.
“That’s enough for you to wake me? This happens after a storm. In a few hours, we’ll get moving again. It’s fine, just have the night crew stay alert.”
Davis begins to roll back over in his hammock, but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He opens his mouth to reprimand Charles, but something about the look in his eye and uncertainty in his face unnerved him.
“Um… A-actually the night crew is gone, s-sir. I can’t find, w-well, anyone.”
Davis’s face morphed from annoyance to alarm.
He stands up out of his hammock, dusts off his sleeping clothes, glances at Charles, and steps out of the cabin. The first thing that hits Davis is how uncharacteristically warm it is. Then, the smell. Davis backs up into the cabin door frame with a gag. Charles looks at Davis with trembling hands and gives him a brass sextant. Davis gives a look towards Charles, then puts his eye to the glass.
North star… Orion… Scorpio… Where… Where did they go? What are these constellations, blinking in and out like eyes from the night?
Davis lowers the sextant and stares at Charles. The stars weren’t right. The waters were too still. Was this an act from God? A punishment for a crime yet to be committed?
Charles’ whole body was shaking now, his face a mixture of fear and snot. As Davis walked towards the starboard shipside, he could hear Charles burst into tears from behind him. Normally, this would’ve bothered Davis more, but this felt like living in a nightmare, his body as cold and unresponsive as a corpse. Davis peeked into the waters below to find the sources of the awful smell.
The water was blood.
Lapping up the side of the boat like red tongues, the thick red liquid kept the boat in place. Davis looked deep into the ocean of blood, the metallic tang burning his throat and nostrils. His own reflection stared back from the depths. He felt cold. Distant. This was death.
Then, from under the surface of his reflection, a black circle yawned wide. He finally broke his reverie with a scream to Charles, who had long since collapsed on the deck above.
It took Davis a moment looking into the abyssal sphere to realize that wherever they were, whatever ungodly circle of hell they had woken up to was not unoccupied, and this ship was woefully under-equipped for this.
The circle closed in one fluid motion, then opened again. A deep unearthly moan from the sea echoed through the dark.
Davis had dared to look into the abyss. The abyss was staring back.
“Flash Fiction: Haunted House” by Jackson Williams
I remember when I was a sapling in the forest, so young, fresh, and free. The sound of the river, the sight of butterflies fluttering, and the smell of grass were my comforts. When the birds nested in me, I became a home. Now, I’m just a house.
You’re so kind, being here.
My halls are long, my walls are thin, and my doors are tightly shut. I echo and creak and wail when it rains, and it’s a stormy night. At one time, the water helped me grow. Now, rain makes me mold. I’ve suffered many storms, and each one wears me down a little bit further. What wears me quickest of all is the infestation.
I can feel them in my pipes, vents, and floors. They’re horrible creatures, none looking like the other. You see, the people that die here don’t leave.
There’s a man whose face looks like melted wax, as if his skin was being pulled closer to hell every day. There’s a drowned woman in the bathtub cuddling a toaster and fiddling the fork in my electric socket. She keeps frying herself to sleep. The child crawls on bloody kneecaps, dragging himself across the red-stained carpet in the same pattern. Some of them dangle from the ceiling like my chandeliers. Some of them sit still like my chairs. They decorate me with their misery.
Strangely, I prefer the company of ghosts to people like you because they aren’t scared of me anymore. They still scream, but they aren’t scared. My residents are simply paralyzed in a space between death, and they keep me company.
Because I can’t move, I can’t stop you from looking around or knocking over all my furniture. Luckily, my last visitor painted some rules on my wall.
“RULES
If you must sleep in a bed, light a candle. You don’t want them looking at you.
Only exit from the door you came in, if you entered through the window, it’s too late.
If you see anyone you didn’t enter with, don’t approach them, they don’t want to speak.
Don’t pick up any books. They’re in a language that’s best not spoken.
You can sit on the carpet, but never in the middle.
The basement is locked on purpose.
Don’t take any food or drink any water. It’s not for you.
AVOID MIRRORS. AVOID MIRRORS. AVOID MIRRORS. AVOID“
There’s a reason I’m called a haunted house, and this ugly tattoo I’ve been given makes me look scarier. I’m not evil. I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m trying to protect you, so put down the gasoline.
You don’t need it. It’s a rainy night, so stay for a while. Gas is just going to make a mess of the carpet. I can’t afford to be any messier, I mean, how embarrassing. If you maybe clean me then maybe the ghosts will go away. They won’t bite if you follow the rules. You don’t need it. Stop. STOP.
YOU DON’T NEED IT. PUT THE MATCH DOWN. NO, NOT LIKE THAT.
IT’S TOO HOT. IT BURNS.
I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS. I GAVE YOU A PLACE TO STAY.
IT BURNS.
YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT RULE 6 WAS? THE IRONY? IT’S PRETTY FUNNY!
“Rule 6: Under no circumstance should this house be demolished. They’ll find you. All of them.”