Macabre Magazine

  • It’s Not Just the Dark by J. Stanton

    If she squinted and imagined nightmares, the house would have looked haunted. With eyes wide open, and her darker dreams tucked away, it was just a big gray building adrift in a sea of trees. Charity Barnes opened the rental car door in a cloud of dust she’d trailed in from the gravel road and…

  • I Know You’re There. Somewhere. by Raima Larter

    We were hiking in dense woods when a sudden rainstorm blew up. We ran, looking for shelter, and came upon an old, abandoned house—a mansion, really, that must have once been beautiful.

  • Spousal Duty by Jordon Fletcher

    Shared coffee in the quiet mornings, holding hands on a walk. Not to mention the tiny, unglamorous sacrifices no one posts about on social media.

  • Bone Sour by J.R. Blanes

    The moment the waitress steps over to take my order, I sniff the scent of menstrual blood lingering beneath the stench of grill smoke and fryer grease. My mouth waters more for her than it does the plates of meatloaf and country fried pork making the rounds of the fifties-themed diner. So intoxicated am I…

  • Constance by Mike Cripps

    It was an accident when I saw Mom cry for the first time. I was cutting class and snuck home during lunch—freshman year, each day a unique disaster; I had been slighted by some former best friend and needed to get away—but when I tiptoed into the apartment, Mom’s racking sobs were coming from the…

  • I’ve Always Had a Little Brother by Maxwell Folkman

    Monday I’ve always had a little brother, haven’t I? He’s eleven, between Kesley, nine, and May, thirteen. I remember when mom and dad brought him home from the hospital. “Isn’t he adorable?” they asked as they showed him to me. When I look back at that day, why can’t I see what he looked like…

  • The Escort by Jeff Turner

    Gretchen Ellison was a beautiful young woman, as many men (and a great many women) would attest. Though modest by nature, she wouldn’t disagree. She knew her face had a Madonna-like, cherubic innocence. Her hourglass figure was exquisite. She sometimes braidedher flowing chestnut hair into a ponytail for work. The male clientele really seemed to like that style with a lily-white sundress.…

  • Ink by Jon Adcock

    Dragović cursed softly as he approached his storefront. The front windows were shattered, with shards of glass glinting in the morning light as they lay scattered across the sidewalk. He unlocked the front door, carefully draped his suit jacket over the counter, and brought out a trash can. He went back in for a broom…

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