Macabre Magazine

  • The Biology of a Mother’s Love by Julia Rajagopalan

    I love my mother, but if I ever see her again, I’ll kill her. Perhaps I love my mother because of biology, but biology can be hacked these days, so who can trust that anymore?

  • Restoration by Kate Tyte

    I arrived early on my first day at Palacio Cardoso. The air was heavy with exhaust fumes. I crossed the street, shielding my eyes from the glare, and hugged the thin strip of shade provided by the buildings until I found a tiny café.

  • Past Master by Matthew Hurst

    Welcome to the RockSnark music podcast with me, Nathan Pool, and no prizes for guessing it’s going to be about the late Gerry Solby, who died this week.

  • Smash by Olúwasèyífúnmi Adedayo

    Homecoming Dorothy absentmindedly bobbed her head to the beat of “Espresso” pounding from the car speakers. Her friends—Kianna, Zoe, and Gabby—hollered the lyrics, way off-key but not caring. Her forehead pressed against the window, Dorothy watched the towering redwoods blur by, pulling away each time the Lexus jounced over a pothole. Gabby never spotted them…

  • The Laundrette by Mark Brandon

    It was barely four o’clock, and already the thick, wet Scottish dark of winter had fallen around the loch like a shroud. The car mounted a rise and began the descent into the valley. Maggie didn’t like coming this way, but she didn’t trust the Big Road, what with all the lorries—not in this junkheap.…

  • A Little Terror by Ki Ki Hobbs

    It is crying again. A loud, incessant wail that rattles the eardrums and causes the cutlery to tremble in the cupboards. Give it another few minutes, and the hollering will turn into a full-blown tantrum, with spectral fists smashing against the floorboards and tiny…

  • Words by Paul Booth

    Reginald Cathcart squirms. His stomach’s disquiet. The past week’s stories have been weak, not up to his usual standards. He can feel the Words’ gurgitation roil. They push against the inside of him. He senses them weave through his intestines, circle his stomach like they’re on a Gravitron ride, snake upward through his esophagus. He…

  • Slip by Kash Jain

    Most horror stories people recount from their university years take place first or second term. Perhaps they went out drinking and got lost in the city’s winding streets, their impaired minds guiding them deep into unknown alleyways and ivy-covered husks, leaving them totally disorientated. Or, inhibited by unfamiliarity, they attempted to find their class only…

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