Arthur Finch had given up on the possibility of dignity sometime around the age of forty-three, when the last respectable clump of hair abandoned ship and swirled defiantly down the shower drain. Now, six years later, the most exciting part of his week was the dimming of the fluorescent lights as they powered down for the weekend, a process that took a full, agonizing minute and a half. It was four PM on a dreary November afternoon at Fields & Associates, and the low point of Arthur’s week was, as always, his own reflection.
It stared back at him from the dark screen of his second monitor: a pale, round face rapidly approaching its fiftieth birthday, and the barren expanse of his scalp. He privately called it his fleshy cul-de-sac: a gleaming dome surrounded by a sad fringe of brown hair that had long ago surrendered the high ground. His cubicle nameplate, which had been misspelled for three years, read “ARTHUR FLINCH.” He’d never had the courage to correct it.
“Finch!” a voice boomed. Arthur flinched. The voice belonged to Todd, a senior accountant whose own hair was a thick, aggressively gelled helmet. Todd bypassed Arthur’s desk for a moment and leaned against the adjacent cubicle wall of Brenda from HR.
“Hey, Bren,” Todd said. “Big plans this weekend? I was thinking maybe you and me could synergize some assets.”
Brenda adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses, her face flushing as she clutched a stack of paperwork to her chest. “I have to catalogue the new W-9 forms, Todd. And you’re married.”
Todd’s grin didn’t falter. He winked then turned his attention to Arthur, slapping a thick stack of files onto his desk. “Well, while she’s playing hard to get, you can get these processed by Monday, champ.” He leaned in closer, gesturing to Arthur’s head. “Wow, look at that shine. I can see your future in it, and it’s still disappointing.” He cackled.
Arthur’s shoulders, which had tried to crawl up and hide behind his ears, slowly descended. He stared at his monitor, the numbers blurring. He didn’t hate Todd; he just wished, with a quiet and profound ache, that Todd would spontaneously cease to exist.
A moment later, Brenda appeared at his cubicle opening, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “Don’t listen to him,” she said, tucking a brown curl behind her ear. She pointed a finger at a small doodle on his notepad, a meticulously detailed drawing of a spaceship. “Is that the Valiant Star from ‘Cosmic Pioneers’?”
Arthur’s head shot up, his cheeks turning red for an entirely different reason. “You . . . you watch Cosmic Pioneers?”
“My dad was a huge fan,” she said. “For the record, anyone who can remember the schematics for a Mark IV plasma engine is a genius in my book.”
She gave a little wave and walked away, leaving Arthur stunned. As he switched off his desk lamp, his reflection jumped out at him one last time from the dark screen. All he saw was a lonely, balding man. A man named Flinch. He felt a sudden craving for change.
It was in this precise state of desperation, hours later, that he found himself bathed in the blue glow of his television at 2:17 AM, listening to a man with an oily voice promise him a new life, all delivered in a discreet little box.
The man called himself Rex Vanguard, and he spoke with the frantic, sweat-sheened sincerity of a prophet. His teeth were a blinding shade of white, perfectly square, and he had the kind of thick, glossy hair that surely required its own zip code. Behind him, testimonials flashed across the screen: a man, formerly bald, now laughing on a yacht surrounded by beautiful women; another tearfully accepting a “Salesman of the Year” trophy.
“Are you tired of watching lesser men climb the ladder while you’re stuck on the bottom rung?” Rex boomed. “Well, it’s not your fault. It’s your follicular presence! The world is a jungle, gentlemen, and the lion with the fullest mane is king!”
It was called the Apex H.D. System. It wasn’t a rug, Rex insisted, spitting the word out like poison. It was a ‘symbiotic follicular unit,’ woven from 100% genuine Eurasian keratin and bonded with a proprietary, bio-active adhesive.
Todd’s sneering face flashed in Arthur’s mind. “Look at that shine. I can see your future in it, and it’s still disappointing.”
Then, Brenda’s kind, nerdy smile. “A genius in my book.” One voice crushed him; the other offered a hand he felt unworthy to take. Rex Vanguard offered a third option.
Power. Dominion.
Before he knew what he was doing, Arthur was reading his credit card number to a bored-sounding operator. He collapsed into bed once his order had been placed, the promise of a “new him” echoing in his sleep.
He expected it to arrive in a week, maybe two. He expected to have time to feel the full weight of buyer’s remorse and cancel the order; he did not expect to find it on his doorstep by Monday morning.
The box was matte black, surprisingly heavy, and cold to the touch, as if it had been stored in a freezer. There was no return address, only a stylized logo of a lion with a flowing mane. His hands trembled as he sliced the tape. Inside, nestled on a bed of black satin, was the hairpiece.
It was perfect—too perfect. The color was an exact match for his own sad fringe, a nondescript, grayish brown. The density was flawless. Holding it felt strange; the underside wasn’t the simple mesh he expected, but a smooth, leathery surface, cross-hatched with faint, vein-like patterns. It felt unnervingly organic.
He stood in his bathroom, shirtless, staring at the man in the mirror. Arthur Flinch. Perhaps for the last time. He peeled the protective film from the leathery underside, closed his eyes, and lowered the hairpiece onto his head.
The contact was not unpleasant, just a faint, spreading tingle, like a limb waking from sleep. The hairpiece seemed to settle, conforming to the curve of his skull with unnerving precision, as if it were drawn there by magnets.
He opened his eyes.
The man in the mirror was not Arthur Flinch. This man was . . . Arthur Finch. He had a strong jawline that had always been there, but was now properly framed. His eyes, no longer peering out from under the shadow of his forehead, looked sharp and intelligent. He looked ten years younger. He looked confident. Arthur ran a hand through the hair, a surge of something hot and unfamiliar flooding his chest.
It felt like power.
Walking into Fields & Associates felt different that morning. For the first time in his career, Arthur didn’t shuffle. He strode. His shoulders were back, his head held high—a necessity, as the toupee seemed to encourage a certain regal posture. He felt the stares on his back as he passed through the beige sea of cubicles. No one pointed, but he could hear the low hum of gossip in his wake.
He was halfway to his desk when he saw Brenda standing by the coffee machine. She looked up, and her eyes widened. Arthur noted, she wasn’t looking at his hair, but at his face.
“Arthur? Wow,” she said, a flustered smile gracing her lips. “You look…different. Good-different.”
“Feeling good-different,” Arthur replied, the words flowing with an unnatural ease. He even gave her a small, confident wink. A wink! He hadn’t winked, even ironically, since 1998. Brenda blushed and looked down at her coffee mug. It was the most successful romantic interaction he’d had in years.
Arthur poured himself a coffee and sat at his desk, trying to quell the smile pasted across his face as he logged in. Ten minutes later, he was still coasting on the victory when Todd rolled up.
“Well, well, well,” Todd’s voice oozed from behind him. “Look what the cat dragged in. Playing dress-up, Flinch?”
Arthur slowly turned in his chair. Old Arthur would have shrunk, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato as he mumbled an apology. But Old Arthur wasn’t home. He felt a strange tightening on his scalp, a low, energetic thrum vibrating down his spine. The right words came to him easily.
“Is that the best you’ve got, Todd?” Arthur asked, his voice even and calm. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Frankly, I’m disappointed. I’d have thought a man who spends that much time sculpting his own hair would have better material when he sees a competitor.”
The entire cubicle farm fell so silent you could hear the sad hum of the server room down the hall. Todd’s smarmy grin froze, then melted off his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times, like a beached carp. He was, for the first time in his miserable life, speechless. After a long moment, he simply grunted, turned on his heel, and stomped back to his office.
A wave of pure, unadulterated ecstasy washed over Arthur. He had done it. He had faced the dragon and won. He felt powerful, invincible. He wanted to laugh, to stand on his desk and crow.
A voice whispered in his mind. It wasn’t his own internal monologue, which was currently just a loop of giddy, triumphant screaming. This voice was deep, guttural, and ancient. It spoke a single, simple word.
Feed.
Arthur froze, his euphoria vanishing like a puff of smoke. He blinked. What was that? Stress? Adrenaline? He tried to focus on his spreadsheet, but the numbers swam before him. The thrumming on his scalp had changed. It was no longer an energized buzz but a low, insistent pulse. A hunger pang, if you will.
He ran a hand through his perfect new hair. It felt real. It felt like his. But as he sat there, basking in the stunned silence of his coworkers, he couldn’t shake the terrifying feeling that for the first time, he wasn’t entirely alone in his own head.
The rest of the workday passed in a haze of anxiety. The word—feed—would pulse in his mind every few minutes, a dull throb behind his eyes. The confident thrum on his scalp had curdled into a persistent headache. He tried to work, but the numbers on his screen blurred. Every time he caught his reflection in his monitor, he saw the confident, handsome hair of Arthur Finch, but he felt the terrified, clammy sweat of Arthur Flinch.
At five, he practically sprinted to the men’s room and locked himself in a stall, heart hammering against his ribs. He had to get it off. He had to get this thing off his head. He jammed his fingers under the edge of the hairpiece and pulled.
A bolt of white-hot agony shot through his skull. It wasn’t like pulling off a cheap wig; it was like trying to rip his own skin from his bone. He gasped, tears springing to his eyes as he fell back against the stall door. He tried again, more carefully, but it was useless. The “bio-active adhesive” had done its job. The toupee was fused to him. The faint, vein-like patterns on its underside had, he realized with a wave of nausea, found purchase.
Panic set in. He stumbled out of the office, ignoring the few coworkers who wished him a good evening. He needed to get home, to think. But his feet didn’t turn toward the bus stop. Propelled by the insistent thrumming in his head, he found himself walking in the opposite direction, into a part of downtown that was slowly decaying into pawn shops and grimy bars. The headache was a raging migraine now, and the whisper was a constant, desperate chant: Feed. Feed. Feed.
A fine drizzle began to fall, slicking the pavement and making the neon signs bleed into the puddles. The toupee pulled him, like a grim homing pigeon, into a narrow, trash-strewn alley between a laundromat and a boarded-up butcher shop.
“Why are you taking me here?” he whimpered to himself, or perhaps to the thing on his head.
He got his answer a moment later. A figure stepped out from behind a dumpster, blocking his path. The man was gaunt, with shifty eyes and a cheap knife that glinted in the dim light.
“Wallet, phone, and that nice watch, pal,” the man rasped. “Let’s make it quick.”
Arthur’s body went rigid with terror. This was it. He was going to die in a filthy alley. He raised his hands in surrender, a pathetic squeak escaping his lips. But the headache suddenly vanished. The thrumming on his scalp intensified, not with pain, but with a terrifying, ecstatic hunger.
He was no longer in control.
His arm, moving with a speed and precision not his own, shot out and knocked the knife from the mugger’s hand. The man stared, stunned. Arthur’s other hand grabbed the front of the man’s jacket, pulling him close. Arthur was a passenger in his own body, watching in silent, screaming horror.
Then, the hair moved.
Tendrils of brown hair, thick as pencils, slithered down from the toupee. They moved like serpents, stiffening into rigid, keratinous spikes. The mugger’s eyes went wide with disbelief and terror. Before he could scream, the strands whipped around his throat, tightening with a sickening, fibrous crunch. The man clawed at the hair, his face turning a deep, horrifying purple as he was lifted a few inches off the ground.
Arthur didn’t feel a thing, except a nauseating, pulling sensation on his scalp, like a grotesque siphon. He could feel the mugger’s life—his warmth, his energy, his fading panic—being drawn up, through him, and into the parasitic thing on his head.
After a few seconds that stretched into an eternity, it was over. The hair retracted, settling back into a perfect, stylish coif. The body dropped to the wet pavement with a dull, final thud.
The alley was silent, save for the patter of the rain. Arthur stood there, shaking uncontrollably, staring at the dead man at his feet. The migraine was gone. The incessant whispering was silenced. In its place, the toupee radiated a calm, purring sense of utter satisfaction, like a well-fed cat.
Arthur Finch, mild-mannered accountant, stumbled out of the alley and threw up in a gutter.
He was a murderer.
Arthur didn’t sleep for three days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mugger’s bulging face, heard that wet, fibrous crunch. He jumped at car doors slamming, at the hiss of the radiator, at his own shadow moving across the wall. The phantom sensation lingered—that sickening pull at his scalp, like something drinking through a straw jammed into his skull. He scrubbed himself raw in scalding showers, but the feeling wouldn’t leave.
He’d tried to fight back, of course. On Tuesday, in a fit of desperate rage, he’d grabbed the kitchen shears and tried to hack the toupee off his head. The scissors screeched against the hair strands, sending up sparks as though he were trying to cut through steel cables. The toupee didn’t lose a single hair. The shears, however, were hopelessly mangled.
When he looked in the mirror after, the contrast was sickening. His own face was pale and haunted, dark circles ringing his eyes. The toupee, however, had never looked better. It was glossy and vibrant and radiated sleek health: a well-fed parasite.
He went to work the next morning like a man walking to the gallows, fully expecting to be arrested. Instead of crunching numbers, he scrolled obsessively through the local news on his phone. After forty-five minutes, he finally found it: a tiny article at the bottom of the page. “Body of Unidentified Male Found in Downtown Alley,” the headline read. The preliminary cause of death was listed as a “suspected drug overdose.” There was no mention of violence or witnesses. The toupee had been clean. Professional. The thought of a toupee being a professional killer was absurd, and yet he felt a wave of relief that made him feel even more monstrous.
And then, a strange thing happened: life began to get better.
The files Todd dumped on him were no longer an insurmountable mountain of numbers. Now unburdened by crippling self-doubt, Arthur’s mind saw patterns and solutions he’d never noticed before. He finished an entire project by Thursday afternoon, including a recommendation for a new accounting protocol that would save the company 8% in quarterly expenditures. He sent it to Todd and copied the senior partners.
An hour later, Mr. Fields—the actual, mythical Mr. Fields—personally came to Arthur’s desk to thank him. Todd was forced to stand by, his face a mask of curdled jealousy, as Fields praised Arthur’s “initiative and keen insight.”
Buoyed by this incredible victory, Arthur did the unthinkable. He saw Brenda heading for the elevators at the end of the day, took a deep breath, and fell into step beside her.
“Brenda,” he said, his voice steady. “I was wondering if you might be free this Saturday. For dinner. There’s a new Italian restaurant I’ve been meaning to try.”
She turned, a smile spreading across her face. “I’d love that, Arthur.”
“Call me Art,” he said.
Brenda flushed. “Okay, Art,” she said breathlessly.
It was happening. Everything the man on the infomercial had promised was coming true. Respect at work. A date with the woman of his dreams. He felt a dizzying, dangerous sense of justification. The mugger had a knife, he told himself as he ironed his best shirt on Saturday evening. It was self-defense, in a way. A very, very weird way.
He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting his tie. He looked good. He looked happy. For the first time in a decade, his life was on the right track.
And then he felt it.
A low, faint thrumming at the base of his skull. A familiar, insistent pulse. And in the quiet of his apartment, a single, guttural whisper echoed in his mind.
Hungry.
Arthur tried to fight it. He ate two peanut butter sandwiches and a cheese stick, hoping a full stomach might somehow placate the thing on his head. It didn’t. The whispers continued, an insistent grumbling in the back of his mind as he drove to pick up Brenda.
But the moment he saw her, the whispers faded. She was waiting on her porch, wearing a ruffled blue dress and the same nervous, hopeful smile she’d had at the office. For a glorious, fleeting moment, everything felt normal.
The restaurant was a quiet little Italian place on Main called La Bella Luna. They talked easily, discovering a shared love for old sci-fi movies and a mutual hatred for the new TPS reporting software. Arthur made a joke about amortized depreciation schedules, and Brenda let out a genuine, unrestrained laugh. A warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the toupee. He was connecting with someone—and a woman at that!
That’s when the thrumming started.
It began as a low buzz, a familiar headache tightening its grip around his temples. He saw Brenda’s mouth moving, but her words were being drowned out by a new, louder whisper.
Arrogant. Loud. Wasting good wine.
Arthur’s eyes darted past Brenda’s shoulder. At a nearby table, a man in a navy suit was loudly berating the waitress, snapping his fingers and complaining about the temperature of his steak. He was Todd, but with a different face. Arthur hated him instantly.
A powerful, irresistible force yanked Arthur’s head to the right, fixing his gaze on the loud man. Arthur jerked it back, forcing a cough. “Sorry,” he croaked. “Bit of a crick in my neck.”
Brenda looked at him, her smile faltering. “Are you okay, Art? You’ve gone pale.”
“Fine! Just fine,” he said, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles blanched. His right hand, which was holding a fork, began to tremble, the tines vibrating against the plate. The toupee wanted to use it. It was showing him how: a quick thrust, up and under the jaw.
Feed. Now. Easy. He deserves it.
“Arthur, you’re sweating,” Brenda said, her voice laced with concern.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit here while his own hair planned a murder three feet away from the woman he was trying to impress. He threw his napkin on the table.
“I’m so sorry, Brenda,” he stammered, his voice tight with panic. “The migraine… it’s coming on really fast. I… I have to go. I’m so, so sorry.”
He fumbled for his wallet, threw a handful of cash on the table, and stood up, lurching like a drunk. He couldn’t even look at her. The disappointment on her face was a physical blow, but the toupee’s rage was worse. It was furious at being denied its meal. He practically fled the restaurant, leaving Brenda alone and bewildered at the table. He beelined for his car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Arthur was only a few blocks away when the toupee’s fury became unbearable. The whispers were gone, replaced by a single scream of pure rage in his mind. It yanked his head to the left so violently his neck cracked, forcing him to turn down a dark, residential street.
He had ruined the best night of his life. And now, his passenger was demanding payment.
The pain was blinding. The toupee’s silent, psychic scream was a white-hot poker behind Arthur’s eyes. It controlled his hands on the steering wheel, forcing the car to perform a slow, methodical patrol of the quiet suburban streets.
He had to find someone.
The thought itself was so monstrous it made him want to gag. But the alternative was letting the toupee choose, and he knew with sickening certainty it would eventually steer him right back to Brenda’s doorstep. Appeasement was his only option. So he scanned the houses and sidewalks, his mind engaged in the most horrific moral calculus. A woman jogging? No, he couldn’t. A group of teenagers laughing by a car? Too many witnesses.
Then the toupee yanked the wheel hard, pulling the car to a stop beside a house with a chain-link fence. Illuminated by a single, bleak porch light, a large, angry-looking man was kicking a cowering beagle.
“Get in the damn house, you stupid mutt!” the man roared, delivering another kick. The dog whimpered, tail between its legs.
The toupee went rigid on Arthur’s head. The psychic screaming stopped, replaced by a cold, predatory focus.
Cruel. Unkind. Deserving.
This was it. A monster Arthur could justify feeding to his own.
The pain in his head subsided just enough for him to open the car door. He moved as if in a dream, his feet crunching on the gravel of the man’s driveway. “Hey!” Arthur called out, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. “Leave the dog alone.”
The man turned, his face a mask of rage. “Mind your own damn business, pal, or you’ll be next!” He took a step forward.
It was all the invitation the toupee needed.
Arthur didn’t even have time to flinch. He stood there as the toupee’s tendrils, now thick as rope, shot from his head, covering the ten feet between them in an instant. They wrapped around the man’s neck, wrists, and ankles, hoisting him into the air like a marionette. The man’s eyes bulged as he was silenced, suffocated, and consumed.
The beagle yelped and scrambled under the porch.
The now-familiar, nauseating siphon-feeling washed through Arthur. It was over in seconds. The body was gently lowered to the ground behind a large azalea bush, hidden from the street. The toupee retracted. The pain in Arthur’s head was gone, replaced by the warm, purring satisfaction of a full belly.
He drove home in a dead silence, the toupee contentedly dormant. He had saved himself for tonight. But what about the next time? And the time after that? He thought of Brenda’s disappointed face. He thought of the office Christmas party in a few weeks, an event, for a few blissful days, he had actually been looking forward to.
He couldn’t live like this, a zookeeper for a demon, finding it fresh meat every week. He couldn’t let it endanger Brenda again. The rationalizations, the justifications—they were all gone now.
He had to kill it.
His research, as befitted an accountant, was meticulous. He created a color-coded spreadsheet. Printouts covered every surface: the chemical composition of keratin, flash points of industrial solvents, medical journals about severe burns. He muttered formulas to himself at three AM, his eyes bloodshot, surrounded by empty coffee cups and crumpled pages.
High-proof alcohol weakens the bio-active adhesive. Extreme heat. Cut the bond first, then burn.
He spent two weeks in a fugue state, practicing the motions with kitchen knives, mapping the exact angle. His neighbors probably thought he’d lost his mind. They weren’t wrong.
The office Christmas party was in six days. He’d marked it on his calendar in red ink, circled it again and again until the pen tore through the paper. That was his deadline. He would not allow this thing to turn a festive occasion into a hunting ground.
Late Thursday night, Arthur stood outside Gus’s Olde Tyme Barber Shop, his whole body shaking. The building had been shuttered for years, windows grimy with neglect. He clutched the crowbar with sweaty palms, his breath coming in short panicked gasps.
You’re really going to do this, he thought. You’re really going to—
The lock gave way with a sickening crack.
Inside, the air was thick with dust motes, and he could barely make out the rows of empty leather chairs that lined the room like silent judges. Mirrors on every wall reflected a thousand Arthurs, a thousand perfect hairpieces.
His hands shook as he dropped the duffel bag full of supplies: high-proof grain alcohol, duct tape, lighter, razor, everything he’d spent two weeks researching. If he was going to do this, if he was really going to…
The tape made obscene ripping sounds as he bound his legs to the chair.
“God, what am I doing?” he whispered.
What are you doing? We are powerful. We are respected.
“We’re killers,” Arthur sobbed, binding one arm.
Images flooded his mind—Brenda’s smile, Mr. Fields’s handshake, Todd’s stunned face. The toupee showed him everything he’d gained, everything he’d lose.
She likes you. They respect you. We can have it all.
Arthur grabbed the razor with his free hand. The hair came alive, whipping around his face, trying to blind him. He was wrestling himself, grunting and crying in the dusty shop.
With a desperate surge, he pressed the blade to his forehead and sliced. The pain was clean, sharp, and exquisite; he cried out. The toupee shrieked in the back of his mind. Blood ran down his face as he pried up the edges of the hairpiece and poured alcohol underneath. It dripped down into his eyes, over his lips, his vision spotting as the hair curled around his throat and squeezed. Fumbling for the lighter, fingers slick with blood—
A spark.
His head erupted in a pillar of blue and orange flame, the psychic scream of the toupee the last thing he heard before his own scream joined it, and the world went black.
Spring arrived, and with it, the first genuinely warm Saturday of the year. Arthur Finch sat on a park bench, feeling the sun on his face. He wore a soft grey beanie as he always did now to cover the mass of scarred, glossy tissue on his scalp. He was well and truly bald now in a way no infomercial could ever fix.
He’d spent three weeks drifting in and out of consciousness, his head wrapped in bandages that smelled of antiseptic and charred flesh. Nurses asked gentle questions about his ‘grilling accident.’ He mumbled responses through swollen lips, grateful they didn’t probe deeper.
When he finally looked in the mirror, he laughed, the sound erupting out of him so suddenly he was forced to clamp his hands over his mouth. The sight should have horrified him; instead, for the first time in months, he felt free.
He’d returned to work at Fields & Associates a quieter, calmer man. He was no longer the swaggering “Art” Finch, but he wasn’t the terrified Arthur Flinch, either. The nameplate on his desk now read, simply, “ARTHUR FINCH.” He had corrected it himself with Sharpie.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
He looked up. Brenda stood before him in a knee-length floral dress, holding two paper cups of coffee, her hair catching the afternoon sun. It looked… fuller than he remembered. Shinier.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Arthur,” she said, handing him a coffee. He took a grateful sip as she settled on the bench next to him, surveying the park.
“You know,” she said. “I’m not sure why, but I’ve been feeling so much more confident lately. I even aced a presentation with the senior partners last week.”
“That’s great, Brenda,” Arthur said, and meant it.
“Yeah,” she continued, her smile becoming a little wider, a little sharper. “I just decided I needed a change. A new me, you know?”
A gust of wind swept through the park, and for a split second, it lifted a lock of her hair at the temple. Arthur’s heart stopped. Underneath, just for an instant, he didn’t see scalp. He saw a smooth, leathery surface, cross-hatched with faint, vein-like patterns.
He felt a phantom thrumming in his own head, an echo of a familiar, predatory hunger.
Brenda turned to him, her eyes darker than before. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to try dinner again,” she purred. “I’m simply starving.”
Renee Acosta is a writer and public health professional whose fiction explores the quiet horrors hidden within ordinary life. Her work has appeared in Macabre Magazine, on the Creepy podcast, and in Uncharted Magazine, where her work was selected as the winner of the Novel Excerpt Contest, judged by Cynthia Pelayo. She is currently at work on her debut novel.
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