“Houston, come in. This is UN Space Station Libra. Come in, Houston.” No reply, just like every other time. I throw the receiver in disgust, the weightless environment causing it to float mockingly in front of my face at the end of its retention strap. I’m bathed in the soft red glow of emergency lights that serve to illuminate every inch of my tiny cell. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves before returning to fiddle at the maintenance panel. I’ve been in here for two weeks now. Libra was designed as the successor to the International Space Station. Typically there is a minimum two crew on board at any one time. I was supposed to be out…

Part 1: I can hear the screams of men, and gunfire. I can smell their fear. They know something is in the dark, something strange, menacing, and very, very hungry. Oh God-blam-the fuck is that-blamblam- It hurts-blamblamblam-please don’t-blamblamblamblam-Noooooooo- blamblamblamblamblamblam…… I wake trembling in a cold sweat, sheets tangled around my legs. A few feathers drift lazily through the air from where I can see my pillow ripped open, lying against the far wall. I look across the bed to the nightstand, the green LED lights telling me it’s 4:30 A.M. It was the dream again, the same dream. I glance reproachfully at the remains of a fifth of whiskey and a half empty bottle of sleeping pills lying on its…

Of course everyone claiming residence in Arthur’s Wake knows tales associated with the Wicker House. It seems that every small province plays host to some structure of ill repute which, as if by supernatural magnetism, draws rumor of ghosts and bogies, wrapping the timber and stone of its foundation in a shroud of darkness and horror. In Arthur’s Wake, the Wicker House fills this odious task. Scant days after arriving in town, while taking the time to familiarize myself with the local watering hole and its residents, I became introduced to the well known superstitions surrounding the Wicker House. As a man of science, I knew any truths to be found in these outlandish stories were likely embellished to points…

The bell on the door chimed softly as Joe entered the small flower shop. Sandra was pissed at him for working late again; she’d made that much clear when he’d rolled in past ten last night. Who is she, Joe? Who is who? The woman you’re screwing. What are you talking about, Sandy? You know I have the Brinkman proposal to finish by next week. It’s requiring more time and effort than Bob anticipated when he signed us up for the damn thing. That’s great, Joe. What about time and effort for me, huh? Remember when I used to warrant some of that? Sandy, I… Save it. Just…forget it. I’m fine. I have a headache. She’d gone to bed shortly…

Flat on my back, I wake in total darkness. Where am I? What the hell happened to me? It’s so hard to remember… Was I driving? My memories are… muggy. It feels like I’m coming off the worst hangover ever. Confused images and sounds flash through my head like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle tossed in a blender. There’s the country bar I go to on Thursdays. Toby Keith playing on the radio. Blinding lights flashing like a strobe. My red Ford pickup driving down Route 22. A deep thrumming sound, crushing in its intensity. Screams. A sexy little brunette leaning over a pool table. It seems like she should be familiar. Sarah. The name comes to me from somewhere…

“You’re making a mistake.” “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. Monahan. Our decision has been made.” “But…” “There’s nothing more to be said. Your final check will be in the mail tomorrow. Molly and I thank you for your services.” –click– Jack Monahan sat behind the desk in the dingy room that served as his office, staring at the now silent receiver held in his hand as if willing the voice at the other end to come back. After a few moments, the phone started beeping, letting him know it was still off the hook. Jack resisted a strong urge to bash the thing to pieces against his desk and instead ever so carefully placed the receiver back on…