The stranger stomped snow from his boots and perched on the end of a pew. Father Dullaney brought over a candle to warm his hands.
“We don’t often get travellers to the chapel at this time of night. There are dangerous creatures in these woods, you know.”
“And demons buried underground, I hear,” grumbled the stranger.
“True,” said Father Dullaney, “but fear not. Whilever this chapel houses a priest of true faith, no demon shall wake from their slumber.”
“Aye, heard that too.”
A knife glinted through candlelight, and demons awoke below.
https://twitter.com/JoelRHunt1
https://www.reddit.com/r/JRHEvilInc/
God of Water
Charlotte O'Farrell
I was one of the most important gods in the pantheon. My statue stood prominently in the temple, adorned with gems.
Oh, I was generous to my people! I was God of Water, keeping drought and floods alike at bay. Then irrigation came; science made me obsolete. Water held no fear for them now.
Over decades I lost followers. No offerings came. My statue was moved to a tiny chapel, gathering dust.
This year the entire city will be swept away by monstrous storms. They will pay for their fickleness! I was God of Water, now I’m God of Vengeance.
Twitter: @ChaOFarrell
Facebook: @AuthorCharlotteOFarrell
Not To Be Underestimated
Galina Trefil
None of the recently-slain, assembled souls before her had ever seen a cat before. All had assumed that felines must be huge, ferocious beasts, with muscles like tree stumps. Otherwise, how could they ever pull the Goddess’ chariot?
“Not with might, but magic,” Freyja clarified, lifting up and cradling one of the long-haired, big-eyed creatures.
One small-boned, axe-wielding shield maiden, still covered in wet, slick blood from her final battle, reached out to stroke the creature’s fur.
She too knew what it was to be underestimated, and diminutive size would stop neither of them from dining with the great warriors.
https://www.facebook.com/Rabbi-Galina-Trefil-535886443115467/
https://galinatrefil.wordpress.com/
The Myling
Grant Hinton
Freya’s day was fraught with grief. A murdered child at breakfast, then a car accident at lunch.
Fourteen hours flat on her feet, but the walk home through the Scandinavian cold was nice, if not a little tiring.
With every step she felt more drained, more empty.
“Just a little further,” a voice said in her head.
She obeyed.
Freya didn’t question the increasing weight on her back nor her path when it veered to the cemetery. Too tired and weighed down was she.
“Nearly there,” said the ghostly outline of a child on her back. “Nearly there.”
She obeyed.
https://www.facebook.com/granthintonauthor
https://www.twitter.com/granthinton3
The Rebirthing Process
Ron Davis
He held his hand, blood dripping from the insignia carved into his palm, over the pregnant woman's immensely swollen midsection. She struggled, crying, against the ropes that bound her to the bed frame with what little strength she had left. The old man picked up a tattered, ancient looking tome of incantations. As he read the single candle lighting the room began to flicker, and the woman's screams intensified. He touched the candle to the fabric of his robe.
“Now is the time, this is the hour. With these words, I will be reborn and I shall be called Phoenix.”
https://www.facebook.com/RonDavisAuthor
Twitter @RonDavis1980.
The Man-Killer
Bryan Dyke
I raise my knife as snow pelts me through the pines.
The tiger roars, its jade eyes pool-like and its mouth frothing.
Kali.
I see her within its pupils. She is a reaper, and I a man afraid. Her myriad arms fan within the cat’s eyes, talwars in each hand. She has killed untold men, and there will be a mountain more piled under her paws. Through space, and time, the bloodlust of this goddess will not end.
Kali.
I awake in my bed, an old man in a cold sweat, and realize she comes for me even in dreams.
The Hand of Glory
Willem V. Much
Marya loved her father. She held his left hand by the exposed ulna, the words he gave her pouring out into the cold night air. The hand's fingers twitched, seeking the burning candle she held in her right hand. She imagined a door of bone and iron, just as he taught her. She did not make a sound when it appeared.
Her father called death a thief, and spoke of justice often. A dead thief's hand could open a locked door. Marya imagined the countless souls her father stole from the Underworld and smiled.
What could death's own hand open?
https://twitter.com/VeryScholar
Darkness Descends
K. R. Nox
I am Apophis. Elder God, Lord of Chaos, The Snake and Encircler of the World. I lie in wait, as I do each day, and as Ra’s powers are all but spent—I chase him from the sky in my colossal, monstrous, serpentine form.
Our battle has endured for ages beyond memory, but this time it will be different. Tonight, as darkness descends…it will be forever.
I have starved myself—awaiting the feast.
When I rise from beneath the mantle of the world, I will devour the sun god once and for all. There will be no dawn for mankind.
www.krnox.com
The Fool
Matthew A Clarke
Creeping low through towering pines, dull moonlight illuminates our path.
My troops have deserted me at the first sight of danger, as though they’d have something to live for if we don’t claim this victory.
A towering shadow in the distance ahead; I freeze and drop to one knee.
The blood of Heracles, staining my blade, drips sporadically onto golden leaves between my sandals.
The God advances. Does it smell my fear?
Blinding light tears through the ancient trees as lighting is hurled in my direction.
It is I that am foolish, not my men. This war cannot be won.
www.facebook.com/fotc87
Hunter’s Folly
Joshua Borgmann
Blood flowed into the circle. It called to Cernunnos, the Horned One. He woke from long slumber, his antlers rising into the moonlight and his nose inhaling a poisoned world.
He knew not how long he had been absent, but he saw the bodies of the slaughtered deer immediately.
Man had long hunted the beasts of the woods for food and clothing, but these innocents were left to die uselessly. The ancient god walked from the circle, spotting the cottage of the hunters.
He called upon all woodland creatures to show them no mercy.
The age of man was ending.
Bray Road
Jen Chichester
Sheriff Brady wanted to clock out for the night, but the call from a frenzied traveler took him to Bray Road. Brady thought the man was probably drunk or high, since there was no such thing as a wolf-man.
He pulled over where the field met the woods, climbing out of the squad car. Brady took a few steps and shone his flashlight through the dark, dense fog.
He snorted. “Definitely high.”
As Brady turned to get back in his car he felt the stabbing pain of massive claws penetrating his pleather jacket. The wolfman pulled Bray into the fog.
www.facebook.com/JenChichesterWritesStuff/
Instagram: @hopelesspierrot
The Serpent Who Burns
Robin Braid
We awoke to the serpent’s roar as it wound its way down the mountain. "Run to the safe place," said Mother, and I dared not look back as David and I clambered over rocks illuminated by the approaching inferno.
The Elders had told stories of the serpent who burns, and a mere
tale it had been until that night.
From our nook by the stream we watched that awful glow descending, devouring. Voices echoed, pained and frightened. I held David’s hand tight, his eyes glistened in the darkness. We lowered our heads and prayed for everything we knew and loved.
www.twitter.com/robinbraid
The Final Battle
Alanna Robertson-Webb
Bastet lounged on her jewel-encrusted throne, her tail twitching excitedly by the armrest as she surveyed the crowd below.
They were waiting for bloodshed, as was she.
The goddess was growing restless, and the crowd's anxiety was making her ears twitch. Finally a roar escaped her, her long fangs glinting red in the dying sun as her challenge clamored to the sky above.
This was her final battle with Apep, the evil snake monster, and either she would win or the world would fall into darkness. All humans would die, and the land would suffer.
She couldn't let that happen.
https://arwauthor.wixsite.com/arwauthor
https://www.amazon.com/Alanna-Robertson-Webb/e/B07LFYJYS5%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share
Becoming Me
Alex Steslow
I remember that, as a small child, I used to be afraid of the monsters under my bed and in my closet. The darkness that hung in the corner of my room terrified me to the core.
Then, one day, the Darkness spoke to me. It spoke of a world I would command and bend to my will, needing to only walk into the shadows and embrace the darkness within me.
Now I sit on my throne of shadows, weaving the fates of those who work in the dark. I became the monster I once feared, so very long ago.
Carrion
Stacey Jaine McIntosh
They thought of the Gods as almighty beings. No one expected the girl, frail and skinny as she was, to rise up, bear arms and fight back.
No one knew her name, but plenty wanted to. Ravens circled overhead, cawing relentlessly. Only when she appeared in the middle of the open field did they stop. Raising her arms, as if to embrace the world, she cried out.
“I am Cathubodua. My pets and I are hungry!”
“Carrion are not pets,” said a villager.
Cathubodua cocked her head to one side, grinning. “You may feast on his eyes first, my pretties.”
www.staceyjainemcintosh.com
Praise Ba’al
Charles Reis
Roger awoke to find himself tied to a tree in the middle of a dark forest. His heart pounded against his chest upon seeing his son standing before him while holding a dagger. A bonfire raged several feet away.
“The son you disowned long ago has returned,” he said, pressing the cold weapon against his father’s cheek. “But he found himself a God who doesn’t reject him.”
Roger’s eyes opened wide when a tall man, with a long face and crowned with a cylindrical headdress, rose from the fire.
“Praise Ba’al!” His son smiled as he slashed his father’s throat.
https://www.facebook.com/charles.reis.35
https://www.instagram.com/cthulhudawn1979/
Cazador
Bryan Dyke
Do not utter Her name in the dark of the night. Do not go to that valley to seek Her shrine. Do not remember what is best forgotten, for those who worshipped Her are dead for good reason. Even they, those who recalled that vile cult, have dwindled. Nothing is left of that goddess, save that abominable temple and a lone idol shaped vaguely like a spider.
I have been there, long ago, and upon the base of that effigy was the name Cazador written in smeared, fresh blood.
I tell you again, go not to that place.
Love the Sinner
Kimberly Rei
They had forgotten, these villagers turned city-dwellers. Once she was revered, but years melted into centuries and they had forgotten her.
And so she waited, watching them drown their grief in chaos and booze. From the shadows, where they refused to look, she drifted a little closer and sipped at their tears. This new era may have sent her into hiding, but she had never completely gone away.
The time was coming, so deliciously soon, when they would need her. Their world was spiraling into disaster and pain, but the Sin Eater would save them.
She would consume them all.
http://tales.studiorei.org/
Götterdämmerung
Paddy Armstrong
The day started like most days do, though no one knew what to make of it. Meteorologists were at a loss, as an increase in storms and extreme climates went against everything they’d predicted.
Biologists were puzzled by how such a large creature could have stayed hidden in the ocean so long, or why attacks by wildlife saw an increase.
Things only got worse.
Cities caught fire, oceans froze. Wars broke out and brother killed brother, never knowing why. Forsaking science we found answers in myth, but it was too late.
The ship of dead men’s nails came into port.
Burnt Offerings
Mark Anthony Smith
The meal tasted bad the first time. I tasted the burnt pork again as I gripped the wicker cage. I should not have come here, to a village with no signposts. No wonder no one knew the way, or its ways.
I know my fate as I appeal to my only God.
The heathens chant for their panopoly. My clothes are singed from flames, the acrid smoke pricking my nostrils. I am to be offered, like their missing children. I implore them to rise above their base intellects, but they know better.
I will burn for their ripe, fruitful harvest.
Twitter: @MarkAnthonySm16
Facebook: Mark Anthony Smith- Author
Not Tonight
Kimberly Rei
Wind blew across the rooftop, fetid and angry. It carried with it a promise of nightmares. At the edge of both structure and air a misshapen creature watched the city writhe. People hurried this way and that, none bothering to look up.
Ichor dripped from ragged talons and splashed, the tiniest of droplets, onto the pavement far below. A minor sound, but enough to cause a babe in a stroller to howl in fear. The canine at her side tilted his head upward.
His expression was clear, "Not tonight, beast. Not ever."
The shadowed creature nodded back, "We shall see."
http://tales.studiorhttei.org/
Those Who Slumber
Chris Bannor
Moss covered the stones, and it took hours to carefully uncover the surface to see what lay beneath. The ruins had been lost to time, forgotten by everyone because the tribe of men who walked this path in the rainforest had died away.
When the men began to go missing we thought they’d been scared off by superstition.
We should have paid attention, we should have learned to read the warnings. These people didn’t die of natural causes, they were killed by their own god. They had sacrificed themselves to force it into slumber.
We should have let it sleep.
Facebook @chrisbannorauthor
www.ChrisBannor.com
A Memory of Gods
L.P. Hernandez
He wakes with dust in his mouth, surrounded by crumbling idols crafted by long-dead hands. The cave is empty, his altar a ruin.
Where are my children? He gazes at the weathered paintings on the walls, their colors so vibrant in his memory.
No one has spoken his name in a thousand years, and his sadness hardens into something else.
He calls Brother Beetle, and whispers in its ear.
Tell the others to burrow into the cold earth, to find the yellowed bones of my children. Their time of rest is over. I have returned, and I will be worshipped.
www.lphernandez.com
The Warning
Callum Pearce
You can still hear it, can’t you? I imagine you thought that you could hide from it. Surrounded by your groaning, grinding machines, flickering screens and shivering speakers.
So many distractions and diversions trying
desperately to drown out that constant sound at the edge of hearing, that ticking clock that moves frustratingly slowly.
That warning we sent, our message that remains when all other sounds cease.
TICK.
The old Gods are returning.
TOCK.
They are displeased.
Hear that? The multitudes screaming, the roaring of the ground cracking as buildings fall, drowns out all other sounds.
They rise, so start praying
https://mobile.twitter.com/Aladdinsane79
https://m.facebook.com/calmpeace13/
Author Bios
Featured alphabetically by first name
Abiran Raveenthiran is a first-generation born Canadian as many are in the cultural melting pot that is Toronto, Ontario. He has one foot in the culture of his past and one foot in the present culture with views into both. His works are written in a way to merge concepts of the eastern and western culture together; a product mirroring his own identity. In early to mid-2020, Abiran also has upcoming short stories to be published in anthologies by Black Hare Press, CelticFrog Publishing, The Great Void & Soteira Press.
https://www.instagram.com/lightweaversreads/
Forgotten Ones Page 9