The fire crackled in the fireplace as the old woman rocked in her wooden chair. She worked patiently on the clay in her wrinkled hands, her coarse hums filling the room.

The clay took shape in her trembling hands as she kneaded blonde hairs into the smoothing surface.

A knock came at the door. It was her sister who had stolen her husband all those years ago. Once again she had come to reconcile.

The elderly woman let her finish the well-practiced speech, her hand gripping tighter on the clay doll. Her sister gasped, coughed, then collapsed to the floor.

Tiny steps littered the silence, slow and soft they continued in repetition. The wood floors of the hall refused to conceal the smallest of disturbances. Rachel’s door crept open, the carpeted floor of her room muffled her visitor’s entrance.

The cover at the foot of her bed rose, a small form slithered beneath to the head and rested its own upon the pillow adjacent to Rachel’s. Her eyes opened, the streetlight outside her window illuminated the pale, dirty face staring back at her through empty pits; the face of the doll whose eyes she had gouged out as a child.

Love is a delicate tapestry, woven in interlocking strands until something beautiful is created. Unfortunately, if a strand loosens, it begins to fall apart. When did emotions become so dependent upon perfection? What hope is there for mending? Ashley hadn’t a clue.

She laid beside B.J. His skin was beginning to pull away from its seams. The perfect boyfriend was rare, Ashley was lucky to have found the desired parts. He wasn’t much for conversation, but he was a great listener. As the poison took effect, she laid her head on his bare chest. Soon she would be with him

“Drinking is a sin!” the girl with the make-believe halo retorted, her face scrunched up like the devil himself.

Poppy snickered but kept her composure.

“I am sin!” Poppy replied.

The girl looked appalled by the remark.

Poppy looked her arrogant judge up and down, from the top of her bun to the bottom of her jean skirt.

“What do you think hell is really like?” she playfully inquired.

The girl just stared. Poppy approached her, doused her in whiskey from her flask, struck a match and flung it at her feet.

“Do you suppose it’s a bit like that?”

The old, abandoned hotel was laden with cobwebs from spiders well-hidden from sight. Darrell and Carrie had been more than willing to spend the night on an easy bet. If they make it until dawn, they get two-hundred bucks. No problem.

They brought their own linens and replaced the ones on the bed in Room 1. Most of the rooms no longer had doors. It was no bother. They slept peacefully.

Morning came. Darrell and Carrie awoke inside webbed cocoons. They struggled but the silk was strong and snug. All the spiders assembled for breakfast, each anxious for its fill.

Before the virus changed her, Val had me chain her to the chair. She wanted me to kill her if she became one of them but I couldn’t. So each day I bring her some reject off the street.

It was fine at first but my conscience has been ailing me. Val is dead, this is some monster wearing her rotting face.

As long as I’m alive, I’ll feed it. I can’t fight these tears but I got to do what I got to do. I reach out and teeth sink into my arm. This is where I say goodbye.

The man on the TV said, “Love can be yours for twenty small payments of forty-nine ninety-nine a month!”

Everett quickly dialed the number on the screen and placed his order.

The package arrived within a week. Everett hastily pried the nails from the boards and searched through the foam peanuts. A cold, stiff hand met his own.

Outside the box, she looked as perfect as Everett dreamt she’d be. He moved in for a kiss then she came to life, pushed him off, and ran out screaming.

Everett never thought she’d be that realistic. Love was always a disappointment.

There were voices in Lisa’s head. One was her own as a little girl, a little mischievous child that refused to grow up. Another was that of her angsty teenage youth. Then there was another voice, old, shaky, and coarse.

“You stupid whore! Take another drink, why don’t you?” It would scream. So Lisa would drink, another and another.

Her days passed, intoxicated and lonely. One sober morning, she stood to stare at the reflected eyes of a tired, old woman.

With rage, her lips quivered. In a young voice, like that in her thirties, she bellowed, “You stupid hag!”

My love, how have you grown so pale?
In the moonlight, even the owl questions who you’ve become!
These tiring hours boast no conclusions,
And the ticking clock is but a mockery!
How dire is this circumstance,
How deep your desire!
With such shallow breaths your chest does heave,
And the death in your eyes still gazes a beckoning stare
Into the night where the creatures roam.

My love, how have you grown so cold?
In the moonlight, your lips glow a luminescent blue!
These trying hours host my confusion,
And the ticking clock is but a mockery!
How strange is this spectacle!
How disturbing your eye!
With such shallow depths your soul does leave,
And the breath in your lungs stills with movement bare
As the night echoes a summoning song.

My love, how have you grown so distant?
In the moonlight, the forest winds so tease my ear!
These passing nights, I succumb to madness,
And the ticking clock is but a mockery!
How frail are these mourning bones,
How weak this aching heart!
With such hollow words, I lift my prayers,
And my faith, but a shadow, grows weaker still
As the nights break a man forlorn.

My love, how have you grown so callous?
In the moonlight, you’ve danced beneath our open window!
The quiet nights erupting with bestial song,
And the ticking clock is but a mockery!
How sorrowful you gaze upon me.
How yearning my gaze returns.
With such fervor is my surrender,
And your touch is frozen with piercing fang
As the veil between worlds is torn!