1. A glass cups falls over in the kitchen for no reason.
2. Creaking floorboards in the attic could be the wood contracting from temperature and humidity changes or it could be footsteps, slow and deliberate.
3. Your phone buzzes with a doorbell notification. You don’t check it and thank God that you locked all the doors before bed.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. The longer you live, the faster time moves. A single day stretches endlessly for a newborn, because it is all they’ve ever known. But by day two, that same span is only half of their life. By year ten? A fraction. Imagine, then, an immortal being. Centuries could pass and it would feel like a blink to them. What would seconds mean to a creature who’s forgotten the weight of a single moment?
2. Time isn’t visible, but you can see its effects by looking in a mirror.
3. Time is natural but what if someone is able to manipulate it? Those who bend it, break it, travel it... they lose something. Perspective, perhaps. Sanity, more liekly. If you could rewind a mistake, would you still fear making it? If you could see every branching path before you, would you ever move forward? Some choices are meant to be permanent. And some things - no matter how far back you go - were always going to happen.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. Humans evolved under specific environmental conditions on Earth. While there may be quintillions of Earth-like planets in the observable universe, each planet’s history is vastly different. Even slight variations - such as proximity to a heat source, the length of a planet’s days, or its axial tilt - create infinite permutations in evolutionary pathways. What, then, are the chances that aliens would evolve to be just like us?
2. There may be alien civilizations so advanced that our ability to comprehend their technology would be akin to an ant trying to understand a smartphone.
3. The Fermi Paradox questions why Earth hasn’t been visited by aliens despite the vastness of the universe. There has been no verified proof of extraterrestrial life, yet given the near-infinite scale of the cosmos, it is highly unlikely that we are alone. Many theories attempt to explain this paradox, it’s a deep rabbit hole to explore. My favorite explanation is the Great Filter theory. This theory suggests that at some stage in evolution, there is an extremely difficult hurdle that acts as an existential “filter” that prevents most civilizations from advancing far enough to be detectable. But what is this filter? Could it be the transition from microorganisms to complex life? The emergence of societal structures that enable agriculture? The development of nuclear weapons leading to self-destruction? The rise of AI beyond human control? Or is it something far in the future that we can’t yet comprehend? One way or another, if we haven't already passed it, we may not recognize the Great Filter until we stand at the brink of civilization’s annihilation, with the last survivors whispering, “I know now.”

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

We Already Reside in the Fixer Upper

Don’t unpack your things. We don’t think that you
are right for this place. It’s our house, always
has been. Just because you bought it doesn’t
mean it belongs to you. We’re going to
keep it. We’ll drive you out, we’ll fill your days
and nights with chaos -- noise and sights that won’t
sit well with you. Books will fling themselves
from cases, cups will crack themselves in sinks,
water won’t boil, lights will flicker. While we
don’t rest in peace you’ll want some. Dish cupboard shelves
make unholy sounds when they crash. Wood shrinks
in floors, nails fall from walls, pipes suddenly
burst. We’ve scared so many people off, you
have no idea what dreadful things we do.

(poet’s personal note: this did not work; I am still in the house.)

~~~

The First 13 Full Moons After They Get Bitten Are Hardest on Their Significant Others

Please
get
home. These
are not yet
werewolves who can turn
off what they really want to do
in favor of not doing it. They still have to learn
how to manipulate hot desire through thought, how to
conquer the animal that gnaws
inside, to defeat
wanting raw
fresh meat:
red,
bled.

~~~

This is Where Two Streets Meet Unless You Can Make It Mean More

“…there was a general conundrum for most of these people who claimed to be witches. That conundrum was a lack of an actual magical craft. Sure, they had many claims. They talked the talk. But could they walk the walk? What good is a so-called witch if she/he didn't know a thing about magic?”

Doc Conjure, My Secret Hoodoo

So, what did you expect would happen here?
A crossroads demon, a devil, maybe
Lucifer –Satan himself– to appear
before you and buy the eternity
of your soul in exchange for something you’d
like to have? Won’t happen. At least, not for
you. Your spellwork and ritual are crude
superficiality, you’re no more
arcane than a mosquito. Go away.
Take your pentagram necklace, your black candles,
your Etsy knock-off pleather grimoire, play
magick somewhere else. There were no channels
of communication opened up. You
don’t know how give a devil its due.

Share      

1. Every day, something small and subtle changes. Your best friend is half an inch taller. Your lunch bag's zipper zips the other way. Stop signs are now hexagons. No one acknowledges it. But you know - and no one would believe you.
2. How much havoc could your evil self wreak in your world?
3. You are a prisoner, sentenced to human experimentation at a black site. (Maybe you shouldn’t have jaywalked.) Your test is simple: you are locked inside a sealed steel chamber with a single red button glowing at the center. Each press has a 50% chance of detonating a bomb that you will not survive. You are not allowed to leave until you press it 100 times. This is unfair. You have rights. You refuse, sitting in silent protest. Three days pass. No food, no water. Your heart strains, your stomach twists in agony, eating itself from the inside out. With shaking hands, you press the button. Click. Nothing. You press again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. And again. And again. Nothing. On the 100th press, the red glow vanishes. The steel door unlocks.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. If you follow footsteps in the woods and it abruptly ends, there's a chance they may have been lifted up and eaten.
2. A storm overtook a friend and I as we climbed a steep Catskills trail, the sky cracking open with a downpour so fierce it felt like the mountain itself was dissolving. Wind lashed, rain hammered our skin, and thunder shook the ground as we huddled beneath a tree, drenched and shivering. Minutes stretched endlessly, the thunder and rain drowning all other sounds. Then, just as suddenly, the storm passed. The woods were silent, unchanged, as if it had never happened at all.
3. This eerie, natural phenomenon makes a forest appear as if it's breathing.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

Hear the Cracking of My Bones Becoming Yours

raised from the dead by your voice
see the ants through your eyes
and feel the earth with your hands

taste the air with your tongue
cough and fill your lungs

walk in the woods
on
your
bare
feet

navigate to find a way
to live for a week in your skin
surrounded by your clothes
covered in your hair
growing everyday
into something new

raised on your blood alone
and preserved in the bile

worn out by your muscles
dragged down by your weight

hear the cracking of my bones becoming yours

~~~

Your Body Belongs to You, a Stranger

your purpling skin
grows around and down
through the floor and below

your body belongs to you
a stranger in flux
of purpling skin

growing into the floor
you are you, a stranger
a stranger, slow walking

trailing behind
trailing, hovering
sinking into sad songs

brown and grey
and green and grey
and your very own purpling skin

growing lower
growing roots
your body belongs

to you, a stranger
distracted by the brown sun
on a grey wall

soon covered
by the heavy softness
that follows

~~~

Shortly I Shall Depart

sometime, something
awoke you in the night

you stared at its skin
with a venom you couldn’t place

you disappeared
between its iris and awe

wounded and cruder
and finally giving in

clumsier yet wise
seeking for a breathless deadline

you are young
and you are wasted

misplaced
under six feet of snow

you will not see its face
rather, happiness remains

in eyes
in order

in movement
in a scar in the earth

you think about
the outstanding Mother of God

your mind is too low to the ground
it’s time to cut away

the parts that still grow
long after we’re gone

the sun will come up
sometime

Share      

1. I picked up a broken glass shard as a child to clean up a mess I made from dropping a cup. From a single touch, I cut my finger. From then, I've been extra careful with broken glass since they are sharper than you expect.
2. Finely grounded up glass, if accidentally consumed, poses little threat. Do not acquire a taste for glass dust, however.
3. Being shred to bits from glass shards falling around you seems like a terrible way to go. In Planet HD 189733b, however, this may be a fate some unlucky astronaut faces as this world is known to rain glass.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. Knives on the edge of tabletops.
2. Pencils on the ground (one of my teachers broke their arms slipping on one).
3. Nothing gets me more anxious than old PSA videos, which dramatizes all my fears of things going terribly wrong fast. You can find a plethora of them on YouTube. They make me take extra precautions, like making sure my kitchen floor is always dry.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. Cats are able to mimic a baby's cry with their meows. Years ago, I heard a quiet cry late at night in my home and went to investigate. We had no babies living with us at the time, so I expected to see a ghost. Instead, as I approached the living room, the cry slowly transformed into a meow.
2. Cat's favourite "gift" to give to their owner is a freshly killed, small animal.
3. You're a college-age White House intern on your first day on the job. Your manager tasks you with filing away unimportant memos in the basement. "Watch your steps, Jr." Eager to impress, you quickly make your way into a dimly lit storage room lined with rusted cabinets. As you find the correct location to put away the memos, you hear a meow. Turning, you see a small cat, its green eyes glowing from the shadows. You try to show that you mean no harm, but the cat is scared away anyway. Task completed, you hurry to the stairs but hear the meow again. "Bye, kitty!" The green-eyed cat bolts toward you. The cat grows to the size of a lion, each step booming, and only keeps growing as it closes in on you. Before you can be mauled, the beast passes through you. The basement falls silent. You report back to your manager. "So, I'm guessing you've met D.C.?"

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. The Anechoic Chamber at Orfield Laboratories in Minneapolis, Minnesota is the world's quietest place. The quietness of the room is measured to be a negative decibel, below the threshold humans can hear. The ear's need to register anything allows people in this room to hear their own organs working and their eyeballs moving in their sockets.
2. Solitary Confinement, a form of torture where a person is forced to live with little or no human contact, causes critical psychological and, somehow, physical trauma.
3. Silent films have always unnerved me. Especially those produced before the 1900s. Thomas Edison's lab developed equipment for filming and projecting film, which would be used by the same lab to create some of the first silent shorts and movies. The U.S. Library of Congress preserves many of these works. Watching through the lot of them a few days ago, I was entranced by the uncanny silence and the almost alien mannerisms of each individual filmed. I thought they may not have the same idea of fame as we do when being filmed. I thought these people know nothing of the horrors of World War. I thought many of these people's grandchildren may already have passed. They look into a bulky, wooden camera lens and have no idea that I stare back at them over 100 years later from my MacBook Air Laptop on YouTube.

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

Robert Fitzgerald Nash taught English at McCormick County High School for thirty years, until he realized he preferred drinking to teaching. He had loved reading his entire life, his parents were teachers, and he meandered through college for several years until he realized his academic studies were directing him into the teaching profession. When asked why he became a teacher, he would always say it was “genetic engineering” and prompt a smile with the response. The response was a joke referencing his parent’s influence. Still, since changing professions, he truly believed his alcoholic endeavors were indeed genetic and referred to it as “chromosomal fate” thinking one day, he might write a book reflective of his family’s drinking history. 

“Fitz” as he was known to his teaching coworkers and now his drinking buddies, was once a handsome man. He had a well-groomed chestnut brown beard, complementing his similarly colored thick hair and hazel eyes. His smile charmed old and young alike and as if wired to his smile, his eyes sparkled each time the warm grin or laugh filled his face. His nose was perfectly positioned and proportionately for his mustache and mouth. It was hard not to like Fitz whether he was teaching Dickinson, Poe, Frost, Dickens, or even Bradbury one of his favorite short story writers, or citing poetry from memory over a rusty barrel fire, drinking robust white liquor made from several stills in the county. 

Once he retired from teaching, he sold his parent’s home and moved into the Lake Thurmond RV Park in Plum Branch, South Carolina. His parents had both died within one year of each other. His mother died from lung cancer; his father from a broken heart, Fitz believed, even though, the physicians said his father died from cirrhosis of the liver. The sale of his parent’s home, the money they had saved, and his early retirement pension enabled him to live without worrying about not having a roof over his head, food to eat, and most importantly, a drink in his hand. 

Plum Branch was only six miles from the McCormick County Library, down South Carolina Highway 28 South, and he knew everyone who worked there very well, checking out at least two to five books a week. He was especially fond of the volunteer who worked at the front desk on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons. Her name was Mrs. Sara Rockett and she was a small petite widow with gray hair which had a sheen like molten silver, a smile reflecting a kind heart, and the blue eyes of a cloudless summer day. She and Fitz always talked about the books he checked out and she found it fascinating he knew so much about the authors’ lives or even some of the books he was rereading for the third or fourth time. She was also the first one who recognized the change in Fitz. 

She first asked him if he was eating all the right foods and he assured he was but as the days progressed, she noticed the sallow look on his face and the gleam in his eyes disappearing. He looked thin, and his beard now reflected someone’s forgetfulness to shave. His hazel eyes, once beautiful autumn trees, now possessed red limbs which suggested they were dying. Sometimes, she thought she even smelled alcohol on his breath and told him he needed to be careful driving on these narrow country roads, especially at night. 

“I’ve had many friends have run-ins with deer on these roads at night Fitz, and they were lucky, they came away with only a few bruises and dents in their cars.”

“Don’t need to worry with me, Miss Sara. I will be fine. I am familiar with every little twist and turn within them and I seldom drive fast enough to be injured by an encounter with an ardent deer.”

What he was telling Miss Sara was true. He knew all the two-lane roads very well and even the dirt roads, only familiar to moonshiners and law enforcement. He had driven them drunk hundreds of times and he knew when and where to go to avoid the police when necessary. Fitz was not concerned with DUI but his temerity with driving during all seasons was absolute, and not subject to consideration of irresponsible and reckless behavior, telling himself, that not driving over twenty miles per hour, reduced his chance of harm to almost an impossibility. 

The October in McCormick was spectacular as the summer weather had not been too hot, rain plentiful, and the leaves reflected colors that Sherwin Williams tried to emulate but chemically could not. The dirt road was dark and he had been drinking since noon, with nothing to eat. The impassioned buck leaped from the woods and hit his windshield with his three-hundred-pound body. The large antlers broke through the glass and impaled Fitz's head to his seat. Not yet dead, the dear thrashed around for several minutes, making Fitz’s face unrecognizable and almost decapitating him. 

Fitz’s final breaths crackled and with each movement of his lungs, blood bubbled out of his throat with gasps and coughs. He knew he was dying and with a last second of desperation, he prayed. He tried closing his eyes but they were in the floorboard next to his feet, but it didn’t matter. All he saw was darkness as he began his prayer by saying “Oh Dear God,” and then stopped. The irony of his words made him laugh and he thought it would be a perfect ending to the last chapter of his book as his body’s heart stopped and the sorrow of ignorance filled the woods. 

When Miss Sara heard of the tragic incident several days later, her first words were “Oh, dear me,” and she hoped he died in a repentant manner. It was a topic of discussion among his former friends and his current colleagues for many months. 

Share      

1. Benadryl fueled challenges were a dangerous trend. But a common hallucination to those who survived excessive doses, was the sight of an all-black, shadowy figure with red eyes, known as the Hat Man.
2. Your closet is too small to hide a person, yet you still can’t sleep when you notice the door is open, knowing you closed it just moments ago.
3. In the middle of the night, your suburban house is set ablaze. You frantically carry your child through the fire to safety. The smoke stings your eyes, and your hands scrape against walls that should feel familiar, but in the chaos, they don’t. Before collapsing to the ground, you catch sight of a shadowy figure just ahead, their hand motioning for you to follow. Coughing, your throat raw from the burning smoke, you finally stumble into the front yard. Firefighters and medics rush toward you, their voices urgent as they tend to you and your child. You thank them, breathless, for rushing into the house to save you. One fireman shakes his head, his voice steady but firm: "We just got here."

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

1. Your AI brain implant is your friend and guide. You're smarter. You're funnier. Your confidence grows. But what will you do when that friendly, metallic whisper inside your head turns to a sinister drone. It tempts you and mechanically rationalizes all the terrible solutions to your problems.
2. When every thought, every memory, every piece of your consciousness is perfectly captured and modeled by data, is that data you?
3. We are far too close to finding out who's will is stronger: yours or an AI?

Thank you graciously for subscribing to 3 and supporting Fright.

Best,

Edgar

Editor in Chief of Fright.

My Dear Thompson,

Allow me to convey to you some unpleasant news. The corridors which I inhabit have lately become overrun and damaged as a result of an awful incident, one that you prophetically foresaw and one of which you warned me…a warning I sorrowfully neglected, and I now am the sole possessor of the guilt. This will undoubtably be my last correspondence with you.

You perhaps remember that in my purview I oversee the high security computer lab where certain task-workers labor in my service. They bend all their time toward soiled code…corrupted and twisted content which manifests within it the dregs to which mankind is capable of reaching… and the unwinding of it. These servants endeavor all day and every day to scour social apertures of degraded constructs. It is not-to-be-helped that these jobs leave them deeply, sometimes permanently, scarred.

Fortune would have it that an advanced purifying commutative machine was installed in the locked inner vestibule in my security quarter. The inner chamber can only be accessed with one card. The device possessed a cleansing structure several quantitative degrees higher than its weaker brothers.  This machine is sanctioned to be used by only one authorized with a higher flight of clearance…the one who has the card. This sanctioned worker in my quarter is Miss Bea. She was biologically the closest match to the original code. This was crucial because the system is designed to sync with its user and use a portion of the operator’s brain-width.

For many months Miss Bea delved deeply into the blasted hallways and revealed deeper and deeper net-acres to be overturned and culled. What happened to her next left me amazed. Where others may have fallen after encountering what she witnessed, her gradual descent into those depths allowed her to incrementally acquire an increasingly greater degree of packet immunity. It was soon clear that she could spend all hours of every day at the lowest reaches without succumbing to the attacks from what the mainframe had recently cataloged as “wandering stars, for whom the blackest darkness is reserved forever.” The sparks and flashes which emanated from Miss Bea’s chamber were horrifying. It is difficult for me to imagine the raw and ragged substance which she must have encountered. I was resolutely glad that only she possessed the card.

Two weeks ago, we received a notification. Miss Bea’s inner sequencing system was bolstered with the Hawthorne/Rappuccini Overlay. The Overlay had been in discussion for many previous months. It granted a purer reach and sequestered admittance to the deeper flowered gardens of the net…areas where the tendrils fairly dripped with blood and secretions. It was clear that Miss Bea was the only possible choice to take administrative point. She proceeded. All was well for perhaps a fortnight.  But then Miss Bea became unable (perhaps unwilling) to leave her secure chamber. She was unresponsive to any pings.

Mr. James, one of my trusted workers, had been monitoring her cognitive waves. He began to electronically petition Miss Bea to programmatically disentangle herself from the harrowed depths. Through their correspondence Mr. James was able to confirm the degree of Miss Bea’s mortifying enmeshment. 

The most dismaying moment happened just a few mornings ago when Miss Bea opened her chamber long enough to admit Mr. James to the sanctum. He had lingered at her door too long. Mentally he had subscribed to her intent. I regret that my attention was elsewhere, and I was unable to prevent his entry. Within moments spent at her screen it was clear that he too became deeply saturated with the mercurial electric bytes of abomination.

Even though his biology did not enjoy the luxury of her gradated exposure, she was somehow able to impart to him her rare invulnerability through a direct bypass download. By granting him access to her portal she was able to briefly share her brain width. The nectar was therefore now fatally housed in them both. I saw the transformation happen with my own eyes. It was a violation of humanity.

They stayed in this way, both deeply bonded to one another and completely wedded to the darkest strands within the web. They responded to no outside stimulus. I was obliged to reach for emergency assistance from the 3^rd Floor.

Management suggested help in the form of a single serving of cured code. The amount had to be administered during the morning screen refresh which briefly provided us outside control of Miss Bea’s and Mr. James’ portal. We uploaded the dose yesterday at 8AM, and they interfaced with it at 8:01.

Both fell to the ground. The outer door immediately unlocked, as the protocol designed it to do when no operator’s attention would be present. The medical staff rushed in and promptly placed both in reflexive relay mode. Within moments Mr. James had responded favorably to the dose. Miss Bea, however, could not bond to it in any successful way. There was shaking and foam. She was dead by 8:05.

My office has been sequestered. The authorities came and requisitioned all of the rigid drives. Miss Bea, I have learned, had no family of her own. Her body has been interred in the company tomb. 

My good Thompson, the last thing I did before the shutdown was to take Miss Bea’s card. I hold it in my hand as I write to you these words. Only you know this. After authorizing the e-post to send you this parchment I intend to enter the inner chamber myself. There is no telling… no telling what remains of Miss Bea’s digital shoring and maintenance, but without an operator it cannot hold. The barotrauma I will encounter will be rigorous and unyielding.

After I fall, which is certain, there will be a sum of perhaps 7 days before the social and societal outbreak. Take necessary steps.

Your trusted friend,

Adam Goodbody

Share