Just before midnight, the old man’s hand on my shoulder jolts me from a deep sleep. “Helena,” he croaks, “there’s dust everywhere.” My hands grasping the sides of my mattress, I blink and try to make sense of what is happening. The old man is in my bedroom. My door is open, and yellow light from the hallway is streaming in. Behind me, it is dark. “It’s the middle of the night,” I moan, more to orientate myself than to make him see reason. “Why are you up this late?” “Because

Like a leech, he drained me. Slowly at first, until he cut a wound so deep the life cascaded from me like a tsunami. Bleeding. Dying. A husk was all that was left. An empty casket. A body devoid of a soul. You have made me a vampire. Reanimated the dead. Feverishly I hunt for you. Desperate for your taste on my tongue. Kiss me in the dark before the morning sun burns my skin. Chloe Gorman is a copywriter, aspiring poet & author. Her poetry and fiction leans towards romantic,

rusted garden gate woven with ivy has secrets she'll never utter, but no one thinks to listen to the songs she sings subtle little reminders of where and how carefully to wander here; because there are creatures lurking in and of the shadows creatures that make nightmares seem tame— drowning in illusions of grandeur they perceive themselves wiser than this gate firmly steeling herself shut they force her open, and on their own heads be it she thinks; they can encounter death

Come on, I say. Hurry up. Someone is going to see us. It is so close to the end of twilight that it’s practically night. It is unbearably cold, despite my gloves, despite my down jacket, despite the scarf and hat and layers of cloth which camouflage my form in non-varying shades of black. We have a flashlight, one of the portable torches reserved for rescue crews searching for teeth in the dead of night around the debris of an accident site, but it is only for emergencies;

Someone said I'll know love when my heartbeat changes, Becomes your-name-your-name-your-name And it did. Except, when it speeds up, Skips, Makes the sky go black, It's his-name-his-name-his-name-his-name-his-name-his-name And I know how it feels to be careful, Lest I go mad, Lest he hear his name from beneath the floorboards. And, try as I might, I can't beat the pounding in my ears, In my chest, When it feels like he's you, In this room, Behind a velvet curtain, Just under t

gray clouds drifting past tombstones sing an ancient song, and she stands by the gate in her black gown tattered like the pages of an old book beyond repair; her long raven hair dances in the wind wild and untamed as the spirits whose bones are eager to dance above the earth once more— she is death guarding the hauntings, but they cannot see her; all these mischief makers or mourners walk as if she does not stand here silver scythe whispering secrets none of them can hope to