Tag Archives: supernatural

The Outbreak

Posted on by under Short Stories

As daylight crept in, they realized they had survived to see another day. For a long moment, no one moved. The silence felt fragile, like thin ice stretched over something deep and hungry. Then Mara exhaled, slow and shaky, and lowered the crowbar she’d been gripping all night. Her knuckles were pale, her arms trembling—not from weakness, but from the constant tension of expecting the door to splinter, the windows to shatter, the dark to come alive.

“Sun’s up,” Jonah muttered, peering through the cracked blinds. A thin blade of gold light cut across the dust-choked room, illuminating floating particles like drifting ash. “We’re clear.”

“Clear,” Eli echoed, though his voice carried no conviction. None of them believed in “clear” anymore. Only “not yet.”

Mara forced herself to stand. Her joints protested, her body reminding her she hadn’t truly slept in days. “We move in ten,” she said. “Same plan.”

Same plan. It was always the same plan. Survive the night. Scavenge the day. Don’t get caught. Don’t bleed. That last rule mattered more than all the others.

The virus—the thing that had broken the world—wasn’t airborne, wasn’t spread by touch or proximity. It lived in blood. It needed blood. A single drop, slipping into a cut, a scratch, even a cracked lip… that was all it took. Infection didn’t come slowly, either. It was fast, brutal. Within hours, your body turned against you, hollowing you out, reshaping you into something that craved what had just destroyed you. A vampire. Mara hated the word. It sounded like something out of old stories, something romanticized. There was nothing romantic about what they’d seen.

Outside, the city stretched in ruins—Atlanta, or what was left of it. Burned-out cars clogged the streets. Buildings stood hollowed and silent, their windows like empty eyes. But the worst change wasn’t the destruction. It was the domes.

Even from miles away, you could see them rising—massive, shimmering structures swallowing entire districts. Sheets of darkened material stretched over steel frameworks, blotting out the sun. Under those domes, the infected didn’t have to hide. They ruled. And they were expanding.

“They finished another section last night,” Jonah said quietly, nodding toward the skyline. “West side. You can see it from the overpass.”

Mara followed his gaze. A new shadow cut across the horizon where sunlight should have been.

“They’re getting faster,” Eli said.

“They’ve got slaves now,” Jonah replied. “Of course they’re faster.”

That word hung heavy in the air. Captured. Not everyone who survived the initial outbreak stayed free. The originators—the ones who had engineered or unleashed the virus, depending on which rumor you believed—had organized quickly. They didn’t just want to survive. They wanted control. They turned the infected into an army and the uninfected into resources. Blood farms, some called them. Mara shoved the thought away.

“We’re not going near the domes,” she said sharply. “We stick to the outskirts. Hit the pharmacy on Peachtree, then the storage units.”

“If it’s already been picked clean—” Eli began.

“Then we keep moving,” she cut in. “Standing still gets you dead.”

Or worse.

They packed quickly, each movement practiced and efficient. Layers of clothing to protect against scratches. Gloves. Goggles. Makeshift armor sewn from leather and scrap. Every inch of exposed skin was a liability.

Mara checked Eli’s bandages one more time. The cut along his forearm had been their closest call yet—a jagged scrape from a rusted fence. Not infected blood, just bad luck. Still, they’d nearly panicked.

“Still clean?” she asked.

Eli nodded. “Still me.”

“Good,” she said, though her eyes lingered a second longer than necessary.

Because that was the other truth none of them said out loud. You could be fine… until you weren’t.

They slipped out into the early morning light, blinking against its faint brightness. The air smelled wrong—stale, metallic, like something left too long in the sun. Somewhere in the distance, a structure creaked, metal groaning as if the city itself were shifting in its sleep. Daylight was safety. But it wasn’t peace.

They moved quickly, keeping to alleys and shadows out of habit more than necessity. The infected rarely ventured out during the day—not unless they were under a dome or heavily covered. Sunlight didn’t kill them, not exactly, but it weakened them. Slowed them. Made them cautious. Still, Mara had learned never to assume.

They reached the pharmacy just after sunrise. The front had already been smashed in, glass crunching underfoot as they stepped inside. Shelves were half-empty, scavenged by others like them—or worse.

“Split,” Mara said. “Two minutes.”

Jonah headed for the back, Eli to the aisles. Mara moved straight to the counter, scanning for anything useful. Antibiotics, painkillers, antiseptics—gold in this new world. Her fingers brushed against a sealed kit, and relief flickered through her chest. Then—a sound. Soft. Wet. Not from outside. From inside. Mara froze.

“Jonah,” she whispered.

He appeared instantly, weapon raised. Eli followed, eyes wide. The sound came again. A faint dragging. A breath that didn’t quite sound human. Behind the counter.

Mara swallowed, tightening her grip. “On three,” she murmured. “One. Two. Three.”

They moved together, weapons swinging around the corner—and stopped. A man lay slumped against the wall, pale, barely conscious. His eyes fluttered open at the sudden movement.

“Please…” he rasped.

Mara’s gaze dropped instantly to his arm. Blood. Fresh but not just his. It was dark, thick… wrong. The room seemed to tilt.

“How long?” Jonah demanded.

The man’s lips trembled. “I—I don’t know… they took us… I got away…”

“Did they bite you?” Eli asked, voice cracking.

The man didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Because even as they watched, his pupils began to dilate, swallowing the color of his eyes. His breathing hitched, then deepened, sharpening into something predatory. Mara stepped back.

“No,” Eli whispered. “No, we can help—”

“We can’t,” Mara said, her voice hard as steel. “You know we can’t.”

The man’s gaze snapped to her. And for a split second, something human was still there.

“Don’t…” he said, barely audible.

Then it was gone. He lunged. Jonah reacted instantly, slamming him back. Mara didn’t hesitate. She swung the crowbar with everything she had. The impact was sickening. The body stilled. Silence crashed back down around them.

Eli staggered away, breathing hard. “We didn’t have to—”

“Yes,” Mara said sharply, though her voice shook now. “We did.”

Because hesitation got you killed. Or turned. Or worse—captured, drained slowly under some artificial night while the people who did this built their perfect world above your head. Mara looked down at the still body, then at the blood smeared across the floor.

“Grab what you can,” she said quietly. “We’re leaving.”

Outside, the sun had climbed higher—but on the horizon, the shadow of the expanding dome stretched just a little farther than it had yesterday. And for the first time, Mara wondered not if they could survive another night—but how many days they had left before there was nowhere left to run.

The Forgotten God

Posted on by under Short Stories

He had been the god the Egyptians never noticed.

His name was Kheperon, whispered only once by a dying priest in the time before the first pyramid touched the sky. He was the god of unfinished things—of broken walls, lost words, and dreams that never reached their end. No offerings were made in his name. No hymns rose to him on incense smoke.

While the other gods basked in adoration, Kheperon lingered in shadow, watching.

He watched as Ra, lord of the sun, rode his blazing barque across the heavens each day, greeted by countless voices.

He watched as Isis was worshipped with songs of devotion, and Osiris received endless offerings from the living and the dead alike.

Even Anubis, keeper of corpses, found his temples crowded with supplicants begging for gentle passage into the afterlife.

But Kheperon—he was the god no one wanted to remember.

He was the flicker of inspiration that died before the first word was written, the statue left unfinished when the sculptor’s hand failed, the city whose walls were never completed before the sands reclaimed them.

Every failure, every forgotten thing, strengthened him.

He lived in the gaps—between what was begun and what was lost.

For a thousand years, Kheperon drifted through the underworld, silent among the shades of half-born souls. His temple was a ruin of broken pillars. His altar, a slab split in two. His only worshippers were whispers—the sighs of men who died with their work undone.

The other gods mocked him.

When they gathered in the Hall of Ma’at, beneath the eternal scales of truth, Ra would speak grandly of creation, Isis of love, and Thoth of wisdom.

And when Kheperon tried to speak, his words fell apart before they left his tongue.

They called him the Silent One, the Forgotten Name, the Incomplete.

Laughter echoed through the heavens, and Kheperon bowed his head. But in the hollow of his chest, something began to burn—a slow, steady ember of hatred.

Centuries passed. Mortals stopped praying to the old gods. Temples fell to ruin. The desert swallowed every monument of glory.

And in that silence, Kheperon awakened.

He rose from the Duat, the underworld, not in light but in shadow—his form made from cracked stone and half-carved hieroglyphs. His voice was the hiss of wind through an empty tomb.

“Now,” he murmured to the endless sands, “you will remember me.”

He found Ra first, trembling in the dying sun. The great god’s light was dim—his worshippers long dead, his temples broken.

“Why have you come, Forgotten One?” Ra demanded, his voice weak.

Kheperon lifted his staff—its head unfinished, its carvings half-made. “To finish what you began,” he said softly.

He touched the staff to Ra’s golden flesh, and light fractured like shattered glass. The sun dimmed that day, casting Egypt into dusk for three days.

When the light returned, it burned weaker, like a candle half spent.

He found Thoth next, god of wisdom and scribe of all things.

Kheperon entered Thoth’s library and blew upon the scrolls. The ink turned to dust.

“You hoarded knowledge,” Kheperon said, “but never wrote my name.”

Thoth bowed his head. “Some gods were not meant to be remembered.”

“Then why do you still exist?” Kheperon whispered.

And the ibis-headed god’s form dissolved into papyrus ash, scattered on the desert wind.

One by one, Kheperon sought them out—Isis, Anubis, Horus, Bastet—until only echoes remained. Each he confronted not with rage, but with sorrow, for he was the god of what was left undone.

“You mocked me,” he said to the heavens. “You forgot me. But I am the end of all that is remembered.”

The world grew silent.

No prayers rose. No temples stood. The Nile ran dark, reflecting no light at all.

And there, among the ruins of all that had once been divine, Kheperon stood—alone, eternal, and complete for the first time.

He looked to the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight faded into shadow, and whispered:

“Everything ends unfinished. Even the gods.”

And the wind, the endless desert wind, carried his name for the first time across Egypt’s sands—

a name once forgotten, now eternal.

Kheperon, the God of the Forgotten.

Wrong Turn

Posted on by under Short Stories

He hadn’t a clue where he was. His cell phone was dead and the area looked dicey. Buildings slouched together under the weight of age and neglect. Crumbling red bricks and tangled vines told a story of abandonment. Faded billboards loomed overhead like forgotten gods, their messages lost to time. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled—sharp, mournful, then gone.

Jordan’s fingers tightened around the frayed strap of his backpack. Every instinct told him to keep moving, to find light, people, something—anything—that felt familiar. But every street he turned down just seemed to fold deeper into the city’s forgotten ribs.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had taken the 23 bus from campus to visit his friend Derek, who lived in the next borough. Only, he hadn’t paid close enough attention. One missed stop. A rerouted line. Then that “shortcut” through an alley that seemed to promise a straight path through the grid. That was an hour ago. Now it felt like he’d crossed into a pocket of the city not listed on any map.

He pulled his phone out again. The screen was black. He tapped it. Held the power button. Nothing. The battery had died somewhere between confusion and panic. The irony burned—he had portable chargers at home, cables in every room. But not tonight.

The sky had deepened into a bruised purple, clouds thick like smoke overhead. It would rain soon. Probably hard. A low hum reached his ears—streetlights flickering to life, one by one. Their pale amber glow stretched long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. A newspaper cart, abandoned, listed on one wheel. A neon sign flickered in the distance: OPEN. Jordan moved toward it. It wasn’t just about finding his way—it was about safety. This neighborhood had too many blind alleys, too many places to disappear.

The shop came into view—a corner store, its windows grime-smeared, barred with thick iron grills. The light inside buzzed fitfully. Rows of shelves stood mostly empty. The door was locked. Jordan jiggled the handle, peering inside. A payphone hung crooked on the back wall, its receiver missing. Hope drained from his chest.

Then came the crunch. Glass underfoot. Behind him. Jordan spun. Nothing. Only the empty sidewalk, the stretching shadows. And then—

“You okay, kid?” The voice came from across the street. A man leaned against a rusted lamppost, the cone of light above him flickering on and off. He wore an old flannel jacket, patched at the elbow, and a knit cap pulled low over shaggy gray hair. A cigarette burned between two fingers, its tip a tiny red eye. Jordan froze. The man raised a hand, half wave, half signal of peace. “You look a little turned around.”

“I’m lost,” Jordan admitted, voice tight. “Phone’s dead. I don’t know where I am.”

The man nodded like he’d expected that answer. “Figures. You’re not the first to wind up down here after dark.” He flicked his cigarette to the gutter and gestured. “Come on. Diner’s a few blocks up. You can warm up, get a charge, maybe call someone.”

Every red flag in Jordan’s brain started firing. Stranger. Night. Isolated street. But he looked around again—at the boarded windows, the dead silence, the locked store. And he followed.

The man walked at an easy pace, hands in his pockets. He didn’t speak much, just offered directions when needed. “Left here. Watch the curb. That building burned out last winter—don’t lean too close.” Jordan stayed a few steps back.

“Name’s Milo, by the way,” the man offered. “Jordan.” Milo gave a small nod. “You from the college?” Jordan hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You’ve got the backpack, the look.”

“What look?”

“That look like you’ve been reading about the world for years but tonight’s the first time it bit back.” Jordan gave a tight, nervous laugh.

They passed a narrow alley that stank of wet garbage and rot. Jordan caught sight of a dark figure watching from behind a dumpster—but when he looked again, it was gone. His skin crawled. “You see things sometimes, in this part of town,” Milo said softly, not turning around.

“What kind of things?”

“Things you don’t want to see twice.” Jordan didn’t ask for clarification.

The diner appeared suddenly—like it hadn’t been there until they turned the corner. Old-school chrome panels, a flickering DINER sign buzzing in blue and white. One window glowed softly, shapes moving inside. Milo pushed open the door. A bell chimed overhead. Warmth hit Jordan like a wave. The smell of bacon grease and stale coffee wrapped around him, almost comforting.

The interior was a time capsule—vinyl booths, Formica counters, a jukebox in the corner playing a jazz track so low it was more memory than sound. A waitress with tired eyes and bright red lipstick stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass with a rag that looked older than Jordan.

Milo slid into a booth. Jordan sat across from him, watching the few scattered patrons—an elderly man sipping soup, a couple whispering in a corner. No one looked up. The waitress wandered over. “What’ll it be?”

“Hot coffee. And he’ll need one too. Maybe a grilled cheese?” Jordan nodded. As she walked off, Milo leaned back. “You’ll feel better with something in your stomach.” Jordan glanced at the outlet near the booth. “Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.”

He plugged in his phone, screen springing to life. Three percent. Enough. He texted Derek:

Got lost. At a diner near someplace named Calder Street. Can you come get me?

After what felt like an eternity, the message sent. Jordan waited. No reply. “Reception’s weird down here,” Milo said, sipping his coffee. “Sometimes the messages take a while. Or never go through.” Jordan frowned. “How come?” Milo stirred cream into his cup. “This part of the city… it forgets things. Or maybe it gets forgotten. People don’t come here unless they’ve got nowhere else to go. Or unless they’re sent.”

“Sent by who?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The grilled cheese came. Jordan devoured the sandwich, his appetite was ravenous now that he was safe. Or at least safer than he was a few minutes ago. He checked his phone. Still no reply. He looked up. “Milo, why were you out there?” Milo didn’t answer right away. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, battered notebook. Set it on the table. “I help people who get lost. Been doing it for years.”

Jordan opened the notebook. Names. Descriptions. Dates. Dozens of them. One page caught his eye:

R. Harris. Found near the tracks. Said she followed a voice. Never made it back.

Then another:

L. Ortega. Claimed he saw the city breathe. Wouldn’t stop screaming. Disappeared from Booth 5.

Jordan swallowed. “What is this?” Milo’s voice was quiet. “People think when you get lost, it’s a mistake. A wrong turn. But sometimes… it’s a calling. The city has places that aren’t mapped. Places that pull. They find people when they’re vulnerable. Hungry. Scared. Lonely.”

Jordan leaned back. “You think that’s what happened to me?”

“I think you were close to something. But you didn’t cross the threshold. Not fully. And that means you can still go back.”

The bell above the door rang. A man walked in, soaking wet. Black hoodie. Pale face. Eyes wide, darting. He slid into booth 5. The same one from the notebook. Jordan looked at Milo. Milo just sipped his coffee. The man in booth 5 looked at Jordan, almost as if he was staring straight through him. Then he whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”