Broodwood

Part One. Now’s when you tell me why you killed me, the man says from his resting place, slumped and halved and bleeding against the wall of the cabin. The walls and floors and roof are cedar, and they smell fragrant in the summertime, but in the winter they smell like the bitter, indifferent coldContinue reading “Broodwood”

Jack, or was it Jake?

I. Jack. Or Jake. I don’t exactly know for sure, ’cause everybody used to call the cat one or the other. One night old Paul’d be in and see the skinny cat hangin’ out in his usual spot at the end of the counter. He’d holler, “How you been, Jake?” And cat would nod andContinue reading “Jack, or was it Jake?”

The Magician

The day started off normal enough, I muse to myself falling heavily into the chair pulled up to my kitchen table and gripping the cold bottle of lager freshly procured from my fridge. Thinking back on the events of the day, I find myself scarcely able to accept they actually occurred. Life sure can beContinue reading “The Magician”

The Story of the Wendigo

The boy’s father was a strong, hard but kind man named Joseph, who built the cabin over ten years ago with his father and brothers. The last shingle was nailed to the cabin’s roof shortly before the boy, whose name was Michael, was born, and Michael’s sister Amber was two years old. Joseph built theContinue reading “The Story of the Wendigo”

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