The Devil’s Calling Card

Originally posted to Twitter on August 13, 2022   .

The devil is not so crass as to wait outside your door. She leaves a calling card pinned to it and is gone before the doorbell’s chime fades into the city’s rumbling heartbeat—disappearing into a cab, or behind a truck; denying you any glimpse of her.

The card is heavy in your hand; thick paper, expensively printed. Embossed with a curving floral pattern that doesn’t pretend to match the elegant red ink.

Eight Polaroids

Originally posted to Twitter on July 21, 2022   .

When investigators finally broke into Fran’s apartment, they found little of note. A fridge empty save for a bowl of wrinkled grapes, a collection of unused hair care products, and a bed that hadn’t been made or cleaned in months.

They also found a collection of eight polaroids.

The first photograph is of Fran standing in front of an exhibit at the Wasp Museum; a corpse infested by the ghosts of countless beehives. She’s smiling, obviously having a great time, but the spotlights illuminating the hive cast a strange pallor over her skin.

The Doll’s Gifts

Originally posted to Twitter on July 13, 2022   .

There’s a doll in the alley behind your apartment building. It’s an old thing, limbs and mask shaped in a style that’s almost old enough to be retro; in another few years it will probably be fashionable again.

It’s been there for years and years, just as long as you have.

Mostly it spends its days curled up next to the dumpster.

Contamination

This story has content warnings for: gore, corruption, sex with a chair, probably rape, not that gross but also sort of gross. Please take care.

Contamination begins gently. A pinprick hole in the hazmat suit’s thick composite where she stumbles and falls against a forest of needles growing from one of the site’s walls.

Most break.

One finds the perfect angle.

She doesn’t feel its touch on her sweaty skin.

Her Missing Part

She always felt like part of her was missing. An ache in her heart, an absence in the air around her—skin wrapped too tight around her bones, blood beating in time with a rhythm unlike her body.

She always felt like something was wrong. Always, until she met them.

The first time was nothing special. Their strong hands fumbling beneath her skirt, tearing her stockings; the hunger in their eyes tempered by furtive glances towards the office door. Her stammered protests, the blank animal fear curling around her mind as they fucked her—

From Beneath Her Skin