Under a satanic moon, conjure up the breath of the dead, stifled inhales as it trembles on the air. The stench of bloat and decay, of buried ancestors, permeates amongst the vine-riddled trees. Squirm as the planchette glides perniciously over the same alphabet and numbers that taught us sweet nursery rhymes. You expected tales from beyond, you got a curse, supernatural in form you'll make rings of salt, burn your incense- but you're unable to reverse. Fear does not exist in our realm, fear is in the mortal. fear is not me, it is inside of you. Fear when they resurrect, spectres unshackled from dungeon walls, your consciousness- GOODBYE. …or is it?
Angela Croudace is a previously unpublished Australian writer studying creative writing at Southern Cross University. She lives in rural New South Wales with her family, dogs, and chickens. She enjoys working on short stories and poetry, with a particular interest in horror. Angela can be found on Tumblr and Instagram.