Our Father’s Twisted Sex Life

Part I Dad’s Doll by Kyle Harrison My brothers and I grew up in the trailer park version of the Playboy Mansion. Our dad, or as he likes to be called even by us- Big Poppa- was not Hugh Hefner. Not even by a long shot. He was a twisted sick and perverted old man that died as he lived, fucking everything in sight. When he died Adam was the one to give me the call. He was dad’s favorite so that made a lot of sense.

I’m Sorry

“Hello Scott,” you say from the backseat. “Jesus Christ!” I say and in my surprised shock, I yank the wheel and the car fishtails into the next lane as the vehicles around me honk in disapproval of my erratic driving. There was no way you could have gotten into the car. I would have noticed it. You weren’t there when I merged onto the highway… then, now suddenly you were…

HEMOPHOBIA – PATIENT RECORD JS771985

Patient Name: Jensen, Sandra Age: 37 Gender: Female Diagnosis: Hemophobia, the fear of blood The following is the transcript of official statement of Michael [REDACTED], Wawa Shift Manager, at the store located at the corner of Myrtle St. and N Washington Blvd. in [REDACTED], Florida. Witness statement was recorded and transcribed herein.

APEIROPHOBIA – PATIENT RECORD AD738075

Name: Ansel, Donya Age: 20 Sex: Female Diagnosis: Thanatophobia; fear of death Apeirophobia; fear of eternity What follows are Dr. Blackwood’s incomplete files concerning Patient AD738075: patient journal, treatment logs, physician remarks and series of events that ultimately led to the patient’s current status. As per patient’s request, her diagnosis has been updated to reflect her current state. These files were received from [LOCATION: REDACTED] by Agent 77 and uploaded to Foundation servers. Treatment Journal of Ansel, Donya

The Man Who Stalks The Space Between The Graves

My house is haunted but there is a logical explanation. This is not one of those stories where a tragic death happened inside. No one has ever died here. Still, tragedy surrounds the place; the two windows upstairs at the back gaze sadly out every day. No, this is not a story about a house built on an Indian burial ground. There is no one interred beneath the foundation…only in the yard. Rows and rows of tombstones stretch out past my back door to the tree line beyond. My haunted house stands in a cemetery. The cemetery to which I am now the caretaker. My great-grandfather Heinrick built this house 117 years ago. At the time, there wasn’t a cemetery within fifty miles. When this county was young, the thought of paying someone else to bury your dead as they died was an uncommon luxury. Most took care of their
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Gulped Down By The Gulf

When people think of homes on the beach, they think of paradise; panoramic views with pristine white sands leading into hues of blue. They think of plate glass and every room is a room with a view. Homes surrounded by ocean, of private beaches beyond. All of these vistas set to the sloshing sound of the tides as they rise in and out like the beat of breaths.