At that very moment, Tommy heard a low, gasping utterance - a voice so hostile and malignant it chilled his blood and unnerved his mind and his body. It beckoned him, even dared him. From just behind the door he heard it bellow "RELEASE ME!"

---

WAR PAINT

 

The moment Lester stepped into the den, something inside his belly turned ugly. He had just pitched the chief into the trash, yet to the left of the bed warmer, staring with absolute defiance, hung the doll. Stranger still, although he had just looked him over with the keen eye of a writer, somehow he had never noticed the war paint.

---

MELISSA'S BROOD

 

Taking a step back, Kenny raised the knife. He had heard a cat, but as far as he could tell, the brood was not around. "I'm going home!" he couldn't have sounded more pathetic if he tried. "So stay out of my way."

Melissa flashed another one of her arrogant smiles. Every square inch inside Kenny began to escalate. "Knives won't help. The brood will hold you. You're one of us now."

---

THE BOG

 

The bog lay deceivingly dormant. The stench of mold and stagnation hung on the air. The bordering oak tree cast a web of shadows across the surface. Rotting debris remained trapped within its murky waters, waters tainted with blood and much deeper than I ever imagined. Somewhere within its depths lurked a terrifying secret.

---

SPECTROPHOBIA

 

"Just sit down and get ready for the scare of a lifetime." - Heather Johnson.

 

* * *

 

My so-called "breakdown" was not caused by work-related stress, as I had led my therapist to believe. If I had told him the truth, he would have tossed me into a padded cell. It was the mirrors in the patients' restroom that caused my meltdown, or more accurately, what I saw in them. I've been told that my condition is called Spectrophobia, and I lay awake nights and wonder if any of my fellow "victims" are still around.

---

BED THIRTEEN

 

Rushing from the office and turning toward the shower room, Mary collided into a large, shadowy figure. Before she could see who it was, she felt a pair of arms lock themselves around her. It was only then, when Mary overcame her shock, that she made a hideous discovery. It was not a female restraining her, but a man . . . someone she knew. . . someone she recognized. Mary's heart nearly tore itself from her chest. It was Patrick Winbolt holding her . . . the very patient who had died in bed thirteen just eight weeks ago.

---

THE LAST RITES OF SIMON PETCOVA

 

"Anna, Charlie and I found ourselves in a dark and damp dungeon. To our left stood another staircase that I suspected led to the upper portions of the castle. Directly ahead lay a narrow corridor which I would soon learn contained several chambers - Borsa's means of imprisonment. Gazing down that corridor, I imagined that this place knew of great pain and sorrow.That a malignant evil had dwelled here centuries beforehand, and now a new, greater evil had come to pass. In my mind, this very spot was the heart of the castle itself, a most depraved and wicked heart. The image of that corridor, along with its disturbing sensations, has long since haunted me."