Weird Tales

Resting within an inlet, surrounded by water, is a Keep. Seen from miles around, the moss-covered edifice towers over the landscape. A dirt path, drawn like chalk, cuts through a meadow that stretches up to the sea and the inlet in which the Keep stands vigil. One day, a day

Sergey stares unblinking at the ghostly figure hovering outside the spaceship’s porthole. A frustrated expression creases the woman’s translucent face. She gestures again: pick up. For some unknowable reason, Sergey’s thoughts drift into the past, to a time before he set sail — he sees a child, wise

Sergey awakens in a strange place. Conflicting smells of smoke and petrichor saturate his nostrils. He looks up at a giant spire, the creation of some ancient civilization. Beside him drifts the ghostly woman he saw in The Void. Are you okay? She seems to say, without speaking. Sergey merely

“I’ll do better in the morning.” The mantra sounds out over and over, simple and harmless, yet with the undercurrent of a desperate wish. Sergey stares, unblinking, at the white-slick pristine ceiling. Mornings mean little in this place. It’s been three hundred eighty-five standard days in The Void.

Caliban backs away into the twisted facsimile of Greenwich Village, losing sight of whatever creature is pretending to be Antwohnette. “Why are you trying to abandon me, Caliban?” A voice behind him asks. Caliban slowly turns around. Standing in the middle of the street, one arm crossed to hold her

Antwohnette… the name sounds so familiar, like the memory of dream you can’t remember. The young woman’s extended hand emerges from shadow, a harsh line of darkness slicing across her wrist. “Caliban, come. We’re looking for a new home. I think we may have found it.” Home.

Caliban slinks through nighttime city streets — a warped facsimile of Greenwich Village. He stands a full story high, only remaining concealed due to his black fur which seems to absorb any light that touches his frame. How did he get here? Was he supposed to be this large? Wasn’t

The setting sun glints through the windows of the Dino Station. The door opens. A rush of sound and air sweeps in — behind the counter, Claire Crowley senses a coming storm. Harvey Jones, a regular, stands slack-jawed in front of her. Something had happened. Something was wrong.

Thick foliage surrounds a lone power pole in a forest clearing. Vines of ivy hug the pole tight from bottom to top. A dozen different lines stretch out in half a dozen directions — deep into the forest. At a foot higher than an average head-height hangs a sign. It has