Terrors & Tales
Vol. 1 Issue No. 1 April 2025
A Note from PD Alleva
Hello subscribers, readers, people from far off distances, aliens, demons, and everything in between, welcome to the inaugural Terrors and Tales newsletter from PD's Alternative Fiction. This newsletter has been a long time coming. In my youth I always wanted to start a literary magazine or periodical. Something along the lines of Asimov's Science Fiction, Weird Tales, The New Yorker, Ploughshares or The Paris Review. Magazines I grew up with that hold a special place in my creative psyche. I always pictured it as a mix between Weird Tales and The New Yorker, and even though we may be some time away from achieving the acclaim those publications have garnered, I'm confident that one day we will be there too.
I'd like to take this opportunity to give a special shoutout and thank you to the brave souls who submitted stories and poems to include in the newsletter. Flo Mims, Holly Rose Scott, and Tiffany Martin I am forever grateful for your contributions. Also, a special thank you to my daughter, Bre'Anne, who curated the newsletter (she's also the curator for Tuesday's Horror & Sci-Fi Chronicles newsletter). Thank you for teaching the old man a few tricks with the internet too. All that shit still makes me cross eyed.
A Big FYI, if you’re reading the newsletter in your email, there is a possibility (most specifically with Gmail) that the Movie review and/or the DIY tutorial at the end of the email will be cut off. If that is the case, all you have to do is click here to view the entire newsletter or click on the ‘view entire message’ link in the bottom of the email. Shit happens people, and unfortunately some email carriers have difficulty with longer emails.
And with all that said, without further ado, I present the Terrors and Tales newsletter. Have at it and enjoy!
Keep reading,
PD Alleva
The Shadow of Perrin Manor
by Flo Mims
The storm raged outside Perrin Manor, a dilapidated mansion on the edge of a forgotten town. The wind howled through the trees like a wounded animal, and rain lashed against the windows with the fury of a thousand vengeful spirits. Inside, Clara sat by the hearth, her fingers trembling as she stirred the flickering flames. The house felt alive, as if it breathed and pulsed with an ancient malevolence that had long since settled into its very bones.
Clara had never believed in ghosts. She had always been a woman of logic, of reason. But Blackthorn House had been her inheritance, and after the death of her estranged uncle, she had no choice but to return and sort through the estate. Her uncle had been a strange man, a recluse who rarely left the house. His presence had haunted the mansion long before his passing, and it was no secret that the locals whispered of dark deeds and unspeakable rituals performed behind the mansion’s crumbling walls.
Clara had dismissed the rumors as superstition. But as she ventured deeper into the house, she began to feel… something. At first, it was a feeling of being watched—eyes in the shadows that followed her every move. Then, the sounds started. Soft whispers at the edge of her hearing, murmurs that seemed to come from nowhere. The shadows in the corners of the room grew unnaturally long, twisting and shifting as if they had a life of their own.
It wasn’t until she ventured into the basement that she understood why.
The door to the basement was heavy, its ancient wood creaking in protest as she turned the rusty handle. The air inside was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, and the temperature dropped sharply. As Clara descended the narrow staircase, she could feel the weight of the house pressing down on her, like an invisible hand around her throat.
The basement was vast, stretching far beyond what she had imagined. Old wooden shelves lined the walls, stacked with boxes of forgotten memories and objects covered in dust. In the center of the room, a strange circle had been etched into the floor, its surface charred and cracked. Symbols, crude and unsettling, were scrawled in a language Clara did not recognize, and in the center of the circle lay a shattered mirror, its jagged edges glinting in the dim light.
Clara’s heart raced as she knelt beside the mirror, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She reached out to touch the broken glass, but as her fingers brushed the sharp edge, the temperature in the room plummeted, and the lights flickered. A low, guttural whisper filled the air, sending a chill down her spine.
"Leave…"
Clara jerked her hand back, her pulse hammering in her chest. She spun around, but there was nothing in the shadows—only the silence that seemed to stretch for eternity.
The whispering grew louder, more insistent. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and Clara felt an invisible presence moving in the darkness, circling her like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Her eyes darted around the room, but all she could see were the twisting shapes in the corners of the basement, the shadows that seemed to shift with purpose.
She backed away slowly, her breath hitching in her throat, and reached for the stairs. But before she could take a step, the door to the basement slammed shut with a deafening crash. Clara spun around, her heart hammering in her chest as she pounded on the door, screaming for help that she knew would never come. The house was alive—alive in ways that no human could understand. It was as though something ancient, something dark, had been awakened by her presence.
The shadows closed in on her, creeping along the walls, growing longer and darker until they swallowed the light. The whispers turned into words—words that were unmistakably clear.
"Join us…"
Clara froze. She knew what she had to do. Her uncle had been involved in something terrible, something that had bound his soul to this house, and now it was her turn to pay the price for his sins. She had disturbed something far more powerful than she could comprehend. The mirror on the floor shimmered, its shattered pieces swirling like liquid as an image began to form within it.
It was a face—twisted and gaunt, with hollow eyes that seemed to stare directly into her soul. The lips of the figure in the mirror moved, and Clara could hear the words echo in her mind.
"You're mine now."
A sudden surge of terror coursed through Clara’s body, and she turned to flee, but the shadows enveloped her, pulling her down into the cold, black abyss. Her scream was drowned out by the storm outside as her body was dragged into the depths of the house.
Hours passed. The storm raged on.
The next morning, a team of workers arrived to begin clearing the property. They had been hired to remove the debris and restore Blackthorn House to its former state, but as they approached the mansion, they noticed something strange. The windows were blackened, as if something had blocked the light inside. They tried the door, but it was locked tight, the sound of something—or someone—scratching against the wood faintly audible from within.
When they finally broke the door down, they found the house eerily still. The air was thick with an oppressive silence, and the basement door was ajar. As they descended the stairs, they found nothing. No broken mirror. No signs of a struggle. Just the faintest trace of a woman’s scream lingering in the air.
But in the shadows of the basement, something shifted.
When Flo isn’t writing fantastic supernatural tales, she’s helping at an animal rescue, assisting in finding suitable homes for her little lovelies. You can find her on her Facebook page here. Stop in and say hello.
Cult Classics Revisited:
"A Serbian Film" (2010): A Descent Into the Abyss of Exploitation, Censorship, and Sociopolitical Horror
Few films have inspired the same degree of horror, revulsion, and controversy as A Serbian Film (2010), directed by Srđan Spasojević. This is not just a movie — it’s an affront, a provocation, a weaponized reel of trauma that dares you to look at what you’re not supposed to see. The question is not whether it's “good” in the conventional sense. The question is: what is it saying, and should it even exist to begin with?
Let’s get the surface horrors out of the way: A Serbian Film tells the story of Milos, a retired porn star, who is manipulated into performing in an increasingly violent, disturbing underground project. What starts as an erotic thriller quickly plunges into a depraved spiral of rape, necrophilia, and child exploitation. It is so extreme that it has been banned in multiple countries and remains heavily censored nearly everywhere else.
On the surface, it appears to be the most grotesque entry in the so-called "extreme cinema" genre. But A Serbian Film isn’t aiming to shock just for shock’s sake. Its imagery is allegorical — a disturbing, albeit over-the-top, metaphor for how the Serbian people (and by extension, populations living under brutal regimes) have been violated, exploited, and manipulated by their governments and media over generations. Milos, as the everyman, is drugged, dehumanized, and forced to participate in acts beyond comprehension — much like citizens who find themselves unwitting pawns in sociopolitical machines.
Spasojević has stated outright that the film is a political commentary — “a diary of our own molestation by the Serbian government.” It’s an indictment of the systematic destruction of innocence, identity, and agency in post-war Serbia. But here’s the catch: can such a critique justify the imagery used? Is the message powerful enough to warrant the onscreen depravity?
That’s the ethical fault line where the film sits, daring its critics and defenders to draw a line in the sand. For some, the grotesque content disqualifies it entirely from serious discussion. For others, its audacity — the very extremity of its content — is precisely what forces the viewer to engage with the metaphor.
Visually, the film is slick and professionally executed, which only adds to its chilling effect. There is no grindhouse grain, no VHS sleaze filter to create distance. The horror is crystal clear. It looks real. It feels real. And that’s why many argue it crosses into moral obscenity.
And yet, we live in a world where the real-life exploitation of innocents, particularly during wartime, is well documented and largely ignored. Maybe A Serbian Film is not perverse for showing such things symbolically — maybe we are perverse for needing that symbolism to pay attention.
Ultimately, A Serbian Film is not a recommendation — it’s a warning. It is a punch to the gut from a country with a war-torn past, screaming at a desensitized world to look at what you’ve done. Whether you see it as art, trauma porn, or both, one thing is clear: it forces a reckoning. Not with the screen, but with ourselves.
(Source Reference Links: The Guardian. Rotten Tomatoes. Wikipedia. Slant Mag. Film Comment. Austin Chronicle.)
Black Widow Spider
By Tiffany Martin
Black & red, violin shape, so perfectly sized to infiltrate.
Your bite, your venom, so toxic it is.
A poison to the brain functionality.
Neurotoxins overtake. Body, mind, and soul to take.
Am I crazy, is this real?
How long must I endure your neurotoxicity?
Is there a cure?
Please give me the antidote, the anti-venom.
Before I choke on mere oxygen.
I think I'm dead or am I dying?
Am I coming or merely going, round in spirals, like a circle....
I always land.
At the same starting spot, it's a spiral.
Round, round, & around it goes.
Breathe in, breathe out, the breath feels shallow.
Tiffany is a mental health advocate and trauma survivor. A true artist by nature, she’s stepping into that reality now. She loves puzzles, plants and all things nature, animals (all animals), and self-love. You can find her on Instagram and Wattpad.
Book Review
The Ojanox Series: A Modern Horror Masterpiece with Vintage Flair
Having just completed part four of Daemon Manx's "The Ojanox," I'm compelled to share why this series deserves a place on every horror fan's shelf. The saga brilliantly revives the rich, immersive storytelling tradition that defined horror in the '70s and '80s.
Set in 1979 in the quintessential small town of Garrett Grove, New York, the series opens with "Scream in the Dark," introducing us to ten-year-old Troy Fischer as he eagerly prepares for Halloween. His homemade haunted attraction—which shares its name with the first book—provides the perfect backdrop for what unfolds when an ancient evil is accidentally unearthed near the Watchung Mountains.
What elevates Manx's writing beyond standard horror fare is his exceptional character development. Each personality in the sprawling cast feels authentic and fully realized, making their eventual fates genuinely impactful. As Patrick C. Harrison aptly noted, "Manx creates a community and cast of characters you feel like you know personally... And when you lose one of those characters, you've lost one of your own."
The meticulous world-building is equally impressive. Manx constructs a comprehensive mythology around the ancient entity threatening Garrett Grove, layering it with local folklore and historical depth. As a mysterious contagion begins affecting the town's children, the narrative tension builds organically through interconnected storylines involving secret lovers, small-town politics, and the relatable dynamics of childhood friendships.
What makes "The Ojanox" truly stand out is Manx's prose—unrelenting, insanely entertaining, and surprisingly intelligent. The dialogue crackles with authenticity, reflecting Duncan Ralston's observation that "Manx has a knack for creating characters you'll love (or hate) and putting them through the wringer. His dialogue is sharp and storytelling gripping and fast-paced."
The series expertly balances nostalgic elements with fresh horror concepts. Manx's "beautifully descriptive scenes," as Jeani Rector of The Horror Zine notes, place readers directly into the pleasant small town "where everything is pleasant...until it isn't." This contrast between wholesome Americana and encroaching supernatural horror creates a palpable sense of dread that permeates each installment.
Despite its considerable length, the narrative never feels bloated. Each detail serves the story, each character interaction advances the plot or deepens our understanding of Garrett Grove's imperiled community. The attention to detail is remarkable, yet the pacing remains brisk and engaging throughout.
For readers seeking intelligent horror that respects the genre's traditions while charting new territory, "The Ojanox" series delivers on all fronts. As Felissa Rose succinctly put it, "There's a new voice in horror, and his name is Daemon Manx." Based on this exceptional series, that voice deserves to be heard by horror aficionados everywhere.
The Wolf
by Holly Rose Scott
He set a bear trap the old oak tree, camouflaging it with a sturdy mesh of leaves and branches. Don't ask how he got it. A tempting bait—
Bait.
Bait?
He needed bait.
____
Brody sat at the worn wooden table, pushing his scrambled eggs around with his fork. The kitchen was quiet except for the ticking clock on the wall and the distant hum of the refrigerator. His mother, seated across from him, absently stirred her coffee, her gaze fixed on something far beyond the window. She hadn’t said a word since she put the plates down.
His stepfather, Greg, sat to Brody’s right, flipping through the newspaper, but the pages barely crinkled. Every now and then, Greg’s eyes would flicker up from the paper, glance toward Brody, then back down again. The coffee mug in his hand remained full, untouched, though his grip on it was tight enough to whiten his knuckles.
Brody’s stomach churned, though he hadn’t eaten a bite. His mother’s hand shook slightly as she placed her spoon down on the saucer, the soft clink unnaturally loud in the silence. She glanced at Brody briefly, offering a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Do you want more coffee?” she asked Greg quietly, her voice thin.
“No,” he answered, not looking up from the paper.
Brody’s eyes moved between them. The tension in the room was palpable, like a thick fog no one could clear. He stabbed at the eggs again, the sound of his fork scraping the plate far too loud in the stillness.
Outside, a bird chirped, but the lightness of the sound felt out of place. His mother set her mug down carefully, then stood, pushing her chair back slowly. She walked over to the sink, staring out the window for a long moment before turning on the faucet. The water gushed, filling the silence with an almost oppressive weight.
Greg folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, finally meeting Brody’s eyes for a fleeting second before looking away. The silence stretched out, each of them anchored to their own unspoken thoughts.
Brody swallowed hard, his fork pausing mid-air, but he didn’t ask the questions that sat heavy on his chest. Instead, he pushed the plate away, stood up, and without a word, left the room. Behind him, the sound of running water filled the empty space he left behind.
____
His breath fogged in the cool night air as he crept through the backyard, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. The tall grass whispered around his ankles, and the only sounds were his own soft footsteps and the distant hum of cicadas. Every shadow seemed to move, every rustle in the bushes made him flinch. His heart thudded in his chest, but he kept going, eyes scanning the tree line at the far edge of the yard.
And then he saw it.
A hulking figure crouched just beyond the reach of the light, half-hidden behind a thick tree trunk. Its eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the beam of the flashlight with a cold, silvery glow. The creature’s outline was monstrous—fur matted, shoulders broad, and its arms too long, hanging unnaturally low. It wasn’t fully in the light, but Brody could make out its silhouette, and the unmistakable glint of sharp teeth bared in a silent snarl.
____
Brody hovered just outside the door to his math class, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching the flow of students spill into the hallway. It was Friday afternoon, and everyone seemed eager to escape for the weekend, their voices loud and full of relief. But Brody’s attention wasn’t on them—it was on Leslie.
She sat alone on the ground near the lockers, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Her blonde hair spilled down, obscuring her face, but the faint tremor in her shoulders gave her away. She was crying.
Brody hesitated, gripping the strap of his backpack tighter. He barely knew Leslie—they’d only ever exchanged a few words in passing. She sat in the row ahead of him in history, always quiet, never drawing attention to herself.
He should just leave her alone. After all, it wasn’t his business. But something held him there, his feet glued to the spot.
He glanced around the hallway. No one else seemed to notice her. People walked right by, laughing and talking, completely oblivious to the girl curled up against the wall. Brody swallowed hard, feeling awkward and out of place, but his feet slowly moved forward before he could talk himself out of it.
As he approached, the sound of her quiet sobs became more apparent, faint but heartbreaking in the bustling hallway. Brody’s pulse quickened. What was he even going to say? Would she think he was weird for coming over? His mind scrambled for the right words, but he came up blank.
When he stopped in front of her, she didn’t look up. He hovered there for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do. His voice caught in his throat, but he forced it out.
“Hey… Leslie?”
She didn’t respond right away, just kept her face buried in her arms. He thought about leaving, letting her be, but then she lifted her head slightly, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and red, puffy eyes. She sniffled, blinking up at him in confusion, as if surprised anyone had noticed her at all.
Brody’s throat tightened. “Are you… okay?” The words felt useless as soon as they left his mouth. Of course she wasn’t okay.
Leslie wiped at her face quickly, as if trying to erase the evidence of her tears. “I’m fine,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse and shaky. She tried to smile, but it didn’t come close to reaching her eyes.
Brody shifted awkwardly, the silence stretching out between them. He wasn’t sure what else to say but leaving her here like this didn’t feel right either. “Do you… want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hopeful.
For a moment, she didn’t respond. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she hugged her knees tighter. Brody braced himself for her to tell him to go away. But instead, she let out a shaky breath.
“It’s stupid,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of the hallway. “Everything’s just… really hard right now.”
Brody nodded, even though he wasn’t sure what she meant. He crouched down next to her, careful to keep some distance, giving her space while making sure she knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “It’s not stupid if it’s making you feel like this.”
She glanced at him, her expression softening just a little. She wiped at her face again, sniffing. “I don’t even know why I’m crying. It’s just… everything piling up, I guess. School. Home. All of it.” Her voice cracked, and she looked away, embarrassed.
Brody bit his lip, unsure how to help. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing—comforting people. But he wanted to, more than anything. “I get that,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it just hits all at once.”
Eventually, Leslie wiped her eyes one last time and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” she said, her voice soft. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Brody shrugged, feeling a little sheepish. “It’s no big deal.”
But to Leslie, it seemed like it was. She gave him a small, genuine smile—fragile, but real. “It kind of is.”
He smiled back, the tension in his chest easing. As the hallway emptied out, Brody stood, offering her a hand. “Want to get out of here? Maybe grab a smoothie or something?”
Leslie hesitated for a second, then took his hand and stood up, brushing off her jeans. “Yeah,” she said, her smile growing just a bit. “I think I’d like that.”
____
He stood by the kitchen counter, staring at the plastic-wrapped steak his mum had just placed in the fridge. His heart raced as an idea formed in his head, one that sent a flicker of guilt through him but felt like his only option. The meat was perfect—thick, juicy, and fresh. It would make the perfect bait for the trap.
His mum’s voice floated in from the living room. “Sweety, I’m heading upstairs to get ready for bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
“Okay, Mum,” he called back, his heart thumping in his chest. He waited for her footsteps to fade before slowly opening the fridge door. The cool air hit his face as he reached for the steak, feeling the chill through the plastic.
He went to the trap and knelt by it, pulling the meat out of the bag, carefully laying it in the center of it. The smell hit his nose—rich, tempting—and for a moment, he felt a pang of regret. His mum would notice it was gone tomorrow. He didn’t have a plan for that yet. He shoved the thought aside.
____
Brody leaned back against the hood of his mum's car, the warm metal beneath him a small comfort in the cool evening air. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a soft purple that was quickly fading to black. He glanced at Leslie, who sat cross-legged beside him on the car’s roof, her gaze fixed on the distant hills where the forest began.
"You ever think about just leaving this place?" Brody asked, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, but there was a weight behind the words.
Leslie didn’t answer right away. She stared out at the horizon, her fingers playing absently with a thread on her jacket.
"Yeah," she finally said, her voice soft. "All the time."
Brody smiled, encouraged. "We could do it, you know. Just… leave. Go somewhere far away. Somewhere no one knows us. Start fresh."
Leslie’s lips twitched in a half-smile, but her eyes stayed fixed on the darkening sky. "It’s not that simple."
"Why not?" Brody pressed. "We’re not tied to this town. We could go anywhere. I’ve got a bit of money saved up. We could figure it out."
Leslie sighed, her fingers still pulling at the thread. "There are things you don’t know, Brody. About me. About my family."
Brody turned to her, concern in his eyes. “Hey, we’ve basically known each other our whole lives. What could you possibly be hiding?"
She hesitated, then slowly shifted her gaze to meet his. "There’s something… something I’ve never told you. Something my family doesn’t talk about. But if we ever leave—if we ever try to run—you have to know."
Brody sat up, his attention fully on her now. "What is it? What’s going on?"
Leslie bit her lip, her eyes flicking toward the woods in the distance. "We’re being watched, Brody. My family, I mean. We always have been."
Brody frowned. "Watched? By who?"
"Not who," she said quietly. "What."
His brow furrowed, and he shook his head. "Leslie, you’re not making sense."
She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. "There’s something out there. In the woods. My family calls it the wolf.”
____
Leslie? Where is Leslie?
____
Brody sat on the edge of the couch, his hands fidgeting with the frayed hem of his shirt as Greg flicked through the TV channels. The house was dimly lit, smelling faintly of beer and cigarette smoke, a far cry from the small, quiet house where Brody used to live with his mum.
Greg grunted something unintelligible, scratching his unshaven jaw, and Brody tensed. He’d tried to like Greg, he really had, but everything about the man made him uncomfortable—the crude jokes, the way he always seemed to drink too much, and how he’d taken over the house like it was his own.
Brody couldn’t take it anymore.
He stood up abruptly, glancing toward the kitchen where his mother was wiping down the counters. She hadn’t looked at him much all evening, too busy playing the role of the doting girlfriend to notice the tension in her son’s face.
"Mum," Brody said, his voice soft but firm. "Can I talk to you?"
She looked up, her hands stilling as she met his eyes. "What is it?"
Brody shifted, glancing nervously at Greg, who was now glued to a sports game. "Can we talk… in private?"
His mother hesitated but then nodded. "Sure, let’s go to my room."
They walked down the narrow hallway to her bedroom, the sound of the TV fading behind them. Brody felt a knot tighten in his stomach as they stepped inside, the door closing with a soft click.
His mother sat on the edge of the bed, patting the spot beside her. "What’s on your mind, honey?"
Brody stayed standing, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. "I… I don’t like Greg."
The words hung in the air like a weight, and his mother blinked, her expression shifting from concern to something more guarded.
"Brody, I thought we talked about this," she said slowly. "Greg is trying. I know it’s been hard for you, but—"
"I don’t want to be here anymore," Brody interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. "I want to go back home. To Dad’s."
His mother’s face fell, and for a moment, she just stared at him, as if she couldn’t believe what he’d said.
"Brody," she began, her voice softening, "I know you’re struggling with the changes, but you can’t just… leave me like that. We’re a family."
"It doesn’t feel like a family," Brody blurted out, his emotions getting the better of him. "It feels like I’m just in the way. Greg doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him. I can’t do this anymore."
His mother’s eyes filled with something heavy, something that made Brody’s heart ache. She looked down at her hands, her fingers gripping the bedspread tightly.
"You don’t understand, Brody," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s not just about Greg. It’s about me. I’ve been alone for so long… and I don’t want to be alone again."
Brody frowned, confusion mixing with frustration. "But, Mum, I’m here. I’m your son."
She looked up at him, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. "But you’re growing up. You’ll leave one day, and then what? I’ll be alone. I’ll die alone, Brody. Is that what you want?”
____
Leslie?
____
He had heard the trap snap long before he saw it. The metallic clang cut through the quiet evening air like a gunshot, echoing across the yard. His heart had jumped, and for a moment, he froze on the back porch, listening, hoping he’d imagined it.
But then came the snarls.
Low, vicious sounds, filled with pain and fury.
He grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen, fumbling with it as he made his way down the steps and across the overgrown grass, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The yard stretched into the edge of the creek, where the trees huddled close together, swallowing the last bit of twilight.
The beam of his flashlight sliced through the darkness as he moved toward the noise. His gut twisted with dread, not just because of the trap, but because of the other feeling gnawing at him. Leslie. She was supposed to meet him here. They were supposed to talk about everything tonight, about how to get away, how to leave all of this behind. But she hadn’t shown up.
Now, there was just the snap of the trap, and that awful sound.
Brody crept closer, the flashlight shaking in his hands as the snarling grew louder. He could see the outline of the wolf now, barely visible through the thick grass near the tree line, its dark form thrashing and writhing in the trap’s unforgiving jaws.
It was bigger than he’d thought a wolf would be. It’s fur a dark, tangled mess of dirt and leaves. Blood gleamed in the light of his flashlight, dripping from where the steel teeth bit deep into its leg. The wolf’s eyes gleamed, wild and ferocious, reflecting the beam back at him with a sharp, almost human intensity.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He just watched, horrified, as the wolf turned its head, gnashing its teeth at the trapped leg.
It bit down.
Brody’s stomach twisted as the wolf began gnawing at its own flesh, sharp teeth tearing through muscle and sinew. Blood splattered the ground as it worked relentlessly, each bite bringing it closer to freedom. The sound—the wet, sickening sound—filled the air, mixing with the wolf’s ragged snarls.
Brody wanted to look away. He wanted to turn and run back to the house, to pretend none of this was happening, but he couldn’t. His feet were frozen to the spot, and all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the wolf chewed through its own leg.
A few minutes later, with a final, gruesome rip, the wolf tore itself free. Its severed leg remained in the trap, a grotesque reminder of the price it had paid for freedom. The wolf staggered, standing unsteadily on three legs, its eyes still blazing with pain and rage.
For a moment, it stood still, its chest heaving, blood dripping from its stump. Then, it lifted its head and locked eyes with Brody.
Brody’s breath caught in his throat.
The wolf stared at him—those eyes, glowing with something primal, something ancient—and then, without a sound, it turned and limped into the woods, disappearing into the shadows.
Brody stood there in the blood-soaked grass, his heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t shake the image of those eyes, the way they had looked at him—like the wolf knew something. Like it had seen something.
A rustling sound caught his attention, and he whipped the flashlight toward the edge of the yard, toward the pile of leaves and branches where they’d often sit when Leslie came over. Where they would talk about leaving this place behind.
The light flickered, casting long shadows over the ground.
____
Oh. There's Leslie.
____
Brody stared at his cereal, watching the milk swirl around the spoon. His appetite had vanished. He stirred the flakes, their soggy texture somehow matching the heaviness in his chest. The kitchen was quiet, except for the faint clinking of utensils and the low hum of the refrigerator. Outside, the sky was gray, a pale light filtering through the window as if the sun didn’t want to fully rise.
His mother moved around the kitchen, making tea, humming under her breath. It was a forced kind of calm, the sort she put on when she wanted to ask something but didn’t know how. Brody could feel the weight of her glances, the way she kept looking over her shoulder at him, hesitating.
"Brody," she said finally, her voice soft. Too soft. "Have you spoken to Leslie recently?"
His stomach tightened. The spoon paused in mid-air, and for a moment, he just stared into the bowl. "No," Brody muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I haven't."
His mother didn’t say anything for a moment, but he could feel her eyes on him, probing, searching for something. She didn’t know what happened. She couldn’t.
"You used to spend so much time with her," she continued, stirring sugar into her tea. "I just thought maybe… Well, it’s been a while since she’s come around.”
He didn’t want to think about the woods. He didn’t want to think about Leslie. Or the wolf. Or what it did to her.
A heavy footstep creaked across the floor, and Brody stiffened.
Greg shuffled into the kitchen, his face as gruff and unshaven as ever. He moved slowly, like each step cost him something. Brody’s eyes flicked up, and that’s when he noticed it—Greg was limping.
It was subtle, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t paying attention. But Brody saw it. Greg’s right leg dragged slightly behind the left, stiff and awkward. He winced with every step, though he tried to hide it.
Brody’s pulse quickened.
Greg moved toward the table, muttering something about the cold weather making his knee act up. He pulled out a chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor as he sat down heavily.
"Morning," Greg grunted, reaching for the newspaper. He glanced at Brody, but it was a quick, dismissive look, the kind he always gave—the kind that made Brody feel like he wasn’t really there.
Brody stared at him. His hands clenched into fists under the table, heart pounding against his ribcage. The image of the wolf, gnawing at its leg in the trap, flashed through his mind—the blood, the torn flesh, the way it had limped away into the woods after freeing itself.
Greg was the wolf. He knew it now. He had felt it deep in his bones the moment he saw the limp.
And Leslie… Leslie had been in the yard that night too.
He didn’t need to see her corpse again to know what had happened.
Holly Scott is a young author from rural Australia. When she's not writing, she can be found enjoying a cup of coffee, going on walks and wrangling a number of guinea pigs. You can find out more about her and her works on her website here.
Movie Review
Sinners (2025)
Ryan Coogler’s Sinners (2025) is a bold, genre-defying film that intertwines Southern Gothic horror with profound historical and sociopolitical themes. Set in 1930s Mississippi, the narrative follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack (both portrayed by Michael B. Jordan) as they return home to open a juke joint, only to confront supernatural threats that serve as metaphors for systemic oppression.
Critical Acclaim and Performances
Critics have lauded Sinners for its ambitious storytelling and compelling performances. Michael B. Jordan's dual portrayal of Smoke and Stack has been highlighted as a standout, showcasing his range and depth as an actor. Newcomer Miles Caton, playing the musically gifted cousin Sammie, delivers a noteworthy performance that adds emotional resonance to the film.
The film's cinematography, shot on 70mm film, captures the sultry atmosphere of the Deep South, enhancing the narrative's immersive quality. Ludwig Göransson's score, blending blues with folk influences, has been praised for its ability to underscore the film's emotional and thematic layers.
Despite its R-rating and intense themes, Sinners achieved a strong box office opening, grossing $48 million domestically and $63.5 million worldwide during its debut weekend. The film's success is further underscored by its rare "A" CinemaScore, a notable achievement for a horror film.
Thematic Depth and Cultural Commentary
Sinners delves into the complexities of Black identity, family legacy, and the pursuit of the American dream, all while confronting the horrors of racial violence and systemic oppression. The film's use of supernatural elements serves as a powerful allegory for the historical and ongoing struggles faced by Black communities in America.
Critiques and Areas for Improvement
While the film has been widely praised, some critics have noted areas where it falls short. For instance, Polygon highlighted that Sammie's supernatural musical abilities, introduced compellingly in the film's midsection, are not fully explored or integrated into the climax, leaving a sense of untapped potential. Additionally, Vulture's review pointed out that while the film is ambitious, it just misses achieving greatness, suggesting that certain narrative elements could have been more cohesively developed.
Conclusion
Sinners stands as a significant entry in contemporary cinema, blending genre conventions with profound cultural commentary. Ryan Coogler's direction, combined with strong performances and a hauntingly beautiful score, crafts a film that is both entertaining and thought-provoking. While not without its imperfections, Sinners offers a rich, multifaceted experience that resonates on both emotional and intellectual levels.
(Movie reviews are a summarization from reliable sources. Click on the header titles to view source material)
DIY: Create Your Own Time Traveler’s Wrist Module
(Think: steampunk tech meets interdimensional Apple Watch)
Genre Flavor: Time travel, cyberpunk, steampunk, alternate futures
Estimated Time: 1.5 hours
Skill Level: Intermediate
Cost: Under $20
Materials Needed:
Old wristwatch or fitness tracker band (or Velcro strap)
Cardboard or foam board (small pieces)
Acrylic paints (metallics, black, green, red)
Copper wire, paperclips, or springs
Small LED light (keychain light works great)
Glue gun or superglue
Plastic bottle cap (small — for the time dial)
Old USB drive casing or circuit board (optional)
Black electrical tape
Step-by-Step Instructions:
Step 1: Build the Base Unit
Cut a piece of foam board/cardboard to fit the top of your wristband like a bulky watch face.
Paint it dark metallic (bronze, iron, or gunmetal gray). Let dry.
Step 2: Add Techy Texture
Wrap copper wire around one side, gluing it down as if it’s a power conduit.
Twist paperclips into antennae or levers sticking off the corners.
Glue a spring on one edge for “chrono-stabilizer” flair.
Step 3: Install the Time Dial
Glue the bottle cap to the center. Paint it red or silver.
Use markers to add numbers, runes, or symbols on it like a rotary input wheel.
Glue it so it can spin but doesn’t fall off.
Step 4: Light it Up
Attach your LED light under the cap or to the side.
Tape the battery inside the casing or under the wristband.
Boom — you now have a pulsing, glowing time beacon.
Step 5: Add the Strap
Attach the module to your strap using electrical tape or glue.
If it’s an old watch, remove the original face and replace it with your device.
Optional Add-ons:
Glue an old USB drive shell on the side as a “time port”
Draw or print fake warnings like:
“Temporal Overload Detected”
“DO NOT ACTIVATE IN 1955”
“Flux Density: 2.1 Omega Levels”
Use It For:
Cosplay or LARP
Sci-fi character photoshoots
Desk decor for mad genius vibes
Writing prop for time-travel-themed stories
