A sneak peek of Why Didn't You Just Leave, an anthology of haunted house stories
Plus a Saturday paperback sale!
Julia Rios and Nadia Bulkin have been hard at work editing stories for the next Cursed Morsels release, Why Didn’t You Just Leave, an anthology of haunted house stories. The book won’t come out until spring, but that doesn’t mean we’ll leave you with nothing for the cold, dark months ahead.
If you missed our social media announcement about our talented cast of specters and their maledictions, here’s a little preview:
But why don’t we take a closer look at a few stories and get a taste of the terrors to come and the spirits haunting these cul-de-sacs, houses, apartments, and prison cells…
“No Joy Exists Anywhere Beyond Your Front Door” by Corey Farrenkopf
You stand at the edge of the new, but not so new, development. The asphalt is still smooth, the granite sidewalk curbs unchipped. Hedgerows divide the four houses ringing the cul-de-sac.
You know the myths behind each house, why they’ve remained vacant so long, but you need housing and the market is terrible and the mortgage that the sketchy bank has offered you only applies to one of these four homes. This might be your only chance to ever afford a house, so you have to make a decision. Is it going to be the house with the haunted attic, or the house with the unnamable thing in the basement? The house where the serial killer buried his victims beneath the floorboards, or the house made of skin?
(You aren’t sure you believe the stories surrounding the first three, but there’s no denying the last. You see the skin, all of the pale white glistening skin.)
“Kin” by Raquel Castro
One sole chime rips Natalia out of her sleep. Is it one already? When silence settles once again over the dust on the furniture, she hears something:
“Child, wake up. I have something to tell you.”
At first, Natalia doesn't know if it was a dream, that voice, so still and dry, like the rustling pages of an old book. But she doesn’t open her eyes. She thinks if it was a dream, there’s no point. And if it wasn’t a dream, she’s not ready to see who spoke, because she remembers clearly that she is alone in that room with the high ceiling and wooden floor. No: that she is alone in that huge old house.
“Because It Was Worse Outside” by Victoria Dalpe
It was human, but so dirty that she couldn’t tell what color the skin was underneath. The hand had long grimy nails that scratched on the linoleum floor, trying to find something to help pull it out.
There’s someone in the wall of my apartment, she thought numbly, eyes gone wide.
As the hand became an arm, which became a shoulder, and then with a great thump, a body wrapped in tatty cloth that may not have always been black, Ali had to remind herself to breathe. Her terror and curiosity wove together, leaving her standing still as a statue, spots dancing in front of her eyes.
“Mother Nature Knows Best” by Tonia Ransom
The guards here refuse to believe me. Say I’m making it up to try to get off of Death Row and remind me I’m going to fry for (allegedly) sending those poor young women to an early and violent grave. But you know I’d never hurt a soul, so I pray that you’ll see what I’m telling you is the truth. Matter of fact, I’m writing to you from the chapel because I need someone from the outside to do something.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been hearing whispers at night. But they aren’t people whispers. I can’t explain it really. It’s not a TV, or anything electronic, and it’s not people, but it’s whispers. I wish I was better with words to do it justice. Just know that it’s very unsettling to know something is talking to you, but it’s not human and doesn’t speak any language you recognize.
It smells like decaying earth in here all the time now too. Like a freshly dug grave after a rain. I remember that smell from when they buried my mother when I was 12. I still can’t believe they say she was my first victim. Would I remember a smell like that if it was a happy moment for me?
“Where There’s Smoke” by Alexis DuBon
Before she can finish, the magnolia-papered walls shift, closing in just an inch or two. They quiver and contract and she almost drops her teacup in shock.
“Are you alright, honey? Your face has completely drained.” Her mother moves from the chair to the couch beside her. Oh no, Amelia thinks. She’ll see what just happened to the wall now that she’s facing this way. But she doesn’t seem to see anything. And suddenly there isn’t anything to see. By the time her mother moves to the couch, the walls have returned to normal.
A trick of the light. So much light, of course it’s bound to play tricks from time to time. Just a skipped beat in the pulse of her house, that’s all.
Need a book to tide you over until Why Didn’t You Just Leave comes? Order one during our Saturday-only $5 paperback sale. Only at www.cursedmorselspress.com.
