Untitled, by Abhinav
there are certain twilights that resist escape. time bleeding out of your ear—the swathes of pink still like a gaze directed at nothing. hunched men, a back and forth of…
issue 32
On “Paranormal Chaplaincy,” by Leanna Renee Hieber
A career in telling ghost stories to a live audience has led me to a unique and unexpected calling. I’ve become a sort of “paranormal chaplain.” When I first began…
Image Not Found: Francesca’s Bridge, by Aimee Picchi
I’ve tried to post the photo of Francesca’s Bridge—yes, the bridge—about a gazillion times. Hopefully you all can see the pic? This might be the biggest discovery yet for our Haunted New England group!
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum
Once again we reach the long cold dark of the year, a time for changes, endings, and beginnings. The Deadlands is changing formats to a quarterly print publication. Changes loom for the necromancer as well. I’ve written about how much attending mortuary school meant to me. In my previous life as an English major, I was frequently asked if I would use my degree to become a teacher. I laughed, I cried, I hissed in horror and disgust; I most certainly would not. By my second year in the mortuary program, however, I realized that I had found a subject I would love to teach. Supervising apprentices at work has confirmed how much delight I take in showing people how to find arteries.
prim pressed posies, by Ai Jiang
do not make what is dead immortalthe stem bone marrow sucked dryits waters droughted blood spilt no longer petals—skin only limbs, muscles stripped,veins sapped, organs smoked, pollen unsewn seeds, dead children crunchinglike…
Notes From the Delta Spirits, by John Lighthouse
It is the stillness of peace; it is the stillness of desolation; it is the quiet of rest; it is the quiet of unutterable grief. We drift with the languid air above the face of Agonis Creek and gaze at our tremulous reflections. In the quiet of grief, in the quiet of rest, in the stillness of desolation, in the stillness of peace, we are here. We are often here. It is our haunt.
Troop No. 80085, by Marisca Pichette
girl guidesus down into our decadentafterlife. scouts in sashes patchedwith soulsspritz us with bath & body worksand smudge uswith sage. in summer camp we sat round a fireand listened to…