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A Collection of Queer Horror

There are no happy endings here.

In the town of Inverse, Silvino and Scott Orellano discover the darkness in their deepest hearts. At the cusp of a new life, Kane Orwell learns terrible truths whispered by a black and eldritch mouth. Torn between one identity and another, Shania Logan struggles to hold on to the fragments of her self.

And standing on the threshold of the afterlife, a grieving wife balances between life and death on the flicker of a candle’s flame.





Four tales of horror, written from a queer perspective. In this collection of short stories and novellas, our heroes and heroines will explore the depths of terror both macabre and mundane–and live their darkest fears, reflected in the whites of their eyes.


He closed his eyes, pressed his face against the back of Michio’s neck, and willed himself to sleep.

Until the chattering returned. The clicking.

No—just one. One click. One snick, and his breaths dried up in his lungs.

He opened his eyes. Outside, the balcony light had turned on: pale white as milk and smoke, casting the concrete and steel into washed-out monochrome shades. The lights were motion-activated; the agent who’d shown the place had stage-whispered behind her hand, exaggerating her Midwestern drawl.

For those late night parties, you know, she’d said. So you don’t fall over.

The light shouldn’t be on. Not when the balcony was empty, that light like a spotlight on an unoccupied stage saying here we are, party of none, let the show begin. Unless a moth or something had triggered it, some kind of bug—


The light flicked off, plunging the balcony into a faux darkness misted gold by the omnipresent city light pollution.


On again. Off again.


On. Off. On.


On and off, on off, on off on off on off, flashing like a strobe light, dark and light and dark and light again so fast, so fast, until every click blended together into a chatter, a chitter, just like at the end of that scream. A chatter like teeth, and he waited for the scream to come but there was only on again off again, bright and dark, light and shadow click click click click CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK like some kind of sick Edgar Allan Poe joke where that flickering light was the beat of his tell-tale heart.

“Michi,” he rasped. “Michi!

But Michio didn’t move. Didn’t hear him, as if Kane hadn’t made a sound.

Kane pushed himself to the far side of the bed, backing himself up against the headboard and pulling the blankets up over his knees, over the bottom half of his face, watching the light until it burned into his retinas and turned everything in reverse. Light was dark, dark was light, it didn’t matter anymore when there was only the strobe, the flash, the pulse.

And for a moment, in a flash that might be light inverted as dark or might just be the night itself, he saw a figure: a tall and lopsided thing, one shoulder drooping low, the other high, the dark amorphous blob of its head suggesting a tilt that turned it nearly upside down, a too-thick torso with too-thin, too-long arms. The next time the light strobed it was gone.

Kane dug his fingers into the blanket and screamed.

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