Donovan— I think the dancer looks a little like me. Anyway. We tracked his EMF disturbance to a Soviet-style apartment complex and a room with flaking, high school-green paint and wall-to-wall computers. I stepped inside. Electric agony jolted me. Another trap. I awoke wrapped in computer cables, plugged into the equipment, my brain feeling like it had gone through the spin cycle. But he’d made a mistake. There is a cyberspace spirit. And that spirit didn’t like the techno-ma
Donovan— Credit cards, telephones, security cameras all work against us. All consciousness may reside in the astral plane, but the mage’s cyber eye is certainly conscious of us. Now I’m running on cash and hackneyed disguises. A blond wig. Big glasses. Floppy hats. You’d enjoy my new look. If there’s a cyberspace spirit, it’s not my friend. I’m still avoiding planes. Fortunately, metaphysical detectives have other means of travel, and I had a plan. I couldn’t beat the mage’s
Donovan— Philosophers believe our souls cross the astral plane on the way to birth and after death. Today’s journey, however, led us to more prosaic places – a high-tech facility in the desert. I followed his magic’s burnt-plastic scent through blinding white corridors. My cloaking spell got us past security guards and scientists, until we reached a door with an optical sensor lock. My unlock spell failed. But it did melt the knob. Small victories. We entered an empty, white-
Donovan— This morning my cell phone nearly took my head off, so the gargoyle post continues. The technomancers were trying to merge cyberspace and the astral plane. The one who escaped is still trying, and if he succeeds... It would be bad. Think of Stonehenge paved over with a parking lot, if Stonehenge were the collective human psyche and the parking lot were cyberspace. And cyberspace… That world brings out our worst, its anonymity breeding outrage and contempt. What a con
Donovan— I’m okay. But e-communications aren’t secure. Gargoyle mail is safer. It seemed a run-of-the-mill pagan ritual. An abandoned church. Moonlight streaming through dusty stained glass. But it had a Silicon Valley twist. Candle apps for candles. Networked PCs marked the directions. Techno-nerds encircled a silver pentagram painted on the rough, wooden floor. And they knew I was coming. Unfortunately, I didn’t know. I was exposed, vulnerable, ignorant. Pigeons fluttered i
For all those in the mood for some Valentine’s Day horror, this Victorian ghost story was published in 1891 by Edith Nesbit, and is in the public domain. John Charrington’s Wedding No one ever thought that May Forster would marry John Charrington; but he thought differently, and things which John Charrington intended had a queer way of coming to pass. He asked her to marry him before he went up to Oxford. She laughed and refused him. He asked her again next time he came home.
Original, short fiction from The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum! Unforgiving, black and white photos of executed murderers stared down at me from the museum’s glossy white walls. Their glowers were nothing compared to Herb’s. Quivering with indignation, Herb deposited the museum cat on my checkerboard floor. The black cat darted to the haunted rocking chair in the corner and sprang onto its wooden seat. “I found GD outside.” The little man blinked accusingly through his c
A Halloween Short Story from the Witches of Doyle I'm not sure if this was a good idea or not, but I decided to embed videos as part of this story. So play the videos where they appear in the story before reading on! “Well, you didn’t have to answer so honestly,” I grumped. My sister Karin could be bossy. A farmer wandered the pumpkin patch beneath a full, harvest moon, his curses floating on the warm, night air. He prodded a smashed rind with his boot. Jaw clenched, I scanne