I launched myself for the radio receiver, and jerked up the mouthpiece. I wiped away the film of sweat from my forehead before replying. “Receiving.” My throat was tight with a lump the size of a golf ball. “It’s good to hear your voice comrade.” “You too. How are you doing?” Leaning towards the porthole, I stared out into the cold void, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Soyuz capsule somewhere out in the twinkling stars. “All systems great. Amazing view of the Pacific right now.” “Have you managed to reach ground control yet?” “Comms are still down because of the solar flares, I guess. Should be back up in a couple of hours.” “I hope so.” The lump…

I never regretted working in that charity shop. It was strictly volunteer stuff, only on weekends and a few solitary evenings. The shop was small and cramped, and we never got many visitors, so my lonely shifts were, more often than not, spent quietly sitting at an abandoned counter. My stupor was roused one evening, by the sound of the door swinging open. A short man pushed into the shops shaded interior, carrying a small cardboard box. He was well dressed, in a casual shirt and smart looking pants, and a pair of thick glasses sat on his head, underneath a rats nest of curly greasy hair. By the looks of things, in his early thirties, judging by the thick…

I owed it to him, I suppose. He was my best friend, after all, and he had always been there for me when I was in trouble. Six months ago, Mike’s uncle had died after a year or so of illness. Mike took the news hard; the man had been like a father to him. It had taken him those six months to build up the courage to head round to his uncles old place in the country, and get his affairs sorted out. I say place, because you couldn’t really call it a house. It was a big old building from the war, just a concrete cuboid sitting on long rotten foundations. Back during the good old days, and…

3:20 in the morning. The cold pasty light of the computer monitor was splashed against the cheaply wallpapered walls of my dorm room, casting thick shadows that clawed at the corners of my eyes. My fingers gently ran across the keyboard in front of me. The biology paper was due for tomorrow, and I had foolishly decided to leave it until now. Desperate to finish, but equally desperate not to wake up my room mate, who was annoyed at me enough already. I pressed on with the paper, eyes straining against the harsh text on the screen. I was slipping into drowsiness, when a clicking echoed through the room, jolting me awake like a gunshot. I turned around, and saw…

The following is an account of events that took place in the late summer of 2001. I can neither confirm nor deny its validity. It was recounted to me by my Brother-in-law, who disappeared in the summer of 2008. Just of route 49, in Clay county Alabama, there is a house. It’s abandoned now, slowly rotting away to dust, but in 2001 I lived there. There is one reason I left: fear. It started in July. My dog, Georgia, had died earlier that month at the age of 14, my girlfriend had left me, and I was heavy in debt. It’s safe to say thing were pretty shit. But one night, things took a sudden turn for the macabre. The…

I launched myself for the radio receiver, and jerked up the mouthpiece. I wiped away the film of sweat from my forehead before replying. “Receiving.” My throat was tight with a lump the size of a golf ball. “It’s good to hear your voice comrade.” “You too. How are you doing?” Leaning towards the porthole, I stared out into the cold void, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Soyuz capsule somewhere out in the twinkling stars. “All systems great. Amazing view of the Pacific right now.” “Have you managed to reach ground control yet?” “Comms are still down because of the solar flares, I guess. Should be back up in a couple of hours.” “I hope so.” The lump…

The following is an account of events that took place in the late summer of 2001. I can neither confirm nor deny its validity. It was recounted to me by my Brother-in-law, who disappeared in the summer of 2008. Just of route 49, in Clay county Alabama, there is a house. It’s abandoned now, slowly rotting away to dust, but in 2001 I lived there. There is one reason I left: fear. It started in July. My dog, Georgia, had died earlier that month at the age of 14, my girlfriend had left me, and I was heavy in debt. It’s safe to say thing were pretty shit. But one night, things took a sudden turn for the macabre. The…

I never regretted working in that charity shop. It was strictly volunteer stuff, only on weekends and a few solitary evenings. The shop was small and cramped, and we never got many visitors, so my lonely shifts were, more often than not, spent quietly sitting at an abandoned counter. My stupor was roused one evening, by the sound of the door swinging open. A short man pushed into the shops shaded interior, carrying a small cardboard box. He was well dressed, in a casual shirt and smart looking pants, and a pair of thick glasses sat on his head, underneath a rats nest of curly greasy hair. By the looks of things, in his early thirties, judging by the thick…

I owed it to him, I suppose. He was my best friend, after all, and he had always been there for me when I was in trouble. Six months ago, Mike’s uncle had died after a year or so of illness. Mike took the news hard; the man had been like a father to him. It had taken him those six months to build up the courage to head round to his uncles old place in the country, and get his affairs sorted out. I say place, because you couldn’t really call it a house. It was a big old building from the war, just a concrete cuboid sitting on long rotten foundations. Back during the good old days, and…

3:20 in the morning. The cold pasty light of the computer monitor was splashed against the cheaply wallpapered walls of my dorm room, casting thick shadows that clawed at the corners of my eyes. My fingers gently ran across the keyboard in front of me. The biology paper was due for tomorrow, and I had foolishly decided to leave it until now. Desperate to finish, but equally desperate not to wake up my room mate, who was annoyed at me enough already. I pressed on with the paper, eyes straining against the harsh text on the screen. I was slipping into drowsiness, when a clicking echoed through the room, jolting me awake like a gunshot. I turned around, and saw…

I launched myself for the radio receiver, and jerked up the mouthpiece. I wiped away the film of sweat from my forehead before replying. “Receiving.” My throat was tight with a lump the size of a golf ball. “It’s good to hear your voice comrade.” “You too. How are you doing?” Leaning towards the porthole, I stared out into the cold void, hoping to catch some glimpse of the Soyuz capsule somewhere out in the twinkling stars. “All systems great. Amazing view of the Pacific right now.” “Have you managed to reach ground control yet?” “Comms are still down because of the solar flares, I guess. Should be back up in a couple of hours.” “I hope so.” The lump…

3:20 in the morning. The cold pasty light of the computer monitor was splashed against the cheaply wallpapered walls of my dorm room, casting thick shadows that clawed at the corners of my eyes. My fingers gently ran across the keyboard in front of me. The biology paper was due for tomorrow, and I had foolishly decided to leave it until now. Desperate to finish, but equally desperate not to wake up my room mate, who was annoyed at me enough already. I pressed on with the paper, eyes straining against the harsh text on the screen. I was slipping into drowsiness, when a clicking echoed through the room, jolting me awake like a gunshot. I turned around, and saw…

I never regretted working in that charity shop. It was strictly volunteer stuff, only on weekends and a few solitary evenings. The shop was small and cramped, and we never got many visitors, so my lonely shifts were, more often than not, spent quietly sitting at an abandoned counter. My stupor was roused one evening, by the sound of the door swinging open. A short man pushed into the shops shaded interior, carrying a small cardboard box. He was well dressed, in a casual shirt and smart looking pants, and a pair of thick glasses sat on his head, underneath a rats nest of curly greasy hair. By the looks of things, in his early thirties, judging by the thick…

I owed it to him, I suppose. He was my best friend, after all, and he had always been there for me when I was in trouble. Six months ago, Mike’s uncle had died after a year or so of illness. Mike took the news hard; the man had been like a father to him. It had taken him those six months to build up the courage to head round to his uncles old place in the country, and get his affairs sorted out. I say place, because you couldn’t really call it a house. It was a big old building from the war, just a concrete cuboid sitting on long rotten foundations. Back during the good old days, and…

The following is an account of events that took place in the late summer of 2001. I can neither confirm nor deny its validity. It was recounted to me by my Brother-in-law, who disappeared in the summer of 2008. Just of route 49, in Clay county Alabama, there is a house. It’s abandoned now, slowly rotting away to dust, but in 2001 I lived there. There is one reason I left: fear. It started in July. My dog, Georgia, had died earlier that month at the age of 14, my girlfriend had left me, and I was heavy in debt. It’s safe to say thing were pretty shit. But one night, things took a sudden turn for the macabre. The…