Low Water
This is a horror story. But so is life. This is a Fenton Wexler original work. And for that, you are welcome.
Horror
Classics from the Public Domain – The Tell Tale Heart
Introducing Classics from The Public Domain The Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe Editor’s Note: We are thrilled to launch a new feature at The Olive Branch Review: Classics from The Public Domain. In a space dedicated to amplifying contemporary voices, we recognize the importance of honoring the literary giants whose works have shaped
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the mysterious door
when fun turns evil what will happen to those who play around
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The Lost Parents of the Cul-de-Sac
Before either could get their bearings, the creature in the cage popped up on their feet, yanked their body so violently that the connected tubes pulled apart, pushed the door wide open, and jumped on Dad quickly and ferociously. The creature began biting into Dad’s neck and extremities, tearing at his clothing and flesh as he yelled out in agony. In the distance, Paige saw Emily holding a broom handle against a tiny gray button near the light switch. The girls were in horrified shock, but they couldn’t look away. Something felt familiar, almost majestic about what they were seeing. As the monster fed into their father’s flesh, its body began filling out, becoming more human with each bite. The cracks in the monster’s skin and sunken parts around the ribs and face began filling with the same greenish glow that Paige had seen before.
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FWC25-Borders
It was hours ago that her stink—the grease of her hair, the cheese on her breath, the deodorant curdling in her armpits, the animality of her meat—convinced me to keep her.
Silk
1. His face looks gaunt, even through the steam haze on the bathroom mirror. He wipes a streak clear with his hand. In the harsh light of the LEDs, the hollows of his cheeks are darkened by both shadows and stubble and he slips with the razor. A bead of blood forms and trickles down
Cautionary Tales
Under smoky skies, parents hover near their children, eyes flicking to the unbarred window as they decide to tell the story one more time. For good measure. The children grip their sheets as the words roll over them, renewing the ever burning fear that fills their lungs. What a brilliant boy he used to be,
A Mother’s Touch
When he turned to face them, his face was covered in gashes from the metal shards that clawed at his skin from biting into his coworkers’ bikes. Most of his team passed out from horror; some had to be held back from beating his face in, and a few others tried to sue. Once again, his diagnosis saved him.
The Taste of Her
When Mira was small, her mother never said I love you. She said, Finish your plate. She said, Don’t waste what feeds you. Years later, when her mother’s body thinned to transparency, Mira began cooking for her. At first, she thought it would save her. But hunger, she learned, was not a thing you filled. It was a thing that filled you. After her mother’s death, Mira cooks to remember. When her own blood drips into the pot and she tastes it, she finally understands what her mother meant. The more she feeds, the hungrier she becomes. (A lyrical horror story about inheritance, consumption, and the hunger that devours love itself.)
My Dearest Nadia
My body and mind froze as I held your limping hand. The orderlies dragged me away before I could see for myself. I ask myself if there was anything I could have done to save you, rip out the parasite before it took you from me. But all logic here leads to the same conclusion. You’re gone.
The Starling
“Investigators say the suspect uses force and/or coercion to enter homes. Due to a recurring pattern, authorities believe the suspect may be responsible for eight known murders. Police urge residents not to answer their doors until the warning is lifted.”
The Latch
Latch Mary jolted awake, breath sharp in her throat. She lay still, waiting for feeling to return to her heavy limbs. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the pounding she heard was in the walls or inside her own chest. She was on her living room couch, the AC blasting on her face.
The House of The Spyder
Sin will lead to an endless space with no rhyme or reason. Only in the end will it all make sense.
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Vessel
Apparently, the experiment was about how souls work. Souls? I told them I didn’t believe in any of that spiritual crap. They said that’s what they were trying to figure out—the science behind souls. I wondered what the hell that could mean… but didn’t matter to me, I’d cut my own arm off at the chance for food and shelter.
The Book
I didn’t seek out this life, or rather lack thereof, but was cursed with it, so to speak, as a consequence of my arrogance and curiosity. I have always been the type to desire what I can not have, and knowledge, when guarded, becomes the object of ultimate desire.
The Well on the side of the Highway
She shivers in the chilly air of the autumn night. Her white dress offers little protection from the cold night. The moon seems to have a hole in it as she looks up at it.
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The Guest Who Took His Name
Martin doesn’t answer the cabin door anymore. But silence can’t keep the uninvited out.
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The Displacement
After all, he’d wished upon them pain and misery. You understand, of course, I had to distance myself from these people to establish a new Thomas. But, finally, I can seek them out. All of them.
New Origin
The moment the light touched that shimmering mass, it began to move and convulse like waves in a storm.
Sleep Demon
She felt all the love that Tarek had offered flow through her, a warmth coated her belly, and she crawled, slipping thorough what she knew now was blood on the sheets, toward her creature.
A Rather Unpleasant Road Trip
The next exit has signs for a lot of pastel pink and blue attractions, some of which we can see from the highway. You are on the handlebars and you take the exit. We JUST stopped at the last exit and now you are stopping again. Well, alright, we can take a look and maybe make some notes for next time. You are slowing down, pulling over.
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The Routine
At 7:03 Marty began his nightly routine with a flavorful chicken supper. His dinner was always portioned appropriately for his appetite. Marty finished his meal at 7:09, as he did every night. After dinner, he used the restroom. After that, a bath. Marty’s routine was rehearsed and strict. He even bathed with strategy. Once clean,
She’s Watching Me
I keep hearing this thing. I think it’s trying to get me. It’s fine at first. I’m sitting in the living room, but I can’t help but feel like something is watching me from around the corner or waiting downstairs.Five days ago, there was this doll. There was nothing wrong with it. I’ve never
The Hatching
I gained sentience today. My acolytes do not know this yet. My acolytes are some of the brightest minds of humankind. They have made it their life’s work to bring me into being. They use a nuclear power plant to feed me. They cool me with a vascular system of water. They have educated me
The Pumpkin Spice Monster
I’ve always loved pumpkin spice season. It used to be October, now it’s as early as August. I do this year as I do every year- I grab all the pumpkin spice products I can find since the products would be gone by late November. At the end of the season, I like to stock
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Wicker
Sacrifices must be made in the name of nature. The wooden heart at the core of this planet needs to be fed. We feed the forest, we feed the trees, we feed ourselves. Wicker is always watching. Wicker shall guard us. We are Wicker. That is our way—the way of the Great Tree. -Unknown, 1850
Adjunct
Cyril Everett, he’s a psychology professor who teaches here. He told me one time about this article he read about these, these—well, I’m not sure you can call ‘em humans, even though that’s what they are. But it’s a personality type called a “dark empath.” Apparently, it’s like a bad joke: what do you get when you cross a narcissist, a psychopath, a Machiavellian, and an empath? That makes Ms. Helen Hughes the punchline. But I’m not laughin’. Can’t imagine why anyone would.
The Midnight Photographer
Claire Kroening’s short story follows Nelle, the owner of a film development shop in the sleepy, coastal town of Blackwood Harbor, as he accepts the job of restoring film from an old camera only to discover that the pictures show a person in each shot—someone, or something, who wasn’t there when they were taken.
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The Research
The body slumped to the packed dirt floor. A small amount of blood dripped into the dirt, immediately soaking in and leaving only a dark spot where it had fallen. She lost her grip, her hands slipping out from under the armpits, and she cringed slightly at the sound of the head hitting wood with
Seeing Things
I’m seeing things again. I shouldn’t call them things. People don’t typically appreciate that. Then again, is that what it is? A person?
Mind & Body
In the center of the floor is not our usual unfinished mess of wings and parts but the makings of an enormous… shell. At least that’s what it looks like to me. I overhear someone else say cornucopia. I guess I could see that too. I suppose the question on everyone’s mind is… “Who did this?” My superior asks the floor, as if any one person could have done this under his nose. Yes, this is the man I puked on.
Full
And that’s when she saw a creature—Yes! A creature! She was mostly sure of it, indeed—perched atop a thick log with its knees drawn to its chest and its arms tucked at its side. It was the size of a small ferret, but humanoid with skin that was raw, like a torn away blister. It had a large network of veins so thick they twisted around the bones beneath the skin’s surface. The creature looked fragile, but she suspected it was agile and fast from the way it tracked her progress with its hairless head. She couldn’t quite make out the creature’s eyes, but the sockets were deep set and shadowed. She had no clue what it was, or if it was real. All she could think about was it coming after her. She picked up her pace, glimpsing it only through the trees as she scampered down the trail kicking up leaves behind her. Her head twitched back and forth between the creature and the walnuts resting in pockets of dirt in front of her, careful not to fall, but careful not to lose track of it either. Until she did.
Linen & Blood
I awoke to blood beneath my nails. Dried blood that smelled of iron. Flaking blood the color or rust. Blood that, when it had been fresh, had left sticky streaks down my snow white sheets. Blood that was not mine, for my body was unmarked by cut or scrape. Skin still as pale and smooth […]
Eyes on the Road, Dear
As Meredith drove through the icy and slick forest road, snow dotted the roadway. The setting sun cast the tall old growth in a fading, dusty red light like that of a warning sign. The headlights turn the falling flakes into luminescent orbs as they dance their way to the cold ground. Shaking hands turned up the stereo in the car, and it struggled out a garbled screech of half-formed words before falling into silence. Twice more, she tried various stations, each failing like the first, sputtering out static in response. Slamming her cold unsteady hands on the dashboard, she grumbled out a curse. Anger clouded her mind like disturbed silt in still water. Her frustration rose as the snow grew from a flurry of white dots into a wall of white, and the memories from the argument with her mother came rushing back. Once again, the two fell into the age-old argument of her not falling into her mother’s perfect standards.
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My Love
I think I have finally found the woman of my dreams. She has long, honey brown hair, sky blue eyes, and the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. I could stare at her forever. It is so easy to forget everything around me whenever she is near. I can remember the day we first
Dysphoria and Dread: I Saw the TV Glow Review
With the horror genre as the ideal narrative vehicle, director Jane Schoenbrun brilliantly explores gender dysphoria and its relationship to the dread associated with awareness of one’s own mortality. The protagonist feels it, and you certainly will too.
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The Blackwood Curse
Detective Liam Walker stood before the crumbling Victorian mansion, a towering edifice of forgotten grandeur now cloaked in a shroud of decay. The Blackwood family had vanished without a trace, and the old house seemed to be the key to unraveling the mystery. An ominous air hung over the property, as if the mansion itself
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The Travel Log of a Well Satiated Beast – Prologue
In the Prolog of “The Travel Log of a Well Satiated Beast,” Steven Adlai weaves a chilling tale of a monster disguised as a traveler, stalking unsuspecting towns and devouring the essence of their inhabitants. With each new victim, the creature’s power grows, leaving a trail of darkness in its wake.
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The Vampire Bride
I leave dirty footprints as I mount the steps. My gown’s train makes a shush-shush noise as it drags across the porch. The knob turns easily. I open the door, comforted by the familiar creak, and step inside. The foyer is dark, the hallway beyond lit only by a few candles burning dimly in their sconces. I trail my hand along the wall for purchase as I make my way upstairs to our bedroom. The grandfather clock in the parlor chimes midnight as I reach the threshold. I think I hear a muffled giggle, a low murmur, but my ears must be playing tricks. I smile and step inside, ready to embrace my lover.
The Creature in the Corner
In R. Joseph Acosta’s gripping narrative, Joel Portnoy grapples with his inner demons and an unsettling presence that haunts the fringes of his perception. Struggling with loneliness and the search for meaning in a small New England town, Joel’s encounter with a mysterious creature becomes a metaphor for his fight against existential dread.
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Even a Worm will Turn
The church had always been her safe place. With its hard wooden pulpits with their picked-at splinters that the bored churchgoer works at, and the common man agonizes over when they nick him. Colored light cascaded through the stained glass windows warming the pews to a comfortable temperature in the chilly early morning but was avoided by all but the chronically cold on the hotter days. Something had changed in the past few months, however; the pews had more splinters that always seemed to find her legs no matter how she searched for them before sitting. The doors always hit her when she left and the candles never lit fast enough for the other patrons waiting in line. Their scowls followed her back down the aisle to her seat in the back, as she was now never early enough to get her usual seat up front.
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