Omolayomi Jacobs:

The lake remembers. But more than that we remember.

We, the silver darts that weave through the dark. We, the silent watchers beneath the surface. Our world is one of shifting shadows, of whispers in the current, of the slow decay of things that do not belong here.

And tonight, the water is disturbed.

I taste it before I see it—the sharp tang of iron, rich and warm, curling through the reeds. It spreads like ink, thick and full of life, intoxicating. The others taste it, too. They come from the depths, drawn by the promise of flesh, of something new, something soft.

She came stumbling to the shore hours ago, her breath ragged, her hands slick with something dark. The reeds whispered as she passed, bending beneath her weight. She kept glancing over her shoulder, eyes wide, hollow. A rabbit knowing the wolf is close. 

The man followed—not far behind. A predator, his steps measured, patient. I watched from below as he stalked closer, his shadow stretching long under the hungry moon.

She ran. Not far. Not fast enough.

I saw the flash of the knife, the arc of her blood as it painted the stones. It pulsed from her throat in thick ribbons, warm and rich, a feast for the water. Her body twisted, fingers clawing at the dirt as if the earth itself could save her. The sound she made—half gasp, half gurgle—rippled through the night like a dying heartbeat. Then, silence.

He thought the lake would keep his secret. They always do.

But the dead do not rest here.

Her body slips beneath the surface, her  limbs splayed, hair billowing like dark river grass. Her eyes are open, glassy, searching. Her blood blooms in clouds around her, and we—small, sharp-toothed, patient—drift closer.

The others hesitate. I do not.

I glide toward her, nosing the torn place where her life spilled out. Warm. Fresh. The first bite is tentative, a taste, a question. The others answer.

A frenzy begins.

Small mouths testing, tearing. Fingers nibbled down to bone. Lips peeled back, teeth exposed in a grin she did not wear in life. The water does what it always does—it takes, it consumes. The flesh loosens, the body becomes a thing of the lake, less of her, more of us.

But there is another. The one who put her here.

He crouches on the shore, washing the knife, watching the ripples settle. He does not see what we see. He does not understand that the lake is not his accomplice. It is not a grave. It is alive. And we are watching.

I break the surface for a moment, my eye catching the moonlight, unblinking. He does not notice. They never do.

But we remember.

His scent is in the water now, his skin cells dissolving into the currents. He is marked. He does not belong here, but soon, he will.

Because the lake does not just take.

It pulls.

It calls.

It waits.

And when the time comes, when he returns—as they always do—we will be here, circling, hungry. The water will rise to meet him, the reeds will tighten around his legs, and he will fall forward, arms flailing, lungs burning. His hands will reach for the surface, but there will be nothing—only the weight of the water, the press of the dark, the bite of a thousand tiny teeth.

And the last thing he will see before the blackness takes him is us

Watching.

Waiting.

Arthur Khan:

The Scarlet Alibi

The rain hammered against the dilapidated iron roof of the abandoned complex, a relentless rhythm matching the frantic beat of Dwight’s heart. Dwight, spiraling in a thorny maze of thoughts, stared at the body. It was a young woman, classy even in death, lying sprawled amidst a scattering of discarded blueprints and half-empty paint cans. Drops of dried-out blood lay still across her temple, a rather vibrant splash of colour against the grey grime of the floor. His gut churned; this wasn’t just another case, it felt… personal. The familiar metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, a scent that always seemed to bring his own senses into sharper focus.

Sergeant Singh arrived, her crisp uniform a stark contrast to his disheveled appearance. "Inspector Dwight," she said, her tone professional but twined with a hint of weary tolerance. "Forensics are on their way. Initial assessment suggests blunt force trauma to the head. No obvious signs of forced entry, but the place is a mess." Singh, ever practical, began meticulously photographing the scene, her movements precise and efficient, collecting any evidence she could. He watched her, still trying to process the dilemma he was facing.

Just then, he caught a fleeting glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A rose...

It felt deliberately placed, tucked inside the sleeve of her dress: a morbid calling card. But why here, in this forgotten grave of steel and dust? The wind howled through shattered windows, carrying with it the scent of rust and decay.

Dwight knelt beside the body, his gaze lingering on the rose. He carefully lifted it, his fingers brushing against the scarlet petals, their softness almost mocking the brutality of the scene. A tiny, almost invisible inscription was etched onto the stem – a single, nearly illegible letter: 'X'. The rain continued its relentless assault, but now a different sensation pulsed through Dwight's chest.

A name formed on his tongue, unbidden. Erika. He hadn’t uttered it in years. The memory of her pale, trembling face, streaked with blood, surfaced in his mind. The only survivor from a case long thought buried—one that bore the same eerie signature. Had she known this woman? Or worse… had she tried to warn her? He stood, rubbing his temples as pieces of an unfinished puzzle pressed against the edges of his mind. His gaze flickered to the shadows pooling in the corners of the room, the creaking echoes of the past threatening to drown him. This wasn’t just a crime scene—it was a message.

Then, something else caught his attention. Scrawled in smudged charcoal across the wall, partially hidden behind rusting scaffolding, were five words: "The blood will never wash away."

A chill slithered down Dwight’s spine. He took an unconscious step backward, his breath shallow. Someone wanted him to see this. Someone wanted him to remember. Sergeant Singh noticed his change in posture. "Dwight? What is it?”. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening into fists. "It's not just a murder," he murmured. "It's a warning."

And for the first time in years, Dwight wasn’t sure if he was the hunter or the prey.

Abdus-Samad Ally:

Till DEATH do US part 

04/09/24 – Sixth Form Induction Day

7:30 a.m. 

I starved for this day. My hands twitched with hunger. My body was buzzing with noradrenaline.

I have waited long enough. Too long 

New flesh. Soft. Warm. Pulsating with life. And I am going to take it all away.

The first time I killed it was messy. Rushed. An error. The bird flapped too hard, screamed too loud. I snapped its neck too soon. It didn't last long enough.

I was a rookie then, I have learned. Oh, I have learned.

The next one, I took my time. Peeled its feathers away, one by one. Let the pain settle in. Before the silence.

Birds are nothing. Their reflexive eyes don't beg. Their bodies don’t shiver and quiver when it is over. Humans do. 

Today. I could finally feel it for myself.

8 a.m. 

Bag? Useless.

School shoes? Meh.
Toolkit? My baby.

What should I use? What will make it last.

Swiss army knife? Pathetic. I want more.
Mace? Coward’s weapon. I want to feel them struggle.
Dagger? Oh, yes. Yes, yes. Perfect.

I ran my fingers over the blade, and imagined using it. A gasp. A twitch. A cold red mess all over my hands 

Would they cry? Would they whimper, choking on their blood 

I needed to know.

The school gates opened.

And then I saw her.

8:22 a.m. 

My mouth went dry.

She was art.

Goldilocks curls-stunning. I want to grip them with all my might and drag her to the ground and watch her break.

Blue eyes - too innocent. I want to see them flood with terror, until she understands.

Soft, pink, small lips. Would she scream? Would she sob? Would she fight?

She doesn’t know. She belongs to me now.

I could slice her open here. Watch her clutch her throat, watch the blood pour through her fingers. No, that’s too fast.

I want to drag her into the dark. Feel her stutter under my hands. Listen to her pathetic little gasps as my fingers press tighter, tighter—until her pulse slows. Until her vision blurs. Until she stops.

Would she scratch, bite, beg? Or would she just stare at me, shocked, betrayed, broken?

The thought made me tremble in anticipation.

So many ways to ruin her. To carve her open. To tear her apart.

And today, I would choose one.

8:25 a.m.

But as I took a step towards her, something shifted. She turned.

For a moment, our eyes locked.

My heart raced. Her eyes—not fear, not terror, just curiosity.

She tilted her head slightly, a soft smile appeared. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said,

“I know your secret.”

For a second, I thought she meant something else. Something I hadn’t expected.

I froze. How could she know?

But there was no fear in her gaze.  Only that maddening, calm certainty that made my skin prickle.

She stepped closer, and I felt a lump in my throat. “I know what you’ve done,” she added, almost as if it were a confession, not an accusation.

I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to.

She was perfect.

I smiled back. The passionate fire in my chest burned brighter.

She belongs to me now.

Ying Bo Zeng:



The first thing Detective Wang noticed when he stepped into the abandoned farmhouse was the smell. It clung to the air, thick and rotten, a combination of damp earth and something far worse. He’d been to crime scenes before, scenes that would turn the stomachs of lesser men, but there was something about this one that unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His flashlight beam exposed a living room unperturbed by time—dust-covered furniture, peeling floral wallpaper, a rocking chair swaying gently in a breeze that didn’t exist. He forced himself forward, the wooden floor groaning beneath his weight. The call had come in less than an hour ago—a local teen had been dared by his friends to spend the night inside, and hours had passed without a trace of him.

Something moved in the corner of his vision.     

Wang spun, gun drawn. 

Nothing. 

Just shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. He exhaled sharply. Get a grip, he told himself. But that feeling—that creeping, skittering sensation under his skin—only grew stronger.

At the far end of the room, where the dim light barely reached, stood a doorway leading to the basement. The door was open, a dark void yawning at him. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. A single fly buzzed past his ear, and then another. He swallowed hard and stepped closer. The smell intensified.

Blood. Old, pungent. And something else. He reached for the light switch, but the bulb overhead only lasted seconds before flickering, and died. A trembled sigh left his lips. Of all the places, of course his luck would run out here. Wang pointed his flashlight downwards revealing a staircase, wooden and splintering, descending into the abyss. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to call for backup. But Wang had seen enough bodies left waiting in the dark. If someone was down there, he had to know. Before it was too late.

He took the first step.

Then another.

The silence in the house was deafening, pressing in around him. His breath came shallow, his pulse hammering in his ears. Halfway down, the smell became overwhelming—sweet rot, the unmistakable perfume of death.

A shape loomed in the darkness below.

Wang halted, flashlight quivering in his grip. The beam revealed what had once been a person, now a grotesque parody of one. His skin was blue, pulled tight over bone. His mouth hung open in a silent scream, lips cracked and dry. His hair stood upright, jagged like static. And his eyes—

No.

His eyes were missing.

Two cavernous holes gaped where they should have been, the surrounding flesh torn and jagged, as if something had taken them. Wang instinctively took an involuntary step back, but the moment his foot landed, the thing in the chair moved.

A sharp, wet breath rattled through its throat. Its head twitched upward. And in the darkness beyond, something else stirred.

Something that had been waiting.

And it was still hungry.