DECEMBER

 

Photo by Kirill Pershin on Unsplash

‘Lord, grant that I may always desire more than I can accomplish.’

Michelangelo

NOVEMBER 2025

 

Photo by Niki Clark on Unsplash

“We mourn the blossoms of May because they are to whither; but we know that May is one day to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circle which never stops — which teaches us in our height of hope, ever to be sober, and in our depth of desolation, never to despair.”

— William Peter Blatty

In honor of a dear friend, Sue Anne Goldberg (Elephant's Child)

January 18, 1958 - September 28, 2025

AN ANGEL

I know an angel

of earthly fame

Many would seek her confidence

 Life is tough

living can become rough

This angel understood

Many lost hope

But her light was bright

her words pure

 This angel

with a heart so true

offered love and advice

Sue knew that 

recognized truth

meant sorrow disappeared

 Promise would return

Because her magic worked

She left many a happy folk

Thankful for

the blessing of knowing

God's messenger of love

  She was the restorer

of damaged souls

this holy vessel of truth

But Sue knew sorrow

and immense pain

more profound than most

 She suffered despite

her heavenly calling

Still, her beauty shone from within

Because

Sue gave all

despite her grief

 This spiritual being

is now an angel

of hope and love

Still giving from above.

***

Yolanda Renée Stout © 2025

RITUAL - A Halloween Treat

Photo by Ján Jakub Naništa on Unsplash

RITUAL

In November 2023, I found my dream home. It was built in the 1700s and had good bones and the historic charm I craved. Though the interior needed work, I poured myself into the renovations, balancing modern comforts with its original character. By the time I finished, the manor gleamed. I was proud.

February 7th, 2025, was my first night in my newly remodeled home. At the stroke of midnight that night, I woke into a nightmare.

The house I had shaped was gone. In its place stood the home as it must have been in 1789. An intricately carved wooden frame replaced my simple modern bed—the warm glow of candles instead of electric light. The air was so cold I could see my breath.

I wandered through the house, trying to prove it was a dream. Behind one door, I found two strangers asleep, their faces ghostly under the moonlight. Heart pounding, I shut the door and crept to the stairs. The house had rebuilt itself — the walls I’d torn down returned, the colors dark and heavy. Everything smelled of wood smoke and wax.

I stepped outside. The landscape had shifted, too: dirt roads, towering trees, an endless forest. Through the trunks, a fire flickered, shadows circling it. A cloak hung by the door. I put it on and walked toward the fire.

Black-robed figures moved around the flames, chanting. Masks hid their faces; their voices blurred male from female. I tried to listen closer — but hands seized me, lifting me off the ground. They carried me into the clearing and bound me to a flat stone.

The strangest thing? I didn’t resist. Some part of me knew this was meant to happen.

I won’t tell you what came next. Does it matter? Perhaps.

Because when I woke, I was back in my own house. My own time. And it never happened again.

Until tonight.

Halloween — my favorite holiday. I decorated lavishly, even hosted a masquerade for the neighborhood children. The evening ended with laughter and warmth. I fell asleep easily.

But at midnight, I woke again to the same nightmare. The same house, but when I opened the front door, my front garden had come alive, with horrifically carved pumpkins, their twisted faces leering, though I never planted a single seed. The rhythmic sound of drums drew my attention to a bonfire burning in the forest, and I walked to the clearing again as if drawn by a magical force I couldn’t resist.

Surrounded by chanting masked figures, I was lifted to the table. It was only then that I realized I was pregnant. This time, I wasn’t bound, but I was naked. As their chants grew louder and faster, the world began spinning faster and faster. Labor pains tore through me. Then release. And in my arms, a son.

~~*~~*

Detective Cypress made his way through the heavy brush to a clearing that had been taped off. “Who found her?” he asked the officer in charge.

“The gardener. Well, his dog, really. Wouldn’t stop barking. He followed it and found her.”

“What is she lying on?”

“A stone or cement slab. Might have been a table of some kind.”

“Time of death?”

“Doc says around midnight. Same night as her party.”

“What kind of party?”

“Masquerade ball for the kids. Everyone says it was wonderful. She was generous. It ended before ten.”

The detective frowned. “And she was found naked. Heart missing. Like a sacrifice. But why? What kind of killer does this?”

 

© Yolanda Renée 2025

587 Words

This story isn't a rewrite; it's new and just for Halloween!

Although I can't claim originality for any of my Halloween tomes, because everything's been done over and over again, not only by me, but by many authors. They're told with different characters and settings, because the originators of all these monsters came to fruition long before I was born.  Plus, the Twilight Zone, Stephen King, and many more horror writers have influenced my writing. I always add a different slant, a humorous or interesting take on the usual. But I know for a fact that the scariest monsters are human!

Thank you for reading. I hope you have a lovely Halloween!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jessie Nelson on Unsplash

 

JACK - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by OSPAN ALI on Unsplash

  

JACK

Detective Cypress watched his prey with interest. The man sat quietly, staring straight through him. “Creepy,” he muttered to Sergeant Jones. “Why hasn’t he been stripped?”

“Forensics will be here soon,” Jones said. “They have his overcoat—plenty of blood. Claims his name is J. T. Ripper. One hundred forty years old.”

Cypress frowned at the absurdity. “Fits the age of the original, I suppose.”

“Happy Halloween, Cy,” Jones smirked, handing over a file and a blood-stained phone in an evidence bag. “The guy denies everything, but we caught him red-handed—literally. He was holding his last victim’s heart when we arrived.”

Cypress shook his head. “Unbelievable. And Halloween is weeks away.”

“Don’t matter, most folks celebrate the holiday all month. It is a full moon and they don’t come any crazier.”

“True. I need to break the code on this phone, then I’ll get his story.”

An hour later, Detective Cypress made the sign of the cross and entered the interrogation room.

The man’s eyes were black voids, unblinking until he smiled. Cypress laid out photos of the victims.

“The Master Interrogator,” the man said. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s. So, Mr. T. J. Ripper, what’s your story?”

“Jack,” the man corrected, extending his left hand. “How should I address you?”

Cypress was struck by its iron grip. I kind of like Master Interrogator, but Detective Cypress will work.”

"A detective with a sense of humor. Don't find that very often."

So, Jack, what’s your motivation?”

“Fog,” Jack said. “Inspiration since youth. The mist hides, cloaks, energizes. Movies, slasher tales—all inspired by me. Love it, but it’s the victims I savor. They step into the fog, unaware. They chose me.”

“You admit they were your victims?”

“Why deny it? Modern science will prove it anyway.”

Cypress’s eyes narrowed. “And why these women?”

“They walked into the fog. They’ve chosen me. The rest is art.”

“Or did you lure them after they rejected you?” Cypress asked, sliding the blood-stained phone across the table.

Jack froze. “How did you…?”

“Tinder,” Cypress said. “Encrypted, yes—but the Ripper’s last kill date revealed everything. Your masquerade ends here, Mr. Terry O’Reilly.”

Jones entered, carrying a yellow-lined tablet. Cypress nodded. “Walk Mr. Terry O’Reilly, aka J. T. Ripper, through the process. Explicit details. Make it stick.”

“Sure, Cy. But another body’s been found,” Jones warned. “Torn apart, witnesses claim a wolf…a werewolf.” He handed the note.

Cypress read it. Beneath the address, a mocking line: “Just kidding about the werewolf. Couldn’t resist in front of this piker.”

He glanced at Jack. The man’s smirk was unnerving, his calm unsettling. But Cypress felt no fear—only the satisfaction of containment. The fog, the moon, the killer’s theatrics—all neutralized.

Cypress exhaled, straightened his jacket, and saluted Jones: Halloween, full moon, and madness—all in a night’s work.

Yet the fog waited outside, whispering. And in it, Jack’s dark gaze promised: the story was far from over.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

500 Words

Formerly published as Moonlight Confession's a Kindle Vella Story, rewritten this year for Halloween, a 500-word short. 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Carol Lee on Unsplash

 

HUNTERS - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

 

 

HUNTERS

 

Hurry! We’ll get caught!” Stacie hissed.

“How do you know they’re behind us?” Gideon whined.

“I can sense them,” she snapped.

He slumped onto a boulder. “Is this a Halloween joke? Beautiful aliens that eat brains like candy? No way.”

Stacie’s body tingled. Danger was close. “Fine. Sit there if you want. I’m outta here!”

Gideon struggled to keep up. “Okay, I’m coming—but if you’re lying—”

“You’ll what? Bitch!” she snapped. Handsome, muscular, soft as cotton, and narcissistic—he was no partner in peril.

“Witch,” he muttered.

“Run!” Stacie bolted.

Her lungs burned; he lagged behind. Smoking and out of shape, he waved her on. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Stacie ducked behind a bush, watching. Two women, impossibly gorgeous, glided toward Gideon.

“Are you all right?” they echoed in perfect unison.

He slumped against a fallen tree. “Winded,” he muttered.

The blond stroked his hair. “Sit. Water?”

“Yes, thanks,” he said, gulping.

“Out here alone?” the redhead asked, voice soft, but there was menace underneath.

“Came on a dare. Haunted woods, Halloween,” he replied. “My partner got scared.”

“Perfume?” They sniffed the air.

“Yeah, too flowery. Yours…different,” he said, flirting.

Stacie’s stomach churned. Should she intervene? Wait? Sneak away?

Then Gideon’s body went slack. Those beautiful model's had poisoned him. They held his head between them, guiding it forward.

Their mouths opened impossibly wide. Thin, long tongues slithered into his ears. Wet, slurping noises filled the clearing. Stacie gagged.

Horrified, she watched as they drew his brains out, consuming him with unnatural grace. His confusion, terror, and faint pleasure vanished with the final pull.

Stacie’s heart pounded. Beauty was the lure. Perfection was a weapon. Out here, in the haunted woods, it didn’t matter that they were gorgeous. They were monsters, and the cost of curiosity—or of weakness—was death.

The redhead’s eyes flicked toward the shadows where Stacie hid. Her mouth curled in a knowing smile. Stacie’s breath caught. Escape was not guaranteed. Not tonight. Not ever.

The forest was alive with predators who didn’t need to hide. Only someone fast, clever, and cold-hearted could survive. And Stacie knew she’d need every ounce of her strength to make it through this night.

Gideon was gone. Beauty had sucked him dry, body and mind. And now, the hunt had truly begun.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

383 Words

 Formerly published on January 28, 2015, as Beautiful Suck’s, rewritten this year for Halloween.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jon Butterworth on Unsplash

THE BEASTS BENEATH - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Jonas Jaeken on Unsplash

 

THE BEASTS BENEATH

Lavender and bubbles lapped at her skin as Allison sank deeper into the tub. For the first time in weeks, she felt almost safe. Then—

“Allison.”

Her mother’s lilting voice slipped into her thoughts like a ghost, dragging her seventeen years into the past.

~~*~~

“Allison.”

The sound floated through her room, soft as an angel’s caress.
“Allie, I need you.”

She hurried to the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetie pie, I’d love your help with dinner.” Her mother’s smile was warm.
“Sure, Mom. What can I do?”
“Go downstairs for a jar of green beans and pickled beets. We’re celebrating Halloween with your dad’s favorites. Hurry, he’ll be home soon. Then we’ll all go trick-or-treating.”

Allison froze. The basement. That swamp of shadows and ghouls. Not tonight. But her mother’s knife kept chopping potatoes, steady, expectant.

Hand trembling, she twisted the knob. The door creaked. A breath of rot curled into her nose.

Eyes glowed in the dark—red, unblinking. For an instant, she thought she saw more than one pair, shifting, watching, before they sank back into the shadows.

Something waited at the bottom of the steps. Horns. Teeth. Sores that oozed poison.

“Allison…” it rasped.

Her scream split the house. She slammed the door and fled, cowering behind the recliner until her mother’s arms found her.

“Honey, there’s no such thing as monsters. Daddy fixed the light. No more shadows.” Her mother kissed her hair. “We’ll go together. I’ll prove it.”

Allie shook her head, sobbing. “I saw his eyes. He called my name.”

“It’s your imagination. I’ll prove it.”

She planted her feet, but her mother marched to the basement door. “This is the last time, Allie.” The light clicked on. “Wait till your father gets home. I wanted to tell him how you helped with dinner, how grown-up you are. Now what will I say?”

Her voice was strong, reassuring, even while scolding. Step by step, she disappeared down the stairs. Jars clinked.

Allison wiped her tears—Mom’s right. I’m eight—time to grow up.

Footsteps returned. Relief bloomed—until her mother’s face froze.

Terror. A silent scream in her eyes.

Claws burst from the shadows, locking around her ankles—then another set raked up her legs. She shrieked as jars shattered, crimson brine splattering across the floor. Her body slammed into the concrete below.

But it was the beasts’ howl—that carved itself forever into Allison’s nightmares.

~~*~~

“Allison!”

Her husband’s voice dragged her back to the present.

They’d moved into her childhood home two months ago—an inheritance she’d begged to sell. Tom had insisted they stay.

“Where are my tools?” The back door slammed. Muddy boots stomped. “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff?”

He stormed into the bathroom, where the broken lock dangled uselessly.

She pulled her knees tighter. “I moved them to the basement, like we agreed.”

He yanked the plug from the drain. “Where’s dinner?” His eyes swept the room. “Beauty queen, huh? You’re just an old hag now.” He swept her toiletries from the counter; glass shattered against tile.

Her voice cracked. “I—I had the workshop built for your birthday. The contractor finished today. All your tools are organized.” She wrapped herself in a towel. “Happy early birthday.”

Tom paused, suspicion narrowing his eyes. Then he laughed. “I’ll be damned.”

His greasy hand twisted in her hair. She winced as his kiss broke skin, drawing blood. His voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t bother getting dressed. I’ll be right back.”

She waited until he left, footsteps fading, before rinsing the filth of his touch from her skin.

But screams tore through the floorboards.

Allison froze, heart hammering. For a moment, she was eight years old again, staring into glowing eyes. Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face. She rinsed the last of his touch from her skin, wrapped herself in her robe, and reached for the phone. “Call the police, then the real estate agent,” she whispered, dialing 9-1-1 as she walked downstairs.

The creak of footsteps stopped her cold.

Tom staggered into the kitchen, drenched in blood. His grin was wide, feral. In one hand, he clutched the severed head of a horned beast, its eyes still glowing faintly as if death hadn’t claimed them.

“That new hatchet sure came in handy.” He laughed, breath ragged.

Then the laugh curdled into a snarl. He raised the ax again, stepping closer. “Your turn, bitch!”

From the open basement door behind him, red eyes blinked in the dark.

Allison’s lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. “Behind you.”

The floor trembled. Clawed hands shot out, wrapping around Tom’s ankles. His scream ripped through the house as he was yanked backward, the severed head and ax still in his hands. The basement door slammed shut, his cries muffled by the beast's roar rising from below.

Allison stood in silence, the receiver still in her hand, and whispered to the empty kitchen:

“Told you there were monsters.”

©  Yolanda Renée  2025

833 Words

Published initially as The Workshop for the WEP on October 20, 2015, and rewritten for this Halloween celebration.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

 

Photo by Kenny Eliason on Unsplash 

OBSESSION - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Cam Stockdale on Unsplash

 

OBSESSION

Hagn leaned back in her chair, weak but alive. Flames licked the hearth, yet their warmth only made her skin prickle with icy dread. Pneumonia had nearly claimed her life, but the Ice Compound still held her hostage, its nightmare far from over. She shivered—not from illness, but from the nagging fear she would never escape.

A faint sound made her pause. Not the crackle of the fire. Not the wind outside. She didn’t need to look. Yadon was in the room. She could feel his eyes—cold, merciless, absolute. Her pulse surged. She prayed for deliverance.

“Feeling better?” His voice was casual, bored, but it cut deeper than any knife.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared into the fire, pretending calm, though every muscle screamed at her to run. Waves of ice radiated from the flames, brittle and sharp, freezing her insides.

“You’ll never convince him I was behind this,” Yadon said softly, as if lecturing a child. “Keep trying, and he dies.”

“I’ve done nothing but tell him the truth,” she said, trembling. “I’m not marrying him and certainly not marrying you. Touch him, and I’ll kill myself. You won’t have me. No one wins.”

“You’re wrong,” he replied, smiling. “I always win. I will have you—even dead. Dr. Jhengi has ways to make even the dead walk. Would you like proof?”

Hagn’s stomach churned. She refused to look. But fear—pure, naked fear—raced through her veins, freezing her blood.

“Don’t test me.” Yadon advanced, each step deliberate, each shadow stretching toward her. “You’ll be mine. Look at me.”

Her knees shook. She clutched the chair, desperate to keep it between them. She obeyed. And what she saw stole her breath.

The man she had known as Goren—the one she’d watched fed to wild dogs—stood before her. His body was barely recognizable as human. Skin blackened, blue, and green, hanging in shreds. Bones protruded at grotesque angles. His flesh was torn and jagged, muscle dangling in tatters. Death clung to him like a fog, yet his bright blue eyes, rimmed in red, held hers.

He swayed unnaturally, suspended by chains held by two hulking men. His mouth missing, throat mangled, his gaze pleaded with her, alive and aware despite the carnage his body had endured.

Yadon’s words stabbed her: “I will have you—even dead.”

Hagn’s stomach lurched. Horror, revulsion, despair collided in her chest. Did he feel pain? Did his soul remain intact in that monstrous shell? The room reeked of rot and decay, and the fire’s warmth mocked her helplessness.

Dr. Jhengi’s a genius, Yadon’s laugh echoed through the chamber.

Hagn screamed, a sound that clawed at her throat, a scream that promised she would never stop. She cried until the firelight blurred with tears and terror.

In that moment, she understood the truth: there was no escape from this frozen castle of horror.

 Photo of zombie by Gerardo Martin Fernandez Vallejo on Unsplash

© Yolanda Renée 2025

485 Words

 Initially published on January 28, 2015, as Frozen Heart, rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

Photo by Łukasz Nieścioruk on Unsplash

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

REVISITED - A Halloween Treat

 

Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash

 

REVISITED

The fog is rising again, thick and alive. Its tendrils coil around the world like a living thing. And I know—I am its prey.

Last Halloween, my car stalled a mile from home. Gas full, battery new—nothing should have stopped it. But no matter what I did, it refused to start. The fog rolled in fast, thicker than smoke, waves moving as though pushed by unseen hands. No wind, no explanation, just malevolence.

I grabbed my bag and ran. My heel snapped on the cracked pavement, but I didn’t stop. Barefoot, I sprinted, superstition and terror driving me forward. Then—fingers like iron wrapped around me from behind. A blade slashed my cheek. I kicked backward, stumbling free, my key trembling in my hand.

I reached the door, slammed it shut, heart hammering, and locked it thrice. The clock struck midnight. Bloodied, shaking, I survived. The fog had vanished, retreating as if sated for the moment.

Now, a year later, Halloween returns. I’ve seen the movies, I know the stories, but this is no story. It’s real, but no one will believe me.

The air chills. Fog creeps across the lawn, curling under my windows and clinging to the eaves. Every shadow seems alive. I check the locks, close the curtains, and move the dining room chairs against the patio door. Pacing—my pulse drums in my ears. Midnight approaches.

The fog presses closer. I can feel it moving under doors, slipping past barriers, hungry. Death waits in that haze, patient.

I retreat to the bathroom and block every possible crack between me and the outside with wet towels. I dial 911, but no one answers. So, fully dressed, I turn on the cold water—icy torrents running over my skin. Surely, cold will repel it, wash away the terror, render me safe. I count the chimes, five… four… three… two…

There is a scratching at the bathroom door and a whisper in the wind. My breath freezes in my throat. The fog is inside the house, and the air smells of rot and earth. My heart refuses to obey as the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door? Run, I want to scream, but can’t. Still, the scratching stops and the whispers disappear, but horrific screams fill the air. I cover my ears.

Finally, silence, but I dare not move.

Morning comes. Sunlight shines weakly through the foggy veil outside. Relief surges—until the next knock at the door. But I cannot move. I am frozen in fear. The bathroom door is forced open. Someone puts a blanket around my shoulders.

Detectives and officers stand there, their faces grave. One shakes his head. “That psycho slasher has struck again,” he says, voice hollow.

I nod. “He came back for me, but someone rang the doorbell…”

I follow them downstairs. Blood stains the floor and the walls, and a trail of bloody drag marks leads through the French doors to my backyard. I clutch the edge of a chair. My hands shake uncontrollably as I clutch for the cup of tea a matron has prepared. Then I see the sheet they’ve placed over the bodies.

The fog may have receded, but its intent is clear. It waits, watching, calculating. For two years now, I’ve survived Halloween night. This year, it claimed two strangers stranded by car trouble. And it will not rest until I, too, am a victim.

Even locked doors cannot keep it out. Even cold showers cannot repel it. It is patient. It is eternal. And Halloween will forever mark the nights I run from something I can feel but cannot see.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

605 Words

Formerly published on October 23, 2023, as The Fog, and rewritten for this year’s Halloween post.

Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!