Yolanda Renee's Blog

 

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“We mournthe blossoms of May because they are to whither; but we know that May is oneday to have its revenge upon November, by the revolution of that solemn circlewhich 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

Photo by Ján Jakub Naništa on Unsplash

RITUAL

InNovember 2023, I found my dream home. It was built in the 1700s and had good bonesand the historic charm I craved. Though the interior needed work, I pouredmyself into the renovations, balancing modern comforts with its originalcharacter. By the time I finished, the manor gleamed. I was proud.

February7th, 2025, was my first night in my newly remodeled home. At the stroke ofmidnight that night, I woke into a nightmare.

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

Iwandered through the house, trying to prove it was a dream. Behind one door, Ifound two strangers asleep, their faces ghostly under the moonlight. Heartpounding, 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. Everythingsmelled of wood smoke and wax.

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

Black-robedfigures moved around the flames, chanting. Masks hid their faces; their voicesblurred 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 aflat stone.

Thestrangest thing? I didn’t resist. Some part of me knew this was meant tohappen.

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

Becausewhen I woke, I was back in my own house. My own time. And it never happenedagain.

Untiltonight.

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

Butat midnight, I woke again to the same nightmare. The same house, but when Iopened the front door, my front garden had come alive, with horrifically carvedpumpkins, their twisted faces leering, though I never planted a single seed. Therhythmic 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’tresist.

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

~~*~~*

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

“Thegardener. Well, his dog, really. Wouldn’t stop barking. He followed it andfound her.”

“Whatis she lying on?”

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

“Timeof death?”

“Docsays around midnight. Same night as her party.”

“Whatkind of party?”

“Masqueradeball for the kids. Everyone says it was wonderful. She was generous. It endedbefore ten.”

Thedetective 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!

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jessie Nelson on Unsplash

 

 

Photo by OSPAN ALI on Unsplash

  

JACK

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

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

Cypress frowned at the absurdity. “Fitsthe 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 guydenies everything, but we caught him red-handed—literally. He was holding hislast victim’s heart when we arrived.”

Cypress shook his head. “Unbelievable. AndHalloween is weeks away.”

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

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

An hour later, Detective Cypress madethe 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 theT’s. So, Mr. T. J. Ripper, what’s your story?”

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

Cypress was struck by its iron grip. Ikind 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 sinceyouth. The mist hides, cloaks, energizes. Movies, slasher tales—all inspired byme. 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 proveit anyway.”

Cypress’s eyes narrowed. “And why thesewomen?”

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

“Or did you lure them after they rejectedyou?” 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 endshere, Mr. .”

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

“Sure, Cy. But another body’s beenfound,” Jones warned. “Torn apart, witnesses claim a wolf…a werewolf.” Hehanded the note.

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

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

Cypress exhaled, straightened hisjacket, and saluted Jones: Halloween, full moon, and madness—all in a night’swork.

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. 

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

Photo by Carol Lee on Unsplash

 

 

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 aHalloween 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’mcoming—but if you’re lying—”

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

“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 inperfect 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,” hesaid, flirting.

Stacie’s stomach churned. Should sheintervene? 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 theclearing. Stacie gagged.

Horrified, she watched as they drew hisbrains out, consuming him with unnatural grace. His confusion, terror, andfaint 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 matterthat they were gorgeous. They were monsters, and the cost of curiosity—or ofweakness—was death.

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

The forest was alive with predators whodidn’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 thisnight.

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

© Yolanda Renée 2025

383 Words

 

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

Photo by Jon Butterworthon Unsplash

 

Photo by JonasJaeken on Unsplash

 

THEBEASTS BENEATH

Lavender and bubbles lapped at her skinas Allison sank deeper into the tub. For the first time in weeks, she feltalmost safe. Then—

“Allison.”

Her mother’s lilting voice slipped intoher 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 helpwith 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 celebratingHalloween with your dad’s favorites. Hurry, he’ll be home soon. Then we’ll allgo trick-or-treating.”

Allison froze. The basement. That swampof shadows and ghouls. Not tonight. But her mother’s knife kept choppingpotatoes, 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 thesteps. Horns. Teeth. Sores that oozed poison.

“Allison…” it rasped.

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

“Honey, there’s no such thing asmonsters. 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 sawhis eyes. He called my name.”

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

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

Her voice was strong, reassuring, evenwhile 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. Reliefbloomed—until her mother’s face froze.

Terror. A silent scream in her eyes.

Claws burst from the shadows, lockingaround her ankles—then another set raked up her legs. She shrieked asjars shattered, crimson brine splattering across the floor. Her body slammed intothe concrete below.

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

~~*~~

“Allison!”

Her husband’s voice dragged her back tothe present.

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

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

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

She pulled her knees tighter. “I movedthem 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 anold hag now.” He swept her toiletries from the counter; glass shattered againsttile.

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

Tom paused, suspicion narrowing hiseyes. 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, footstepsfading, before rinsing the filth of his touch from her skin.

But screams tore through thefloorboards.

Allison froze, heart hammering. For amoment, 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, thenthe real estate agent,” she whispered, dialing 9-1-1 as she walked downstairs.

The creak of footsteps stopped hercold.

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

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

Then the laugh curdled into a snarl. Heraised 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.

 

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

 

Photo by Kenny Eliasonon Unsplash 

 

Photo by Cam Stockdale on Unsplash

 

OBSESSION

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

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

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

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Shestared into the fire, pretending calm, though every muscle screamed at her torun. Waves of ice radiated from the flames, brittle and sharp, freezing herinsides.

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

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

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

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

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

Her knees shook. She clutched thechair, desperate to keep it between them. She obeyed. And what she saw stoleher breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In that moment, she understood thetruth: 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!

 

Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash

 

REVISITED

The fog is rising again, thick andalive. Its tendrils coil around the world like a living thing. And I know—I amits prey.

Last Halloween, my car stalled a milefrom home. Gas full, battery new—nothing should have stopped it. But no matterwhat 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, justmalevolence.

I grabbed my bag and ran. My heelsnapped on the cracked pavement, but I didn’t stop. Barefoot, I sprinted,superstition and terror driving me forward. Then—fingers like iron wrappedaround me from behind. A blade slashed my cheek. I kicked backward, stumblingfree, 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 themoment.

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

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

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

I retreat to the bathroom and blockevery 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 torrentsrunning over my skin. Surely, cold will repel it, wash away the terror, renderme safe. I count the chimes, five… four… three… two…

There is a scratching at the bathroomdoor and a whisper in the wind. My breath freezes in my throat. The fog isinside the house, and the air smells of rot and earth. My heart refuses to obeyas 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 screamsfill the air. I cover my ears.

Finally, silence, but I dare not move.

Morning comes. Sunlight shines weaklythrough 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, butsomeone rang the doorbell…”

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

The fog may have receded, but itsintent is clear. It waits, watching, calculating. For two years now, I’ve survivedHalloween night. This year, it claimed two strangers stranded by car trouble. Andit 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 Halloweenwill 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

 

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

 

Photo by BrandonGriggs on Unsplash

SACRIFICE

“There it is.” Jimmypointed toward the stone building—a massive, weathered mausoleum with barredwindows and a heavy wooden door crowned by a cross. Angels crouched at thesteps, but it was the gargoyles glaring down from the roof that made me shiver.

We stopped severalyards away.

“Let’s set up here.”Jimmy adjusted his tripod and camera. He took the wand from me and handed me ahumming device, its lights blinking like a pulse.

“Turn in a slowcircle,” he said. “Stop when you’re facing the mausoleum. This will pick up anyactivity.”

“This is ghosthunting?” I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat.

“Nothing scary. Almostboring.” He flashed me his killer smile.

I obeyed. The devicethrummed louder, and the vibration climbed up my arm. Then I sawthem—shapes—dozens of them. Pale faces emerged from the dark, circling,watching us, laughing until they realized I could see them.

“Jimmy,” I whispered,“they’re coming toward us.”

“Who?”

“Them.” My fingertrembled as I pointed. He followed my gaze but saw nothing.

“You can see ghosts?”he asked, snapping photos frantically, his light flashing across empty air.

“They’re closingin—except the mausoleum. It’s clear.”

Jimmy grabbed hisequipment and bolted for the crypt. “Come on!”

He shoved the dooropen easily—too easily. It swung wide without a groan, as though it had beenused recently. We stumbled inside. I was crying and terrified, but he wrappedme in his arms, kissed me, and calmed me.

“I won’t let anythinghappen to you,” he murmured.

The room smelledfaintly of roses, wax, and dust overlaying something older—death. Yet it wasspotless, gleaming marble, polished floors, fresh roses in vases. An angelstatue loomed, and in the center, a stone sarcophagus with a robed effigycarved atop it. I saw no ghosts and felt a fleeting relief.

Until a voice camefrom the shadows.

“I wouldn’t recommendleaving.”

I nearly screamed.Jimmy spun, putting himself between me and the sound.

A man stepped intoview. Red eyes, crooked grin, his face twisted into something that reminded meof a jack-o’-lantern. “I’m the caretaker. Dug three graves today. I spendHalloween nights here, keeping pranksters away. But you? You saw them.”

I nodded.

“They don’t like beingseen,” he said, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled around his grin. “The lastones who did? Missing.”

Jimmy drew me deeperinto the room. The caretaker handed us a blanket. “Stay till daylight. Theywon’t enter here. This is holy ground.”

I wanted to run, butJimmy pressed close, soothing me, offering wine. I pretended to sip, dumpingmine in a vase when he wasn’t looking. Soon, exhaustion dragged me under.

When I woke, hushedvoices drifted through the dark: Jimmy and the caretaker.

“She’s out,” Jimmysaid. “Should be till midnight.”

“You’re sure she’s avirgin?” the caretaker asked.

“Positive. It was hardto keep my distance. She’s special.”

Ice filled my veins.

“Good,” the caretakersaid. “We’ll prepare the room. Then we’ll dress her for the sacrifice.”

Sacrifice.

I didn’t wait. Iforced the heavy door—lighter than air this time—and ran.

© Yolanda Renée 2025

586 Words

Photo by Allison Saeng on Unsplash

 

 Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash

GODDESS

I am a practical, disciplined manshaped by twenty years in the Navy. Adventure and challenge defined me, yet theexodus from Afghanistan left a hollow ache. Retirement offered freedom but alsoemptiness. Seeking clarity, I arrived at the Meher Spiritual Center in MyrtleBeach, hoping to heal the fractures of my soul.

On the evening of October 7th,beneath the harvest moon, I walked the beach. The breeze carried salt andwarmth, and the tide whispered secrets. Then I heard it—a faint melody,delicate and sorrowful—Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. My feet moved south, drawnby the music, beyond the center’s property, beyond reason.

Over a high dune, I stopped. There shewas. Or was it a vision? An angel? A mermaid risen from the surf? Moonlightdrenched her in silver and gold. Her gown flowed like liquid light, her red andgold hair cascading over bare shoulders kissed by the waves. She raised herarms to the heavens. The Sonata flowing through her—through me.

Tears glimmered on her cheeks. Diamondsshe brushed away, yet sorrow lingered. Her eyes—deep green, fathomless—caughtmine. My chest tightened. The world shifted. I was drowning in her gaze, pulledby tides unseen.

She glided toward me across the sand.Time stilled. The universe narrowed. Our embrace inevitable. Our hearts beat asone. When our lips met, the world disappeared. The Sonata swelled around us,carrying us through cosmoses of light and color, desire and memory intertwined.In that kiss, I glimpsed lifetimes—past and future, vows eternal, love unbrokenacross time. Our bodies connected in love. I held her close, whispering wordsof love not forgotten. She never spoke. We lay together for hours, and at somepoint, I fell asleep.

When my eyes opened, the moon wasveiled behind clouds. My arms were empty. She was gone. Yet I could still feelher warmth, the ghost of her touch, and the lingering taste of her lips. Mysoul ached, hollowed by her absence.

I wandered the shore until dawn,following whispers of her melody on the wind and tide. But the night held itssecret. Was she real? A siren of the Moonlight Sonata? A spirit of longing? Orhad the universe given me a fleeting glimpse of a heart’s eternal desire?

Her beauty lingered in my senses—theshimmer of her hair, the silk of her gown, the pulse of her kiss. The memory ofher left me breathless, yearning, haunted. Even in her absence, she had claimeda piece of me, stolen it into the moonlight, leaving only longing in its wake.

Wherever she is, whether she is of thisworld or another. But I know this: I had found my goddess, my moonlitenchantress, and a part of me would remain lost to her forever.

I will never stop searching for her,drawn forever by the haunting music, the moonlight, and the promise of a lovethat defies time. Whatever her purpose, I was at peace.

 

Renee Stout ©2025

500 Words

Formerly published on August 17, 2022, for the WEP rewritten for this year’s Halloween Celebration.

 

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

Photo by Doriana Popa on Unsplash

 

 

Photo by Debashis RC Biswas on Unsplash

 INSOMNIA

Theroom is swallowed in darkness. The only glow comes from the red digits of theclock on the nightstand, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. I tell myself it’sonly a clock, but the way it stares through the dark feels like a warning.

Ican only sleep in silence and shadow, and even then, rest is a rare gift.Insomnia is my curse.

Tonight,though, exhaustion claimed me quickly. A day spent lifting furniture, unpackingboxes, and forcing order into chaos left me drained. I had managed to completejust one room—the bedroom, a sanctuary. Everything in it had fallen into placetoo easily, as though the house itself had been waiting for me. Dark woodfloors polished smooth, carved trim that seemed older than memory, a king beddraped in white organza—perfect—too perfect.

WhenI finally lay down, I slipped into sleep at once.

Butnow I am awake.

Myeyes snap open, ears straining. A sound stirs the air. Not the floorboards. Notthe shifting timbers of an old house. Something else. Something deliberate.

Again,it comes. A presence. Someone is in the room.

“Who’sthere?” My voice is thin and shaky.

Silence.

YetI know. Fear grips me, pins me to the bed. I cannot move. I cannotbreathe.

Sheis beside me. I cannot see her clearly, but I feel her weight, her gaze.Then—just enough light from the clock touches her face. Blonde hair frames paleskin. A smile that brings terror. Eyes, black and endless, lock onto mine.

“Whatdo you want?” The words scrape from my throat.

Shedoes not answer. She only leans closer. Closer still. Until her breath shouldbe on my cheek, though I feel nothing but the crushing cold.

“Helpme…” I try to scream, but the sound dissolves as my heartbeat slows… and stops.

Ino longer suffer from insomnia.

Mynew home—this perfect bedroom, this perfect trap—sits untouched and unused, ashrine to the living I no longer am. I wander instead, the soft whisper of mygown brushing across the boards, the only trace of me.

Now,I seek out the dark. I wait in it, patient, hidden in shadows, aching for alife gone.

Asa ghost, I do not sleep. I wait.

Iwait for the next restless soul, the next weary seeker of silence andblackness. Only light can bar me from them. Only light can save them from mystare.

Forwhen they meet my eyes, they will see their death—and my release.

Exactlywhat she wanted from me. Her freedom, purchased with my final breath.

Andone day, when the house claims another, I will lean close, blonde hair spillingforward, eyes gone dark and endless.

Thecycle will go on.

Theonly question is—will it be you?

…Afterall, you’re already here, in the dark, reading my words.

AndI am very good at finding those who keep the lights low.

 

© Renee Stout 2025

500 Words

Initially published on March 29, 2013, rewritten for thisyear’s Halloween Celebration.

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!

Photo by Camara Negraon Unsplash