Playa smelled like old summers and new rot. The waves beat a hollow time against the broken seawall, coughing glass and driftwood out of the surf and spitting them across the sand. We followed Lenore’s spoor not by footsteps—she moved in a way meant to confuse tracks—but by the small things she left: a curl of black ribbon snagged on a rusted lamppost, a smear of violet paint along a stair handrail, the faint, oily scent of pipe-smoke that her people liked to mask themselves

We dropped into the monorail bunk like ghosts. The entrance was a shredded seam in the old LAX overpass—an angry, jagged rent where...

The briefing was a map of bones. Serah's files gave me coordinates over a honeycomb of shipping lanes and ghostly transit lines. Pod-3's...

The long table filled the room like a sacrament. The holographic city in its center blinked and breathed under the hands of several...

The archive they led me into was called the Gallery of Lost Things, and the name fit. It was a room the size of a small cathedral,...

The sunlight streaming through the blue-tinted glass woke me like a blade. It wasn’t the warm, forgiving dawn of some old life; it was a...

"Captain Sloan, let's cut to the chase, shall we. I've watched the video of your interrogation of your mother. To be honest, your...

She was right in one way. My need to see her and the rest of the coven destroyed is what led me to join the BHL in the first place. But...

Preface This short story was submitted for an anthology titled, Midian Unmade: Tales of Clive Barker's Nightbreed that was published in...

Society after WWIII is worse than anyone could have predicted. The global fallout brought out the beast (literally) in every survivor.