Oakdale Ink

October 2025: Horror

“Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.”

- Stephen King

“Werewolf Sonnet” by Emma Foster

they trample through the dark and twisted pine

with coats all matted, eyes a glowing red

a wolfish hunger, blood and bones they dine

as fear and malice follow in their tread

they howl on to the heavens way up high

a glowing orb, a lunar lantern’s spark

their voices bounce and leap about the sky

to spook their fellow monsters in the dark

no way to stop a rabid wolf unleashed

but silver’s touch; a metal laced with doom

yet as the moon recedes, so does the beast

retreat into a foggy forest’s gloom

terror trails these dogs with bark and bite

our canine beauties, creatures of the night

“You Can Hear Me?” by Erin Post

“You can hear me?” The words spoken softly from a young girl with messy honey curls and a pale, round face. She sat just 5 feet in front of me in a light pink dress that appeared slightly wrinkled.. I looked at her with a slight tilt of my head in confusion. “Well, yes” I replied clear and sharp. “But no one else can”, replied the young girl, who seemed to get smaller as she spoke. “Yes, no one else can hear you, only I can.” I replied, looking her in the eyes and embracing her with a hug that lifted her safely into my arms. “Can I come home with you?” she asked hopefully looking into my eyes. “Of course dear.” I replied with a warm smile. 

The drive home was silent. No radio. No words. Just the fall trees and the whistle of the wind. As I walked through the doors, the girl looked around, still in my arms. I sat her down on the couch carefully so as not to bump the table in front. I walked into the kitchen and put on some tea and a record I thought she would like. Beethoven is a favorite for most of the young girls. I looked at her from the door shaped space in the kitchen wall. Her cheeks were rosy and her skin shined like porcelain. 

The kettle whistled as I brought over five pink floral tea cups with matching saucers. I placed each one carefully distanced in a star shape on the table. Almost in time with the classical flow of the music in the background. I lowered the kettle and proudly announced to the room, “Tea is ready girls, and today we have a special guest!”. Standing from my bent position, I stepped to the freshly polished glass cabinet in the center of the living room. While sliding on my white silk gloves carefully and cleanly, a sharp smile drew to my face. The cabinet carefully opened and I  picked up Caroline, slowly running my fingers through her blonde silky hair. I placed her across from the new girl so she could see the ocean-like  glimmer of blue in her eyes. I copied the same gentle gestures with Clara and Amelia. Usually Clara sits to my right and Amelia on the left. However, as I looked at her curls I decided today it would be nice to let the new girl sit to my left. As I lowered my body into the largest chair of the five, I looked at all four of the beautiful girls and reminded them I could hear them and feel them, unlike the other guests in the house. As I turned my head towards the other girls in the cabinet and smiled so they wouldn’t feel forgotten. I poured tea for the five of us and relaxed. 

After tea time, I took a nap. I lay awake thinking about my girls. I think about Caroline and how I did her a favor by killing her best friend too. I think about the other girls and their families. But most of all, I think of how lucky I was to get the last doll that looked just like her. I couldn’t find one with the same mark on her cheek, but the one I have will do.

“Distorted Reflections” by Aspen Alofe

Prologue

Edward was a man of great intrigue.

Nobody knew a thing about him. Not in the 43 years he had been on 19th Century England soil had anyone been able to poach his mind. It was an arcane puzzle as to what might be going on. To the world, Edward was closed-off, perpetually standoffish, with a sneer etched so deeply on his face that it looked like he was born that way. Whether it was disdain, bitterness, or some unspeakable burden that shaped his demeanor, no one could say.

What was certain, however, was his wealth. Edward’s fortune and the grand, isolated manor he inherited from his parents were all anyone knew about him. The house itself was a masterpiece–dark, baroque pillars loomed, its brooding nature reminiscent of Edward’s own nature. Every inch of it was a perfect reflection of Edwards own personality: stern, closed-off, and affluent.

Perhaps it was this evident fortune that compelled my father to arrange our marriage. As a longtime friend of Edward’s father, my father’s priorities were nothing more than money, and the power it brought were his never-changing joys. My opinion on the matter was irrelevant.

And so I became Edward’s wife. In the years that followed, little changed. He remained distant and indifferent. Even though I was young, naive, and stupid, I never expected much. However, it was also that which dared to hope for something more—the smallest sign of affection, perhaps? It was never shown.

His passing was as much a mystery as his life was. No enemies sought his downfall; he never made any effort of communication or invited it, so how would enemies spring up? His presence kept them all at arm’s length. Perhaps his death was a result of his face being stuck in the same expression, or his seemingly random bitterness at the world caused it to let him go. Or it was the way he lived his life in perpetual solitude. 

I bore the weight of his passing in a way I never anticipated. It seems that even a loveless marriage could still bind two souls together. His funeral was modest: lavish enough to reflect his wealth (God forbid he be seen as a peasant, even if everyone knew his status), but quiet, befitting a man who avoided all of society. Few attended beside our immediate families. He wouldn’t have wanted otherwise.

On a bleak, dreary morning under a sky heavy with mist, pallbearers carried his casket to the family plot. I and both our parents wept as the bell of the church tolled in the distance, signifying another life removed from the earth. The burial was simple, as was custom. He was lowered into the open ground of the cemetery. Prayers for his soul were echoed by us all as it was done.

Then it was over. Edward had been buried, and his secrets had been buried with him.

Distorted Reflections

The breeze that came into the room was cool and heavy, plagued by palpable sorrow. The interior of the room was imposing, though decayed—tall archways stood, intricate detailing engraved into it. Beautiful, though chipped and worn out with time. The windows were large, narrow, and dark. Boxes laid scattered around the woman, coated with years old dust. The woman, Eleanor Berkely, sifted through the contents of her late husband. In one of the boxes were Edward’s journals. His steady handwriting jotted down everything–from passing thoughts to important situations. He couldn’t remember anything if he tried, Eleanor thought dolefully. 

Another box held portraits of them both, as well as them together. Edward’s portrait was stern, his lips pressed into a firm line and eyes that pierced through, seemingly looking at her. They looked soulless and full of unspoken burden. In her own portrait, Eleanor looked longingly into the distance. The soft strokes of the paint expressed her gaze: soft yet melancholy. Her cheeks which were full with life pulled her lips into what seemed like a hint of a somewhat solemn smile. Now, her cheeks were sunken and lips pressed into a bitter line. In the painting made of them together, Eleanor sat stiffly, hands folded into her lap. Edward stood rigid behind her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Their expressions were composed and distant, as though it was need that held them together more than genuine love.

When Eleanor opened a third box, a small object was seen at the shallow bottom. Her fingers brushed against something solid, hidden beneath a layer of folded fabric. The cloth was old and worn, edges fraying, but it had been wrapped carefully. She pulled the cloth just a bit, and was met with the back of a mirror etched in lovely swirling patterns. After a quick moment of admiring, she removed the fabric fully and was met with the rest of the ornate mirror. The handle bore intricate filigree, while the mirror’s frame was carved with delicate patterns of looping roses in the half crescents.

The old woman lifted the mirror to gaze at her reflection. She was nothing like the previous portraits anymore: the lady that stared back at her was gaunt and pale. Her dark hair was unkempt and her eyes were hollowed by grief. The mirror seemed to exaggerate these features, distorting her into something monstrous. Her face didn’t look like it fit her neck, looking large like it would bob around as she moved. Her cheekbones jutted sharply, her skin appeared cracked, and her eyes were ringed with deep, dark shadows. 

Eleanor shot to her feet, nearly dropping the mirror. A mix of emotion was what she felt as she stared—confusion, dread, surprise, excitement? She now held the mirror firmly in her hands as she fixated on the familiar silhouette looming just behind her shoulder. Is this real? She thought. There he was: Edward. His face was partially obscured, but his piercing eyes seemed to burn through the glass.

“Edward?” She whispered, voice trembling.

She turned around, though it was nonsensical. No one but her was there. Slowly, she moved to sink back into her leather chair. It was robotic. Her knuckles were turning white, and Edward still remained in the reflection, presence unwavering. He didn’t move, did not blink.

The silence of the room pressed against her ears as she breathed, “is it really you?” but she could not look away. The house seemed to close in around her, shadows deepening. The air seemed to drop in temperature, turning from cool to freezing. She found herself unable to stop staring, utterly transfixed.

She could not stop staring. 

This fixation continued as the days passed by. Eleanor hadn’t moved from her hunched spot on the lived couch. The room around her had lost all sense of time: tattered curtains preventing any light from entering. Her fists still gripped onto the mirror. Her thin lips were opened in transfixion, her body reeked with the way she hadn’t freshened since the day she had entered the Manor, hair messy and unkempt. Her mind was deteriorating from continuously staring in her lap with bloodshot eyes at the dark figure.

She hadn’t slept in days.

By now, Eleanor had lost her mind, becoming neurotic. She could feel his presence, so close yet unreachable. She couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—look away. To do so would have her facing the possibility of losing him forever. 

“I’ll save you, Edward.” she muttered hoarsely, voice raw and scratchy from disuse. “I-I’ll find a way.”

Her erroneous thoughts were only pushed with the way the Manor seemed to come alive. Shrieks flew through the air. The curtains swayed and Eleanor heard the winds woosh through the space with whistle-like sounds. But the thing was—all of this was a result of her paranoid mind. Nothing was actually going on. The supposed shrieks were the old floorboards, and the curtains were still. There weren’t even any windows open–the whooshing she was hearing was completely made up.

This is evidence that Edward is alive, Eleanor thought. Her erratic mind collecting all this information. She stood up, determined. She would free her lover from this prison. 

She began to act, hurriedly shuffling through the boxes scattered around her, overturning objects that clattered and broke as they hit the floor. She was all over the place, yet she paid no mind to the noise nor disarray she created. She was driven to find something-anything that could aid in breaking Edward free.

Candles, she thought. A ritual–yes, to contact him. And so she frantically looked everywhere for candles, rummaging through drawers while muttering incomprehensibly, bumping and knocking into everything in sight as she stumbled stupidly. She placed the wax in a haphazard circle around the mirror, and shakily lit them. Their uneven flames cast warped shadows on the walls of the dark room. 

Eleanor dropped to her knees. Her gaunt and almost supernatural looking face was reflected in the mirror, illuminated by the fractured light. Edward’s figure remained looming. She leaned in and pressed her trembling hands to the glass, her breath fogging its surface. She began to pray–and then her prayers turned to frantic chants, words spilling from her cracked lips too fast and shaky to be coherent. 

“Speak to me, Edward!” she cried through the chants, tears rapidly streaming down her cheeks. “Tell me how to help you!”

Just as before, the room responded in a series of groans and creaks. To Eleanor, these made-up sounds were confirmation. Edward was communicating–it was just that his words were beyond her ability to comprehend.

The flames waltzed and the room itself seemed to warp–twisting and contorting, expanding and shrinking with disorienting rhythm. There was pounding as though the house’s heartbeat was beating, alive and breathing around her. Eleanor let out short gasps, barely breathing as shrill cries and anguished screams emerged from the shadows in every direction.

Her head snapped left, then right, searching frantically for the source. The walls seemed to close into her, then quickly expanding and stretching away into nothingness. The windows shattered open and the air grew icy, a cold breeze brushing against her neck like a crooked hand. She shuddered violently as the sensation crawled over her skin.

The room spun and her vision tilted as the cries grew louder. Shadows lunged at her from the darkness and then retreated, movements erratic and malicious. Eleanor clutched her hair, fisting and pulling. Her heart pounded erratically as her surroundings descended into chaos. She let out a deafening shrill scream, enough to push the candles around her back.

Everything was everywhere all at once, unbearably so. And so Eleanor had enough. She desperately felt the floor of the illuminated room, vision blurred and shaky. She grabbed a candle and slammed it against the mirror, over, and over, and over again in hopes of shattering the accursed mirror. Yet it did not. The wax only crumbled and smeared against its surface, leaving streaks of smooth, yellow residue all over it. 

She took another one, and another, and another. Air was depleting, growing thick with dread. The figures perilously scratched and bit, and hissed, and hurled themselves at her. Discord and disarray consumed her whole.

It was then that she tore the mirror from its place and smashed it against the floor. The sharp crack fueled her. She struck it repeatedly, as hard as her brittle old arms could. Her teeth barred and her resolve was stronger than ever. Her strikes became mechanical, body acting on its own. 

It was then that she realized something–her whole body had begun to weaken. Her heart ached as if it had been punctured with a knife laced with venom. Teeth seemed to loosen on their own accord. Her skin shriveled and withered before her eyes, curling and sagging like a rooster’s neck

Since she had first come across this damned mirror, it had consumed her. The obsession had entwined itself around her soul, slowly dragging her into madness. Her fixation on it was her demise, leading her into insanity, and ultimately, her death.