Halloween Microfiction: Haunting Touches by Greer Thompson

“Haunting Touches”
by Greer Thompson


Sometimes you’ve got to get creative to solve a ghost problem.

I’ve been just trying to live with it for a few months after moving into this “fixer upper” my criminal of a real-estate agent sold me on. “Oh it has so much character,” she said. I’d barely gotten my futon set up in the one upstairs bedroom with openable windows when the haunting started. Plates flying across the room and shit. It was crazy! And, fuck it, I like my plates. Those girls from the bar that ran home? Whatever, it wasn’t personal and my vibrator can cover. But those plates were special! They had Winnie the Pooh on them! So, dammit, I was going to solve this bitch once and for all.

I checked out every half-related book from the library and raided the local Barnes and Noble’s metaphysical section, grabbing anything that wasn’t only about aliens who abduct farmers and help them express their most repressed desires. I started with the basics. A Ouija board let me talk to her the last few months. It is a her, after all, and she’s not much of a bitch at all. Sweet girl, goes by Ellie. I introduced myself, but she kept getting confused. Thinking it was 1927, maybe ’28 at the latest. She insisted she hadn’t broken anything of mine. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Haunting Touches by Greer Thompson

Halloween Microfiction: Manipulation by Trisha J. Wooldridge

Editor’s Note: We here at Circlet Press want everyone to be able to enjoy our stories. In that spirit, please be advised that the following story deals with the subject of suicide in a detailed fashion. However, if you can muster the strength to read it, I do highly recommend that you do so as this story is truly unique and beautiful in its own way. Thank you.

by Trisha J. Wooldridge


The bathtub and suds were just for effect.

Imogene leaned over the white, molded plastic edge, gritted her teeth, and sliced the razor down her wrist. Quickly, she dropped her hand so the thick red ran into the warm water bucket beside the tub. What was the use of a bath if you were going to sully it with blood?

She would have preferred a clawfoot of ivory porcelain, what most would call antique nowadays, even if it required boiling her own water. Modern, standard bathtubs lacked romance.

The amphetamines made her hyperaware of the Timpani-like headache. Depressants may have dulled the pain, but it was faster this way. Faster, and she was awake, alert, ready. Last time, he had abandoned her too soon.

“He” was the wrong word, but “it” was too impersonal. Her relationship with Death was far more intimate than “it”–and the sexual ambiguity was part of what Imogene found so infatuating.  She knew they belonged together, no matter what any grand universal laws said.

But lately…

While she was still conscious, Imogene didn’t want to think of “lately.” She remembered the first time. The first time she had been curious. And angry. Angry that her father who’d loved her well and given her everything she desired was dead. Angry that her cold mother didn’t seem to care and was flirting with other young, rich men. Angry that she had been about to be paraded out as an eligible young woman in the last dress her father had bought her.

I shall make a beautiful, eligible corpse for my Debutante Ball, she had thought as she had drunk the entire bottle of laudanum the doctor had left to help her mother “get through this difficult time.” As ill exhaustion had taken over, she’d arranged herself prettily, as if already laid out by the coroner—hands folded across her chest.

When she had heard a noise, felt a breeze, she’d figured someone had been about to ruin her plan. Then she’d smelled the rich, sweet scent of earth and decay and had felt an unnatural thickness to the air. When she’d recognized who attended her, she had somehow pulled her consciousness back to berate Death, itself, for taking her father.

Imogene looked down at her arm. Was she bleeding faster than usual or had she taken too many drugs? Her memories were already getting dark around the edges, fading.

And she did not want that. She wanted to remember Death being surprised–impressed, even–with her tenacity. She wanted to remember their first conversation. And her first request for a kiss, which Death had given.

A kiss and more. Imogene had woken up in the family crypt, alive, beside a Death who had trembled at its own rebellion of Law. Who had asked for another kiss before Imogene would leave to find a new life elsewhere. A second chance.

Not even a year had passed in that second chance before Imogene had decided to summon Death once more. That visit they had explored beyond kissing, and Imogene had been left to live again. Thus passed, to Imogene’s reckoning, over a hundred and twelve years. With the time between her summonings growing less and less.

But lately…

Lately still nagged at her brain, and she couldn’t push it away. Lately, Death had not been the same. Sometimes bringing her back in the moments Imogene did, in fact, lose consciousness. Like last time.

She could not, she would not let that happen again. She and Death had a special relationship, and nothing could take that away. After all, Death had to come when she summoned. That was its entire purpose.

Foreverness drifted by before the small bathroom filled with familiar sensation of warm and cold breezes carrying the scent of ash, earth, and dampness. In front of the sink, but not reflected in the medicine cabinet’s mirror, grey-white linen fluttered, shrouding a form that was neither male nor female.  Hair, dark as a freshly dug grave, danced on the crypt wind.  The shower curtain and toilet paper trembled in the dead breath’s wake. Parchment skin stretched over a skull revealing no hint of muscle or vein save darkness around the sharp, empty eyes.

Death folded its arms. Skin-clad skeletal hands tapped blackened nails on the burial cloth robe. “I said we were through,” said the voice as androgynous as its form.

Imogene winced from the dried corpse eyes that still flamed emotion and pain. Between drugs and blood loss, she spoke with a shaking, slurring mouth. “…Had t-to see you again.”

“You always have to see me again.” The being paced, bony feet tapping on faux granite tiles. After the initial glare, it kept its eyes averted.

“I-I… st-still love you…”

“You cannot fathom love.” It stopped pacing and turned its back to her.

“I d-do. And you said I understood, like n-no one else. I’m not s-scared of you.” Imogene’s heart thrashed in her chest like a panicked bird. Beside the tub, she could not see her hand inside the bloody bucket. “Please?”

“Please, what?” Death spun and glared again. “Do my job?  How long have I given in to your games? Must we have this dance for another century?”

“P-plea-hshe?” Darkness tinged the edges of her vision and deepened every shadow. Each breath was harder work than anything she’d done in life.

Now that it looked at her, she saw Death’s face soften. She saw the familiar twitch of its mouth, its worrying lips. She watched the clenching and releasing of its hands on its arms.  Most of the bubbles in the bath had dissipated, and a flicker in Death’s eye revealed that it had noticed her bare still-youthful body. Another aspect of Death’s gifts and the frequent summonings–she had hardly aged since that day in the parlor.


It jerked its head away with a scowl of defeat, closed its eyes, and stepped toward Imogene. Water sluiced Death’s form as it knelt into the tub to join the dying girl. Moisture darkened the shroud and pasted it to Death like a second skin. Its lips brushed her forehead first: a tickle of dried rose petals.  Cool, bony fingers with sharp nails tenderly dragged damp locks of reddish blonde hair from Imogene’s face. She found energy to lift her chin, meet its hard lips, and taste the life it breathed into her. With a gasp, she sat up, entwining arms around the skeletal body and pushing away the wet shroud to reveal the taut skin over bones and the pulse of life that still throbbed within Death’s being.

Death lifted Imogene’s cut hand from the bucket and brought the wound to its lips with a kiss. The left-over blood lent color, like lipstick, and Imogene kissed those lips once more as Death’s other hand pulled her hips against itself. There was pressure against her sex, but she never looked–and had no other lover for comparison. It didn’t matter; their love was their own. She could feel sharp nails recede as its fingers caressed inside her. Imogene moaned at Death’s touch and arched against it. It kissed down her cheek and throat, leaving water-color imprints of her blood down skin that was not as pale as its own.

Imogene tangled and untangled her fingers through thick, wet, black hair, and caressed her hands down the sharp edges of ribs, pelvis, and joints. Death’s breath rattled from its mouth.  Imogene felt tingles down her spine as Death pressed its face against her neck and shoulder with gasps. She tightened her grip around Death. Its body felt so fragile, as if any bone could break or its paper-thin skin should tear. As it came, she felt the shifting corporeality, its substance based on the end of her life, fading as it returned life through their union.

Shaking, she clung to Death, laying her head against its angular shoulder. Her trembling lips brushed its ear and she whispered, “See? You can’t leave me. Not ever…” Death stiffened beneath her. “You need me as much as I need you.”

Death breathed deeply and closed its eyes against her face. It pulled from her embrace and took the hand she had cut. Imogene reached for another kiss, but gasped as fresh pain burned down her arm. Her blood streamed into the bathwater.

Betrayed, she saw Death shake its head slowly.

“No more games; I can’t take them any more. It’s over this time. We’re over.”

“No-oh,” she managed before the dark edges of the world overtook her. Not so fragile, Death caught her in strong arms and rocked her lovingly–and without apology.

Trisha J. Wooldridge writes grown-up horror short stories and weird poetry for anthologies and magazines—some even winning awards!  Under her business, A Novel Friend www.anovelfriend.com , she’s edited over fifty novels and two geeky anthologies; written over a hundred non-fiction articles; designed three online college classes; and has become events coordinator for Annie’s Book Stop of Worcester. Under child-friendly persona of T.J. Wooldridge, she has published three scary children’s novels, too.

Happy Halloween from Circlet Press!
Happy Halloween from Circlet Press and we hope you’ve been enjoying our Halloween erotic microfictions series! Here’s a treat for all you readers: 10% off any online order here at Circlet.com now through October 31st. Use the coupon code HALLOWME at checkout.

Halloween Microfiction: Ruined by Jean Roberta

by Jean Roberta


“Too bad there’s no sex in those old books you teach.” My friend Woody was trying to provoke me. It was her way of flirting.

I had taught a dreaded, required composition class at the technical school where she taught Industrial Arts until I landed the job I really wanted, teaching English lit at the university. Woody knew as much about literature as I knew about carpentry, but we always found something to talk about over coffee.

“There is,” I told her.  “You just have to look for it.”  We were alone in my office.

“You got a favorite scene?” Her blue eyes sparkled.
Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Ruined by Jean Roberta

Halloween Microfiction: A Contract Until Dawn by Sita Bethel

“A Contract Until Dawn”
by Sita Bethel

“What’s your name, daemon?”

The demon ignored his summoner, staring at the sigils on the floor, scanning the rust colored markings for errors or weak points. The room looked unremarkable, barrels of apples and squash stashed in the corners, round, fat pumpkins beside them, the typical fall harvest. So many would-be necromancers and wizards tried to summon a demon during the last night of October.

A soft chuckle brought his gold eyes back up to face the wizard who’d pulled him into the physical world. He looked delicate, fresh glass still cooling from a blower’s wand. His long, black ponytail slung over his right shoulder and the gray eyes flashed in dim, wavering light of a dozen tallow candles.

Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: A Contract Until Dawn by Sita Bethel

Halloween Microfiction: Din-Din by Sommer Marsden

by Sommer Marsden

“Take off your pants, Din-Din,” she says.

I laugh. “How did Daniel become Din-Din?”

She shrugs. “It’s cute. And doesn’t it mean dinner sometimes? Maybe it’s because I like to eat you,” Felicia purrs. She drops to her knees and works my belt since I have yet to do it.

Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Din-Din by Sommer Marsden

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For a limited time Circlet Press is offering five of its wildest Male/Male erotic romance books for the price of one:

Chocolatiers of the High Winds by H. B. Kurtzwilde, a 2013 Lambda Literary Award finalist, is a Steampunk story about two old school friends with a special bond, an airship, and a confectionary empire, centered on a Confederate south that never was. A rollicking adventure, full of derring-do, vivid characterization, and, of course, lots of sex.

Simulacrum by Rian Darcy is an ingeniously plotted Cyberpunk detective story about an LA cop and a programmer hunting a serial killer through the sex clubs and false identities of virtual reality.

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Leather Spirit Stallion, by Raven Kaldera, a 2015 Lambda Literary Award finalist, is about a modern day Mongolian shaman in California. After he uses his shamanic abilities to save the life of a young man, they enter into a passionate BDSM relationship.

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The Circlet Press Gay Romance Bundle
A gay globe-hopping steampunk swashbuckler (with chocolate). A taut detective tale of murder and hidden identities, set in the sleazier districts of cyberspace. A contemporary college student in love with a shapeshifter. A Mongolian shaman navigating the modern leather underground. Anything is possible in a Circlet M/M romance, and only thing certain is that it will be scorching hot. For a limited time Circlet Press is offering five of its wildest Male/Male erotic romance books for the price of one: Chocolatiers of the High Winds, Simulacrum, Faewolf, Leather Spirit Stallion, and Charming.

Halloween Microfiction: Touring Moreau by Cat Voleur

“Touring Moreau”
by Cat Voleur

“What are you doing?”  The question came from a surprised Delilah as she was ushered into one of the Moreau Manor’s spare bedrooms by her girlfriend, Genevieve. “We’re going to lose the tour group.”

Gen locked the door behind them and turned to her partner with that wicked grin of hers. “Forget about the group.”

“This tour was your idea. You wanted to hear firsthand what they were saying about the place. Besides, what if someone notices we’re gone?”

“Delilah,” Gen’s fingers deftly worked to undo the buttons of her blouse one by one as she stepped forward, slowly closing the gap between them. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Touring Moreau by Cat Voleur

The Prince’s Boy: Chapter 7

Welcome to The Prince’s Boy by Cecilia Tan, a tale of a prince and his whipping boy ensnared in a plot of dark erotic magic. Warning: explores themes of dubious consent and situations of sexual jeopardy. NSFW.

A new chapter appears every Wednesday. This week is Chapter Seven: Jorin

7: Jorin


I raised my sword again and charged. A moment later I was on my face in the grass, the rich scent of earth in my nose, just a vague impression of the touch of a heavy hand on my shoulder still in my skin. I pushed myself to my knees.

“Again, cub.”

“Bear, I’ve had enough.” Continue reading The Prince’s Boy: Chapter 7

Halloween Microfiction: Heaven Sent by Jordan Castillo Price

“Heaven Sent”
by Jordan Castillo Price

The Midwest is full of huge gaps where things once thrived, until the Interstate landed…somewhere else. Wild Bill and I found this house between cornfields in the middle of Iowa. “Watch out for busted needles, Mikey,” Bill had warned me. “This was a squatter’s paradise. Once.”

Only one bedroom had miraculously survived the warp and rot that took the rest of the house. It was before dusk when I woke there, squeezed in a little kid’s bed. I pried myself out from between Bill and the wall and scratched my stubble. I needed a shave, which wasn’t gonna happen. No electricity, no water. I fingered sleep and old eyeliner from the corner of my eye, pulled a strand of hair out of my mouth, and blinked. Cowboy sheets. What more could we want?

Wild Bill was still fast asleep. He tells me that what you see in the movies, about vampires being dead while the sun is high, is all a load of crap. He says he’s just a very deep sleeper.

I pressed my ear to his chest and listened to the slow, deep thrum of his heart. No, not dead. Just sleeping for all he was worth. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: Heaven Sent by Jordan Castillo Price

Halloween Microfiction: And Then No More of Thee and Me by Vinnie Tesla

And Then No More of Thee and Me
by Vinnie Tesla

The door to his bedroom was ajar, but, maddeningly, not quite wide enough for her to pass through. Pushing herself through solid objects was still hard work, though she was getting better at it. The feeling of the heavy wood composite sliding inside her was intensely, indefinably uncomfortable, as if her entire body was one complaining funny bone. At one point she was seized with panic that she would be stuck there, unable to muster the strength to pull herself off in either direction.

Eventually, though, she made it inside the room. It looked just as she remembered. The pile of dirty clothes in one corner and the massive wooden dresser were vague, familiar shapes in the dark. A streetlight by the open window illuminated his nude, sleeping body. His torso looked pale; his cock lolled, a little swollen, against one bent thigh. Continue reading Halloween Microfiction: And Then No More of Thee and Me by Vinnie Tesla

Erotica for Geeks