The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1
Welcome to the first issue of The Haunted Traveler; a roaming anthology seeking to collect the strange and the wild stories that we all carry. Those words hidden in the deep dark that linger around. Weasel Press is proud to have released this first collection of material and is excited to do more anthologies in the future. The Haunted Traveler is a non-profit, Horror and Science Fiction anthology that accepts a wide variety of art media such as photography, short fiction, creative non-fiction, digital artwork and more. Our anthology publishes twice a year. To find out more information about our submission process, please review our submission guidelines. Our first issue was released on March 28, 2014 and we couldn’t be more excited to feature the explosive talent that has been submitted to us. Our idea is to have an anthology roaming around parts of the world with a collection of frightening and strange stories; a mysterious anthology with a collection of ghosts.
Welcome to the first issue of The Haunted Traveler; a roaming anthology seeking to collect the strange and the wild stories that we all carry. Those words hidden in the deep dark that linger around. Weasel Press is proud to have released this first collection of material and is excited to do more anthologies in the future. The Haunted Traveler is a non-profit, Horror and Science Fiction anthology that accepts a wide variety of art media such as photography, short fiction, creative non-fiction, digital artwork and more. Our anthology publishes twice a year. To find out more information about our submission process, please review our submission guidelines. Our first issue was released on March 28, 2014 and we couldn’t be more excited to feature the explosive talent that has been submitted to us. Our idea is to have an anthology roaming around parts of the world with a collection of frightening and strange stories; a mysterious anthology with a collection of ghosts.
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33<br />
Valhalla<br />
Patty Papageorgiou<br />
Some of the children don’t believe me. <strong>The</strong>y say my stories<br />
are made up. <strong>The</strong>y say I’m so old, I don’t know what I’m<br />
talking about anymore. But that doesn’t bother me. I tell them<br />
what I know. I tell them what I remember. <strong>The</strong>y can believe<br />
what they like; they’ll make their own minds up eventually.<br />
My bed is soft. My pillow rustles gently under my wrinkled<br />
head. <strong>The</strong> sky above me is red. Reddish-orange. I could<br />
never decide which. Never got used to it. Sometimes it reminds<br />
me of a sunset, sometimes it’s just plain alien. But that<br />
doesn’t matter. What does is that I am 126 years old and I<br />
am here to look up at it. <strong>The</strong>re was a time when I wouldn’t<br />
believe that. But, here I am.<br />
<strong>The</strong> children like coming to me for stories rather than visit<br />
the public databanks. Even though they claim I am lying, they<br />
can’t hide the sparkle in their eyes. I can see their wonder and<br />
amazement at hearing about things they’ve never seen and<br />
never will. <strong>The</strong>y don’t say so but I know they prefer to hear it<br />
from me than their teachers.<br />
Creating databanks had been second on the priority list after<br />
oxygenating this atmosphere. Get the planet viable, then<br />
find every morsel of information available on human kind and<br />
back it up safely for the education of future generations.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y had tried Mars first. <strong>The</strong> plants in the “greenhouses”<br />
had lived long enough to give scientists hope of other<br />
life forms surviving on the planet. <strong>The</strong>y set up experimental