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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and pears, pipes and fans, swords and books and blossoms.<br />
<strong>The</strong> furnishings and doorways in that house rejected angles—every<br />
line was curved, organic, every window tuliped,<br />
every moulding a delicate cluster of scrolls. At some point<br />
during the chase, hardwood floors segued to yellow marble<br />
that warmed the orange walls of a ballroom festooned<br />
with branch-like chandeliers. Here the man dashed past a<br />
body—a woman's—and leapt over a pool of blood. He flailed<br />
his distress but would not stop. With the woman dead and<br />
the servants run off, he was far too alone.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re were no absolutes in Yocelin's world, or rather,<br />
there were genuine contradictions. <strong>The</strong> pool of blood on the<br />
marble floor was frightful, in some ways. It was pungent,<br />
unctuous, designed to revolt and harrow. But it glistened,<br />
too. Its pattern was gorgeously fluid—like the lines in the<br />
Breton manor—and its color was the precise red that fashion<br />
houses worked hard to reproduce. Yocelin's skim across the<br />
ballroom floor halted beside the blood. She took a moment to<br />
admire it, and in that moment the colors ebbed: blood, marble,<br />
floor, and satin dress. <strong>The</strong> man's expensive jacket lost its<br />
fig-like sheen and deteriorated to unremarkable roan.<br />
Desperate, Yocelin surged and took him down. <strong>The</strong>y fell in<br />
the neck of another polished hall. <strong>The</strong> man's head smacked<br />
the gleaming wood that replaced the gleaming marble. It<br />
split at the back and the red rushed out. <strong>The</strong> floors dulled<br />
beneath them and the jacket Yocelin gripped in both hands<br />
devolved from roan to sand. Her dress was a fading blush.<br />
Peacock occasion tables with matching peacock chairs grew<br />
modest. <strong>The</strong> man's hair lost lustre and greyed at the ends,<br />
turning up in sudden dryness.<br />
Only the blood that rushed from his head sustained itself.<br />
Yocelin bit into his cheek (not porcelain, now, but ash) and<br />
feasted on what bane she could. That man, at least, had held<br />
on to old woes. He had bled wet and ripe, and his bitten flesh<br />
had revealed its bright underworld where she took it apart.<br />
<strong>The</strong> world returned as she ate, and when she stood, her vio-