This story contains adult themes and is not appropriate for young or sensitive readers.I met Sarkas at a club called Pose. Rolling on molly, eager to swallow the world, dancing with our hips and ... [+]
Originally published in The Dread Machine
The poltergeists come, one by one, and they do not know one another's faces, only the shapes their bodies etch in the red darkness; the new shapes their bodies carve together, shadow-puppets in the sound-proof chamber. She thinks of the Red Sea as she parts her lips for them, the rains of Mars, the russet soil darkening, soaking as she opens herself up, film clattering, family lives unspooling on the floor. The poltergeists leave the darkroom the way they came: faceless and one by one. Only the photographer remains. She unpins her shirt and skirt, hanging from the taut rope, her underwear pl