When the American saw me sitting on a stone in the river, his mouth opened and closed, a brown trout caught on a fishing line. He kept his eyes on me as he hurried to pull off his socks and shoes, as if I would vanish otherwise. Then he rolled up the cuffs of his pants and waded into the shallow water.

In early 2022, there was a comedian on TikTok, or at least I thought they were a comedian, who said, and I’m paraphrasing here: My biggest fear living in the city today is not crime or something scary happening—it’s actually some person with a camera and a mic running up to me, asking me to do something for a dollar.

Welcome to Issue #139 of Nightmare Magazine! And happy April, a month so delightful Shakespeare was both born and died in it. I like to think that if Shakespeare was working in 2024, he would be writing horror—after all, the genre is full of witches, ghosts, murder, and double-crosses, some of his favorite material.

I think the short story is the most effective form of horror. This is not to say a horror novel can’t be scary or great—there are many great horror novels—but the brevity of the short story serves to heighten the fear because, like a knife in the dark, it’s fast, it’s sudden, it’s unexpected, and you don’t have time to recover once it appears.

The opening line is my riff on Bach’s chorale prelude “Come, Sweet Death,” one of his most profound. The foxfur wings I feel come from Well’s “In the Avu Observatory,” a surrealistic short story where an astronomer in the islands of Indonesia is attacked by a large flying bat-creature.