Editor’s Note: Thank you for all of the wonderfully spooky story submissions this year. It’s always a difficult choice to make, but we appreciate your time and effort. In addition to the story winners listed here, honorable mentions can be found here.
First Place
The Festering
By Erin Lovett
My back was killing me. I was working the door at the 40 Watt, balancing uncomfortably on a wobbly bar stool as costumed college girls danced past.
I was a cool girl once, I wanted to cry after them like some desperate crone, Now look at me!
Instead, I turned back to the Flagpole in front of me, skimming the words until halfway down the page my heart stopped.
Someone was fucking with me. Had to be.
I read the words again.
Flagpole Calendar Pick
October 31st
The Festering: Reunion Show
Flicker Theatre & Bar | Midnight | FREE!
The Festering, local all-female punk group from the aughts, reunited for one night only! Their 2004 album earned them national acclaim before they dropped off the map… and now they’re back!
The newspaper trembled in my hands. I could still remember their Flagpole cover—Emma, Raz and Jess, splattered with fake blood, grinning wildly. The text below them read: “You can’t stop The Festering.”
And it was true. No one knew that better than me. I saw them play every weekend—clubs, house shows, that weird-ass basement called The Secret Squirrel. It was a neon montage of sweat, ripped tights, glitter, skinny jeans, cigarettes. I watched them sell out the Georgia Theatre, sign with a major label, head out on tour. It all happened so fast, and then it was over.
Which is how I knew that there was no reunion show. Because The Festering was over. No one knew that better than me.
I glanced at my phone. 11:43 p.m. One of the sound guys was leaning against a parking meter, smoking.
“Can you watch the door real quick?” I asked. “I have to grab something from Flicker.”
He looked pissed, but I was already gone.
Flicker was only a couple doors down, and I could already tell it was packed out. I kept my head down as I wove through the crowd, finally making my way inside to the red velvet curtain that led to the stage. I pushed it aside, stepping into the dark.
Someone went heavy on the fog machine—I could barely make out my own hand in front of my face. But where was everybody? The room was empty, pitch black save the daggers of red stage lights piercing through the mist. The only sounds were the distant clatter of drums being set up, an amp humming, guitar feedback.
“Hello?” I called out. My heart was pounding in my chest. As if answering, the mist parted, revealing the stage where three bodies hunched over amps and pedals turned all at once to look at me. Emma. Raz. Jess. They grinned wildly, blood splattered across their clothes.
“We knew you’d make it,” Raz spoke in a choked voice like she was about to cry, or scream.
The mist began to settle and I saw them more clearly—the rot, 20 years of it, eating away at their cheeks, the bone protruding from their forearms where skin and muscle had long ago decomposed. A clump of Emma’s hair fell out and fluttered onto the stage. She watched it with sad interest.
“This isn’t happening,” I sputtered, taking a step backward.
“You never missed a show,” Jess slurred through a mouth of half-rotted teeth.
“Even when we went on tour,” Emma spoke as she wound a guitar cable over her skeletal fingers.
I remembered their last show. Bowery Ballroom, sold-out crowd. The best they’d ever played.
“We saw you that night,” Raz went on. Her skinny jeans were matted with blood, a jagged femur protruding from a hole above the knee.
They had been packing up their van. My car idling in the dark behind them.
“Creeper,” Jess spat. The smell of rotting flesh burned my nostrils. Emma was stepping off the stage now, Jess right behind her.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” I whispered, unable to move as they grew closer.
Their van had sped away. They were trying to lose me. I couldn’t let them.
“You cut us off,” Jess hissed.
The roads had been so slick, and the van veered left all too quickly, suddenly spinning over and over.
“You killed us,” Raz whispered, so close now. She held a cymbal, its sharp golden edge glinting in the red stage lights as she lifted it over her head.
They surrounded me. I could see clear into their skulls where their noses had been.
You can’t stop The Festering. No one knew that better than me.
Second Place
Kirby and the Coven
By Blake Buffington
Kirby Smart keeps to the shadows, creeping along Milledge Avenue, his thick shoulders hunched and his head low.
The fire station’s massive clock looms overhead: 2 a.m. The witching hour. Five Points is deserted—just like the old crone from the Botanical Garden said it would be. He watches the streetlights go from green to yellow to red and back again, his typically steely expression betraying a hint of apprehension. He swallows hard. It’s time.
He walks to the center of the intersection, pulling a piece of chalk from his pocket with a shaky hand. He kneels, drawing a pentagram on the asphalt. He wipes sweat from his brow, squinting at his palm where an incantation is scrawled:
Oh, Coven of Five Points, hear my plea: Keep me the king of the SEC!
He speaks the words into the cold night air, then waits with bated breath.
A plume of crimson smoke erupts from the gutter and five witches emerge—black cloaks, pointy hats, the works. They are gorgeous and terrifying. The tallest of them speaks: “You have summoned the Coven of Five Points, mortal. State your business!” Before Kirby can respond, the other witches chime in:
“Oh! That’s not just any mortal!”
“That’s Kirby Smart, head coach of the Georgia Bulldogs football team!”
“Two-time national champion!”
“The SEC’s preeminent visor enthusiast!”
Kirby scrambles to his feet, eager to explain himself. “Ladies, I wanna thank y’all for meeting me here tonight,” he says. “My request is simple—I’d like to put a hex on the rest of the SEC. I don’t want nothing bad to happen to them or anything. Just make them less good at football is all.”
“Coach Smart, you’re a talented man.”
“Your abilities are renowned even in our dark circles.”
“You’re the most feared head coach in all of college football now that that cretin Nick Saban is out of the picture.”
“You outscored your opponents 562–219 over the course of the 2024 season.”
“Surely you don’t need a hex when you’ve got Carson Beck under center?”
“I just want a little insurance is all!” Kirby cries. “Y’all have no idea the pressure we’re under. Football is hard! People think it’s just throwing a ball around and hitting people, but there’s a lot of strategy involved!”
The witches huddle up to discuss his request, hissing at one another in hushed tones. After a moment, they part ranks to render a verdict:
“You understand what you’re asking for?”
“A hex of this magnitude won’t come cheap.”
“Not cheap at all.”
“Are you prepared to pay the price for what you seek, Coach Smart?”
“The ultimate price?”
Kirby nods vigorously, his floppy hair damp with sweat.
“Yes. Whatever you want,” he says. “You know I make $13 million a year, right?”
The witches erupt in a fit of laughter. They double over, holding their sides, cackling madly. The sound echoes eerily in the deserted intersection. Finally, they collect themselves:
“Oh, sweet Kirby.”
“He’s really quite innocent, no?”
“Just darling!”
“We don’t want your money, Coach Smart.”
“No. We require something much more valuable…”
Coach Smart takes his place behind the podium for a postgame press conference. They’ve won the day’s game handily, but it’s been a tough week. The crone from the Botanical Garden leaked his meeting with the Coven of Five Points to the media. Coach Smart knows he’s got some hard questions headed his way.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he says, scanning the room for a friendly face. “Let’s take some questions.”
His eyes land on Jim, a plucky young reporter with the Athens Banner-Herald who always plays nice at these things. But it’s not Jim who gets the first question. Instead, the microphone goes to Clark, a seasoned journalist (and genuine tool) writing for the AJC.
“Coach Smart,” Clark begins, “any comment on recent rumors that you summoned a coven of witches in Five Points and asked them to put a hex on 15 SEC football programs in exchange for your mortal soul and the title to your 2024 Ford add F-150?”
Kirby snickers. It’s an absurd question, but he expected this. He’s prepared. He adjusts his visor and clears his throat.
“That’s an absurd question,” he responds. “Y’all oughta know me better than that. It was only 14 programs. I wouldn’t waste a good hex on Florida.”
Third Place
The Last Call at The Manhattan Cafe
By Joy Ovington
Margot had always been drawn to the Manhattan Cafe. Tonight felt different, like the bar had been waiting for her. In her 14 years in Athens, she had carved out a life of some sort. But the Manhattan—a shadowy, timeworn dive tucked into Hot Corner—felt like the only place she fit in. It was her sanctuary.
The walls of the Manhattan held the weight of history, from its days as a Black-owned restaurant in the ‘50s to the present, quirky, dimly lit time capsule, littered with eclectic memorabilia. The vintage jukebox by the restrooms, stacked with records from Athens’ heyday, was always loaded with the same music spanning decades. She loved that jukebox. Every time she walked in the door, she felt the comforting vibe of continuity.
Tonight, though, the air was thick with something else. It wasn’t just the usual hum of voices or the familiar smell of popcorn. The room felt alive. Standing at the bar, she took a long sip of her drink. Les Paul and Mary Ford’s “How High the Moon” began to play. She lowered her glass on the bar with a thud.
She knew that record wasn’t in the jukebox. A favorite of hers. Her mother had sung that song to her as a child.
Joey the bartender was quietly washing glasses. A few regulars nursed their drinks. She felt the walls closing around her.
Ort’s voice broke the silence. “Golly! Back again, huh?”
Margot froze. She knew that familiar gravelly voice. William Orten Carlton—Ort—was an Athens icon, a walking encyclopedia of music history who practically lived in bars, this one in particular. She tried talking to him once, but Ort didn’t care for much more than regaling stories of beer and history, especially Athens and music history. She doubted he remembered her.
But Ort had been dead for three years.
Her hand trembled as she turned toward the jukebox. There he was—disheveled, glasses sliding down his nose, wearing one of her favorite Manhattan T-shirts. The shirt showed an image from one of the iconic paintings hanging inside—the trucker with the specter of Jesus reaching through the window to pull the horn. “Manhattan Cafe—Guiding Athens safely through the storm since 1995,” it read.
Ort looked just as he had when he was alive, but something about him was off—his face was pale, his eyes too dark. She swallowed hard.
“You think you belong here, don’t you?” Ort’s voice dripped with mockery. “Took you long enough to see what this place really is.”
The song repeated. Somewhere there’s heaven, how high the moon…
The light of a neon sign waved. She squinted, glancing at a plaque—dedicated to John Seawright, the poet who used to hold court here. She’d heard the stories of his wisdom and Guinness-soaked ramblings. His stool, once kept upside down in tribute, was now back in its place, but something about it seemed… wrong.
Ort leaned against the jukebox, fingers grazing the buttons. “John’s still here, you know,” he sneered. “Just like me. Always has been.”
Her eyes flicked to Seawright’s stool. Was it… occupied? An icy prickle coiled at the base of her neck.
The song’s loop grew louder, the melody warping into a grotesque echo.
“You stay here too long, you get stuck,” Ort sneered. “Like Seawright. Like me. But it’s not so bad, is it? A place where the past never really leaves.”
Her breath hitched. She glanced at the clock—1:55 a.m. Last call was near, but something told her the bar wouldn’t be closing tonight. Not for her.
Margot’s legs felt heavy, rooted to the floor. Her eyes locked with Ort’s. 2 a.m. came and went. But no one moved. The jukebox droned on as she twisted her head. The door was locked. Of course it was. Her pulse quickened as she realized no one had left—they were still here—silent, still, their faces frozen in eerie half-smiles.
Time has always been strange here. And now, standing at the edge of understanding, the truth revealed itself, not as some monstrous trap but as a cage—a cage made of history, of memories, of songs that never stopped playing. The bar had its ghosts, and now she was one of them.As the song’s final refrain repeated—how high the moon, how high the moon—Margot realized with a cold, creeping dread that she had become part of the Manhattan Cafe’s story, another ghost in its endless twilight.
Like what you just read? Support Flagpole by making a donation today. Every dollar you give helps fund our ongoing mission to provide Athens with quality, independent journalism.
