The first child exploded in the parking lot of a nondescript fast food joint in one of the safest, most unassuming parts of our city on a clear summer evening. Beatrix Middleston (five years old, never stopped moving, loved butterflies and Spiderman and her cat, who she named “Dippers”), was skipping to her family’s car, one hand held in her father’s warm grip.

Most people give her a single eye. This is within the rules, so she accepts, with a quiet warning. They nod, not understanding. Others try to be clever, and give her an appendix, or a spleen, or even hair. These she does not bother to warn. They will return soon enough, she knows, offering a hand, or a foot, or even a leg.

Damn Shackleton and damn Amundsen and damn Hillary. All that attention, just for tramping around in the snow? I will show you how a real surveyor finds his glory. I will show you the stink and the viscera of glory. It is bone dust in the air, from a freshly sawed-open skull. Glory’s what I heap out of the brainpan with forceps and scissors and surgical knife.

Welcome to issue #169 of Nightmare Magazine, and welcome to October! In our household, we’ve been preparing for this moment for months, planning, daydreaming, and crafting as we get ready for our annual Halloween party. Here at Nightmare, we have also been preparing a kind of Halloween party—a literary one. We always try to pull out the stops to make our October issue extra fun.

For decades, horror fans were trained to spot her. She wasn’t always the prettiest, but she was responsible, loyal, and polite. She carried her books against her chest, worried about her grades, and was always home by curfew. The “good girl” by the moral arithmetic governing slashers in the 1970s, 1980s, and early 1990s, while masked psychos and possessed killers stalked the streets.