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Transhouse of Horror Vol 1

Hello, welcome. Come in, come in.

We got quite the show in store, however it will require some effort on your part.

Calm down, the frights haven’t begun. You’ll have to guide yourself on this journey and read.

Please, this isn’t supposed to be scary yet. Just breathe, in and out; drop your shoulders, unclench your jaw and ready your eyes for three frightening tales of trans terror!!!!

Princess and the piercing

Many Halloweens have come and gone in Liv’s lifetime, she has dawned equally as many uninspired costumes for the day; Ninja Turtles, Pirates, and Waldo - some of the masks she put on; while a much tighter, porous one hid her true self everyday. As those her age bloomed, her plant grew yet its petals remained shut. She had no reason to show off what she despised and so hid in her shell of a body.

Head huddled under hood, of the baggy black Blink-182 sweater so often camouflaging any shape, she walked past a row of shoppes one day each narrowly in her view out of her semi-obstructed peripherals and above her lowered head. First a lingerie store, a frightful sight, it swelled a longing in her, a monster she feared, disgusted by her need she dared not stare a moment longer. Next a salon, home to a community whom she sought entrance. The little flower knew how to bloom but had been to terrified to do so.

Compelled by these commercial confrontations she entered the third store “Brick and Mortal”. A witch shop, Liv, thought would surely have a potion for her. The flickeringly lit, multi-scented store had a dizzying number of magical aids on its shelf and, to the suddenly captivated glare of the Beauty, a tall, full women whose features luminated the shadowy space, behind a counter. This, she believed was someone who could provide what she sought.

The woman, April, her wisdom many years beyond her youthful face, intuitively knew what Liv needed. For the oily, sparsely haired yet unkept face before her she grabbed an ancient sheet of parchment, a metallic quill of animal ink and inscribed a map and incantation, then sent the wary traveller on her way.

At this alchemist Liv found the medicine to transform her. Slowly it took hold day-by-day her face lost its greasy glaze and dark patchy hair, her cheekbone’s emerged, hair softened then cascaded down her slender back. She fell in love with herself, and others fell in love with what she had blossomed into.

While her newfound looks rose with her each day, remembering the increasingly intricate step to her morning routine was challenging. Deodorant, hormones, jewellery, earing’s - holding open fresh cosmetic wounds in her lobes, all within arms reach of her bed yet completely out of mind.

Her closet was briming. Anachronistic rags among soft silks, smooth blends, and curvaceous cuts; clothes she hadn’t worn in a while yet remembers as comfortable and new fabrics worthy of the bourgeoning beauty they draped. Gracefully prancing along her floor, Liv thew her wardrobe on and off with abandon, half in euphoric glee of the body she possessed, half in disarray that nothing quite complemented her physical appearance, transcendently. This part of the routine she never failed to do.

The changes took greater and greater effect each day, so did her confidence. Reassured with every glance, her ascending beauty would never faulter, out of her years deep hole she walked, up a glass staircase.

A priest upon reading her tale from his zealous lectern might sermon about vanity but catholic shame never crossed her mind. So carefree and raptured by the serenity her looks provided, Liv hadn’t given much fret to the realization earlier in the day that she had forgot to put earrings in. She had, without trouble, reasoned to wear earrings through the night to make up for the full day the stints hadn’t been in place.

Around midnight when the princess visited the porcelain throne one last time before bed. Impatient, she washed her hands in lukewarm water. She glanced into the mirror, looking back was a face, her post with which her self worth leaned upon.

Remembering the missing earrings adjacent to that face, Liv grabbed the nearest pair she found, adjusted the first between her fingers just right and pushed it into her ear. She took a nervous beat. Every other time she put earrings on, they went through; this post went into the piercing.

It shoved against cartilage; it was as if a diamond wouldn’t pierce back through. Adjusting the angles, yanking the lobe, desperately she forced the post into her ear. Blood swelled, its pressure matching hers.

Slowly it set in, the realization of temporality. Beauty was a lie, a deception, a veil pulled over and now ripped off. Paintings had become an illusion of the canvas underneath. She took a step back. Her glass staircase was cracking - she was fragile, a feeling unfelt since starting hormones.

An accessory of her womanhood, stripped from her. Her head shook in disbelief of reality - to go backwards was unthinkable.

Her heart raced, she tried to steady her ear enough to push the post through a redden mound consuming her lobe. Able to get the post through the front of the piercing, into the cartilage she wiggled it around. Fumbling her sanity, she couldn’t think of a resolve other than to keep pushing, her climb out of her hole had been a straight line, so too would this earing go through.

She pushed the earring through on her left side with ease, a relief, maybe her beauty wasn’t lost. Picking up her other earing, she brought it back to the enflamed ear, the original hole barely surfacing. Into the cartilage the faux diamond capped post went, not so much scraping the innards as prodding, a stir stick in an ear lobe martini.

‘No dumb ear is going to rob me of all I lean on’ she cried.

Through an opening half the posts size, it’s point birthed, the backside hole dilated, and the rest of the post came through. Putting the backing on Liv collapsed, resting easy on her glass stairs high above a chasm she could once again ignore, her beauty intact and confidence only slightly bruised, thanks to pure hearted stubbornness.


30% off, how could I pass up the opportunity, hours of internet shopping had revealed their bounty. Rustling bushes in the yard tried to pull my attention away but the sale like the day was nearly at an end. Since the scrolling began, day had turned to night, shadow crept all the way up to my windowsill. Wind, I assured myself, it was just wind. I, a lonesome woman, was seated on the living room couch facing the backyard through double pained windows, three wide, porch lights off, streetlights too distant, my imagination was the only thing illuminating the yard. Half a mind to the bush I got up to grab my wallet, in the fruit bowl on a kitchen counter along with three sets of house keys and two other wallets.

My approaching credit limit was the last cause of anxiety. I had long since outgrown the nightlights of my boyhood but never came to peace with darkness. The rustling continued, rhythmically unsuited to the natural flow of winds. After settling back down on the couch I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and slowly moved towards the window, assuring myself a better look would reveal something to calm the mind.

A frightened peak into the night did nothing to abate. A fairly open yard with a porch during the day, the ill-lighted outdoors created pockets of darkness through which my perception of potential dangers was limited.

Ignorance is bliss and ignorance was closing the curtains. A pace around the house, relocking every door, gave the impression of lunacy but was right for my sanity. I took a beat to evaluate and remembered I’d barely drank any water since the morning, the cupboard creaked open, the glass gave the impression of an unsheathed blade, the pipes rumbled below the floor as I turned on the faucet, and the ice-cold water sent a chill down my spine.

I was certain the noises, though they persisted loud enough to enter a quiet house, weren’t malicious. Settled, I walked back across the kitchen, my only view into the night was the back door separating the living room from kitchen.

Suddenly a new noise entered the ominous symphony, cree-roosh. A deer in the headlights I paused in front of the uncurtained door as I tried to place the sound in my head – its origin, where and more importantly what. My mind drew blank and filled the void with machinations all of nefarious intent. In a brief moment of potentially lethal curiosity, I flipped the porch lights on and ran three steps, ripping a curtain panel open and peered out once again. I only saw a more familiar yard, slightly luminated.

I took a sigh of cautious relief. With a long breath not fully complete, a loud piercing ring came from behind me, clearing me two inches off the ground in fright. My phone’s alarm, to remind me of the ending sale. I had completely forgotten what I was doing just 10 minutes ago. I closed the curtains and sprinted to clear my alarm before it awoke my parents. It was their house after all. 5 minutes of the sale remained and all I had to do to secure these leggings was enter my card.

My thoughts away from the yard, its bushes, the unidentified noise, and the several entrances to the house, I opened my wallet. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw him.

I needed to escape but I was encapsulated by fear. I glanced more directly, and he was staring right back at me, eyes dead. Only a thin layer separated him and I, almost a year as well. My driver’s license and its old photo and name were still slotted in my wallet. The person I’d been trying to escape, confronted me. I threw the wallet against the wall, leggings be dammed and ran up the stairs, its u-shape provided ample wall space for sentimental family pictures. In a graduation cap, then polo shirt amongst extended family, then in church; through these settings he kept ascending the stairs with me. No matter how many other pictures and people in them covered the enclosed walls, his glaring eyes always met mine.

I reached my childhood bedroom, a space I’d removed him from and slammed the door. In my sparsely lit room, tucked under my sheets, knee to my chin, I anticipated his knock at my door. There was no escaping I was doomed to his haunting.


That mystery noise bounced me off my mattress. It had come outside my window, with the killer inside the house any mystery would help get my mind off him. As I peered out, I saw them, two masked guys running around. Plump raccoons chasing each other along fencing and drainpipes.

Mad Scientists are no fans of autonomy

Common wisdom holds that Christmas is the spookiest holiday, Halloween may offer frights, but it’s eclipsed by the winter holidays home invasions, mythical creatures, and wishes bound in karmic high jinks.

The Leiter’s slept sound Christmas night at the 4:30 position on a cul-de-sac. Mother and father in the master, comfortable in what they’d be able to provide of their kids presents. Down the hall, decorated in tinsel, pictures, and framed poem expounding on the virtues of familial genders, snoozed daughter Abigail. On the other side of her wall was their son Max, who went to bed every night envious of her sister – really any girl.

I, beast now overslept beauty, approached my family, sat in the warmed living room, hesitantly, slow enough that they had time to turn before I was halfway to the couches. My mom’s eyes caught me; She wasn’t looking back at mine but my body. Taking note of my disappeared gawky limbs and barbed facial hair. Her surprises inspired my father and sister, with their back to me, to whip their heads. Jovial faces transfigured into pure shock.

My mom came closer in a demeanor that froze me. Her eyes began tracing my hair now flowing past its awkward just-above-the-shoulders length to my mid back. For half a minute she stood stunned, changing the angle of her head as if it would offer a better look or clarity.

Staring as if deciphering a magic eye, she could recognize her child but was getting dizzy trying to see both images at once.

Finally, she spoke.

“What has HAPPENED to you. oh my goodness. my son. Is that you?” I tried to puzzle her jumbled words together, the lack of clarity caused me to take a half step back as my father and sister arrived. All speechless, gathered in the main hall, we stood; Abigail in wonder of our sudden fraternal resemblance, my mother in what appeared to be the first stages of grief, father in pompous confusion, and I taken aback by their lack of open arms.

“What. Why did you do this. How?” my father broke silence, as if I could offer the answers.

“No, but like, seriously, how” Abigail said with an air of curiosity. She shared my mothers eyes, but they were offering a much kinder glare, fascinated by my new body.

My mother continued her stern look seeking an answer to her question.

“I … I’m really not sure, I think magic” I verbally shrugged “I made a wish and woke up like this”. My excitement was dashed when I looked more like the women in my family than the girl I dreamed up. Having been through many Christmas mornings, I’m compassionate to the fact most presents won’t be exactly what you asked for.

Skipping right past the potential of magic, to question my desire they continued down the W5H.

“Why” they all joined forming pieces of a whole word. What started as my family on the couches had evolved into a senate committee hearing on my transness as they positioned to encircle me. The main hall, littered in seasonal decorations welcoming guest was becoming unfriendly.

“Why would you want this?” My mother questioned in a statement more clearly meant as a declaration. “Why would my son want to be a girl?” Another leading question from my mother had me hoping the other two would act as judge and end her line of questioning.

No reprieve came, I sank into myself, I had thought about this moment many times, though I never assembled the perfect words. I figured my new form would be a more accredited vessel for my truth than the dark timbre of a post-pubescent boy. My family saw my fantasy as a costume on top of the son they’d spent seventeen years with.

Shock was still very present on their faces, though supplanted by confusion which itself was turning into ire at my silence. Transparent in all of this, was my parents fear, they had never considered I could become their daughter one day.

I had never prodded my families views on trans people to avoid suspicion, but I could feel the pitchforks and torches accumulating. My parents cared about me more as their son, than child. When I severed from that role so did most of their love.

Now I was a monster, they birthed me but not into this. Fear and anger swirled, the remaining ounce of love they had for their offspring prevented it from turning to hate. Their compounding emotions didn’t prevent action, my father left for the kitchen, my mother, hand to forehead, sat on the stairs – only a few days away from somberly flipping through photo books.

Abigail, her silent acceptance, and I walked to the couches and talked about a great many things as I always hoped. In the back of my mind was the physical absence of my parents, mad scientists gone off to the far reaches of the castle to decide the fate of their little monster, their own horrific creation.



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