Hugh J. O'Donnell

“It’s a bit busy, dear,” Jayna’s mother said, adjusting the hologram. “Symbols are like accessories. Take one off before you leave the hose.” Jayna looked out at the planet below and said nothing.
They’d been running this scam on undeveloped worlds for years. Find a pre-industrial civilization, appear as a goddess, do a few ‘miracles,’ then rake in the tithes before ascending again.
This would be Jayna’s first solo mission, and she’d gone all out. Snakes, hourglasses, scrollwork, and a fetching monochromatic motif. With a petulant wave, she dismissed the serpents. Some days she just couldn’t believe her mother.

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When he was named emperor, he imagined the crowds, the palaces, the beautiful life to which he would now be elevated.
He had to imagine it, because the heavy golden crown came down past his forehead and coved his eyes.
“You lead the empire with your clarity of vision, your grace. You mustn’t be distracted,” his attendants admonished.
They led him through his palace, and he heard his footfalls echo through marble hallways. They read him his edicts, and they told him where to sign.
They told him he was doing an outstanding job, and he imagined it was true.

Everyone said the old battlefield was haunted. But the farmer had been delayed getting supplied in town, and the road was full of bandits. She chose between possible ghosts and certain humans.
She was just past the rusting hulk of an old power armor when she spotted the demon. The small, crimson face leered at her from behind a fuselage. She looked closer.
The red face and glowing eyes were a mask. Behind it was a child, shaking in fear.
She brought the girl home, fed and clothed her. And in the morning, the world seemed a little less haunted.

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“Cassandra, tell me the weather,” He demanded of the device perched on his desk. It sat like a round white ball on the nearly black wood, spoiling the effect with trailing wires. He hated the thing, but his wife had insisted upon keeping it. ‘I’m gone half the time, and you need a woman around to tell you what to do,’ she’d joked.
The thing chimed, and a pair of tiny blue lights flared in recognition.
“In Tartarus, it is cloudy. Again. As ever.”
Hades glared at the oracle’s skull. The modern makeover hadn’t done anything to fix her sass.

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The forest was haunted. That was an indisputable fact. The foliage grew into monstrous shapes. Paths seemed to bend in upon themselves unnaturally, and howling wind could be heard even on calm days.
The ghosts were those of trees and the small animals that lived there, and they did not understand how to frighten humans.
Indeed, tourists flocked to the ‘spooky forest,’ to take pictures of trees shaped likes skulls and record the sound of the mysterious wind in the branches.
It wasn’t until a hiker slipped and broke his neck that the ghosts learned what humans really found terrifying.

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