The firewood in the fireplace crackles with a blue spark as outside the wind whips through the tops of the pine trees. I’m alone in the cabin. I brought three books, enough coffee, and the false hope that

It’s 3:40 in the morning. Screen number four in Ward C flickers with a shower of gray snow before settling down. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in the frame: the isolated room, the bed bolted to the

The wet asphalt swallows the car’s headlights as the broken line on the highway repeats like a racing heartbeat. It’s 3:12. My eyes burn with exhaustion, but the stale music on the radio is the only thing

​El café de la oficina siempre sabe a metal, a papel quemado y a las horas muertas que se me escurren entre los dedos. Tres días sin dormir. Mis ojos no pesan, me arden, como si tuviera cristales molidos

The wound on my forearm won't close. It’s an irregular groove, a mark that lacks the color of living flesh, bearing instead the hue of damp ash. Sometimes, when the silence of this house becomes so heavy

¡Hola! Soy Ángela Rossi, escritora argentina. Me dedico a crear historias de terror psicológico, fantasía oscura, fantasía romántica, policiales y el universo omegaverse de hombres lobo. Comencé mi camino