#NGHW 9 Short Stories

These are summaries of the top 9 short stories.

1.  Echoes in the Oasis – Sumiko SaulsonIn a post-apocalyptic world where transmogrified beings, merged together by a eugenics program are the norm, a young girl is destined to save the world from demon-infested patients.Hero: is Imani, an African-American girl.

   The sturgoid (sturgeon with mutated wings) and Echoes are the monster

   ---

2. NightmarescapesIn a town…where nightmares are solid, a mother is trying to find a way out for the good of her young daughter. She has to fight ghost-like creatures that can control her nightmares and a Spider monsters from her own imagination.

   Hero: An African-American mother.

   Monster: Spider Nazi with her ex-husband’s head.

   ---

   #3 Lost Cause

   An abused runaway girl falls into a cruel relationship with a drug addict until her repentant mother summons a protective guardian.

   Hero: Mother or daughter.

   Monster: Rapist or Lion Monster

   ---

   #4. Other One for the Mural

   A homeless, mute girl checks into a shelter and then we discover she has an entity attached to her that likes killing people for art.

   Hero: Mute girl.

   Monster: Smiler. An entity that is either killing people or causing the girl to kill, or is it a multiple personality?

   ---

   #5. The Guardian

   A man and wife are having an argument in their car at night when they swerve and crash. The woman tries to get help for her injured husband as a monster stalks them.

   Hero: Native American woman

   Monster: The Laughing Man, a legendary creature who stalks you while you sleep.

   ---

   #6. Nestling

   In a post-storm disaster town, a police woman is searching for survivors when she discovers a little girl in an abandoned house. Following her, she falls into an underground hole and is faced with a scary tree-creature.

   Hero: Native American Police woman.

   Monster: Tree creature.

   ---

   #7. Whiskey Noir

   A local PI is pulled into a frightening situation with a local bar owner who is being threatened by something they can’t define.

   Hero: African-American Bar owner.

   Monster: Some sort of shadow monster, or the bar itself?

   ---

   #8. Mum Goes back to Pakistan

   A young girl visits her mother in the hospital who claims a spirit is coming to get her. The girl thinks it’s all in her mother’s head until she witnesses his presence herself.

   Hero: Young East Indian girl

   Monster: Nahim, a creepy monster/spirit.

   ---

   #9 The End Steps Forth

   In a world taken over by large-mouthed aliens who want to eat the natives, a family tries to survive.

   Hero: Alien mother and wife.

   Monster: Drumpf – creepy large-mouthed aliens

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Runners Up in Audiodrama Challenge

These are the top two runners-up for the Audiodrama Challenge

2nd Place

CONSUMPTION BY JONATHAN FORTIN

SFX: OFFICE BACKGROUND NOISE—PHONES RINGING, PAPERS SHUFFLING, ETC.

AMY: …No, sir, this isn’t the phone number you want for that. You want—I’m sorry, sir, I know it’s very frustrating. I want to help you, but the phone number you want is—OK, fine, hang up.

DORI: Another irate customer?

AMY: Yeah, nothing but angry people all day. Is it always like this?

DORI: Not always. Don’t worry, Amy. You’ll get used to it. You’ll be part of the team sooner than you think!

SFX: PHONE RINGS.

AMY: Hello?

SFX: STATIC HUMMING FROM THE PHONE, FOLLOWED BY A STRANGE GROWLING NOISE.

AMY: Anyone there?

VOICE ON PHONE: We can smell you.

AMY: What?

SFX: CLICK. LINE GOES DEAD.

DORI: Are you all right?

AMY: (NERVOUS) Fine…I’m fine.

SFX: FOOTSTEPS IN AN EMPTY STREET. AMY IS WALKING HOME NOW. IT’S A QUIET NIGHT AND EVERY NOISE SEEMS ESPECIALLY LOUD.

AMY: (MUTTERING TO HERSELF) No need to get worked up, Amy. It was just a weird phone call. Aaaand now of course I’m in a deserted street, but no need to get worked up about that either. You always walk home this way. You’ve never been mugged before and you probably won’t be now.

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: …Yeah, not going to answer that.

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: Really hope this isn’t an important call from work though…

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: Augh, fine! Hello?

SFX: STATIC HUM. THEN A CREEPY CLICKING, THROBBING, WRIGGLING NOISE APPEARS, FOLLOWED BY THE SAME DISTORTED GROWL AS BEFORE.

VOICE ON PHONE: We can hear you.

AMY: (NERVOUS) Who is this?

SFX: LINE GOES DEAD. THEN RUNNING FOOTSTEPS

AMY: (PANTS AS SHE RUNS)

SFX: DOOR SLAMS.

AMY: (BREATHES HEAVILY IN RELIEF, HAVING JUST GOTTEN HOME)

BLAKE: Honey, are you all right?

AMY: I don’t want to talk about it. Is there any beer in the fridge?

BLAKE: Put some in an hour ago. Want me to order a pizza?

AMY: Do whatever you want, Blake.

BLAKE: Well…if you don’t want pizza, I could make something else.

AMY: (OVERWHELMED) Blake, I just don’t want to have to think about it, okay? (PAUSE) Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. Today’s just been awful.

BLAKE: It’s okay. I know you’re having a hard time adjusting.

AMY: It’s not just that—though that doesn’t help. God, maybe it is that. Maybe I’m just going crazy.

BLAKE: Oh, honey, don’t say that. You’re not crazy.

AMY: I’ve only been at this office for two weeks and I already feel like I’m losing my mind. Waking up at six in the morning so I can be there at seven…having no energy when I get home…and the people there! It’s like they have no life outside that office. All they talk about is work. I’m the first one out the door, and I’m always the last one there, even though I get there early!

BLAKE: Nobody’s ever late?

AMY: Nobody! Maybe they fire them if they’re late even once. No pressure or anything.

BLAKE: I’m sorry. I wish we could live off of my waiting tips alone.

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

BLAKE: Honey, are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

AMY: (MORTIFIED) Blake…there’s someone out there.

BLAKE: What?

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: Look out the window…I just saw something move.

BLAKE: It’s too dark for me to see anything.

AMY: I can’t either, but I definitely just saw something move!

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: Oh, God, it must be whoever keeps calling me!

BLAKE: Amy, slow down! What’s going on?

AMY: I think I have a stalker.

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: Someone’s been calling my phone all day. And I think they’re outside right now, watching us.

BLAKE: Jesus, really? OK, don’t answer it. Just turn it off. We’ll call the police.

AMY: Do you really think they’ll listen?

BLAKE: It can’t hurt to try. And then I’ll order a pizza. We’ll even put pineapple on it, you heathen.

SFX: PHONE RUMBLES.

AMY: You know what? We need to end this.

BLAKE: Amy, wait—

SFX: CLICK. STATIC HUMMING.

AMY: Leave me alone, you creep. I’m calling the police.

VOICE ON PHONE: We can see you.

AMY: Can you see my middle finger?

SFX: LINE GOES DEAD.

AMY: Ugh…I sounded way more tough than I actually feel.

BLAKE: Well, I know I’d be scared if I was a stalker.

A PAUSE AS WE MOVE TO LATER, TO THE BEDROOM.

BLAKE: Okay, I’ve locked all the doors and closed all the blinds. Officer Dormer is standing outside. She’ll be keeping watch in case anyone comes, but in all likelihood her presence will be a deterrent in and of itself.

AMY: Blake…thank you. I still don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight, but thank you.

BLAKE: Is that a letter opener in your hand?

AMY: Just in case.

BLAKE: Amy, repeat after me: it’s going to be OK.

AMY: It’s going to be OK.

BLAKE: I’m going to go brush my teeth. I’ll just be in the bathroom. Try to get some sleep.

AMY: Heh…sleep…right.

SFX: SOFT FOOTSTEPS AS BLAKE LEAVES THE ROOM. BLANKETS SHIFT AS AMY TRIES TO SLEEP. SHE SIGHS.

AMY: Just…need to try to fall asleep. It’s going to be OK. It’s going to be OK…

SFX: A LOUD, SUDDEN STATIC ERUPTION IN THE ROOM.

VOICE: WE CAN TOUCH YOU.

AMY: (SCREAMS) Let go of me!

SFX: BREATH, SLITHERING, WRIGGLING WORMS, THROBBING, HISSING.

AMY: BLAKE! BLAKE, HELP!

SFX: DOOR SLAMS OPEN.

BLAKE: What the hell is that?!

AMY: I don’t know! I’m trying to slash it but it’s like cutting through air!

BLAKE: Amy, get away! It’s growing teeth!

VOICE: WE CAN TASTE YOU!

SFX: A WET CRUNCH.

AMY: (SCREAMS IN PAIN) MY ARM!

VOICE: (GIGGLES, CHEWS) Taste you…

AMY: For God’s sake, get it off me!

VOICE: (LICKING, SMACKING LIPS) Let us eat you…

BLAKE: It looks like it’s made of shadows…Amy, I have an idea!

VOICE: Join us…become one with us…each piece we eat will become more of us…

BLAKE: I’ve got my lighter. I’m gonna set it on fire!

AMY: Hurry!

SFX: FIRE BURNING.

VOICE: (SHRIEKS IN PAIN)

BLAKE: It’s burning!

AMY: Blake, watch out! It’s moving to you!

SFX: ANOTHER WET CRUNCH.

BLAKE: (LETS OUT A HOWL OF PAIN)

SFX: A LOUDER, MORE SUBSTANTIAL CRUNCH CUTS BLAKE’S SCREAM SHORT. HIS HEAD HAS BEEN CRUSHED IN.

AMY: (SCREAMING, HEARTBROKEN) BLAKE! NO!

OFFICER DORMER: Freeze!

SFX: GUNSHOTS.

VOICE: (LETS OUT ONE LOUD FINAL SHRIEK THAT FADES INTO SILENCE)

SFX: FOR A MOMENT, SILENCE. THEN: BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. IT’S A HEART MONITOR. THE SOUND CONTINUES THROUGHOUT THIS FINAL SCENE.

AMY: (WAKING UP) Ugh…

OFFICER DORMER: How do you feel, Miss Sanchez?

AMY: Bad. How long have I been out?

DORMER: A few nights. After you passed out, I got you to the hospital. That…thing took your arm.

AMY: And Blake? Is he…?

DORMER: I’m sorry.

AMY: (SOBS QUIETLY)

DORMER: (NERVOUS) Miss Sanchez…there’s something else.

AMY: What is it? What do you have there?

DORMER: Well…I tried calling your work to tell them what happened. The line was disconnected, so I went over there to tell them in person. It was the strangest thing. The building…had burned down.

AMY: What?

DORMER: That’s not all. I dug through the rubble…and I found this.

SFX: UNWRAPPING OF CLOTH. AMY GASPS.

AMY: …Is that…?

BLAKE: Just bones. But it’s holding a letter opener.

AMY: Officer…that doesn’t make any sense. Why would my arm be in the ashes of that building?

---

3rd Place

TURN UP AND DIE BY HARRY HUSBANDS

SOUND: THE SOUND OF A BUSY BAR GOES ON IN THE BACKGROUND FOR THE ENTIRETY

NARRATOR: A woman sits alone in a brightly-lit bar. Her dress is torn and frames a gaping wound that bleeds on her left shoulder. She is sipping a beer. A man sits down opposite. The back of his head is open and red like a flower in bloom.

MALE: Can I, like, sit here?

FEMALE: (UNINTERESTED) Go for it…

MALE: Nice wound. What were you on today?

FEMALE: Psycho remake.

MALE: Really?

FEMALE: Yeah.

MALE: Nice. I love the original. My mom was gonna to be in it.

FEMALE: (INTERESTED) Yeah?

MALE: Yeah. She didn’t make the audition though… couldn’t bleed enough on the day.

FEMALE: I hear that. The thin-blooded always get the best roles. It’s total bullshit.

MALE: Yeah…

FEMALE: Anyway, what about you?

MALE: Oh, I don’t know. Like, some zombie thing.

FEMALE: I’m guessing machete?

MALE: Baseball bat, actually. What’s your name?

FEMALE: Female Victim Number 12.

MALE: I’m Male Victim Number 5.

FEMALE: Nice to meet you, Number 5.

MALE: And it’s been good to meet your name. I mean to meet you. It’s been… er… good.

FEMALE: (UNCOMFORTABLY) Thanks…

SILENCE: FOR A MOMENT

MALE: You still look good for it though.

FEMALE: Huh?

MALE: I said you still look good for it.

FEMALE: I don’t…

MALE: The wound.

FEMALE: Oh…

MALE: You still look…

FEMALE: Oh, right, thanks.

SILENCE: FOR A MOMENT

MALE: Anyway, you want a drink?

FEMALE: Sure. Thanks.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS LEAVING THE TABLE

SOUND: A PHONE BEING DIALLED

FEMALE: Hey… No, I’m at the Victim Lounge. There’s a guy here… Well I don’t know if he’s new or not, but it doesn’t seem like he knows. Well, I can’t… Because, he’s buying me a drink! I know. He’s coming back, I’ll see you later.

SOUND: THE BEEP OF THE END OF A CALL

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING THE TABLE

MALE: Here you go.

FEMALE: Thank you so much. Listen, Number 5, I need to tell you—

MALE: No, no. I’m sorry. Really. I hope you don’t think I’ve bad intentions. You must be sick of it. Just a friendly drink and that’s it. Is that alright?

FEMALE: Y-yeah… that’s cool. A friendly drink. Cheers.

SOUND: GLASSES CLINKING TOGETHER

MUSIC: CLASSICAL GUITAR STARTS UP IN THE BACKGROUND AND CONTINUES FOR THE DURATION

FEMALE: So you new to the Victim Lounge?

MALE: Yeah. I’ve just never really drank after work before. I go straight home usually.

FEMALE: What started you?

MALE: Huh?

FEMALE: What started you drinking?

MALE: I’d rather not talk about it…

FEMALE: That’s alr—

MALE: My mom… (SIGH) She died. Decapitated while being decapitated.

FEMALE: Oh, that’s terrible.

MALE: Yeah. They brought in the Victim Act because of it.

FEMALE: That was your mom?

MALE: It was… no big deal though.

FEMALE: Not a big deal? She’s a hero! So many victims will die without dying because of her. I’m sorry your loss.

MALE: Thanks. She was one of the good ones. Damn, excuse me. Bleeding all over the place.

FEMALE: It’s ok. We all bleed together here.

MALE: Thanks. I like bleeding with you.

FEMALE: Hey… I need to tell you, just so you don’t—

SOUND: SPLOOSH SOUND LIKE A STONE FALLING IN WATER

FEMALE: Oh, God damn it! There goes my eye again. This is always happening. How embarrassing. I’ll be right back.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS LEAVING

SILENCE: FOR AROUND 3 SECONDS

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS APPROACHING

FEMALE: Sorry about that. Is it in properly?

MALE: It looks beautiful, I mean fine. It looks fine. And don’t worry about it. Like you said, we all bleed together, right?

FEMALE: Right!

SOUND: GLASSES CLINKING

MALE 2: Mind if I take a seat?

NARRATOR: A second man joins the table and sits beside the first. His ribs are open, showcasing red, glistening innards.

MALE 2: Hey hey, Number 5, you’re looking… Er, well, you know… Yeesh! Right? (CHUCKLES) But who’s this lovely lady?

FEMALE: I’m—

MALE: This is Female Victim Number 12.

MALE 2: It’s a pleasure, angel. A real pleasure.

MALE: Hey, like, can I talk to you for a second? Will you excuse us for a second?

FEMALE: (UNCOMFORTABLE) Yeah… No worries…

SOUND: TWO SETS OF FOOTSTEPS LEAVE THE TABLE

MALE: (WHISPERED) Back off, dude!

MALE 2: Huh?

MALE: (WHISPERED) She’s mine! I’ve been making good progress. Don’t fuck this up for me.

MALE 2: (WHISPERED) I’ll do what I damn well please.

MALE: (WHISPERED) You’re supposed to be my friend!

MALE 2: (WHISPERED) Yeah and I’m taking her off your hands. She seems crazy. You always go for the crazy ones. I’m helping you out here.

MALE: (WHISPERED) Bullshit, Number 10! Look, just leave us alone, alright?

MALE 2: Alright.

MALE: Alright?

MALE 2: Alright. (WHISPERED) Keep your dang wig on.

SOUND: ONE SET OF FOOTSTEPS APPROACHES THE TABLE

MALE: I’m sorry about that. Number 10, he’s a bit… you know… Too many zombie films. You know… they…

FEMALE: Ate his brains?

MALE: Yeah, exactly. We’re on, like, the same wave length, you know?

FEMALE: I’m sorry, but I have to go… My girlfriend is coming and I’m just going to—

MALE: But we have so much to talk abou— Wait… girl?—

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS SWIFTLY APPROACH

MALE 2: Has he told you about his mom yet?

MALE: Number 10, just fuck off, will you?

FEMALE: What about her?

MALE: Don’t listen—

MALE 2: She’s still alive. He tells all the girls that one about the Victim Act.

MALE: Seriously, dude.

MALE 2: Works usually, but you seem a bit smarter. He’s not all there ya see? Too many zombie films.

FEMALE: I’m going.

MALE: No! Don’t!

MALE 2: He don’t even like stab wounds. Calls them gross—

SOUND: PUNCH FOLLOWED BY MORE PUNCHING AND FIGHTING SOUNDS(GRUNTING ETC) CONTINUE ON. THE BACKGROUND BAR NOISE AND ROCK MUSIC STOP

FEMALE: (OVER THE TOP OF FIGHTING SOUNDS) Fuck this.

SOUND: THE FIGHTING STOPS

MALE & MALE 2: (IN UNISON) Wait!

FEMALE: You’re a pair of losers. I wouldn’t sleep with either of you, even if I liked men.

SOUND: FOOTSTEPS APPROACH

FEMALE 2: Hey sweetheart, sorry I’m late… Who the hell are these two?

NARRATOR: A second woman stands beside the first. Her entire left side is torn and mangled like shredded chilli beef.

FEMALE: Hey gorgeous. They’re fighting over who gets to take me out, or sleep with me. God knows…

MALE 2: And just who is this fine—

FEMALE: It’s my girlfriend, dipshit.

MALE 2: Your girl—?

MALE: But she’s—

FEMALE: A girl? Yeah… Listen, rather than getting your dicks all tangled trying to figure out who’s going to bone me, why couldn’t you have just tried normal conversation? Not every girl wants your baby carrot.

SOUND: FEMALE 2 LAUGHING IN THE BACKGROUND

FEMALE: You wanted a friendly drink, right Number 5?

MALE: Well, yeah, but—

FEMALE: But what? You couldn’t get your brain out your balls long enough to carry on with that idea? Look at both of you, seriously. Step back and look at yourselves. You’re fighting in the goddamn Victim Lounge. This is where we come to get away from the horror. This is where we come to support one another. We’re all in this together and look at you—fighting like a pair of horny apes. Jesus Christ…

SOUND: TWO SETS OF FOOTSTEPS LEAVING

SOUND: THE SOUND OF THE BUSY BAR AND CLASSICAL GUITAR STARTS UP AGAIN

MALE: You fucked that up for me.

MALE 2: What the hell are you talking about?

MALE: Well, I could have had her. Even if she wasn’t, you know…

MALE 2: What?.. Gay?

MALE: Well, yeah…

MALE 2: You’re kidding yourself.

SILENCE: FOR A MOMENT

MALE: What about her with the mangled leg?

MALE 2: I saw her first.

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Top 6 Self-Interviews

These are a portion of the top 6 Self-Interviews.

1. Harry Husbands:

When Harry entered the room, I was first struck by his shabby appearance. He wore a plain black t-shirt, pyjama shorts, and looked as if he’d just fallen out of bed a moment prior. He was polite enough, though frequently stared at the floor and his sentences would trail off to a mumble as if changing his mind half way through. Despite all of this, I can’t help but feel some intrinsic connection with him; that he is someone I’ve known all my life; someone I’ve shared everything with. He is notoriously hard to get hold of— avoiding social situations where possible and preferring the company of a person much like myself. I was fortunate enough to pin down the man who three people once called ‘alright’ and asked him some questions.

            You’re a writer among millions of others; a tiny fish in a giant pond and everyone’s hungry. Why bother?

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2. Adele Marie Park

Interviewer: The Next Great Horror Writer? What have you learned from being in this competition?

Adele:          It is a learning curve for me. At times sharp but I enjoy a challenge and I suck up learning like a sponge I think it’s improved my writing abilities. I appreciate the time that the organisers have put into this competition. When I realised I had got through into the main competition itself, I was so happy, I cried. You never stop learning your craft and anyone who says different is not in love with writing.

Interviewer: Keeping in the horror vein, what frightens you the most?

Adele:          Running out of coffee? –laughs- No? Seriously, it has to be demons. No one knows where they come from and all they seem to want is to destroy the human they possess.

Interviewer: Do you write about demons in your work?

Adele:          Yes. It’s a subject that in reality, I’m terrified of.

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3. Jess Landry

What made you get into writing?

I’ve always been a weirdo with odd ideas and a love for spooky things. As a kid, I read voraciously (I’m talking one-Sweet-Valley-High-book-a-day-style voracious); I could never get enough. So when I discovered a book in my elementary school library called Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, something clicked: I could take all my weird thoughts and put them down on paper. I could make my own scary stories to tell in the dark!

 Since you’ve taken up writing, have you found that you’re a slow writer or a fast one?

 Generally, I’m slower than a turtle stuck in molasses, but with the tight deadlines for the Next Great Horror Writer contest, I’ve definitely had to pick up my pace! When I first get an idea, I’ll plot it out the best I can, which usually involves writing about the characters and their traits, and getting down any pivotal scenes or imagery that come to mind.

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4. Naching T. Kassa

Naching T. Kassa describes herself as a wife, mother, and horror writer. She resides in Valley, WA with her family and their dog, Dallas. Naching is a member of the Horror Writers Association and a contributor to The Demonic Visions book series. Recently, one of her poems was accepted into the HWA Poetry Showcase Volume 4.

But, what do we really know about this dark lady? Who is she and what makes her so darn scary? We asked Nani K, the person who knows her best, to shed a little light on the shadow.

Nani K: Good morning, Naching. Thank you for sitting down with me.

Naching: My pleasure.

Nani K: First off, I have to say this. You don’t look like a horror writer. You’re always smiling and you seem so sweet. Where do you get these ideas?

Naching: (laughs) You’d be surprised how many times I get this question. Usually, my ideas just come to me.

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5. Jonathan Fortin

Q: Hello, Jonathan, how are you today?

A: Hello, mysterious voice in my head asking me questions! Presently I’m concerned about the state of my mental health. How about you?

Q: I’m doing just fine.

A: That scares me. Should I go see a shrink?

Q: Please don’t. Speaking of scares: what do you think makes for a horror story?

A: I believe a good horror story needs to be a good story—just one that happens to be horror. For seasoned horror fans, there’s not much that’s actually scary anymore. You become too desensitized. So what’s left is the story. Is what’s happening unique enough that I feel like I haven’t read this thousands of times before? Perhaps more importantly, do we care about the characters? For me, fear comes from empathizing with the characters, not wanting bad things to happen to them, and knowing that they inevitably will.

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6. Daphne Strasert

What skills do you admire in the other contestants of the Next Great Horror Writer Contest?

The contest is full of talent and all the writers have strengths that I envy. Jonathan is flexible. He has met the theme of each challenge—from humor to romance to suspended terror—with skill and enthusiasm. Sumiko writes visceral horror, like her character description, Cerebus, with a horrifying physicality that scares the spit out of me. Naching rules the opposite side of the spectrum, using suspense and dread to full effect. Jess is a mistress of imagery and detail, not just in her character description, Silt and Bone, which I loved, but in all of her writing. The excerpt from her musical short story, Scordatura, cast a vivid scene that left me wanting more.

The best part about meeting these writers is that, even though we’re competing, there is an atmosphere of collaboration. Everyone encourages each other to submit their best work and that has created a fierce competition.

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW 9 Campfire Tale Snippets

These are the 9 Campfire excerpts from the  Campfire Tale challenge.

1. The Face: Naching T. Kassa
He’s coming to the window,

He’s coming to the window,

Don’t let him in,

Don’t let him in,

DON’T LET HIM IN!

Agatha sat up. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the silvery moonlight which streamed into her room. When she turned to her window, she saw it. Something small and pale floated outside. It was a face. No body. No head. Just a face.

Black eyes glared at Agatha. Beneath its long nose, a mouth scowled. It moved toward her window.

Agatha scrambled out of bed. Her nightdress caught on the bed knob and she tore it as she moved forward. The face came closer. Agatha caught hold of the sash and slammed the window shut.

The face gnashed its teeth in mute fury and Agatha stared at it in mounting horror.  All of its teeth were filed to a point, each one stained red.

It hung there for over a moment and then floated away, back toward the forest.

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2. Forgotten by Jonathan Fortin

Someone was watching her—she was sure of it. She turned around…and there was an old man, staring at her with huge, bulging red eyes. He had a thick, tangled beard and wore in a brown cloak. His face was twitchy, and his fingers were long with soot-black tips. “Girl,” he said. “Why don’t you come give me those tarts?”

            Now, Clara had worked very hard on her tarts. Sometimes she gave them to friends, but not to strangers in the woods. “Sorry,” she said, “but these are for someone else.”

            She walked away, but the old man let out a fearsome growl: “Give me those tarts, girl!”

            That was all the warning Clara needed. She broke into a run.

            Somehow, she stumbled onto the path, and followed it to the clearing where her parents had set up camp. Mom had binoculars out and was watching birds. Dad was starting a fire. Clara breathed in relief. She’d be safe now. The old man would never find her here. 

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3. Not all who Wander are Lost by Fiend Gottes

Once long ago there was a Sioux couple, the wife became pregnant with twins unbeknownst to either of them. When the husband left to go hunting he would tell his wife,

‘If any stranger comes while I am gone, do not look at him for any reason.’ He would make her promise every time which she did. One day an old man came to their lodge while the husband was hunting. The wife being a kind soul let the man to eat but would sit with her back to him fulfilling her promise. The old man ate his meal, thanked the woman and left. The old man returned every day. Finally on the fourth day curiosity got the best of the wife and she peeked at the stranger breaking her promise. She saw not an old man but a horrible ogre known to the Sioux as a Two-Face. She knew everyone who looked upon a Two-Face died.

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4.  Cabin 12 by Daphne Strasert

Patrol was the spookiest part of being a counselor. It was important, of course, especially later in the summer, when illicit romance had time to bloom. We tried to keep the kids smart and safe and that meant wandering in the woods every other night with only the moonlight as a guide. It took some getting used to. I could never shake the feeling that something watched me from the trees—probably because something did. Maybe it was only a rabbit. Maybe not. Like I said, spooky.

That’s how I found Cabin Twelve. I followed my feet on a late August night, not walking toward anything in particular, but away from the nagging feeling that something stood just outside my peripheral vision. I didn’t notice the building at first. The way the cabins were arranged around the lake, it didn’t seem like there should be anything there at all. It sat back further than the others did, where the trees were just a little thicker.

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5. Goose Meadows By Harry Husbands

Rounding a corner, we came to a children’s playground—hidden by large, green hills on every side. Climbing frames of various shapes and sizes sat among wood-chips, surrounded by a low metal railing. We ran to them, hooting like imbecilic apes and clambered about the structures. While stumbling down a faded silver slide, I spotted a black sports bag sat snugly in the corner, as if placed there on purpose.

I pointed it out to Lee.

“Check it out,” I said, “reckon it’s full of cash?”

“It better fucking be,” Lee said. We walked to it. I crouched down and was pulling back the zip when the bag came alive with movement.

I leapt back.

From within the shadows of its innards, I saw flesh and edged forward uneasily to open it further, jolting backwards again upon discovering its contents.

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6. Laughing Jack by Adele Marie Park

Five years ago a girl called Sally Jones went missing in these woods. Seven years old, she had grown up just a few miles from here.

Perhaps she wandered off the path following a bird or a small animal. She found herself lost in a menacing part of the forest.

Dead air hung upon the silent trees and dripped fear into her heart. She froze, pulse pounding in her ears like a drum. Fading in and out confusing her other senses. In her vision the trees poised on the cusp of command from an unknown source. They would pounce on her and rip her to pieces with their sharp wooden claws.

A sudden rustle brought a gasp and interrupted her gaze.

Lifting her head she locked gazes with a raven.

Her eyes pinched with pain but she couldn’t shut them.

The raven opened its maw cackling laughter like an old man making her jump.

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7. Semlor by JC Martinez

House Åkerström is a haunted house on the outskirts of the next town. Everybody knows it, and everyone has a different version of what happened there almost nine years ago. Of course, what I am about to tell you is the undisputed truth.

Viola Åkerström moved there with her two kids, Daniel and Martin, eleven years ago. As a means of sustenance, she decided to condition her home’s garage as a little store. A bakery. The variety was scarce. The kanelbullar, which were simple cinnamon rolls, were the ones she produced the most, and she only accompanied them with some gingerbread cookies and a few other traditional candies. Still, she was quite successful.

Maybe it was the seasoning with which she fixed the desserts, or the exotic sensation you got when buying sweets that had a deliciously foreign name, but her little establishment triumphed and flourished. She even competed with Morton’s, which has been an institution in pastries and candies in this region for over six decades.

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8. SMELETONS by Sumiko Saulson

The rotting meat began to stink of five day old hamburger before long. That was when it attracted maggots. The fervent breeding of the insect life that occupied the corpses caused them to writhe in a way that almost simulated breathing.

That’s when the vegan witch Hespeth walked by and saw them. Thinking that perhaps a young calf had survived, she ran towards the deep pit filled with rotting animal bodies. Hespeth was so disgusted when she found out that it was no living mammal, but the insect life infesting the dead carcasses, that she immediately hexed the place. She’d been meaning to for a while. Vegan witches hate slaughterhouses.

The accursed skeletons lurched forth from their graves. The stink of rotting meat was cloying. A cloud of green malodorous E.coli bacterial surrounded them. Soon, the maggots began to hatch, sending out waves of hungry, carnivorous flies.

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9. When the Wind Leaves a Whisper by Jess Landry

When I was just about to fall asleep, Rita sprung out of her sleeping bag, gasping for breath.

“Louise…louiseeeee!” she whispered as loud as she could.

“What?” I mumbled, the taste of sleep in my mouth. “What is it?”

“Do you hear that?”

I sat up rubbing my eyes, a yawn escaping. Crickets chirped back.

“Hear what?”

A little drip of moonlight trickled around the tent, casting shadows of the trees on our tent. Rita was nothing more than a silhouette, her head jerking from side to side.

“That!” she said a little louder, her head spinning to the back of the tent. “Something’s trying to get in.”

I was fully awake now, my eyes adjusted to the darkness as best as they could. Outside I could see the shadows of some branches as they danced in the light wind. Nothing seemed out of place.

“There it is again!” she spun her head the other direction, jumping out of her sleeping bag and scrambling next to me. “Look!”

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Top 6 Character Descriptions

These are the top 6 Character excerpts from the Character challenge.

Character 1: Silt and Bone by Jess Landry

Growths of moss and cobwebs littered the branches, the falling water wiping some of them away into the rising water.
On the throne sat a motionless woman who looked as though she’d been carved from a birch tree. Her delicate features and ashen skin shimmered in the struggling light; dark, horizontal lines and black knots speckled every inch of her visible surface, even her eyelids. Roots spilled from her head: five long, thick stems that thinned out as they joined the mosaic of branches behind her. Her arms lay on the armrests, strangely human yet twisted like intertwining branches, leading to slender fingers that extended into thin twigs sharp enough to slice through skin and bone. Her forehead extended past that of a human’s, ending in a ragged, broken trunk—a crown of flesh and bark. A burlap robe lay across her body, the fabric eaten away by time; its hem resting at the pedestal’s edge, nearly touching the dirty water that lapped at her feet.

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Character 2: Kerry Anne by Harry Husbands
“Ok,” she said and held out a grimy hand tipped by ragged fingernails. I placed a glove on and clasped her fragile fingers. Her bare feet pattered the diner’s floor, leaving smudged prints with every step. We walked from the silent diner and I pitied the people as they began to whisper among themselves, unaware of their own fast-approaching demise.

As we stepped outside, the heat washed over me. She squinted at the empty car-park, the motorway with cars that rushed along it.

“There’s no one,” she said. I looked down at her as she turned her face to mine and grinned, revealing teeth that jutted out; crooked and covered in thick, yellow gunk. “You didn’t call for back-up?” she asked, creasing her brow. I shook my head and squeezed her hand tighter. She laughed in a chesty way that reminded me of my grandfather and belied the small, filthy face it came from. “Oh, you are silly,” she giggled.

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Character 3: Changeling by Daphne Strasert

She stretched, even as she shrank. Her limbs grew spindly, the flesh sticking to her bones so that her joints protruded in bulbous relief. The skin greyed, then tinted green, turning the color of mint. Her hair grew and grew and grew, the curls unfurling as it did, until it pooled around her. The red drained from the strands, starting at the roots, as if an artery had been cut and all the color ran out leaving only a shimmering, silky lake of silver. Moss green spots replaced the dusting of freckles over her face and shoulders. The afternoon light that filtered through the gauzy curtains bounced off iridescent scales that had sprouted over her collar bones. Sharp cheekbones jutted from her face and her jaw and chin narrowed, giving her the triangular visage of a praying mantis. The fingers that held her phone in front of her face lengthened and her nails, once neatly trimmed, grew into wicked, curved claws.

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Character 4: Dr. Sonya Quillius by Jonathan Fortin

The sight agitated Sonya. Cat claws retracted out from her fingertips, and she dragged them against the rooftop. It was a nervous tic. When she’d been human, she’d bit her nails when she was anxious, but after her Biotranscendence, she’d taken to dragging her claws across surfaces. They were supposed to be as strong and sharp as blades, and they certainly cut watermelons well enough. But would they cut through flesh so easily?

 

Sonya’s wolf ears perked up, a stomping sound catching their attention. She tried to remain calm, to remind herself how much was at stake, but this only made her more tense. Her performance tonight didn’t just determine her own fate, or that of the victims down there. It also impacted her fellow scientists—those who had helped her Biotranscend, who had believed in this crazy plan of hers even if it put their careers on the line.

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Character 5: Selkie by Adele Marie Park

Selkie. Shape shifter.

He shouldn’t exist yet here he is in the flesh.

Wicked and delicious, taunting me, daring me to take the step I refuse to take.

As he watches me arrogance glimmers in his gaze. His almond shaped eyes have no colour. They are as black as a storm cloud but, like a bruised sky colours move within. Flashing with brilliance then hiding.

His dark plum lips rise at one side in a sneer I know so well.

The movement causes a strand of ebony hair to cascade over his high cheekbones with a lovers boldness.

Raising a small hand to brush it away, the gesture reveals his webbing. Nestled between his fingers as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.

He knows my eyes study him. I wish I could hide the wealth of confusion but, my emotions have always been easy to read and he is a master.

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Character 6: Cerebus by Sumiko Saulson

I still recall the day we became. It was morning, first light at the brink of a new age. We arose on twisted leg and shattered hoof from the pit of charred flesh and misguided magic where the Diablo Nuclear Power Plant used to stand. Your head listed against one side of our shoulders, neck too weak to hold it up. In time, the surface of your cheek grew into the side of my jaw. It lay there for months on end, your abraded epidermis merging into an open wound on my chin until the two of us became one.

Angel lay in the crook of my arm, where he used to sleep when we lived as separate entities. A mass of fur and ligament, he purred where he rested, staring up at me with a signal yellow-green eye, as bright as a nuclear sunset. I contemplated it’s palette of subtle complexities as we lurched forward in unison towards the feeding grounds.

 

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Top 7 True Horrific Blog Posts

These are the top 7 blog post excerpts from the True Horrific challenge.

Blog Post 1: Black Death – Naching T. Kassa

Death is the ultimate enemy. It steals those we love and forms a wall between this world and the next. It is the dark curtain we cannot peer behind.

Death waits for us all.

Do you remember the first time you encountered death? Did the passing of a pet or grandparent reveal its presence? When did you discover your mortality? How old were you?

My discovery began with a young girl’s demise. I was nine.

The girl was two years younger and lived a few miles away from me. We attended the same school and, though we didn’t know each other, she struck me as a sweet person.

Her hair was blonde. It stood out against the white sweaters and dresses she wore. I don’t think she wore white all of the time but I remember her that way. Perhaps, it’s because she was innocent and didn’t deserve what happened to her.

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Blog Post 2: A Day at the Beach – Harry Husbands

I saw it first as a light shape that teetered just below the waterline a few meters ahead of me—large and circular. I moved forward, eager to become acquainted with this mysterious object and soon regretting my decision as the giant crab floated into view. I observed its vast body in horror—roughly the size of a tire with two black eyes that stared straight at me. I screamed to no one—entirely beyond earshot of any adult who might come to my aid. Its pincers rose above the water, snapping like malicious, orange hedge shears.

            I turned and slapped the sea, moving only as fast as my bronze swimming certificate would allow. I didn’t look back; I hadn’t needed to. I could feel its tough pincers brushing my legs. When my toes could reach the ocean’s bed, I tried to run. My legs seemed to move in slow-motion as the giant crab gained on me.

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Blog Post 3: Calling the Dead – Cat Voleur

More than anything, I remember the sound the doll made when it burned. The events leading up to that moment were a haze of adrenaline masking fear of what I had done, distrust, and confusion. Memories of the decision to play this game with a ghost, of preparing for it, even of the ritual itself have all but entirely faded in the seven years I’ve neglected to tell this story, but I will remember that sound until the day I die. The unearthly hissing of death mingling with the crackling fire haunts my dreams, still.

I was fifteen years old. All my life I had been fascinated with the supernatural, particularly spirits. I was the proud of veteran of many such ghost-games, Bloody Mary, Candyman, The Elevator Game, but in my years of trying to endanger myself, I hadn’t seen or summoned anything spectacular. I had no reason to believe this would be any different.

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Blog post 4: Syncope – JC Martinez

We stopped when she said she wasn’t feeling so well. I thought she was just tired, or that she had no desire to continue running. We were at a park close to her flat, so I walked her back home. We still had to climb four flights of stairs. She opened the door, took a couple of steps forward, and stopped next to a black leather sofa.

I spoke from under the door. I asked if she was all right. She didn’t answer. She turned as I approached. When I was near her, she just collapsed. No alerts, no warnings, it was as if her body suddenly shut off. I was able to catch her as she was falling. In my nervousness, I thought she was pulling a prank on me. I kept calling her name, asking her to get back on her feet. Then I saw them.

I’ll never forget the dull eyes of that empty look.

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Blog post 5: Into the Grave – Daphne Strasert

Though the ossuary was massive, only a corner was set aside for public display. To get there required a fifteen-minute walk along a winding stone path. Lighting was scarce in the tunnels, with only the sporadic bulb to chase away the shadows that grew like cobwebs along the stone. My steps slowed, feet lingering as if the dark sucked at them like mud, and I found myself outpaced by my incidental companions. With no sound but a drip which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, my heartbeat pounded in my ears, almost deafening in this neighborhood of the dead. The darkness here had weight, pressing in on me on all sides. I trailed my hand along the damp stone edge—needing the solid reassurance that I had not walked out of the catacombs and into perdition by mistake—until the soft glimmer of light reappeared around another winding corner.

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Blog post 6: My Life as a Young Adult Urban Horror Heroine – Sumiko Saulson

“Help!” the man with the matted hair screamed. “They put out my eye! They put out my eye!” A white man in his mid-thirties, obviously homeless, was screaming and holding his face. His beige shirt was stained with sweat, the long sleeve across his face stained with mucous. Just a child, I was tuned into his crying. I sat there, aghast, as my mom lectured my brother.

When he removed his hand from his face, his screams were joined by my own. His eye was a mass of red, welted flesh. Blood and ruined ocular tissue were visible from my uncomfortable seat. I kept trying to understand why they wouldn’t help him.  Was it because he was homeless? I remembered sitting next to a homeless man on the bus. His khaki pants were stained and smelled of urine. They didn’t serve people like that at Denny’s, but surely they would help him? They had to!

“They took my eye!”

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Blog Post 7: Dogs and Sand – Jonathan Fortin

My memories of our first visit are murky, but they are unsettling to me. I remember harsh wind, blowing sand across me like a net–as though the beach wanted to cover me in itself, to claim me. I remember losing my sweater in a puddle of water. I remember that, for reasons I could not recall, I responded to this by removing the rest of my clothes and crouching down to hide in the sand. I remembered that, as people passed, I barked at them like a dog.

I did not feel myself at that beach.

I was a kid, and sometimes kids do weird things. But as I left, and returned to myself, I remember feeling strangely violated and uncertain what had come over me.

A year later, we drove once more up to Port Orford, and on the way home, we returned to that beach. When I learned we would be going back, dread swelled within me.

 

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Top 7 Music Horror Story Excerpts

These are the top 7 story excerpts from the Music Horror challenge.

Story #1 Cherry Blossoms and Yokai by Adele Marie Park
This is the story about a young girl, her mother, and Uncle who are all mourning the death of her grandmother. While cleaning out her house, they find a chest that belonged to her great-grandmother. In the chest is a shamisen (Japanese guitar) that calls yokai (Yōkai are a class of supernatural monsters, spirits and demons in Japanese folklore.)

This passage is from near the end. The girl has unknowingly released yokai into their house by playing the shamisen. They have called in a Japanese priest and she has told her to start playing.

“As I played the first bars a warm feeling grew inside my tummy and even mum shrieking didn’t phase me.

I glanced at her. She was staring at something behind me. I turned my head around as far as I could while still playing. There was someone behind me. Fear woke the bird as I recognised the kimono Great grandmother Shiori wore. I felt a light touch on my shoulder.

“Play.” I heard her voice but inside my head.

I kept going as two mouth came in with her hands outstretched as if she had no control over her movements. She wailed as she was sucked into the shamisen.

The floor under me started to rumble. I felt the movement travel through my body.

Loud bangs came from upstairs followed by screams that made me play a wrong note.

“Strength,” great grandmother, Shiori said.

An almighty racket shook everything that wasn’t nailed down. It sounded as if a giant ran down the stairs.

Onibaba flew into the room. God she was ugly. Her knife dripped red onto the carpet as she glanced around her. Opening her mouth I could see rows of sharp teeth and remembered that she could kill us.”

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Story #2: Scordatura by Jess Landry
Which is a certain way of tuning a stringed instrument. The daughter of a famous cellist practices for an upcoming concert under the heavy hand of her famous mother. Unable to play the cello because of an illness, the famous cellist forces her dream on her daughter who practices dutifully despite her mother’s abuse. When the daughter realizes she wields power over others with her musical gifts, revenge is finally hers.

“Odette starts the morning with Bach’s Cello Suite No.1 in G major.

The cold cello strings fit snuggly into the self-made grooves of her fingers like a second home. Down-bow, up-bow, she lets her elbow guide the stroke, the music spill from her like a river of her blood pouring from an open wound. She wonders how that would feel, the blood gushing from her body, out of her shell and pooling at her feet. Would it seep through the herringbone floor? Would it collect in the unused space between her room and the room below, her mother’s study? Would it pool and pool and press down on the intricate fleur de lis-patterned ceiling until it broke through the plaster and onto her mother, covering her in a sea of red?

She’s playing faster now, an eighth above tempo. Her brain tells her to slow but her hands refuse to listen. The cat across the way lays on his open perch, the man sipping his drink and reading the paper one floor above him. Odette longs to be that cat, to be free and lazy, to watch the world without a purpose.

Three quick taps sound from the room below–a stick to the floorboards–a first warning to keep tempo.”

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Story #3 Audio Addict by Daphne Strasert

In a world where music is as illegal as heroin and just as deadly addictive, Cadence and Lorelei share music hits in the privacy of Cadence’s family hunting lodge. After paying for hits for months, Lorelei share a secret with Cadence – she can sing. Cadence and Lorelei spend lovely nights together as they binge on Lorelei’s gift, but when she decides she wants to stop, Cadence can’t control her addiction.

“Cadence wasn’t a square, but she’d attended freshman health class just like everyone else. She’d had the dangers of experimenting with music burned into her brain along with the grainy photos of ear infections. Poetry was okay, as long as no one drove under the influence. Even her parents kept a little Tennyson in the locked cabinet by their bed that they thought Cadence didn’t know about. Rap was a greyer area. Audioheads in Colorado were always going on about helping soldiers with PTSD and legalization, but that was a long way from any sort of federal recognition. Cadence’s parents would flip if they knew she’d listened to a small hit to unwind after last semester’s finals.

Lorelei always brought the hits. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who sold rap, but music was harder to come by. She said her brother got them from a DJ in the Shallows and Cadence was glad for it. She didn’t want to go to the huddled ruin of buildings where the shadows never fully receded and the sounds of sirens were always a few blocks away. It was a place that existed across America, simultaneously unique yet exactly the same in every city. And it was never somewhere good girls wanted to be after dark. Of course, a good girl wouldn’t be plugged into a guitar hit—sharing headphones and everything—in the middle of the afternoon.”

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Story #4 Requiem in Frost by Jonathan Fortin

A girl and her mom move into a haunted house once owned by a heavy metal musician. When strange things start happening, the girl investigates to find out of it is the ghost of the deceased head banger or if the murderer has come back to finish them off.

This is from when the girl first sees the ghost

“When I opened my eyes, it was still dark—probably after midnight, as before. But this time, when I took off my headphones, I didn’t hear screaming. I did, however, feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

            There was someone in the room with me.

            He was tall, but barely visible. I only saw him at all because moonlight reflected off of the shiny red liquid coating his body. He wore spiked pauldrons and gauntlets, and his hair was long and ragged. His face was a ghoulish mess of scars, facial hair, skeletal makeup, and open bleeding wounds.

            He was dripping all over the floor. Drippiest of all was the huge ax in his hand. I worried suddenly where all that blood had come from—if this was just how he looked, or if he’d just butchered someone. Mom…was Mom all right?

            Only then did it dawn on me that the ghost could harm me. Perhaps it should have been obvious, but I’d never felt threatened until that moment. I felt paralyzed in bed, fearing he would kill me, that he’d killed my mom.

            He walked closer to the bed, his huge ax dripping a red river across my bedroom floor. All too quickly he was right beside me, raising that ax high.”

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Story #5 Audition by Naching T. Kassa

Jim auditions for a place with the band and will do anything to get the spot, but when they send him to a mysterious address to be tested, he has second thoughts. A lesson with a blues legend is the least of his worries as he finds himself trapped, with only one way out. Will the cost for freedom be too high?

“An hour later, having left the theater, Jim found himself blinded by California sunshine. The dirt road crunched under his tires and trees whooshed by as he sped along. These sounds, along with the hum of the Mustang’s engine, were the soundtrack to his thoughts.

Where had Langham sent him? And to who? He shouldn’t have ended with the blues rift. If he’d gone with a more traditional coda, he might’ve passed the audition. Now, he was out in the sticks on a wild goose chase.

An old fashioned wrought iron gate suddenly rose ahead of him. It stood dark and skeletal against the pink sky. Jim slowed. Brass numbers were fixed to the bars and they matched the address he’d been given. He parked, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed.

Langham answered on the second ring.

“There must be some mistake,” Jim said. “Nobody lives here.”

“There are people there,” Langham answered.

“Yeah, they’re six-feet under. It’s a cemetery.””

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Story 6: The Agent by Harry Husbands

A mediocre rock band performs, waiting for the appearance of “the Agent” of unknown origin. When he appears, he offers the band a sort of “deal with the devil” proposal they can’t refuse.

“The bed looked welcoming and I walked forward, ready to collapse, when I saw him and back pedalled, holding a hand to my mouth.

            “Don’t,” the agent said. His voice belied his appearance, a high-pitched shrill with rising Texan accent. I backed myself into the corner beside the door. I tried to scream but the air had left my lungs, instead I writhed around, gasping and reaching for the handle. “Don’t,” he repeated.

            He came into view, blocking out the light. His coat hung about his person like a carcass and the fur seemed to move in waves with an absent breeze. His black Stetson was old and rugged; from my seat, I could see two eyes like a shark’s beneath it, as devoid of colour and life as his attire. His skin was dirty white and leathery in appearance, stretched out over his enormous body. I stared up. Fear gripped me to the spot.

            The agent began floating toward me, coming within a foot of my cowering form. A bead of sweat dripped from the end of my nose as my whole body shook. He bent down to my face. A thick, suffocating aroma of coal smoke emanated from his person.’

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Story #7 The Lament of the Piano Man by AE Kirk
A homeless man breaks into the local Haunted House to take refuge, but when he hears piano music coming from an upper room, he realizes he might not be alone.

“‘In here.’ The voice came from within a nearby room. With the floorboards threatening to fracture beneath his weight, Bert went across the landing and entered the first room on the left. He gasped in awe. It was as though he had gone back in time. The room was completely untouched from damp and decay, every the old olive coloured wallpaper was still intact. The furniture was free from dust, the carpets were in pristine condition, and a gigantic shiny grand piano sat in the middle of the room, like a crown jewel.

‘Such an amazing room,’ Bert whispered to himself. The unnamed pasty man, who was standing lovingly by the piano, nodded.

‘This is the music room.’ He gestured around him, and Bert stole a glance at the walls.

They were adorned in old framed certificates and achievements of musical accomplishments. From grades in piano to degrees in music, and clippings from news articles about playing at the opera. They all mentioned the same name, Matthew Day. Bert was truly astonished.

‘Everything downstairs is nothing compared to this. It’s all rotting and full of mould.’

The man frowned. ‘I plan to rectify that… when I have enough help from the locals.’

Bert snapped his fingers. ‘The local boys! I heard they come in… Do they help you?’

The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Oh, they help alright. But one at a time and they only come at night. You are here during the day, that’s most peculiar.’”

 

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Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Top 6 Poetry Excerpts

These are the top 6 poems from the Horror Poetry challenge.

Poem 1:  Under the Water by Sumiko Saulson
Over sea, floating ye, staying abreast of watery crests

Midwinter air caresses curls unfurling over briny sea

Cool wet skin, paper thin… I can see your soul within

Every capillary pumping blood, intestinal processes digesting food

Your loving heart plain to see… how intimate your transparency

 

A sea-deep mystery, stories untold, windows into your ancient soul,

Your eyes speckled, flecks of gold cascading within jet black coal

Encasing your exquisite charms, enfolded within my fragile arms,

I am the contemplator of your delicacy, hear ye now my mortal pleas

May your ethereal heart, thorny spine and eternal love be ever mine

 

Adrift on my back, your tentative fingers in mine entwined

Long slender tail wrapped around my thighs, tendrils twixt toes

The smooth flesh of your undercarriage where barnacles grow

My flesh puckers where their tiny mouths burrow into my skin

Digesting the healthy white blood cells within

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Poem 2: Siren’s Song by Riley Pierce
Through crashing waves and dying light

I fight, I fight, I fight the night.

Many begged to turn away,

But on this final course I stay.

 

The siren sings again tonight,

And so I wait until I might,

Find her perched upon the rocks,

With eyes of red, and golden locks.

 

She’ll sing her song, but just to me.

I’ll belong to both her and the sea.

My crew, at last, they hear her song,

And I’ll be hers before too long.

 

Mystic music through the air;

It moves like wind and lingers there.

It seeps into their ears, my crew.

Yes! My god! The tales are true.

 

The moon is up, it pulls the tide,

And our wooden ship from side to side.

The wind has blown, all light is gone.

This ship will not survive the dawn.

 

A sacrifice to her, I bring,

Shall earn me last to see her sing.

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Poem 3: Flesh Passion by Fiend Gottes
All my desires, I’ve fulfilled them all
A deviant well overflowing from hell
Demons speak, voices tell me all
Spewing forth they entice dark desire
Dark visions boil in my mind
Bathe in blood of the pure
Snuff life within the eyes

Dreams of death dance within my mind
With my hands I strangle out their life
Yearning to know
Where is my sorrow

Then I saw
Beauty profound
I felt confusion
Ache in my heart
Time stood still
Could she be?
Warmth in the cold
Or merely a dream

Raven hair floats upon the breeze
Electric blue eyes mesmerize me
Olive skin glistens by the moon
Her soul cries a song only I hear
The voices tell me she is mine
For me to taste, me alone
Heart no longer stone

Feel her flesh
Vanquish her light
Eternal smile
Echo of her screams
My need to feel
Her last moment
My need to feel
Something pure

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Poem 4: A Warning on Wings by Jonathan Fortin
His prayer was drawn in blood, the circle like a door

He sat beside the threshold, book open on the floor

This will never work, to himself he sighed

But he was so lonely that every night he cried

 

He was a somber man, not blessed with good looks

Hated by his village, he found solace in books

Tonight he stripped naked, legs crossed, arms spread

He whispered the words that from the pages bled:

“For you I’d be the greatest that I could ever be

I would do it all, anything you ask of me.”

 

The circle was no prison; he did not seek a slave

Nor mindless copulation, which would bore him to the grave

No, he sought the thing that was most beyond his reach:

A love felt too deeply to be bought or breached.

---

Poem 5: The Only Thing That Remains by Jess Landry
Summertime blossoms as you take your first steps

onto a path laced with dirt and stone.

Though your feet know the way,

your heart’s lost count as to how many times

you’ve walked this forgotten road,

you’ve watched the sun rise,

you’ve heard the same birdsong echo from the trees.

A leafy canopy sways high above,

a cathedral ceiling with light piercing through.

Lilacs in bloom follow the morning breeze;

olive grass as high as your dress’s frayed hem

ebb and flows like the sea,

the wind teasing them along to its silent rhythm.

Your hands swing at your sides and you breathe in,

remembering what it was to take a breath,

remembering how he took it away the first time you met—

steely eyes, blithesome smile—

how his touch was as warm as the sun’s.

The path clears to an opening,

an unkempt field forgotten by man and time,

and there he stands,

as always,

like a lighthouse on a cliff of a pear-coloured ocean.

---

Poem 6: A Vampire and a Zombie by AE Kirk
I shall tell you a tale of a romance most deluded,

Between a zombie and a vampire and nothing else included,

They once came together during the end of the world,

The vampire was a man and we think the zombie was a girl,

 

He tried to attack her, but all she did was groan,

He bit her rotten skin, all she did was moan,

He pulled back and frowned, looked at her dry-bloodied face,

Flicking the maggots off, she was the last of the human race,

 

She had no toes and half of a head,

She was the only body to keep him warm in his bed,

And although she craved no blood, nor food, or sleep,

He made up his mind, for her he would keep,

 

They went for long walks; rotting corpses did they pass,

They played with dead dogs, birds, cats it was a blast!

Then every evening, they sat and stared,

At the crumbling city around them, which they could never compare

---

Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW 500-Word WINNER! Harry Husbands

Winner for episode #139

VIRTUAL REALITY IS REVOLUTIONISING HORROR

by Harry Husbands

This winner’s entry will be read an discussed in full
on the Cemetery Confessions podcast, June 2nd, 2017.

Here is just a taste of the blog:

“Imagine you enter a theatre in the year 2025 and take a seat. In front of you is a device that you place on your head and over your ears. Your vision is blackened. Thirty minutes of adverts begin because some things just never change. Eventually the film starts and you’re in a corridor where the lightbulb flickers and a putrid smell of rotting meat wafts to your nostrils. You are creeping forward when the light goes out completely. There’s icy breath on the back of your neck. You not only hear it but you feel it too…” Hear more on Cemetery Confessions June 2nd.

---

Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW 300-Word WINNER! Naching T. Kassa

Winner for episode #138

The Laughing Man

by Naching T. Kassa

The heart was still warm when I found it near the latrines. It hung from the barbwire fence like some hellish Christmas ornament, dripping blood into the muck below. I wasn’t sure who it belonged to.

It might’ve been Private Jefferson’s or Lieutenant Blackmore’s. They’d gone missing and Sargent Collins had laid the blame on the Hun’s doorstep. I knew the truth, though. My mum had told me long before I took up my gun and gasmask.

“Go to sleep, Johnny,” she’d said one night before bed. “Sleep before Laughing Man comes. If he catches you awake, he’ll rip your heart out and hang it up to dry.”

“Does he come every night,” I had asked.

“He does. If you smell almonds, he’s coming. And, if you hear him whisper your name, he’s testing to see whether you’re awake.”

“What if I can’t sleep?”

“Best pretend, love. Pretend and pray.”

The memory of her words kept me from the trench and the squirming shadows which filled it. I returned to my dug-out as quickly as I could.

The blanket had grown cold in my absence. I huddled under it and would’ve drifted off if the scent of almonds hadn’t wafted in.

“Johnny?” a voice whispered.

I froze. Something moved in the moonlight. It dropped to all fours and peered through my doorway.

“You awake, Johnny?”

Moonglow didn’t favor the creature. Instead, it laid bare every flaw in his leprous face. I shut my eyes but the image of oozing sores remained. He hadn’t changed.

“Johnny?”

I answered with a snore as I had always done. A moment later, his cold hand clutched my throat.

“I’ve always known you were awake,” he said.

Laughter echoed throughout the dug-out and, like a malevolent lullaby, it bore me to my final rest.

---

Listen to the contestants battle for points this season on HorrorAddicts.net

#NGHW Prizes and Sponsors

GRAND PRIZES (One lucky winner):

Crystal Lake Publishing Grand Prize: Book Contract With unmatched success since 2012, Crystal Lake Publishing has quickly become one of the world’s leading indie publishers of Mystery, Thriller, and Suspense books with a Dark Fiction edge. Crystal Lake Publishing puts integrity, honor, and respect at the forefront of our operations. We strive for each book and outreach program that’s launched to not only entertain and touch or comment on issues that affect our readers, but also to strengthen and support the Dark Fiction field and its authors. This is what we believe in. What we stand for. This will be our legacy. Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths

Dario Ciriello, Editor Grand Prize: Full edit of winner’s novel up to 50,000 words.

HorrorAddicts.net Grand Prizes: Short story contract with HorrorAddicts.net “Horror Bites” series. Horror Writer gift box. Supplies and inspiration for the Next Great Horror Writer.

Challenge PRIZES (Open to all contestants):

Mark Eller Prize: Read of the winner’s winning submission. Mark Eller spent twenty years happily writing stories and then throwing them away. Then he met his future wife. She got mad about him throwing things away so he then happily began writing books, publishing his shorts, and creating audio-fiction podcasts, including The Hell Hole Tavern, Mercy Bend, and Traitor book one of the Turner Chronicles. He can be found most days sitting in his man cave with his fingers busy typing because new stories are constantly running through his head.

Cemetery Confessions Prize: Discussion of the winner’s non-fiction winning submission on Cemetery Confessions.

HorrorAddicts.net Prizes: 60-sec audio play produced & aired. Publication in the 2018 anthology. Blog publication of  non-fiction article. x2 Short story contract with HorrorAddicts.net “Horror Bites” series. Read of winning work by Dan Shaurette for HorrorAddicts.net podcast. 6 minute audiodrama produced and aired.

Sirens Call Publications Prize: Publication of winning poetry submission. Sirens Call Publications fervently believes in the gift of brilliant, edgy, dark fiction and we’re always on the lookout for talent. If you show us creativity, originality, and a desire to share the stories you spin, then we’d like the opportunity to help you succeed in the publishing world. Current open calls for short story submissions and our bi-monthly eZine can be found on our web site at http://SirensCallPublications.com

Pixel Ghost Creations Prize: A sketch of winning character by anime artist Alyssa from Pixel Ghost Creations.

Mocha Memoirs Press Prize: Publication of winning short story.

#NGHW Contest Begins!

The Next Great Horror Writer Contest started with one of Emz’s crazy, mad-cap ideas.

“What if we had a writing contest where the winner would get a book contract?”

HorrorAddicts.net had contests in the past. In fact, we’d run two writing/podcasting contests, the Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge and the Masters of Macabre Contest. Podcasters like H.E. Roulo, Rhonda Carpenter, Rish Outfield, and Philip Carroll won as well as awesome writers like Laurel Anne Hill, Shaunessy Ashdown, Rick Kitagawa, and Killion Slade. However, with the great “podfade” that happened in recent years, authors were less-willing to produce their own audio. So what to do?

We decided to base this new contest primarily on writing. The authors would not have to produce their own audioplays and they would be able to concentrate on their craft. But with an awesome prize like a full book contract, we would need a tougher competition. The author that wins this one will have to REALLY want it. 13 challenges have been crafted to test their abilities in several different styles and formats. The winner will have to hold their own with fiction, non-fiction, and script writing.

After Emz asked…

“What if we had a writing contest where the winner would get a book contract?”

There was the matter of actually getting a publisher to help. Crystal Lake Publishing was the first publisher we contacted and the owner, Joe, was on board from the beginning. His enthusiastic interest in the contest helped propel this contest into being. With other sponsors such as Mocha Memoirs Press, Dario Ciriello, Sirens Call Publications, and Pixel Ghost Creations, we started filling in tangible prizes that writers would want to challenge for.

As Season 12 kicks off, we are so excited to have 15 of the brightest, imaginative writers competing to win the whole sha-bang. We hope you’ll join us for this first ever Next Great Horror Writer contest and cheer on your favorites.

For more information about the contestants, judges, and prizes, go to: https://nextgreathorrorwriter.wordpress.com

HorrorAddicts.net 130, WWW MMM All-stars Special

Horror Addicts Episode# 130
SEASON 11!

Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich
Co-Hostess: Heather Roulo

Intro Music by: Valentine Wolfe

————————

wicked women writers and masters of macabre all-star special

Find all articles and interviews at: http://www.horroraddicts.net

99 days till halloween

new audio from: stacy fileccia, h.e. roulo, laurel anne hill, d.m. slate, jaq d. hawkins, emerian rich

 

Once Upon a Scream- special edition pack

https://horroraddicts.wordpress.com/2016/06/15/once-upon-a-scream-special-edition-pack/

“Broken Pieces” by Valentine Wolfe

http://valentinewolfe.bandcamp.com/track/broken-pieces

HorrorAddicts.net blog Kindle syndicated

http://www.amazon.com/HorrorAddicts-net/dp/B004IEA48W/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1431022701&sr=8-1&keywords=horroraddicts.net

 

———————–

Write in re: ideas, questions, opinions, horror cartoons, favorite movies, etc…

horroraddicts@gmail.com

————————

h o s t e s s

Emerian Rich

s t a f f

David Watson, Stacy Rich, Dan Shaurette, KBatz (Kristin Battestella), Mimielle, Killion Slade, D.J. Pitsiladis, Jesse Orr, A.D. Vick, Lisa Vasquez

Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email horroraddicts@gmail.com

b l o g  / c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s

http://www.horroraddicts.net

 

Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge 2015 – LAST CHANCE!

HorrorAddicts.net is proud to announce the

REMINDER!
Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge 2015

is now open for registration!

Who Will Be…. MOST WICKED?

 

THEME: This year’s theme is “Tarot Card Audiodrama.*” This year we’re pushing the challenge to the next level by asking participants to write an audiodrama revolving around one of the tarot cards from the Major Arcana. Who will find justice in a horror world of zombies or werewolves? Will your story include Death in all his sexy glory or will the Empress use her skills to tame the beasts of the underworld? It’s all up to you!

Every contestant will be given:
*A tarot card from the Major Arcana
*A supernatural/evil being
And every audio must include:
*At least two different reader voices in their production.

To register now, fill out the registration form here:
https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/FJRKL5F

You will receive your specialized contest items and being to create a fantastical, horror-filled, terrifying audiodrama for the listeners of HorrorAddicts.net to enjoy.

Sign up by April 13th, 2015. The sooner you sign up, the more time you have to prepare.

*Note: The Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge and the Master of Macabre Contest share a theme this year “Tarot Card Audiodrama”, but they will still be aired and judged separately.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~FURTHER DETAILS~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SPECS:

• As a contestant, you will write and record a horror story, fitting the theme and incorporating your extra elements. The style should be decidedly audiodrama, meaning music, sound effects, and two or more voices should be incorporated.
• Audio mp3 and text will be due to horroraddicts@gmail.com by May 13th, 2015, 11:59 pm PST. Contestants will then be narrowed down to 5 semi-finalists. Those 5 authors will go on to compete for the final prize of being “Most Wicked 2015”.
• The audio can be no longer than 10 minutes.
• The text can be no longer than 3000 words, but may be submitted either in story or script format. Usually 1000 words=10 mins, we are giving you 2000 extra words for stage direction.
• You may have someone else record your story for you, but it must still include 2 voices and none of the HorrorAddicts.net staff or previous winners may help you.
• You may not compete if you have won the “Master of Macabre” or “Most Wicked” awards before. You CAN compete if you have submitted in the past but did not win the final award.

 

VOTING CHANGES SINCE LAST YEAR:

There will be a 3-part voting system.

• 1/3 of the vote will still be the voters emailing in.
• 1/3 of the vote will be judged on podcast quality and will be judged by seasoned podcasters.
• 1/3 of the vote will be judged on writing quality and will be judged by seasoned writers.
• These 3 sections will be added together for a final score
• The winner will be honored with the coveted title, “Most Wicked 2015”.

 

Dates to know in 2015:
April 13th – Registration closes
May 13th – Audio and text are due.
Week of May 25th – finalists will be announced
June 27th – Audio airs (text will begin posting near this date)
June 27th – Voting starts
July 27th – Voting ends
August 22nd – Winners will be announced on the HorrorAddicts.net show.

 

Questions should be addressed to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject CONTEST QUESTION.

Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge 2015

HorrorAddicts.net is proud to announce the

Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge 2015

is now open for registration!

Who Will Be…. MOST WICKED?

 

THEME: This year’s theme is “Tarot Card Audiodrama.*” This year we’re pushing the challenge to the next level by asking participants to write an audiodrama revolving around one of the tarot cards from the Major Arcana. Who will find justice in a horror world of zombies or werewolves? Will your story include Death in all his sexy glory or will the Empress use her skills to tame the beasts of the underworld? It’s all up to you!

Every contestant will be given:
*A tarot card from the Major Arcana
*A supernatural/evil being
And every audio must include:
*At least two different reader voices in their production.

To register now, fill out the registration form here:
https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/FJRKL5F

You will receive your specialized contest items and being to create a fantastical, horror-filled, terrifying audiodrama for the listeners of HorrorAddicts.net to enjoy.

Sign up by April 13th, 2015. The sooner you sign up, the more time you have to prepare.

*Note: The Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge and the Master of Macabre Contest share a theme this year “Tarot Card Audiodrama”, but they will still be aired and judged separately.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~FURTHER DETAILS~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SPECS:

• As a contestant, you will write and record a horror story, fitting the theme and incorporating your extra elements. The style should be decidedly audiodrama, meaning music, sound effects, and two or more voices should be incorporated.
• Audio mp3 and text will be due to horroraddicts@gmail.com by May 13th, 2015, 11:59 pm PST. Contestants will then be narrowed down to 5 semi-finalists. Those 5 authors will go on to compete for the final prize of being “Most Wicked 2015”.
• The audio can be no longer than 10 minutes.
• The text can be no longer than 3000 words, but may be submitted either in story or script format. Usually 1000 words=10 mins, we are giving you 2000 extra words for stage direction.
• You may have someone else record your story for you, but it must still include 2 voices and none of the HorrorAddicts.net staff or previous winners may help you.
• You may not compete if you have won the “Master of Macabre” or “Most Wicked” awards before. You CAN compete if you have submitted in the past but did not win the final award.

 

VOTING CHANGES SINCE LAST YEAR:

There will be a 3-part voting system.

• 1/3 of the vote will still be the voters emailing in.
• 1/3 of the vote will be judged on podcast quality and will be judged by seasoned podcasters.
• 1/3 of the vote will be judged on writing quality and will be judged by seasoned writers.
• These 3 sections will be added together for a final score
• The winner will be honored with the coveted title, “Most Wicked 2015”.

 

Dates to know in 2015:
April 13th – Registration closes
May 13th – Audio and text are due.
Week of May 25th – finalists will be announced
June 27th – Audio airs (text will begin posting near this date)
June 27th – Voting starts
July 27th – Voting ends
August 22nd – Winners will be announced on the HorrorAddicts.net show.

 

Questions should be addressed to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject CONTEST QUESTION.

WWW Challenge Story #5: Merry Go When

Merry Go When by Tonia Brown
Beast: Horse… (Any equine incarnation)
Location: Kentucky
Blessing: Time Displacement Device
Curse: Chrononaut’s Ague

*~*Judging panel has not altered/edited this text.*~*
*~*Text is posted as sent by the author.*~*

Merry Go When

By Tonia Brown

 

Father had the carousel brought in special, all the way from Germany. The purchase was the result of a successful auction, in which he claimed to have outbid at least one hundred other buyers from all over the world. Why he wanted the thing was quite beyond me. My father wasn’t normally given to such childish proclivity, which made the purchase seem all the more out of place. Thankfully, he hid the thing in the garden behind our Kentucky home, where one had to travel down the field and past a small copse of trees in order to find it.

A few days after he had it in place, I inquired about the carousel’s state of being, to which my father sharply assured me it was none of my concern and commanded me not to revisit the matter. He surprised me with his gruff tone and unexpected anger. I hadn’t heard him use such a voice since mother left him for a much younger man.

Father never quite recovered from her abandonment.

The night after his outburst, I awoke to sudden movements just outside our quiet home. I stepped to the window, pulling aside the curtain and peering into the moonlit yard beyond, where a strange sight greeted me. The shadowy form of my father making his way to the garden in the middle of the night.

At first I thought he had taken to somnambulism, and I decided to go after him. I caught up with him just before he reached the carousel and I called out his name. My father turned to me with his mouth agape, as if shocked by my intrusion. This softened into a look of uneasy embarrassment. I demanded to know what was going on. With an unusual candor, he took my hand in his own and explained that the carousel was special. It was said to possess certain rejuvenating powers. That according to legend, the machine acted as a kind of time displacement device, removing years off of one’s life, and restoring the rider to an unbelievable degree of youth. He called it a blessing. A gift from God.

I couldn’t believe what my father was driving at. He was so desperate to be young again, he had fallen for a childish fairy tale. Some outlandish occult legend. To make matters worse, I knew it was all in an attempt to win back my mother’s heart. I begged my father to leave off this odd behavior and return with me to the house at once. He grew angry at me, pushed me aside and stormed off toward the carousel, hell bent on proving his words.

Even by moonlight, the machine was a breathtaking work of art. A large affair, at least thirty feet across, the carousel consisted of an intricately woven pattern of wrought iron, wood and brass. To the left of the entry ramp there extended an arm from the base of the thing, reaching away from the platform then doubling back once more toward the carousel proper; a delivery system equipped with brass rings, ready for the grasping. There were thirteen horses in all, each as large as a real stallion, and each bound by a post that ran the length from the roof to the floor, spearing each animal through their back.

I spied my father inside of the inner ring, manning the console. At his attention, the carousel sprang to life and light. The horses set into an up and down motion as the platform began a slow and steady rotation. This movement was accompanied by a cheery calliope played by an organ hidden somewhere about the mechanism.

My father stepped onto the moving stage, mounted one of the rising and falling steeds, and settled into place. Though he did so with the same aloof severity he reserved for business matters and other affairs of import. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak, didn’t seem to enjoy himself at all. He just held onto the steed and remained silent, as if concentrating on something other than the experience of the ride.

As the carousel turned, the platform spun faster and faster, and I began to grow concerned about my father’s safety. The music rose in pitch, to match the quicker rotations, driving into a wild orgy of wheezes and strained notes. And the horses … I know how this sounds, but the horses came alive! Their nostrils flared and steamed, heavy with breath. They kicked out, bucking against their poles, chomping at their bits and tossing their feral heads. Without warning, my father reached out and in a blur of motion, snatched one of the brass rings from the holder near the ramp.

At this the music lifted into a single, high pitched note, screaming into the wild night. The horses changed with this shriek, melting into nightmarish black steeds, each with matching crimson eyes, gnashing fangs and whipping forked tongues. They roared out, as one, in a single identical note as loud and chilling as the screaming music. I was filled with an utter dread for my father’s life, one that said should those beasts break free from this carousel, the town below our home would suffer in the most horrid of ways.

As the unnatural horses howled and bucked, the carousel’s lights grew to a blinding degree, and I had to shield my eyes.

When I was able to look again, the light dimmed and faded, and the carousel slowed to an eventual halt. The horses were normal once more, both stationary and plain. There was no sign of my father. I called out his name and searched about, worried that he had been flung from his demonic mount in the frenzy of the ride. Instead of my father’s voice, I heard the low croaking growl of something inhuman. I froze in place, worried some wild animal had been attracted by father’s carousel, and was now poised to attack.

In the thin moonlight, a creature emerged from behind the very horse my father had chosen as his mount. It crouched, at almost half my height, and was covered in a dark, leathery skin. Its mouth was stuffed with twisted, yellowing fangs, and nearly bisected its face with an abnormal width. The unholy thing clambered up to squat on the horse, looking out over the garden with wide glassy eyes that rested upon the top of its head. It grabbed at the air with wretched webbed paws and let out another soft, weird croak.

I screamed. I couldn’t help it.

Of course once I did, the thing whipped about to face me, that large, fang filled mouth snapping closed with a resounding click. It then lunged for me, leaping down from the carousel horse and almost atop me. It reached out for me, clawing the emptiness between us. I backed up a few nervous steps then took off in a run, heading for the safety of the house. Thankfully, the beast was slow, hopping in stunted bursts as if it had forgotten how to move its own webbed feet. Once I reached the house, I locked and barred the door, and headed immediately for father’s study, seeking father’s elephant gun—the single weapon he held onto from his younger, more adventurous days.

The beast was not far behind me, and began to scratch and beat on the front door. I loaded father’s gun, returned to the foyer, took aim for the front door, and fired. The door splintered into fragments as the shot tore the wood apart. With the blast of the weapon, the clawing and banging ceased. I switched on the electric porch light and stepped up, peering beyond the ruined wood to find my prey in a slump at bottom step. I reloaded the gun and, holding it before me, I stepped through the ruined door and made my way down the stairs, intending to finish the beast once and for all.

As I approached the creature, it gave a pained croak and flopped onto its back. With the added illumination of the porch light burning behind us, I was able to see the creature’s eyes more clearly. I gazed into those oversized orbs when a strange sensation befell me. I clearly recognized the beast’s eyes as my own kin. But how? Answer my silent question, the beast relaxed a webbed hand, and from it rolled a brass ring, spinning across the pavement between us until it came to rest at my feet.

It was then I understood what had happened.

Father was wrong. The carousel wasn’t a blessing. The machine, this time displacement device, did exactly as the legends proposed it would. It had displaced time from my father, only, it took too much. An unbelievable degree of youth, indeed! He thought he would step off the carousel a young man, but instead, in some kind of weird time traveling side effect, a type of crononaut’s ague, he came back a de-evolved monster.

A monster I had just slain.

With tear filled eyes, I lowered myself to his side, cradled my dying father’s head in my lap, and held him to me as he shuddered and exhaled his last breath.

************************
To vote for this story in the 2014 Wicked Women’s Writing Challenge, send an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends: July 28th, 2014

WWW Challenge Story #4: What Happens In Vegas

What Happens In Vegas by Lindsey Goddard
Beast: Rabbit
Location: Magic Act in Vegas
Blessing: Mirrors
Curse: Jealous Magician gone MAD!!!

 

*~*Judging panel has not altered/edited this text.*~*
*~*Text is posted as sent by the author.*~*

What Happens In Vegas

Lindsey Beth Goddard

Vivica tapped her six inch stilettos on the floor and waited for her cue to enter stage left. Her chest heaved in her sequin push-up top, and she fanned herself with both hands. Calm down, she thought, before your eyeliner runs and you turn into the world’s sexiest raccoon.

 

Stage fright was something Vivica had never experienced. She always said her nerves were stronger than steel; they were titanium. But you shouldn’t have done it. It’s a dirty trick, and it’s going to blow up in your face.

 

She watched Harvey on stage as a Burmese python slithered up the sleeve of his tux. It reappeared, center stage, in a cloud of confetti and smoke, and the crowd cheered. Vivica frowned as Harvey’s words from last night replayed in her mind. She remembered the way he had scowled at her, had moved so close to her face that she could feel his drunken body heat. “If I catch you flirting with another man again,” he had hissed through fetid whiskey breath, “I’ll feed that goddamn rabbit of yours to the snake.”

 

He smiled on stage. He turned to the crowd with a dramatic sweep of his arms. “For the next bit of madness, I’ll need some assistance,” he bellowed. “She’s hypnotic. She’s erotic. She’s not afraid of the blade! Please welcome… Ms. Vivica.”

 

Vivica entered the spotlight with a seductive swagger. She stepped over to a large wooden structure. It was circular, painted red and white like a huge target. She pressed her back against the wood. Harvey tightened her restraints.

 

He stepped back, took aim, and within seconds knives whizzed through the air, stabbing an outline of her body in the wood. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. A blade struck the board mere inches from her face. She gritted her teeth. I’m getting too old for this.

 

The show dragged on and on, until finally the moment arrived. The hat trick. Harvey loved his tired old hat trick. “An homage to the ancestors of magic”, he called it.

 

There was a secret compartment in the table below his hat. That’s where Abra Cadabra was supposed to be waiting. Sweet, fluffy little Abra Cadabra, the bunny Harvey had threatened to kill just one night before. Vivica smirked.

 

He plunged his hand into the hat and felt around for the rabbit. He froze. A look somewhere between pain and horror crossed his features. His eyes grew wide, and he let out a scream so loud that it made Vivica cringe. He writhed and tried to pull away, but something yanked his arm deeper.

 

Vivica knew the rabbit would bite. That was the whole point of the prank—to startle Harvey, to deliver a blow to his pride in front of a huge audience. But this? Something wasn’t right. Harvey was in too much pain.

 

He freed his hand from the hole, and the fat, hideous rabbit dangled there, its yellow teeth buried deep between his knuckles. Blood and foamy saliva moistened its face. The hat was stuck between Harvey’s elbow and the frothing little beast. It made it difficult for him to get a good view of his predator.

 

But Vivica could see it. She gulped. What exactly was she seeing?

 

Triple the size of Abra, this rabbit’s beady red eyes were slanted, its hackles raised. Its sharp claws sliced the air. Harvey gripped its plump body with his free hand and attempted to squeeze the life out of the critter as it mangled his knuckles, whipping its mangy head back and forth.

 

It opened its bloody maw and chomped down, severing fingers. Blood squirted from the amputated digits. The theater filled with screams. It spat the fingers out and lunged forward, ripping into Harvey’s arm. Tears of pain welled in his eyes. Blood coated his shirt.

 

He reared back and flung the rabbit to the floor. It growled, exposing a mouth full of fangs. It hopped over to him and used its claws to scurry up the fabric of his pants. He tried desperately to kick it off, doing a one-legged dance with his mutilated hand tucked under his armpit. It scrambled across his chest. Its face hovered just over the pulse at his jugular.

 

Vivica ran to him. A scream of agony echoed through the sound system from a nearby microphone as the creature tore into his neck. He fell to his knees, ripping the little monster from his throat with both hands as crimson gore soaked its fur. Harvey’s fingers went limp and he dropped it.

 

Vivica’s shadow fell over the rabbit. It glared at her, yellow teeth bared. She lifted a slender leg and stomped down with all her might, driving the thin metal of her stiletto heel through the top of the rabbit’s skull with a wet crunch. The rabbit’s paws twitched as she removed the metallic heel from its brain. With one last feeble kick, it stopped moving.

 

She dropped to the floor beside Harvey. Blood spilled from his neck. It soaked her knees and pooled around them as memories of last night washed over her. The strange man’s words… “I have the perfect rabbit for you,” he had said. His eyes shined like obsidian in the dim track lighting of the hotel bar. “An extremely rare breed. One that will teach old Harvey a lesson.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m not following. W-what do you mean?”

 

His teeth seemed too large when he smiled. “He deserves a little payback, don’t you think?”

 

“For… for what?”

 

“For what? Why, for threatening to feed your pet rabbit to his snake. And in public. I imagine he’s even worse when you two are alone.”

 

She had nodded. He’d certainly hit the nail on the head there. She felt odd opening up to a stranger this way, but she nodded all the same.

 

Harvey had embarrassed her, that was true. This was a business meeting, nothing more. The man she sat with at the lobby bar was a dealer of rare animals. Vivica had been hoping to retire Abra Cadabra and introduce a more exotic rabbit to the act.

 

But Harvey had come through the hotel and spotted them at the bar together. He’d made a scene, made accusations. As if she were the unfaithful one! Ha! She knew about Harvey’s indiscretions in the matters of monogamy. Still, he always found a way to point the finger at her.

 

“I’ve got a rabbit that is very different from the rest.” He flashed that peculiar smile again, all tooth and no lip. “She’s a biter. Positively vicious.You won’t need to handle her, of course. I’ll take care of everything.” He winked. “Just imagine, if you will, the great and powerful Harvey, humiliated by a rabbit!”

 

Why had she agreed to such a reckless prank? The memory pained her now.

 

The spotlights dimmed as crew members trickled out from backstage. The audience fell silent.  Harvey’s body convulsed against the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head.

 

The color drained from Harvey’s face, and his movements slowed to a stop. One last, shaky breath left his lungs. And then, Harvey started to change…

 

Thick fur sprouted from his skin. It covered his neck, his cheeks, his nose—every part of him. His missing fingers grew back. Then all ten digits fused together into a disturbing human-like paw. Curved claws grew from the tips. His ears grew, too, rising up from his head, and he rolled to the side, coughing, sprinkling the floor with human teeth. Saliva glistened on his freshly grown fangs.

 

She scrambled back and rose to her feet just as Harvey sprang to his. Well, it was really more of a hop than anything. He tracked her with his beady red eyes. His still-human lips curled into a sneer beneath thick fur, and she could see the sharp points of his teeth.

 

She removed her high heels and prepared to run. He lunged at her, but she managed to sidestep him and bolt in the other direction.

 

Her bare feet slid in a river of blood. Blood from when Harvey had died. Time seemed to slow down as she fell, and all she could think was: He did die. I saw it with my own eyes. He did. The Harvey I know is long gone.

 

She hit the ground, flipped over, saw him closing in.

 

Beside her was a table with a mirror affixed to the front. On any other night, the mirror was just another prop used for an optical illusion. But tonight, it was a godsend.

 

She tightened her grip on the stiletto shoe in her hand and smashed the metal heel into the glass—once, twice, three times. It shattered. She selected a long, jagged piece, squeezing it so hard that it sliced into her palm. Blood trickled down her wrist as he fell onto her, straddled her, opened his mouth wide, ready to rip her throat out.

 

She stabbed the piece of glass into the side of his head directly below his giant ears. It sliced into his temple. Blood rained down on her face. The glass maimed her hand, but she kept on pushing, driving the shard deeper and deeper into his head, until his clawed paws loosened their grip and Harvey’s mutated body slumped to the side.

 

She crawled away from the monster that had once been Harvey. Trembling and hysterical, she cried on stage before an audience of horrified faces. And in that sea of faces, for the briefest of moments, she could swear she glimpsed a familiar one. His eyes so dark they glimmered black. A toothy grin, too big for his head. She was certain he’d been there… smiling.

 ************************
To vote for this story in the 2014 Wicked Women’s Writing Challenge, send an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends: July 28th, 2014

WWW Challenge Story #3: The Gray Girl

The Gray Girl by Stephanie Lenz
Beast: Goat
Location: Mardi Gras
Blessing: Gris-gris
Curse: Your cocktail has been spiked with a voodoo potion!

*~*Judging panel has not altered/edited this text.*~*
*~*Text is posted as sent by the author.*~*

“The Gray Girl”

Stephanie Lenz

 Mardi Gras, 1981

Since her mother’s disappearance, Maia had been drawn to the old St Louis cemetery. Mardi Gras made people careless so she had hope. Locked again but at its base, just inside the gate, she found a palm-sized rag doll. It smelled of lavender and she hugged it to her face. Attached to its dress was a note with words Maia couldn’t read.

Inside, a yellowish curtain of light seemed to cut the cemetery in half. A woman walking through the graveyard caught Maia’s eye. Not a ghost. Maia couldn’t see ghosts. Just people and their colors. She was as real as Maia herself and she glowed faint violet. The woman smiled, took three steps, and disappeared into the light.

In the morning, Maia found a woman sweeping beads, paper, and broken glass into Bourbon Street. She held up the doll and asked for help. The woman fingered the note, then wrapped an arm around the child and invited her inside. She made Maia a sweet cherry-almond drink that drew the damp from her bones, then made a telephone call that began, “Queen, I have a kid for you.” She smiled and draped cheap purple beads around Maia’s neck, adding, “Hold tight to that gris-gris, girl.”

“Gray girl?” Maia pulled at a goat’s hair poking through the fabric.

August 2005

The child had been curled in the corner of Queen Clémence’s shop since Giles had brought her the day before. No magic, real or imagined, could get her to speak, move, or take a sip of water.

“I can’t leave the Quarter,” Maia said, sipping a beer and leaning on the register counter, her bronzed arms glistening with sweat and work.

“Maia, it’s mandatory this time.”

“And the police,” she replied, pointing at his badge, “are trying to turn me into a babysitter. That is not what I do.”

He leaned forward. “I know what you do. That’s why I brought her here.”

Maia looked down toward the girl, barefoot with the dampness of the Ninth Ward still up to the knees of her pants. “What color was that man? The policeman who just left. Not his skin. His other color.”

The little girl allowed her eyes to meet Maia’s. “Purple.”

“I thought he was more of a pinkish-purple.”

The child unfolded and curled her legs alongside her body like a mermaid’s tail.

“He told me your name is Espie.”

“You’re purple too.”

Maia held up a finger, then opened the purse with the strap that she wore across her chest. Removing the doll, she asked, “Do you know what this is?”

The little girl’s eyes opened wide. “My dolls are all at home. Under the water. With my grandmamma.”

“Have you ever made a gris-gris?”

“Grandmamma says voodoo comes from the devil.”

Maia offered her hand as Espie stood. “Did she show you how to keep him away?”

Mardi Gras, 2014

“Goat Herder, wasn’t it?”

“You remembered.” She accepted the cocktail Hunt delivered to her, jostled by tourists spilling beer on her emerald green Tulane t-shirt.

He watched as she drank. “My, my, Maia. We never thought we’d get you.”

The potion he’d mixed into her cocktail rushed under Maia’s skin. Her protections, her memories, her training, as impossible to grasp as handfuls of water. His aura dissolved from pink to dusty orange.

She spotted this year’s kid on the other side of the club, his gris-gris bag knotted through a belt loop, as he sipped beer from a plastic gold cup. He’d gone from red to purple, the strongest aura Maia could sense. Hunt couldn’t see him. She’d done her job.

“Clémence’s hand-raised kid. Savior of the goats without horns.” Hunt ran his hands over her shivering flesh. He kissed her neck and whispered. “I’ll drain your mind before I’ll drain your blood. The meat,” he said with a squeeze, “is least of what I want. I might spare your precious Quarter for the year if you give yourself – all of yourself – to me, ma biche.”

As he spoke, Maia’s fingers searched her purse for her own red satin bag filled with herbs, cemetery dirt, and goat hair. She found it. He couldn’t see her or feel her but it was only temporary magic, a few minutes at best. She ran toward Basin Street, darting through the crowds to St. Louis #1.

As the night’s last tour group filtered past, carelessly dropping bits of stolen brick, Maia slipped through the gates, clutching the gris-gris with both hands over her pounding heart. The darkness rose like water.

“Voilà,” Hunt’s voice echoed off the marble and brick. “Maia Gray, Protector of Goats.”

Maia positioned herself carefully. The old border of the Vieux Carré ran right through St. Louis #1, soft, yellow, and pulsing. She took a step backward. The other colors of her world faded into gray.

Hunt picked plaster from a whitewashed tomb. “I have a lot to repay you for. Twenty-five years of hornless goats we didn’t get, plus that kid you kept as a souvenir from the Feast of Katrina. We’re hungry and we’re inviting you to the table, ma biche.”

Another step backward. Her dark curls lifted in a low breeze.

He recognized what she was doing. “You made a vow, Protector. You can’t leave The Quarter.”

“You’re right. I’ll never leave it.”

“You knew. You knew what I was gonna do, didn’t you? How long have you known?”

“All eight years.”

He nodded. “You drank it of your own free will. You know who I am, what I want. There’s nothing to save you from me now. Nothing to save the Quarter. Nothing to save your precious ‘kids.’ Let me feast on your fear, Maia.”

She dropped the gris-gris.

His eyes followed it, then fell on her face. His expression changed. The shadows around him swirled and rose like smoke. “No fear. How are you unafraid? For yourself. For the Quart… Another Protector? Th-that’s impossible! Tell me!”

“Au revoir.”

His scream caught in his throat as Maia took her final step backward and disappeared.

Hunt de Chèvre had promised he would deliver The Protector, that they would finally devour her – body and soul. Instead, they would starve. He waved a hand in front of the cemetery gates to open them. He didn’t see the orange sparks that flew from his hand.

The young woman sitting cross-legged on a low tomb did see. She’d always seen the colors. Grandmamma had told her it was a curse. Miss Maia showed her it was a blessing. Maia had also taught that those with this blessing were called by the Quarter to protect the innocent. Otherwise they – prey and Protector alike – would become “hornless goats,” sacrificed and consumed by de Chèvre and his followers. The final lesson had been how to dissolve into the Quarter if, by time or by trickery, your powers grew too weak to protect anyone, including yourself.

She carried two gris-gris in her bag: the one she’d made with Maia and the one Maia had given her. The Gray Girl, she’d called it.

Esperanza slid along Bourbon Street like sap over bark. She hooked a finger through a set of discarded purple throw beads, looped the beads around her neck, and let the Quarter lead its Protector into its heart.

************************
To vote for this story in the 2014 Wicked Women’s Writing Challenge, send an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends: July 28th, 2014

WWW Challenge Story #2: An Appetite for Trouble

An Appetite For Trouble by Chantal Boudreau
Beast: Monkey
Location: A Jungle Temple
Blessing: Candy Bar
Curse: Cannibals!

*~*Judging panel has not altered/edited this text.*~*
*~*Text is posted as sent by the author.*~*

An Appetite for Trouble

                When Doctor Toyin Katabe, professor of anthropology, had been preparing for a journey to examine a potential find in the jungles of East Africa, the association awarding her the research funding had insisted she not go alone.  It didn’t matter that she had originally come from that area and was familiar with the language and customs there.  It also didn’t matter that she had been studying ancient cannibalistic civilizations since completing her masters three decades before.  Despite the fact that she was perfectly healthy, far fitter than the average woman her age and stronger too, they had insisted she take a graduate student along with her, and preferably one who was both young and male.

While not surprised that the old-fashioned, old-money codgers who chaired the association had placed such foolish demands upon her, Doctor Katabe had still been insulted.  She had always been perfectly capable of taking care of herself while on these outings.  Extinct ancient tribes hardly posed a threat to the living.  Insects were a much bigger danger, so unless a grad student was intending to follow her around with a giant flyswatter, she didn’t need him for protection.

Besides, Toyin knew her away around a jungle and had a talent with handling wild animals.  She even owned a trained monkey, Bobo, as a pet.  More than a pet really – she considered Bobo a service animal because he could do things for her she couldn’t manage for herself.  He could scale heights or squeeze into tight spots to retrieve things for her, and he had a few other special tricks he could perform with the right incentive.  As far as she was concerned, he was better than any graduate student playing assistant.  And while she might welcome human companionship while searching for evidence of Neolithic cannibals in Europe or South America, she preferred to visit her home turf alone.

At least, this is how she had felt initially, before it had turned out that the extinct ancient tribe of cannibals hadn’t been quite so extinct after all.  Doctor Katabe and her six-foot-two twenty-something chaperone, Derek, had been searching through the aged evidence of ritualistic cannibalism – cannibalism similar to that of the Mangbetu tribe that had brought them to the Congo Basin in the first place – when they were ambushed.  The swarm of mostly-naked jungle natives that surrounded and seized them had painted faces and wore jewellery made from carved pieces of cranial bones.   It reminded Toyin of a scene out of an old adventure serial.

Derek had tried to fight but was quickly overcome.  Toyin had known better.  She would wait until the odds lay more in her favour.  That way, unlike Derek, she was conscious when they bound her arms.  She could bunch her muscles as much as possible to allow some slack when she relaxed them later.  It might provide her with the opportunity to escape when they were paying less attention.

Along with being taken by surprise and frightened by the cannibals aggressive swarming, Doctor Katabe also suffered the disappointment of watching Bobo scramble screaming into the jungle.  His loss was more grievous than watching Derek succumb to a well-placed blow to the head.  She had never counted on any real help from the grad student anyway.  He was there merely as a watchdog for the privileged old men who had funded her trip to prove to their cronies they supported education and the exploration of different cultures, like good gentleman should.  Bobo, on the other hand, was her right arm.  Without him, her chances of escape dropped to almost zero.

Now, captured and held in their secluded village, Doctor Katabe had to admit that taking Derek along had been worth it after all.  The cannibals had taken one look at his youthful form and brawn and decided to eat the grad student first.  In their place, Toyin likely would have made the same choice.  One look at her silvering hair, lean muscle and wrinkling dark skin, and she would have assumed such a person would make for a tough and stringy meal, like chewing old leather.

She had been forced to watch as Derek had begged for his life, the young man in tears as they had prepared him for decapitation with a well-balanced blade that resembled the Ngombe cult weapons.  Toyin didn’t see the point to grovelling.  If she ended up at a place past any hope of escape, she would accept her fate with dignity.  Why get upset when death was inevitable?

But she wasn’t there yet – she still had hope despite watching blood gush from the place where Derek’s severed head had once rested and his brawny form twitch in its death throes.  She had time too, the lost tribe still full after cooking and devouring her grad student.  She only prayed Bobo would make an appearance before it was her turn.  If he did, she might not end up serving as the second course.

Doctor Katabe was depending on Bobo to follow the tasty trail she had left him while on route to the secluded tribal village.  Knowing Bobo’s affinity for sweets, the anthropologist had secured a small bag of stuffed figs from a vendor outside her hotel, which she kept in her pocket as rewards for the monkey.  She also had a chocolate bar secured in her shirt flap, but that needed to be saved for emergencies only.  With her hands only loosely bound in front of her, she had managed to ease the figs one by one out of her pocket and drop them along the way.  As long as Bobo’s appetite for treats drove him forward, he would reach her eventually. Toyin was relying on that.

In the meantime, she had been worrying at the ties that bound her wrists and she was close to the point where she would be able to free her hand to use as she pleased.  She would need that free hand when Bobo arrived, in order to reach the chocolate bar in her possession.  Her fate would be decided in that one moment: would she be liberated or would she be lunch?  She certainly was aiming for the former rather than the latter.

Toyin had been pretending to sleep on the mat they had laid out for her, still struggling with her bonds, when she heard the first delightful signs of that Bobo had arrived, making curious little noises from the shelter of the trees.  His arrival happily coincided with the somewhat painful removal of one hand from the ties.  She smiled inwardly.  The cannibals had no idea she was about unleash her worst weapon upon them.

Unbeknownst to the cannibals, the anthropologist truly had trained her monkey to protect her with the right prompts and the right incentives.  Fortunately for Doctor Katabe, Bobo would do anything for chocolate, including attacking people upon her command.

“Chocolate, Bobo – chocolate,” she whispered, sliding the candy bar from her shirt flap.  It was squishy, melted from the heat, but the monkey wouldn’t care.  Toyin tore the oozy packaging in two, passing one to Bobo who had emerged from the shadows of the trees with his mistress’s tempting summons.  She returned the other half to its original location.  “You know what you need to do for the rest of it,” she told Bobo as he sucked the last of the brown, sugary sludge from his half of the wrapper.

The next few seconds that followed were pure chaos, when Bobo’s shrill shrieks attracted the cannibals.  Once they came into view, he set upon them as if rabid, leaping upon heads, scratching at faces and biting at ears, gouging at eyes and clawing at scalps.  Multiple attempts were made to grab at him, but he was more agile than those who sought to snatch him up. Soon cries of agony and blood from the rending of flesh added to the pandemonium.  Toyin took the opportunity to free her ankles from their ties, while her captors were fully distracted by Bobo’s rampage.  After a few hearty rubs to restore some feeling to her numb legs and feet, she lurched away from her mat and sprinted off into the jungle.

Her flight was hurried and haphazard, trying to put as much distance between her and the cannibal village before they noticed she was gone.  The adrenaline generated by the memory of what had happened to Derek kept her running long after she normally would have succumbed to fatigue.  When she finally did slide to a shaky stop, she had to count herself lucky for not tripping on some root or stone in her path, or impaling herself on some unfortunately-placed tree branch.  She could no longer hear Bobo’s enraged hoots or the cannibals’ shouts of distress.  Either they had managed to subdue him, drive him off, or Toyin had succeeded in running far enough that they were all now out of earshot.

She hoped Bobo had survived unscathed and had made his own escape.  If so, she would definitely see him again.  He would most certainly track her by scent, demanding the remains of his prize once he had found her.  Doctor Katabe, in the meantime, would rest as best she could until morning, when she would reorient herself using the rising sun and make her way back to base camp and then the hotel.  She had gathered more than enough data by that point to consider her venture into the Congo Basin a successful one.

Toyin realized, as she settled down into the greenery to relax under the moonlight, that her stomach was grumbling.  She hadn’t eaten in over a day, the cannibals having only provided her with water to drink.  For the briefest moment she contemplated devouring the second half of the gooey chocolate bar resting securely in her shirt flap.  She reminded herself that it would be far better not to, despite the temptation.  The melted candy would only dampen her hunger temporarily.  After the crash from the sugar high, she would feel far worse.

And then there was Bobo. If and when he returned to her, she could only imagine how he would react to the fact that she had robbed him of the other promised half of his reward.  His response to her would likely be more violent than his attack upon the cannibals.  Toyin didn’t want to risk that, not when her monkey had such an appetite for trouble.

With that in mind, she left the chocolate bar where it was. She’d rather not invite that kind of pain.

Closing her eyes, with the vague chance of sleep, Doctor Katabe prayed that no other denizens in the area would also decide she looked and smelled like lunch.  She had had enough of playing potential snack for a lifetime.

****************

To vote for this story in the 2014 Wicked Women’s Writing Challenge, send an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends: July 28th, 2014

 

WWW Challenge Story #1: Photo Finish

Photo Finish by D.M. Slate
Beast: Dragon
Location: A Japanese Night Club
Blessing: Hairspray
Curse: Hallucinations

*~*Judging panel has not altered/edited this text.*~*
*~*Text is posted as sent by the author.*~*

 

Photo Finish

By D.M. Slate

Liza steps out of the cab, closing the door behind her.  She shields her eyes from the sun, looking up at the sky scrapers that line both sides of the busy street.  The over-cluttering of Japan’s rich, vibrant colored signs makes her smile.

Tossing her silky blonde locks over her shoulder, Liza straightens her shirt and heads for the front doors.  Her photo shoot today is on the top floor – at the White Serpent night club.  She enters the elevator, taking a deep breath as it begins to move.  Today is Liza’s first time working with Chuu, the photographer, and her stomach jitters with nervousness.  Being a petite blonde American has made modeling work easy to find in Japan, but learning the language has been a much harder task.

The elevator comes to a stop, and as the doors open Liza’s breathe catches in her throat.  The White Serpent’s décor is stunning.  Glowing chandeliers of red, blue and purple dangle from the ceiling, accenting the sleek white chairs, booths and couches that line the hard-wood floor.  A massive sculpture of a white dragon slithers around the chandeliers from one corner of the night club to the other.  To the south, a wall of windows provides a penthouse view of the bustling city below.

A man steps out from behind the bar and the movement catches her eye.  She hadn’t seen him standing there, silently observing her.  She smiles, raising a hand in a typical American greeting, before catching herself in mid-motion.  Pulling the hand down, she gives a proper bow, instead.

Chuu approaches, speaking a mouthful of words that Liza can’t decipher.  She’s taken aback by his appearance.  Dressed in noting but black, his tall slender form seems to float across the floor toward her.  His goth-like attire is complete with a sliver-link chain that hangs around his neck, and a head full of spikey black hair.  When he comes to a stop next to her, Liza notices the eye liner that accentuates his almond shaped eyes.

Agitated with her lack of verbal response, he sneers at her.  She rattles off the only greeting she knows in Japanese, which does little to win Chuu’s approval.  He spins on the heel of his boot, walking away.  Liza timidly scurries after him.  The photographer retrieves an outfit off of the bar and hands it to her, pointing her in the direction of the women’s restroom.

Once inside the bathroom, Liza lets out a deep breath, trying to calm herself.  Scoffing at the clothes, Liza shakes her head as she changes into the skimpy pleather outfit.  A cross between animee design and sexy-school girl attire – the mid-drift top, short skirt and knee-high socks seem to be essential items in most of her Japanese shoots.  And today, a pair of six-inch spiked heels completes the outlandish outfit.

Liza gives the shoes a trial run in the bathroom, terrified to trip and fall in front of Chuu.  Satisfied that she’s stable enough on them, she stuffs her clothes down into her massive purse and slings the bag over her shoulder.  Taking one last glance in the mirror, Liza digs down into the purse retrieving a bottle of hairspray.  Giving her hair a final spritz, she drops the bottle back into her bag and exits the restroom.

The club has taken on a new life and her eyes sparkle with wonderment.  Fog machines pump thick plumes of smoke out from the ceiling, filling the room in cloud of white.  A fan blows lightly against a wall of various colored silks, and the materials dances in the breeze.

The lighting equipment for the photo shoot is set up next to the silk wall, so Liza saunters in that direction, looking around for Chuu.

She gasps in surprise when he steps out from behind a pillar wearing a red dragon mask.  Covering his entire head, the large dragon-shaped mask seems unproportionate to his thin body, and Liza wonders how he’s able to bear its weight.  Seemingly unaffected by the mask, Chuu points toward the couch by the silk wall.  Liza approaches it, leaning lightly on the arm of the couch in one of her typical model poses.  Chuu begins to snap photos, holding the camera up to the eye piece of the dragon mask.  The lamps pop with a flash of light with each photo that is taken.

Ignoring the strangeness of the situation, Liza concentrates on posing for the photos.  Feeling light-headed and dizzy, she leans her full weight onto the couch.  The camera continues to click, and the lights continue to flash brightly before her eyes.  The bulbs seem to stay illuminated longer now, and Liza finds herself staring at the lamps, drawn to them.  Her mind is wandering, and before long, she forgets why she’s even at the nightclub.  Looking down at clothing her mind spins in confusion.

With each inhale of the drugged fog, Liza slips further and further from consciousness.  Chuu places the camera on a tripod, setting it on auto-click.  He disappears into the cloud of smoke and the camera continues snap photos.  By the time he returns, Liza has slumped to a seated position on the couch, staring blankly ahead in a drugged stupor.

Her eyes follow the movement of his large butterfly blades as he swings them from side to side.  The twelve inch knives are curved – slender at the bottom, wide at the end – and he holds one in each hand.  Fog dissipates and swirls around his crimson dragon mask as he slices the daggers through the air.  Liza’s transfixed, unable to look away.  With each swing of the blades her eyes hallucinate.  Tracers following the curving arches of the knives transform into fluttering wings on the sides of this red dragon beast.

Liza’s brain never processes danger, until the first slice tears through her flesh.  The razor-thin dagger bites into her pale white skin, gouging a deep cut into her thigh.  Blood sprays through the air, and the butterfly blades continue to swing.

Scrambling away from the monster, screaming, Liza sprints toward the elevator.  The spike of her heel tilts to the side, twisting her fragile ankle.  She crumbles to the floor, crawling on her hands and knees, trying to escape.  Another swing of the knife slices her lower back, sending her flailing to the floor.  Liza’s hand snags the strap of her purse, and her fingers clamp down around it.  She pulls the bag toward her, reaching for her phone.

The fatal slash of the blade penetrates the back of Liza’s neck, severing her spinal cord.  Gasping for breath, her brain slowly begins to misfire.

Chuu reaches down grabbing Liza by her feet, pulling her body back across the floor.  Reaching the couch, her rolls her onto her back, looking down into her dying eyes.  Picking her slender body up with ease, Chuu places her on the couch, in a sitting position.  Blood pours from the back of her neck, cascading over her shoulders and trickling down the front of her body.

The red dragon yanks the purse from Liza’s death-grip, not wanting it to tarnish his perfect photo shoot.  The camera continues to snap on auto, click, click, click. Chuu marvels at the perfection of the scene he’s created.

He tosses Liza’s purse carelessly aside.  The hairspray bottle rolls slowly out of the bag into the fog, but Chuu doesn’t notice.  Brandishing a blade in each hand, he swings the butterfly knives again, triumphantly.

Side-stepping out of the camera’s frame, Chuu’s foot lands awkwardly on the hairspray bottle.  Thrown off balance, his arms flail through the air as he trips, and falls.  The razor-sharp blade pierces the soft flesh of his lower back, skewering his internal organs, before exiting his stomach.

Impaled on his own blade, Chuu struggles to breath.  The mask falls from his head and his wide, dying eyes stare up into the fog.  Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth with every laborious exhale.

All the while the camera continues to snap on auto, click, click, click to capture the glorious photo finish.

************************
To vote for this story in the 2014 Wicked Women’s Writing Challenge, send an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends: July 28th, 2014

Wicked Women Writers Challenge 2014

2014 Wicked Women Writer Challenge – 

Welcome to the 6^th annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge
Hosted by HorrorAddicts.net

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Beauty and

the Beast

Premise: There is something both fearsome and attractive in a wild thing, be it man or beast. From creature legends told around ancient campfires, to modern tales of King Kong and cryptozoology, critters have always captured our darkest imagination. Five finalists have created stories based on this premise and with challenges that were randomly selected. Each challenger received: 1. Location 2. Blessing – Helpful Item 3. Curse – An untimely disability 4. Beast

Your task as a listener is to listen to each story (or read it on the blog) and then vote for who you think is the Most Wicked for 2014 by sending an email to: HorrorAddicts@gmail.com

In your email please include the challenger’s name or story tile and why you liked it best. One lucky voter will win a  HorrorAddicts.net prize pack!

Challengers

Photo Finish by D.M. Slate
Beast: Dragon
Location: A Japanese Night Club
Blessing: Hairspray
Curse: Hallucinations

Danyelle (aka D.M. Slate) resides in Colorado. She attended college at the University of Northern Colorado and completed a business degree, and now works as a financial analyst. She’s married to her high school sweet-heart, and together they have a young daughter and son. To find out more, go to http://www.dm-slate.com

An Appetite For Trouble by Chantal Boudreau
Beast: Monkey
Location: A Jungle Temple
Blessing: Candy Bar
Curse: Cannibals!

Chantal Boudreau is an accountant by day and an author/illustrator during evenings and weekends, who lives by the ocean in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada with her husband and two children. In addition to being a CMA-MBA, she has a BA with a major in English from Dalhousie University. A member of the Horror Writers Association, she writes and illustrates horror, dark fantasy and fantasy and has had several of her stories published in a variety of horror anthologies, online journals and magazines. Fervor, her debut novel, a dystopian science fantasy tale, was released in March of 2011 by May December Publications, followed by its sequels, Elevation, Transcendence and Providence. Magic University, the first in her fantasy series, Masters & Renegades, made its appearance in September 2011 followed by Casualties of War in 2012 and Prisoners of Fate, in 2013. Find out more at: http://chantellyb.wordpress.com

The Grey Girl by Stephanie Lenz
Beast: Goat
Location: Mardi Gras
Blessing: Gris-gris
Curse: Your cocktail has been spiked with a voodoo potion!

Stephanie Lenz writes mainstream and genre fiction in western Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband, daughter, son, cat, and two dogs. She has a degree in creative writing from Florida State and edits Toasted Cheese, where she created and co-judges the annual “Dead of Winter” horror contest. Some of her southern gothic fiction has appeared in Quantum Muse, The Journal of the Blue Planet, and the anthology Harlan County Horrors. Find out more at: piggyhawk.net

What Happens In Vegas by Lindsey Goddard
Beast: Rabbit
Location: Magic Act in Vegas
Blessing: Mirrors
Curse: Jealous Magician gone MAD!!!

Lindsey Beth Goddard’s stories have appeared in anthologies such as Mistresses Of The Macabre, Fresh Fear: Contemporary Horror, Axes Of Evil, and Bleed. She lives in the suburbs of St. Louis, MO. When she’s not writing, she enjoys interviewing fellow authors, playing with her children, and plotting ways to take over the world. www.lindseybethgoddard.com

Merry Go When by Tonia Brown
Beast: Horse… (Any equine incarnation)
Location: Kentucky
Blessing: Time Displacement Device
Curse: Chrononaut’s Ague

Tonia Brown is a Southern author with a penchant for Victorian dead things. She writes in many genres from horror to humor to erotica to steampunk. When not writing she raises unicorns and fights crime with her husband under the code names Dr. Weird and his sexy sidekick Butternut. To find out more, go to: http://thebackseatwriter.blogspot.com/

Good Luck

Ladies!

Wicked Women Writers Challenge 2014

Beauty & the Beast Wicked Women Writers Challenge 2014

2014 Theme: Beauty & the Beast

Premise: There is something both fearsome and attractive in a wild thing, be it man or beast. From creature legends told around ancient campfires, to modern tales of King Kong and crypto zoology, critters have always captured our darkest imagination. Get your Beast on.

Challenge: Create a 10 minute horror podcast that contains four story elements, plus your written story. Registration closes 4-13-14. Audio and text are due on 5-13-14.

Story Elements: Each of our Wicked Belles will be assigned a location, a blessing, a curse … and a Beast. Your story must include a lady in peril and these four elements:

Location:  Anywhere in the world is fair game. A private zoo? A Japanese Nightclub? Kindergarten Show ‘N’ Tell? You are the game. We’ll give you the board.

Blessing:  A helpful item to tame the danger in your tale. We couldn’t have you stalked by a Werewolf without at least giving you a silver locket to melt down. Use your item wisely, Wicked. Even a trivial thing can save your life.

Curse:  An untimely disability. You can’t skip through this one without feeling a bite of a fang on your ass. The Norns can be quite evil with this element.

Beast:  Beasts will be drawn from the 12 animal signs of the Chinese zodiac: Rat, Ox, Tiger, Rabbit, Dragon, Snake, Horse, Goat, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, or Pig. The Beast may be a main character in your story, or may be represented in other creative ways… a tattoo? An advertising logo? A supernatural brute? Freak of nature? You name it, as long as you include it. Any genre of horror is welcome, but this ain’t Lassie, my Wickeds. Not unless she rips out your throat!

Dates to Remember:
Contest Opens –  March 4, 2014
Registration Closes – April 13, 2014
Audio & Text Due  – May 13, 2014
Elimination Round to 5 Wickeds – May 24, 2014
Voting Begins June 13, 2014
Voting Ends July 28, 2014
2014 Winner Announced August 23, 2014

WARNING: The Norns are majorly p.m.s.ing this year. This challenge involves shotgun-quick writing & recording skills. The squeamish need not apply!

If you would like to compete, send an e-mail to: Horroraddicts@gmail.com –We’ll send you the complete set of rules and assign your story elements. Remember, the sooner you respond, the more time you’ll have to write and produce your podcast.

GOOD LUCK, MY WICKED, AND MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR!

Margaret Fiske, our 2013 Wicked Women Writer Winner, will contact you for further challenge details and timeline. Deadline to enter the 2014 Wicked Woman Writer Challenge is April 13, 2014.

Please note: The earlier you enter the challenge, the longer you’ll have to prepare, write, edit, and produce your contest entry before the deadline. Contest slots fill up fast!

Wicked Women Writers Challenge

Click to listen:

Who Will Be “Most Wicked 2013?” Thirteen Wicked Women Writers Compete for the Coveted Title beginning on September 7th.

This year, the WWW Challenge theme is How Will You Survive? Each of our WWW was assigned an apocalyptic disaster, a location, a helpful object, and an untimely disability. Voting starts September 7th and ends October 7th. Stories will air on podcast #95 September 7th on the http://www.horroraddicts.net show. To vote, email horroraddicts@gmail.com. Put “WWW” in the subject line.

***CAUTION*** We Strongly encourage you to listen to ALL the stories. Just when you think you have chosen your most wicked story, there’s another story ready to slap you into the face of fear once again. You can also read along with the stories and catch words you might have missed on horroraddicts.net. Be sure and listen to all 13 stories before casting your vote!
The winner will be announced on the October 19th Finale of Horror Addicts.net podcast show. Break a Leg, Wickeds!
The wicked entrants are listed in order of submission for their completed podcasts. Twenty-five entered and only thirteen rose up out of the ashes and completed the challenge. We are pleased to introduce to you the 2013 Wicked entrants.

Contestants:

Leigh M. Lane has been writing for over twenty years. She has ten published novels and over a dozen published short stories divided among different genre-specific pseudonyms. Her traditional Gothic horror novel, Finding Poe, was a 2013 EPIC finalist. Her other novels include The Hidden Valley, World-Mart, and Myths of Gods. You can learn more about Leigh at http://www.cerebralwriter.com/.

Leigh’s story is “Enter the Corruption” Apocalyptic Disaster – Nano tech Invasion | Location – Bullet Train | Helpful Item – Hand Sanitizer | Disability – Extreme Itchiness

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Shauna Klein – I’m a freelance writer, website designer, photographer and overall Jill of all trades that lives in sunny and stormy Florida. Shauna Klein is my pen name and I’m married with children that have fins, feathers and fur.

Shauna’s story is “Static” Apocalyptic Disaster – Terrorist Invasion | Location – Greenhouse | Helpful Item – Skateboard | Disability – Migraine Headache

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DM Slate – Danyelle (aka D.M. Slate) resides in Colorado, where she completed a business degree at the University of Northern Colorado. She’s married to her high school sweet-heart, and together they have a young daughter and son. D.M. Slate’s first publication was released in 2009.

Danyelle’s story is “Veil of Darkness” Apocalyptic Disaster – Strange Matter/Anti-Matter | Location – Interstate Freeway | Helpful Item – Gas Mask | Disability – Elderly Parent

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 Chantal Boudreau is an accountant/author/illustrator who lives in Nova Scotia with her husband and children. A member of the Horror Writers Association, she has had stories published in a variety of horror anthologies. She also has two series published through May December Publications, Fervor and Masters & Renegades. http://www.writersownwords.com/chantal_boudreau/

Chantal’s story is “A Wing and a Prayer” Apocalyptic Disaster – EMP Blast | Location – Airplane | Helpful Item – Rubber Tubing | Disability – Pregnant

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Chantal Noordeloos is a writer from the Netherlands who1999 graduate from the Norwich School of Art and Design (UK) with a major in creative writing. Apart from work, motherhood and a busy social life that also includes -playing in and organising of- regular LARP (live action role play) events, she has been writing stories and honing her writing skills through workshops, seminars and a lot of writing. Chantal lives in The Hague with her family.

Chantal’s story is “Out of a Storm” Apocalyptic Disaster – Super Storm | Location – Haunted Hotel | Helpful Item – Rope | Disability – All Alone

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Rebekah Webb is a freelance writer from California. When she isn’t working on frightening stories or wild comedies about cellophane wearing ladies’ men, she enjoys cooking and various other things, possibly including training squirrels to take over the world. The reason she writes instead of some other creative endeavor is because of one simple truth: Writing rocks.

Rebekah’s story is “Prey” Apocalyptic Disaster – Super Virus | Location – Restaurant | Helpful Item – Baseball Bat | Disability – Allergic reaction

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Anastasia Marie Robinson is a young woman from St. Louis who has a passion for the macabre. She has a strong interest in the paranormal and is also a studying folklore expert. As well as being a published horror fiction writer she also writes reviews and original content for several websites. AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00BAGSPS2

Anastasia’s story is “Motherhood” Apocalyptic Disaster – BUGS! | Location – Circus Helpful Item – Backpack | Disability – Small child or baby to care for

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Rebecca Snow lives in Virginia with a dwindling herd of geriatricats. Her short fiction has been published in several small press anthologies and online. You can find her on facebook and twitter @cemeteryflower.com and has an online journal at cemeteryflower.blog.com.

Rebecca’s story is “Hazard” Apocalyptic Disaster – Bio- Terrorism | Location – Golf Course | Helpful Item – Scissors | Disability – No Medicine

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Julianne Snow is the author of Days with the Undead: Book One. An author of speculative fiction with roots deep in horror, she has pieces of short fiction in publications from Sirens Call Publications, OpenCasket Press as well as forthcoming anthologies from Hazardous Press and the Coffin Hop Charity Anthology. http://dayswiththeundead.com/

Julianne’s story is “Not All Jacks are Created Equal” Apocalyptic Disaster – Super Volcano | Location – Commuter Train | Helpful Item – Bottle of Jack Daniels | Disability – Naked

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R.L. Weston lives in Utah amid what her husband refers to as a refugee camp for stray animals. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and participates in the online critique group critters.org.

R.L’s story is “Drug Z” Apocalyptic Disaster – Dirty Bombs | Location – Zumba Class | Helpful Item – Workout Towel | Disability – Children Alone in Gym Daycare

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Maggie Fiske is a secretary, caregiver, musician, creature of the night. I live in Omaha with lunatic cats & a filching ghost.

Maggie’s story is “A Quarrel for Jimmy Lee Killscrow” Apocalyptic Disaster – Solar Flares/ or Gamma Rays | Location – Hunting in the Mountains | Helpful Item – Crossbow | Disability – Hungover

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Sumiko Saulson is the author of three sci-fi/horror novels, “Solitude,” “Warmth”, and “The Moon Cried Blood, and short story anthology “Things That Go Bump In My Head.” Born to African-American and Russian-Jewish parents, she is a native Californian, and has spent most of her adult life in the Bay Area.

Sumiko’s story is “A Birthday Present” Apocalyptic Disaster – Sinkholes | Location – Bowling Alley/ Pool Hall Bar | Helpful Item – Cue Stick | Disability – Lost Glasses

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Amy K. Marshall is a former archaeologist and curator (among many other things), current Director of The Craig Public Library on Prince of Wales Island in Alaska, I am also the author of THE FISHING WIDOW (Alaskan Gothic Press 2013). I am an Associate Member of HWA and a member of their Library Committee.

Amy’s story is “Paternoster” Apocalyptic Disaster – Loss of all fuel sources | Location – elevator | Helpful Item – Swiss army survival knife | Disability – sprained swollen ankle

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My name is Killion Slade, the reigning 2012 Wicked Woman Writer. It has been my sincerest pleasure to meet these talented ladies and be a part of their journey this year. One thing is clear, when it comes to scary – women know how to rock it!
We look forward to you listening to all of these amazingly creepy stories and choose who will be your next Most Wicked for 2013. Find out more about Killion’s work at http://www.killionslade.com.

Masters of Macabre Challenge Coming!

It’s that time of year again Addicts, time to be entertained by three of our Masters of Macabre!

This year’s challenge is Haunted Houses. They come in all shapes, sizes, and locations with as wide a variety of ghosts, ghouls and poltergeists. See how our Masters handled their particular challenge by listening to the show airing this week at HorrorAddicts.net.

Our entrants this year are:

Rish Outfield

Location: The White House

Item: An unopened letter from 1842

Donald Pitsiladis

Location: Old School House

Item: A text book

Rick Kitagawa

Location:  Double wide mobile home

Item: A black and white television

Listen to or read their stories this week on HorrorAddicts.net and vote to win a HorrorAddicts.net prize pack!

Horror Addicts 079, Wicked Women Writers Challenge

 

Horror Addicts Episode# 079
Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich
Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini
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wicked women writers challenge | calm of zero | dark passages

Find all articles and interviews at: http://www.horroraddicts.net

wicked women writers challenge audio

80 days till Halloween!
| song flashback | events | the wickeds | a shadow over ever |
| the herd | my fearful symmetry | women scorned |
| horror on the installment plan | blood of the covenant | location |
| kbatz: hex | sinner sinners | gothhaus | dead mail |
| mmm awards | www promo | dark passages |
| graveconcernsezine.com | calm of zero |

#79 HorrorAddicts.net eStore
http://astore.amazon.com/horroradnet-20?_encoding=UTF8&node=25
Thriller
The Wickeds – Kindle
A Shadow Over Ever
The Herd
My Fearful Symmetry
Women Scorned
Horror on the Installment Plan
The Dark Clan
Calm of Zero
——————————
T is for Trouble video – Dickie Flicks

h o s t e s s
Emerian Rich
s t a f f
Knightmist, Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Dan Shaurette, Audrey Sabin, Marc Vale
Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email horroraddicts@gmail.com
c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s
http://www.horroraddicts.net
m u s i c
http://www.graveconcernsezine.com
t a p i n g . s t u d i o
Quills, A Place For Writers
13 Nightmare Lane, Awen, Second Life
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Awen/168/179/23

Wicked Women and Masters of Macabre

Calling all Wicked Women and Masters of Macabre!

Are you ready for the 2011 WWW and MMM challenges? This year’s themes will be Pick Your Poison for the women and Phobia Phollies for the men.

Here’s a little info about the Pick Your Poison challenge:

Participates will be given three guidelines for their story, a poison, a place and an object. Entries must include all three elements and of course be in the horror genre. The fan voted winner will receive the title of Most Wicked 2011.

The final day to sign up for the challenge is March 13^th, 2011.

Now on to the Phobia Phollies challenge:

For those of you who don’t know this is the first year of the MMM challenge. The competition is based off of the WWW challenge. Meaning participates will be given three guidelines that must be included in their story. The elements for the men’s challenge are a phobia, an occasion and a boy toy (such as a boat or car). Again, like the women’s challenge the fan voted winner will receive the title of Master of Macabre.

Sign ups are open until April 10^th, 2011.

Don’t worry fans…we’re not forgetting about you! Two lucky voters (one for the WWW challenge and another for the MMM challenge) will receive prizes from the entrants of their choosing. Prizes can range from a book, an e-book, promotional gifts, to a simple letter thanking them for participation.

If you are interested in being apart of the Wicked Women Writer’s Challenge or just wanting to know more information, you can find it @ Wicked Women Writers.

For more information about the Masters of Macabre Challenge, you can find it here @ Masters of Macabre.