WWW Contestant 11: Maggie Fiske

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Maggie Fiske – A Quarrel for Jimmy Lee Killscrow

Disaster –  Solar Flares/ or Gamma Rays

Location – Hunting in the Mountains

Helpful Item – Crossbow

Disability – Hungover



“A Quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow”…                by Margaret Fiske


“That’s him,” says Detective Baxter.  He points at a white speck nestled in the BitterrootMountains and holds binoculars up to my face.  All I see is a beat-to-hell camper among the pines.  A bearded man with hippy hair steps into view.  It’s Jimmy-Lee Killscrow, the devil who left me for dead out in the sticks when I was 15.  Now he’s a Lumber-Christ in flannel.  I’m disarmed.  How can Iow HHow can I  kill Jesus?


Baxter tries to talk me out of this vendetta.  He says, “Just head back to Bozeman before the solar storm hits tonight, Claudine.”


I scoff.  “Baxter, after Y2K and 12-21-12, who listens to that disaster crap?”


He doesn’t get it.  The only way to stop Killscrow is to kill that bastard before he beats me to the deathblow.  I knee open the Jeep door and push my crossbow pack out onto the road.


“Stay in one piece,” he says, and skins out of there quick with his money.


My name is Claudine Archer, but nobody remembers that.  I’m just that hitchhiker that got her arms chopped off.  ¯ ¯


By the time I hike to Jimmy-Lee’s camper there’s a high sickle moon reaping the Montana starfield.  I set up Stakeout at the mouth of a small cave near the camper to scout his movements tonight.  He’ll die in the sun tomorrow so he can see my hook squeeze the bow trigger.


I watched Killscrow gun his pickup down the dirt road at 7 p.m. sharp.  According to Baxter’s notes, he’s gone bar hopping in Lolo Springs, where he’ll pass out redemption tracts to barflies and save his own soul from sobriety.  I’ve got time to kill.


Wind cuts through my fleece poncho, making my teeth clack.  I stashed a bottle of Cuervo to celebrate Jimmy-Lee’s demise, but decide to drink it now.  I tuck the tequila under my armpit and twist off the cap with my molars.


Liquor lets the memories slink back easily…


I endured nineteen surgeries.  When the stumps finally healed, I was fit with battery-powered myo-electric prosthetics which transmit electrical impulses from my muscles to open or close the metal hooks.  These can openers scare the bejeezus out of little kids and potential suitors.


Amputation forces you to relearn how to be an adult.  So I compensate for my loss of hands with other body parts.  Lips, hips and toe tips all become my grip.  I retrained my muscles to perform both with and without prosthetics.


I’m messed up on the inside too.  Migraines, vertigo, nightmares, panic attacks, –sucks to be me.  But I also grew strong, and athletic in ways I never dreamt.  I have the flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat, and moxie that puts Miss Congeniality to shame.  Call me handicapped and I’ll kick you in the teeth.


My arms are buried in an unmarked grave in Boise that was a secret between me and the gravediggers.  Every anniversary I bring them sunflowers.  Last summer, there was a nasty present.  A pair of chopsticks stuck in the dirt.  My inner killer grabbed the wheel.


I blew the last of my donation money on 3 things: An Excalibur Phoenix crossbow, tattoos, and Detective Baxter.


I chose the crossbow because it’s my legacy. With a surname like Archer, bows flow in my blood.  I became a self­-taught arbalist.


When the skeptical sporting goods clerk asked what I plan to hunt with the bow, I told him, “Jackass,” and dry-popped the trigger at his heart.  Then for many moons I practiced kill shots on thawed turkeys in the backyard.  I turned Katniss.


For my full sleeve, black wing tattoos I commissioned Karasu Ono, the cutting-edge tattoo artisan in Spokane.  I asked her to transform me into the Angel of Death.  Her jeweler’s loupe goggles captured every minute detail.  Each shiny 3-D Photoreal feather scalloped like a hand of rummy.  Badass! ¯¯


My phone chimes midnight.  Time to check armaments.  I tune the tension on the Phoenix to deadly perfection.  I inspect the fletching on a dozen four-headed arrows, which are aptly called quarrels.  The quarrel flies with a wicked little twist which can drill a half-dollar sized hole clean through a body.  All my quarrels bear an icon of Venus de Milo etched on the shaft.


Tonight, Venus and I are vigilantes on a vigil.  The Aurora Borealis simmers up North, just like in the summer of ’77…        ¯


He picked me up outside Pocatello, hitchhiking to Yellowstone just for kicks.  Too young to drive, too dumb to realize a killer can drive a yellow Pontiac with a Mormon Youth Camp bumper sticker.  He was clean-cut, with gentle eyes and a cardigan.  Who’s afraid of Mr. Rogers’ dorkier cousin?


I barely shut the door when he said, “Meet Jesus,” and a claw hammer cracked my cranium.


Time telescoped when he dragged me into the trees.  5 chops with a hand axe hacked-off my arms at the elbow.  Pain jolted me into another dimension.  He left me to bleed-out.


Somehow, I picked myself up out of the ditch to cheat death.  I remember laughter behind me.  There was a small murder of crows skipping through my blood puddles.  I raised my arms to mimic wings.  It staunched the blood flow as I staggered toward the light of the living.  ¯


Whew!  I’m feeling all flushed from cocktails and flashbacks, so I strip down to my tank top.  I want wind on my shoulders.  And behold, the solar storm strikes.


The sky ignites in swirling acid green flames bright enough to read the warning to pregnant women on the tequila label.  Lolo Springs falls dark.   Northern Lights curl in a tsunami of electrons that charge the air.  I wobble to my feet in awe. Spec-(hic)-tacular.


Suddenly, the sky fills with chirping shadows.  A vortex of panicked bats descends on the cave to roost.  I dart, skid on gravel, tumble into a starless pit. ¯¯


I wake to sunlight hammering my eyelids.  I feel like I faceplanted a speeding beer truck.  Hands down, this is the evilest PMSing stepmother of all hangovers.  I can vaguely tell that my drunken ass fell into the cave and that there’s a junk refrigerator and some bald tires around me.  I try to sit up, but the pain… oooooh!


“Ahhhh,” somebody echoes.  I freeze.  A chorus of groaning surrounds me and I realize the nauseating truth.  There’s at least a dozen girls like me, all missing body parts.  Girls that didn’t get away.


It’s zombie apocalypse.  I’m at ground zero in Killscrow’s body dump in his grotto of Slain Angels.  Pink rags shuffle backwards on beef jerky legs in the shadows.  They’re still hitchhiking.


I feel the tug of someone braiding my hair and smell her rancid pork chop breath.  I turn.  Half her face is tomahawked.  She hisses.  A buffet line of maggots wriggles in her tongue stub.  I puke Cuervo till my ribs ache. The girls scuffle toward me, drawn toward the light of the living.  I back away, but bump into an unstable Frigidaire that thunders end over end down the rocks, making a godawful racket.


They surround me with blind cavefish eyes.  I frantically search for a weapon and spot my bow and a pair of quarrels strewn beside a torso in a Cheap Trick t-shirt writhing in the dirt.  As I scoop up the bow, she chomps at my hooks.  Only 2 quarrels.  A quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow and one left to take out 12 zombies if they queue up ear to ear.


Outside, the camper door slams.  Jesus is risen.  He yells.  ““Hey!  Who’s up there?”  I must become bait to lure him into a deathtrap.  I cry out, “Help!  Help me!”  He snickers.  “Hold on, lady.  I’ll get you !”


The cadaverettes advance.  I plead to them. “Remember who you were!  Remember what he did to you!”


Killscrow enters the cave, waving an axe.  He hesitates as he spies his resurrected victims.  “You ladies should’ve stayed dead!” he roars and splits a one-armed girl like a winter cornhusk.


I cock the bow, but something’s wrong.  I can’t grasp the trigger.  Solar flares fried the batteries in my arms!  “It’s o.k.,” I think.  I can still launch the shot by pulling the claw back with my whole shoulder.  But the Phoenix feels clumsy.  I miss.  Damn!


He’s cocky now.  “What’s wrong, Claudine?  Need a hand?


No!  I can compensate.  I wriggle out of the arm straps… heel peel off boots and socks… grasp the last quarrel between my toes.  He brags,  ““I’ll chop your head off this time.  Keep it in the freezer for a lonely night.”


The Angel of Death rises up inside me.  I spread my wings in challenge.  Killscrow can’t take his eyes off my tattoos. I flex, I feint.  I punt his balls deep into his end zone.  The axe fumbles as he buckles forward.


I tell him, “Meet Satan,” and lift the quarrel to my mouth with my foot.  With clenched teeth, I lunge into the face of my nightmare.  I jab Venus de Milo into his gentle blue iris.  A geyser of blood and eyeball juice pops as it sinks into the socket till it hits skullcap.  Bull’s-eye.


He yanks out the quarrel skewering a chunk of cerebellum kabob along with it.  For a second he does a freaky little grand mal jig.


“Brains!” croaks a dead chick.  The pack pounces.  There’s still enough kick left in Jimmy-Lee for him to realize that he’s dying piece by piece by piece.  The Angels feast.  ¯¯


I scramble out of the cave, soaring with joy, for I have no more quarrels.  I embrace the sweet pain of life with phantom limbs.  Every bruising stone underfoot gives me wings.


I am the crow he could not kill.  ¯¯


You just heard “A Quarrel for Jimmy-Lee Killscrow” by Margaret Fiske, part of the 2013 Wicked Women Writers Challenge.  Please vote for my podcast by sending an e-mail to horroraddicts@gmail.com.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 10: R. L. Weston

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

RL Weston – Drug Z

Disaster –  Dirty Bombs

Location – Zumba Class

Helpful Item – Workout Towel

Disability – Children Left Alone in gym daycare


Drug Z

By: R.L. Weston

“With more on the string of explosions laced with Drug Z, a terrifying hybrid of Bath Salts and Krokodil, we have Pat Cheney, Government Defense Strategist and Hal Corp CEO.”

A cold chill ran down Alice’s spine as Pat Cheney’s face flashed onto the screens of the televisions suspended above the row of ellipticals on the north side of the gym. Alice knew he couldn’t see her making her way toward her covert meeting before Zumba class, but her pace quickened all the same.

“We will not tolerate these terrorists in our midst,” the bronzer caked on Pat’s face couldn’t completely hide the grey, reptilian coldness of his countenance. “The use of dirty bombs by the Liberty Militia will be met with the use of extreme force by Hal Corp’s Defense Team. Citizens are urged to come forward with any information that will lead to the arrest of these fugitives.”

Alice’s Zumba class was a cover for a small cell of the Liberty Militia, a group opposing Hal Corp’s slow but deliberate takeover of government and their violent, fascist attacks on citizens. Members of the Liberty Militia had been victims in every dirty bomb attack to date and now Hal Corp was trying to frame them as suicide bombers.

“Sorry I was late,” Alice said as she greeted the half-dozen other members of her group. “I was held up at one of Hal Corp’s checkpoints. I was sweating bullets when they opened my gym bag.”

Alice handed the CD marked “Zumba Mix” over to Carol. “Big Ugly is out there on every T.V. screen spouting his lies again. Hopefully this will be what we need to hack his system and get some evidence on our side.”

“This has all the new codes on it?” Carol asked.


“And they didn’t touch it when they searched your bag?”

“No. You think I would have come here if they had?” The energy in the room felt more nervous than usual. “What’s got everyone so rattled today?”

Carol glanced at Jan. “Jan’s husband was detained today.”

Jan stared at the floor, tears welling in her eyes, and fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt. “They didn’t find much on him. He had a few posters hidden behind the lining of his briefcase, but, it’s enough.”

“Hey, it’s going to be O.K.” Carol wrapped her arms around Jan as Jan sobbed harder. “We’re going to get him out of there.”

Jan shook her head, backed out of Carol’s arms, and gave a quick look to the clock on the wall, “I need to go. Visiting hours start in twenty minutes.”

The group watched Jan as she left. Carol waited until Jan had shut the door behind her.

“O.K., we need to make this quick because we only have a couple minutes before the rest of the class starts showing up.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t here already.” Alice looked out the windows and her eyes fixed on Jan, across the gym at the daycare center, checking her children out for the day.

“The dirty bomb attacks are becoming more frequent,” Carol began. “We can’t start carrying gasmasks because that would be too conspicuous. But, if you can fold up some fabric, moisten it, and hold it over your face and nose it can keep you from breathing in large amounts of Drug Z until help arrives.”

“Hey, she left her bag.” Taylor, a tall blond woman, grabbed Jan’s bag and held it up to Alice who was closest to the door. Alice didn’t respond.

“What is Jan doing with all the kids? Where’s the sitter?” Alice took a few steps toward the windows. The entire gym was empty. “Where’s everyone?”

Jan led the children through the front door. She didn’t look back before closing the door and running down the hall.

Alice turned to Taylor, “What’s in the–“

A small, distinct beep interrupted Alice’s question.


Alice felt like she’d been tossed into a cement mixer set on high. Her ears were ringing and she felt blood dripping down her earlobes. The side of her head and face throbbed where she’d been thrown against the door. The tight pain in her lungs reminded her of the danger still posed by Drug Z. Alice held her breath and reached for the towel that had been blown off her shoulder.

She still needed water. Alice tried to stand and retrieve some from the drinking fountain next to the door but the change in elevation made her vomit all over her towel. Alice lay in front of the door and pressed the vomit soaked towel to her mouth and nose. This was no time to be picky about liquids.

The wall of windows still stood, but each of the panes was riddled with cracks and sprayed with blood. Six motionless bodies lay strewn about the blast radius. Taylor was missing both her arms and most of the front side of her body.  Carol lay against the equipment locker with her spine twisted at an impossible angle. Bits of skin and hair were plastered to the walls and floor.

Alice fought the urge to lower her hand from her makeshift mask and just go to sleep. Her eyes kept trying to close until she noticed movement on the other side of the room. Carol was trying to sit up. When that didn’t work, she rolled over onto her stomach.

“Carol!” Alice could feel her mouth move but she couldn’t hear a thing; coupled with the pain in her chest and lungs, she couldn’t tell if she was screaming or whispering. “Are you ok?”

Carol didn’t respond. Instead, Carol pulled herself over to where Taylor’s body lay twitching and took a big bite out ofTaylor’s thigh.

That’s when Alice did the unthinkable. She passed out.


Alice woke to the sensation of being pushed across the floor. Someone was opening the door behind her. Her makeshift, puke-stained mask had fallen away from her face and every inch of her skin burned with an unbearable itch. One black-booted foot casually bumped the back of her head as its owner shuffled farther into the room.

Alice opened her eyes. Carol was only a foot away now, dragging her limp legs behind her; her dead eyes on the open door and the man who’d just stepped inside. Two of the others had woken and were finishing off Taylor’s body.

The black-booted man gave the door another push and Alice took the opportunity to roll onto her belly and push her face against her towel. The man stepped forward and stuck the barrel of his AR-15 against the flaking flesh of Carol’s forehead.

“Sorry, babe, the handicapped need not apply.” The black-booted man pulled the trigger and Carol’s head hit the floor with a wet thunk. “Quick, grab the other two; they’ve got some work to do.”

Alice’s head swam in a fog between fear and hunger as she watched six men in riot gear struggle to wrangle her former comrades. Her thoughts came to her in rudimentary words and crude images. Food. Streets. Terror. Plan.

The black-booted man watched his teammates drag Alice’s friends out the front door then lifted the mask of his helmet and took one last look at the room. As he turned to leave, Alice looped her towel around his ankle and pulled. The man managed a surprised grunt before his teeth smashed against the drinking fountain and he fell onto his back against the doorframe.

The pain and nausea were gone and Alice was on him in an instant. The black-booted man tried to shoot but she was too close and he was too scared. The bullet barely grazed Alice’s temple as she leaned in close and bit his lips right off his face.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 9: Julianne Snow

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Julianne Snow – Not All Jacks are Created Equal

Disaster –  Super Volcano

Location – Commuter Train

Helpful Item – Bottle of Jack Daniels

Disability – Naked


 Not All Jacks Are Created Equal…

Julianne Snow

Why won’t this idiot get off of me? As I pushed him forcefully back, I felt the cool rush of air enter the space between our bodies. Like I actually cared if he was done or not!

I have to admit I was extremely exasperated by this point. Surely this asshat had felt the jolt like I had? I know my butt was the one on the edge of the sink, but how could he have not? It shook the entire train or at least I assumed it had given that all the cars were connected.

I need this fucker to get off of me so I can get dressed and figure out what is going on. I hope we didn’t hit another careless pedestrian… That was when he hit me. While I was shocked by the violence, I wasn’t truly surprised by it either. I didn’t know this jerk apart from the small moments we’d shared across the aisle from each other for the past six months. His name was Jack, he was gorgeous and I was single; sometimes things happen.

And it had happened today on our ride home. How I got myself into these situations was always beyond me, but I have to live up to the fact that I attract trouble.

The knock of his fist dazed me long enough for him to gather my clothes and duck out of the tiny bathroom we had shared for the short moments of our tryst.

Fuck! My clothes! What the fuck was I going to do now with nothing to wear?

At least the idiot hadn’t taken my purse or tote bag. That was something to be thankful for, right? Pulling out the bottle of Jack I’d purchased before getting on the train that evening, I took a long swill and as it burned down the back of my throat, it reminded me that life had the knack for kicking me in the face when I least expected it.

How the fuck am I going to get off this train unnoticed now? I was talking to myself, swallowing more of the amber alcohol than I probably should have given the circumstances. But then, what the fuck did I care? Some asshole had just punched me in the face and stolen my clothes. And I had been wearing my favourite dress too! A vintage Diane von Furstenberg I’d found for a steal in a charity shop a few years ago.

I took another long swallow and returned the cap to the bottle before sliding it back into my bag. It was time to face the rest of the train in all of my naked glory. Hopefully someone would be nice enough to offer me their jacket…

Who the fuck am I kidding? No one is going to offer me anything. I was talking to myself again but the action of it helped calm me down a bit. At least I still have my shoes…

I started to laugh heartily. Here I was, standing naked in a tiny bathroom on my way home thinking life was looking up because I still had my shoes. At least I hadn’t lost my sense of humour – yet.

The train rocked with another jolt and through the door I heard panic begin to spread. It was an odd mix of raised voices and shouts of disbelief. What the hell was going on out there?

Gathering my wits about me, I opened the door to the bathroom, grateful that it swung inward and peeked around its edge. I could see people trying to run down the small passageway in both directions, having to slow down just enough to let each other pass. Their faces betrayed a growing sense of panic and it frightened me. Had something really terrible happened?

My brain ran through all kinds of scenarios, but I quickly discarded most of them as completely stupid. Whatever it was couldn’t be so bad; we were still moving.

The force of the full stop threw me forward into the sink’s metal edge with enough force to leave a welt. The door swung free and slapped me on the ass, propelling me further against the sink and plastering my face against the grimy mirror.

I heard the screaming clearly now without the sound of the wheels on the rails in the background. Did I just hear what I think I heard?

A volcano?

I pried myself away from my own reflection and grabbed my purse and bag. Holding each of them in the best semblance of modesty I could attain, I cautiously inched out into the passageway.

Fairly soon my attempts at modesty were forgotten as I fought to hold onto my belongings amidst the rush of people. The doors to the cars had opened and people were fleeing the sanctity of the train in increasing numbers.

Not knowing what was going on and not trusting my ears since the idea of a volcano was pure lunacy, I fought the throngs of panicked people to an empty bank of seats. I wanted to sit down for a moment and shuffle through the information being thrust at me from all directions. It crossed my mind I should exit the train as well, but the cool temperature of the fall evening kept me inside – at least for the moment.

As I sat there, collecting my thoughts and watching the people run in the direction we had been travelling from, I couldn’t help but wonder why. What had spooked them all so much?

I heard a rumble in the background, but assumed it was a natural occurrence – something I hadn’t heard over the din of the train in the 6 years I had been riding it during my commute.

Then it hit me—maybe the train was on fire! That would explain the jolts I’d experienced while in the bathroom and even the noise I heard now. There must have been an explosion in one of the forward cars and here I lingered in the false sanctity of the train like an idiot.

Feeling the panic grow in my stomach, I made for the exit, believing I only had moments to escape. There were still people fleeing from the forward cars of the train, but none of them spared my nakedness a second glance.

As I stepped down from the car, thinking the drop was awfully far given the fact the train was not at a station with a platform, I stole a look toward the front of the train. The sight stopped me cold.

Those screams of panic and disbelief I had heard were not wrong. A volcano was erupting in close proximity to the train. The sight was astounding.

In an instant, I felt the heat of the event against my skin. I witnessed the flakes of ash as they floated to the ground. It was a mother-fucking volcano and it was erupting only a few miles from where I stood.

My nakedness now felt like a serious disadvantage – how would I protect my delicate skin from the heat and the ash that fell? What about burning embers? I couldn’t even think as more people ran by me, one of them crashing into me, propelling me backward against the bottom step I had just hopped down from.

I heard the crack as much as I felt it. Pain radiated up my back and into my brain while numbness permeated through my legs. I looked down and saw the odd angle created by my left leg as I slid to the ground in a heap. The resulting pop shook my body for the briefest of moments.

Fuck! It was the only word that fit the circumstances. I couldn’t feel my legs and my back hurt more than my last Brazilian wax.

No one noticed me on the ground in their haste to flee and I didn’t shout my insistence they see me either. I was going to die in that spot, dressed in the suit God had given me and there was nothing I could do.

Except drink of course. Opening the tote I had gingerly protected in the fall, I withdrew the cool bottle of Jack Daniels. Unscrewing the cap, I raised the bottle to my lips and let the fire spread through my stomach.

With a massive expulsion of ash and smoke, the volcano burped flames skyward. Rivers of red began to stream down the sides of the mountain, flowing freely and consuming whatever they touched.

The screams of those bolting dulled as they concentrating on escape and I was left in the relative quiet of the natural disaster. The lava flowed faster than I could have imagined and within short minutes it had reached the front of the train.

Molten rock met the metal in a fight to the death, the train easily losing the battle, shifting slightly in its tracks. With no means of escape, or the time to finish the bottle, I drank as much as I could before hot tears welled in my eyes.

The first kiss of scorching lava sent knives of pain along my nerves but they soon burned away as my skin succumbed. I remember feeling the pain and wishing my body would just give out, but it wasn’t going to be that easy. I watched in slow motion as the molten rock covered my body, eating away my flesh and melting my bones. Knowing I only had time for one last sip, I took it as the meat of my forearm seared, then separated from the bone. The weight of the bottle proved too much and it dragged my arm into the sea of death surrounding me. In that moment, it was over. My death wasn’t much more than the melting away of skin and bones until nothing remained.

Had anyone mentioned death on a volcano’s terms would help me in the afterlife, I would have laughed at them. But to be honest, burning alive has made dealing with the heat and humidity of Hell slightly easier to tolerate…


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 8: Rebecca Snow

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Rebecca Snow

Disaster – Bio- Terrorism

Location – Golf Course

Helpful Item – Scissors

Disability – No Medicine




Rebecca Snow

The vines peeked over the sills of Meadow Haven Golf Course’s club house and wound their way toward the shingled roof.

“What do you think it is,” Megan asked.  She stood before the picture window and watched the rapid growth while trying to ignore the creepy feeling that her body was being scrutinized.

“Maybe some scientist seeded the clouds with Miracle Grow.  That powdery, green rain got on everything.”  Carl leaned on the counter and dragged his sweaty hands across the glass case as he let his gaze roam Megan’s backside.  “I’ll have to scrub the stuff off my car.  How much would it take for you to do that wearing a white t-shirt?”

Megan cringed.  “The treasury hasn’t made enough yet.”  She turned to face the leering young man.  “You drive the Hummer, right?”

Carl licked his lips and nodded.

“You’ll have to find it first before you can wash it.”  She motioned with her thumb toward the lot before pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders.  “Looks like the weeds are hungry.”

With perfect timing, glass popped and metal twisted as the runaway foliage crushed a vehicle that had been parked illegally in the handicapped spot.  Carl jumped the counter and pressed his face against the window, his nose smashed like a four year old’s looking into a toy store.

“Aw, man!”  He banged on the pane with his fists.  “Somebody’s gonna have to pay for that.”

“I’m sure your daddy will be able to afford the repairs.”  Megan slid behind the counter and tapped her fingertips on the greasy glass.

Carl’s shoulders tensed.  Megan counted several breaths before she saw him relax.  Spinning in a precision move she was sure he’d learned from his stint in military school, he turned.  A sneer spread across his face.

“And why do you say that?” he asked, taking a single step toward her.

Megan shrugged and dropped to retrieve the glass cleaner and a wad of paper towels from the lower cabinet.  When she stood, Carl was pressed against the opposite side of the counter, his eyebrows pulled together in a scowl.  Megan flinched and sprayed a stream of vinegar scented cleaner on the handprints.  She mopped the towels through the spatter of particles, accomplishing little more than spreading the grime into circular smears.

“I asked you a question,” Carl shouted, grabbing her wrist.  “Why do you think my father would pay for my car?”

Megan twisted free and pulled open a drawer.  She grabbed a pair of scissors and spun, the blades nicking her skin as she pointed them toward Carl’s approaching form.

“Because he paid for…your get out of jail free card when you…put Mandy in a coma.”  Megan wheezed through her own snarl.

What passed for a smile in a back alley spread across Carl’s face.  He took a single step toward Megan.  She backed away from him and skittered around the counter.

“The cops didn’t have any evidence to link me to that.”

“You asked her out…that morning.  She told me, and she’d called me…when you picked her up.”

He took another step forward, his lips pulled together in a thin line.  He stared wide doe eyes at her.

“I never made it to her house.”  Carl tilted his head and mewled.  “My car wouldn’t start.”

Megan glanced over her shoulder as the room darkened.  The vegetation shaded the windows like blinds.  She caught a glimpse of Carl’s flattened ride before the green leaves blocked the entire scene.

“Liar,” she hissed and threw herself into the front door.  She pressed with all her weight as the overgrown branches blocked her way.  “Stay away…from me.”

Carl strode across the room.  As he reached for her, the door gave way and Megan stumbled onto the moss-padded sidewalk.

“Come back here,” Carl called as he sprinted to the door.

Megan kicked at the winding vines and ran, only turning when she heard Carl scream.  Threads of honeysuckle wound around his wrists and ankles and lifted him into the air.  He shrieked twice before an arm popped loose.  His body flopped like a ragdoll when the creepers dropped him to the ground.  She didn’t know if he was dead or just unconscious.  A strand of thorny rosebush coiled through his blood and into his hair.  Megan bolted toward the course.

The manicured lawn had grown to her waist.  Tendrils of long grass tickled her ankles and thighs as she lurched through them.  She dove into one of the larger sand traps.  In the relative safety of the hazard, she tried to comprehend her surroundings.  The rough that ringed the course had become a jungle.  The trees had grown to resemble the Redwoods Megan remembered from her trip to California.  The vines that hung from them could have supported Tarzan and his whole family without complaint.  A few dandelions at the edge of the lawn dwarfed several overturned golf carts as the mountain laurel’s massive blossoms crushed the canopies.

The grass continued to stretch toward the ever-diminishing sunlight.  Several blades braved the sand bunker and touched Megan’s knee.  She wheezed, opened the scissors, and snipped.  The stems recoiled, neon green oozed from the wounds as their amputated ends browned in the sand.  Megan retreated to the center of her oasis and dropped to her knees.  Distant screams echoed through the lush woodlands that had been city streets that morning.  A stray wind murmured through the dense leaves.

Megan rasped in a breath of air and patted her shorts’ pockets.  Her inhaler had been in her purse under the counter.  She stood and peered over the waves of tall grass.  What she could see of the clubhouse reminded her of the old paper route and the abandoned houses that had been swallowed by Kudzu years before she was born.  A tendril of lawn brushed her ear.  Her inhalation burned in her lungs.

“Get away,” she coughed.  She snapped the scissors closed around the shaft of green.  The wounded shoot pulled back into the thickening wall of meadow.

A pop sounded overhead.  A flash of orange glow lit up the postage stamp patch of sky left in her line of sight.  A deepening green fog sifted through the air around her.  The plant life twitched like a waking baby.  Vines and branches seemed to inhale the hazy mist.  Megan’s chest tightened.

She gasped and toppled to the sand.  Her hands dug through lintless pockets.  All hope for an overlooked inhaler died.  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she rested her head on them and tried to focus on her breathing.

A slender arm of foliage caressed her neck.  Megan hiccupped a gasp and shot to her feet.  She clamped the clippers around the slithering frond and squeezed.  She sawed with the little shears until the ragged remains retreated.  A dot-to-dot pattern bloomed in front of her.  She watched as the black spots morphed into a Rorschach configuration. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she blinked most of the spots away, but her clouded vision remained.

Sinking onto the sand, Megan tried to catch her breath as she felt two more weeds stroke her legs.  She crushed both of the invaders with the dulling, metallic blades and rolled on her side.  The edge of the hazard seemed to be holding back most of the plant life.

Her neck tingled as though she were being watched.  She turned her head.  An endless wall of vegetal arms waited.  She swatted at the encroaching shoots with one hand and clutched her chest with the other.  As she gasped to fill her lungs, a vine wound around her ankle.  She heard the foliage whispering before the blotchy patch of sky went dark.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 7: Anastasia Marie Robinson

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Anastasia Robinson – Motherhood

Disaster –  BUGS!

Location – Circus

Helpful Item – Backpack

Disability – Small child or baby to care for




by Marie Robinson


Well aren’t I just pathetic?” Sable thought as she slithered through the hordes of couples. There weren’t just couples—there were parents pulling along tearful toddlers and packs of chattering preteens—but surely Sable was the only one at the carnival by herself.

What was the occasion for the festivities anyway? Sable searched for an explanation in the tattered, faded banners and in the flashing marquees, but she found none. However, she did find something that caught her eye. Through the revolving rusty beams of the Ferris wheel she spied a wooden sign painted red with bold black letters. It read, “Oddities”.

I suppose ‘Freak Show’ isn’t politically correct these days,” Sable thought to herself as she headed down the narrow alley over which the sign hung.

A muddy, hay-strewn aisle was lined by fluttering red and white tents. As Sable gingerly pulled open one of the tent flaps she saw that it was populated by under a dozen people crowded around a figure perched on a stool. It was a man, who Sable guessed to be around sixty years of age, though it was hard to tell since seemingly every inch of his skin was covered in tattoos. He was naked from the waist up—his baggy skin sporting a rainbow of ink, its color worn by the sun.

Sable shook off a strange ominous feeling that followed her as she backed out the door of the tent and moved on to the next one. Inside this tent there was a small, circular stage with a ring of men gathered around, their eyes set hungrily upon a woman who danced on the stage. Given that she was only clad in a sheer, black lace bra and a thong, you could see nearly all of her ivory-skinned, voluptuous body. Her hair hung in inky black curls, her pouting lips painted red; she looked weary, and with closed eyes she appeared as though she could be dancing in her sleep.

As she twirled around, her arms stretched lazily above her head, Sable stifled a gasp with the palm of her hand. At the bottom of the woman’s spine, just above her soft, round bottom there sprouted a long, flesh-colored protrusion. It was stiff and thin, and hung down to her thighs—a tail.

Sable turned and tried to leave as quickly but politely as possible. “One more and then I’m out of here,” Sable thought, her morbid curiosity getting the better of her. She pushed into the next tent; this one was packed full of people crowded around a stage similar to the one in the last.

A wiry man loomed above them, and before him on the stage was the most horrid creature Sable had ever seen. Standing about three feet tall, Sable could not decide if it more resembled a slug or a maggot. The skin—slimy, milky, and somewhat translucent—was stretched tightly over the fat being; the pulsing veins and organs seemed as though they would tear right through and flood forth onto the audience. Two rows of sharp, needle-like digits flexed down the length of its body and it appeared to have no eyes or mouth.

“Now, keep your distance, folks,” sang the announcer. “This here is a new, unidentified species and we haven’t the slightest inclination as to its nature. Hell, we don’t even know what it eats! Could be you if you don’t back up, sir!”

The announcer jabbed a man in the chest with his cane that pressed himself up against the stage.

“This gorgeous feller was discovered in a barn in Iowa—the farmer who found him claims the creature came from outer space! I don’t have a better guess—do you? Hey, buddy, back up!”

The same man in the crowd was stepping closer again; he reached a hand up toward the thing. A low hissing issued from the bug and where before there appeared only tight skin, a small hole had opened. It continued to gape wider, revealing a round mouth lined with small, jagged teeth.

“Good God, get back!”

But before the inquisitive man could stumble backwards the creature sprang upon him. The thin, sharp legs of the beast imbedded themselves in the man’s sides, and the mouth closed around his face. While the man writhed in agony under the monster’s firm hold, a cream-colored, curved stinger grew from its abdomen. The dripping end disappeared into the man’s stomach with a cruel jab. The man collapsed to the floor, the creature still holding tight to him.

Sable jumped as a bullet ripped through the beast. The announcer was now toting a shotgun; he fired another bullet into the bug as it leapt from the corpse towards him.

The monster fell dead in a bloody pulp at the announcer’s feet.

On the ground, the man’s corpse was violently twitching and thick black liquid oozed from his gory wound. With a sick explosion, insects the length of a forearm came crawling from his chest. They were smaller versions of their mother, and the color of ink. They moved quickly along the ground and each sought out a pair of legs to scurry up to repeat the same grotesque process, plunging their stingers into the bellies of the awestruck crowd.

Sable stumbled backward, too horrified to scream while the announcer kept firing away at the beasts until a horde of them crawled upon the stage and overtook him; he disappeared in a seething black mass.

Sable’s stifled scream finally ripped from her throat as something bumped against the back of her legs. She whirled around, her heart frozen by the notion that it could be one of those ravenous insects. What she found, however, was somehow more disturbing.

It was a stroller with a silent, sleeping infant in tow. Sable searched the crowd wildly for the parents, but everyone within the tent was lying dead or violated, and the few that remained alive were fleeing.

Sable paused for a moment of trepidation. She knew next to nothing about how to care for a child, especially one that wasn’t even hers! Then again, she couldn’t just leave an infant to be massacred by these monsters…

Noticing a slit in the tent, Sable grabbed hold of the stroller’s handles and quickly wheeled the baby toward it. The opening led them to an aisle of abandoned ticket booths. Screams mixed with the maddening calliope.

She looked down at the child and felt a rush of panic, wondering what she had gotten herself into—but an unexpected feeling of courage drowned out the uncertainty. She would not abandon this baby.

Looking over the stroller, Sable noticed a backpack shoved into a compartment above the wheels. When she retrieved it she found that it wasn’t very heavy and seemingly only contained a few articles. She unzipped the backpack and rifled through, pulling out each object her hand found to examine it.

Within she found a bottle, half-filled with formula, a pack of diapers and wipes, a can of bug-spray—

Why not?” Sable thought and doused herself with the stuff. She rounded the front of the stroller and knelt before the baby. Pressing a palm softly over the child’s closed eyes, she sprayed a layer of insect repellent on the baby’s smooth, mahogany skin. The baby’s peaceful face immediately crinkled as the pungent mist rained over it and the eyes fluttered open.

Tears welled in the almond orbs and small, choking cries sputtered from the infant’s mouth.

Sable’s chest tightened as the cries turned to wailing. She shushed the baby, wordlessly begging it to stop, but she was helpless. She lifted her gaze over the stroller and saw one of the black insects—already twice the size it had started at—slither out from the tent. It knew where they were and began twisting toward them on dozens of clicking legs.

Sable felt her insides contracting in terror but managed to snatch up the backpack and feel blindly inside for something—anything—to save them. Frustrated, unable to recognize any of the objects within by touch alone she overturned the backpack and dumped it onto the ground. She was pleasantly surprised when a handgun fell from the bag into the dust.

With no time to think Sable picked it up, cocked it and fired at the monster. She hit it—and the bug flew onto its back, long body flailing as liquid leaked from it, until it finally curled up and froze into a lifeless ball.

An exasperated laugh of disbelief escaped Sable’s mouth as she lowered the gun and whirled around, shoving the firearm down into the backpack.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sable wheezed through her burning chest. Pushing the stroller she blocked out the sounds and sights of chaos all around her. The horrible orchestra that was created by screaming, crying, ripping, shredding, mixed with the maniacal calliope turned into a dull fuzz in her ears. The collapsed tents, broken windows, dilapidated structures and blazing fires were unseen by her; Sable had eyes only for her destination—the Ferris wheel.

Somehow they made it there alive. The operator was surely long gone; the Ferris wheel spun in a slow, continuous ring. Sable swung the strap of the backpack over one shoulder and picked up the baby, whose little face was beat red and covered in tears.

Two corpses occupied the first carriage that drifted by—a teenage couple whose stomachs were savagely torn open. Sable gagged, took a deep breath, and waited for the next carriage. It was empty; she scrambled into it, keeping a hold of the baby as it screamed in her ear.

As they were lifted up towards the sky Sable rummaged through the backpack, searching with a clawed hand until her grasp claimed a pacifier. She popped it in the baby’s mouth, silencing its piercing cries. Sable peered down into the child’s eyes, which were wells that never seemed to dry; she suddenly felt a calm, a warmth, a peace.

“I don’t know your name,” she said softly. “I don’t even know if you are a boy or a girl yet. But I promise, I’ll keep you safe.”

She hugged the child tight to her, and just as they were perched on the peak of the arc the carriage stopped and the whole carnival plunged into darkness, leaving them nestled up in the stars.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 6: Rebekah Webb

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Rebekah Webb – Prey

Disaster –  Super Virus

Location – Restaurant

Helpful Item –  Baseball Bat

Disability – Allergic reaction



By Rebekah Webb

The woman crept up to the window, looking through grimy glass to the scene inside. Several people huddled together, surrounded by overturned tables and chairs, forming a barrier like circled wagons, though the tables were too short to be of any real use.

The building used to be a restaurant, a small café filled with the smells  of cooking food and sounds of clinking glasses and idle chatter. She remembered how it used to look, with warm sunlight pouring into the windows, falling onto the soft navy blue walls and pale brown tables, glinting off the polished metal counter in the back and  closed in glass cases with their assortment of sweets and breads.

Now, the glass was streaked with grime, so thick that some parts were black. Thick wooden boards covered the windows, leaving small grime covered spaces for the sun to force its way through, giving the café a dim lighting, like an old church or crypt. The counter was no longer polished, but scratched and dented, the glass cases cracked and filled with dried out crumbs. The only sounds were the soft frightened breathing and hushed conversation of the people in the center of the table and chair fort. The only smells were the sweet tang of their body odor. The woman breathed it in and let it hang on the back of her tongue, tasting the fear that came off each one of them in waves.

She moved closer to the small space of dirty glass between the boards and watched the group, their whispers clear in her ears as if they were being shouted.

There were four of them, two women, one man and a child, a little boy about the age of five. One woman had long light hair, with pale skin and pale clothing. The other had dark hair and dark clothing, possibly deep blue or black. It was hard to tell through the dim light and grime. The man had a ring of long unkempt hair around his head, the top smooth and barren, giving him the look of a candle that had started to melt at the top.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, his voice rising slightly but still staying a whisper. He clutched a dirty hat in his hands and twisted it around as he spoke. “It’s not safe.”

The pale haired woman shook her head. She had the small boy in her lap and stroked his hair absently. He leaned against her with his eyes closed, sleeping the peaceful sleep that adults were no longer capable of doing. Their sleep was always rushed, tiny slips of unconsciousness filled with movement and screams.

“We have nowhere else to go,” she said. “The roads are crawling with those things. We were lucky to make it here. There’s food in the kitchen and boards on the windows. We’ll be safe here for a few days, at least.”

“A few days?” the man roared in his whisper. “They’ll be all over us in a few days.” He removed one hand from his hat and waved it around the room. “Just look around. Where are the people who boarded up those windows? It wasn’t very safe for them.”

The pale haired woman frowned and kept stroking the hair of the young child. “Those windows are still boarded, aren’t they? If something happened to the people before, there would be signs of a struggle. This place is untouched. Hell, even the display case was still plugged in.”

“What about the counter?” the man asked. “It looked like someone used it for target practice! With their feet and fists.”

“I highly doubt a pack of those things rushed in, attacked the counter and rushed out again, leaving everything else untouched.” The pale haired woman looked over at the counter. “Vandals, most likely, dumb kids having a laugh before all this happened.”

“I still think we shouldn’t stay too long,” the man said. He stopped twisting the hat, but still clutched it tightly between his fingers. “Those things are bound to come here sooner or later.”

“And we’ll be gone before they do,” the pale haired woman said. “A few days to rest up and then we’ll head off again.”

“You guys are missing the most important point of all,” the dark haired woman suddenly said, the first words she had spoken all night. They both turned to look at her.

“What’s that?” the pale haired woman asked.

“That no matter where we go, they’ll find us,” she said. “Eventually, we’ll run out of places to run to. It doesn’t matter if we stay here for a night, a few days or a few years. They’ll get us in the end.”

The other two didn’t respond and the room grew silent, with only their frightened breathing filling the air. The woman outside smiled and backed away from the window. She crept around to the back of the café and pulled a small key from her pocket. The key fit into the back door and it opened silently on oiled hinges. She slipped into the kitchen and walked across the empty space and over to the door leading to the main room.

She took a deep breath and breathed in the scent of her prey, before bursting in on them with a wild cry. She easily leapt over the protective barrier and landed smoothly on the other side. The people stood up and shouted to each other, the pale haired woman still clutching the now sobbing child in her arms.

They man and dark haired woman rushed at her, swinging a baseball bat and thick piece of rusted pipe. The woman pulled both weapons from their hands and watched as they both stumbled, the sudden exertion causing their limbs to lock up. It didn’t her long to snap their necks or toss them out of the flimsy circle of tables and chairs. The pale haired woman was still standing, but the panic was sending her limbs into the same weakness as the other two. She went down on one knee and pushed herself away, clutching the boy with shaking arms that slowly fell down to her sides.

“Leave us alone,” she pleaded, her voice rising into a scream. “I  don’t know if you can understand me, but please, at least spare my child.”

The woman laughed. “I can understand you perfectly,” she said, as she grabbed to small child. “And I will spare your child.” She sunk her teeth into the boy’s arm and tossed him aside, then kicked the woman in the head, collapsing her skull like an egg.

She left the wailing child on the floor and went about her business, picking up the chairs and tables and setting them back into position. Then she walked into the kitchen and unlocked a small trap door, revealing a stash of food. She pulled armfuls out and restocked the refrigerator, filling it with temping morsels of bread, meat and jars of condiments, each laced with special chemicals crafted to absorb into the bodies of those who ate it, gestating for hours before causing an allergic reaction like the toxin of a snake, their own pumping hearts locking their limbs and making them easier to kill.

She walked back into the main room and admired her handy work, smiling at her carefully set trap. She didn’t have to roam the roads or work in a pack like some sort of animal. Most of her kind didn’t. Those were distractions, scouts sent out to drive prey to carefully maintained traps. This was her duck blind, her tiger pit. The humans underestimated her kind, seeing them as mindless, feral animals. That made them easy prey.

The woman looked over at the boy, who had started to froth at the mouth, the virus inside her now coursing through his veins. In a few minutes, he would be like her, stronger, faster and smarter. She would share her meal with him and then teach him how to join in on the hunt, a new ally to help corral the wandering prey, carefully guided and maintained like deer in season, to fill her kind’s bellies for years to come.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 5: Chantal Noordeloos

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Chantal Noordeloos – Out of a Storm

Disaster –  Super Storm

Location – Haunted Hotel

Helpful Item – Rope

Disability – All Alone


Out of the Storm

By Chantal Noordeloos


It all starts with darkness and my ears ringing. Where am I?

I know my eyes are open and for a moment I feel panic slide its cold, clammy fingers from my stomach to my throat, but then I realise I can see light in the distance. Need to remember.

The ringing in my ear seems louder now. No, not ringing.  It is the storm. I remember the storm, but through a sea of cotton that seems to have replaced my brain.

The dark is disorienting, and I use the cold concrete ground as a bearing. My palms stick to the chilling surface, and I almost scream as the side of my hand brushes against something that feels like hair or fur. Carefully I let my fingers explore, curiosity stronger than fear.

A rope.

It pricks my fingers slightly, little bristles piercing the skin of my palm. My hand grips it, finding comfort in its presence. I can tie myself down when the storm comes. It’s a ridiculous thought, but somehow I know that the rope is important.

I sit up, tucking my feet under my skirt, and my right hand, cold from the concrete, rubs the bottom of my nose. I feel so alone. There was a storm, and I had to run. I had to find safety, and I came here… where is here?

Images trickle back into my mind, thick and distorted, a story told in fragments. I’m watching the news that talks of the storm. There is no alarm at first, it is far away, in countries that I couldn’t even point out on a map. At first there is indifference, but as the death toll rises, there is pity. Pity turns to fear when the reports change. The storm is not letting up, it is growing, mutating. Like a living monster, it devours everything in its path. People are frightened, this storm is unlike any other. People give the storm a face, a name; Ouranos. The greek personification of the heavens, the god who ate his children. This storm, this mythical being, is eating us.

It leaves nothing in its wake, nothing but remains of the world as we once knew. People flood the streets with signs declaring that the end of the world is upon us. Some turn to god, different gods, but the intention is the same. Some turn to the government, or to science. But nothing matters, there is nothing that can protect us. This storm, it finds us in our hiding places and rips up all our defences.

I watched the images of a brave camera man’s last moments. The winds on the screen dragged trees out of the ground by their roots and tossed them around. We watched in silent horror. But there was more, a darkness in the storm. Something kept me hypnotised, through the screen I could see tenebrous pulsating in the depths of the storm, I can see the monster within. It would come for me, it would come for my body and my soul. The camera fades from chaotic images to black, as the man working it is sucked up by the storm.

We needed to run. The little wooden house in the little wooden neighbourhood could not withstand this monster of a storm. It would devour us. Body and soul.

My mother does not want to go to the shelters. They are too cramped, too many people seek refuge. There is one other option, one place no one from our neighbourhood would dare to hide….

I know where I am. The realisation sends electrical tingles to run up to my skull.

I know why it is so dark. I am in a basement, in the basement of the local hotel. The storm hit unexpected, it spread through the world like a raging cancer. Mutating and multiplying in size, and we ran into the only place we could think. We ran to the haunted hotel.

The place I feared most as a child. In the fifties one of the guests was responsible for the murder of seventeen guests. The hotel never lived down the reputation, and like the seventeen guests, the hotel died a slow and agonizing death. The owner, a man driven mad by the incident, hung himself from the chandelier.

As children we would dare each other to enter the dark building. I never did, convinced that this place would hold my soul a prisoner. My father called me sensitive, the other children called me cowardly, but I knew there was something about this place. Just as I know there is something about the storm.

If only I could remember getting here. It’s so dark and I don’t know where my parents are. The darkness prevents me from calling out. There is a slight sound, like a squeak that causes me to move. I fear what I can’t see. Far away I see a sliver of light. It must be a door, or perhaps shutters of a window. I stand up, waving my hands in front of my body to protect myself from invisible obstacles. My hair brushes lightly against something that is above me. It could be anything, a lamp, a spiderweb. I am too afraid to touch it, this time fear wins. It gnaws at my stomach.

The light comes from a little crack in a window shutter. It takes a lot of effort for me to open it. The strength seems to have left my fingers and hands and I tear the wood away with sheer willpower. Light pours in, blinding me. Through a small basement window I can see the world outside being consumed by chaos. I can see it now, Ouranos, I can see it for what it really is. A great big creature, a God. It smashes the houses, breaks the trees into kindling. Its great big translucent hands, shaped as dark storm clouds, pick up humanity and sucks the flesh of their bones, the souls from their vessels. It eats all, cars sticking from its grotesque mouth. All but this hotel. This haunted hotel. It’s different.

Then I remember. The fear and sorrow of watching my mother die, consumed by the storm. Seeing my father being torn limb from limb. I remember it all now. It wasn’t my parents who wanted to come here… it was my choice.

I turn around, with an agonizing slowness, my hands clutching the rope so tightly that the material bites in my palms. There is something behind me I need to see, but part of me isn’t ready. It takes all the courage I have to let my gaze slip from the floor to the ceiling. There, hanging from a rope, dangles a body.

The face is contorted, a black tongue protrudes from swollen lips. The tips of the naked toes point down to the floor. Tears run from my eyes.

It’s me.

Outside the storm rages. It eats all that is alive, swallowing it whole. It will destroy the living, but it can’t reach the dead. It cannot obliterate me as it does all else. I will continue to exist in this ethereal form.  Here, in this building that traps souls, I am safe from the storm out there. Here I am a survivor.

The end

This has been an audio podcast recording of the “Out of the Storm” written and performed by Chantal Noordeloos. If you enjoyed this story you can vote for Chantal to win the 2013 Wicked Women Writers Challenge at horroraddicts@gmail.com

Please share this recording with friends.

If you are interested in other works by Chantal Noordeloos please go to http://www.chantal noordeloos.info Thank you for listening and we hope you enjoyed this audio recording.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: WWW. Voting ends October 7th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

WWW Contestant 4: Chantal Boudreau

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Chantal Boudreau – A Wing and a Prayer

Disaster –  EMP Blast

Location – Airplane

Helpful Item –  Rubber Tubing

Disability – Pregnant


 Chantal Boudreau

On a Wing and a Prayer

What sort of cretin clobbers a pregnant woman?

That was my first thought as I came to, my mind foggy and my head throbbing incessantly.  It would take one hell of a scumbag to knock out a lady who’s been knocked up.  And with me, my current “condition” is pretty damn obvious.

I then recalled that I had been en route to Winnipeg in a small plane when I had been struck upside the head.  I listened for the drone of the engines, but aside from some shuffling and mumbling in the rear compartment of this dinky toy of a machine, there was only silence – silence and the sensation that we were falling.

Instantly, my heart was in my throat and beating a million miles a minute.  I don’t get scared easily, but I had always hated flying for a reason, and this was a prime example of it.  Having things crap out on you in the middle of the sky really sucks.  The plane was going down.  Memories of what had happened to me before the blow to my head started flooding back to me.

I had been working in the field office of a mining excavation site in Northern Manitoba when my pregnancy had started to show – the results of having a little too much to drink one evening and getting too friendly with a co-worker.  I didn’t want to leave, but the bastards insisted I had to go – something about occupational health and safety regulations, liability issues, and the availability of health services.  Bah!  There were men on site with problems worse than mine.  You didn’t see them shipping those guys out.  I tried to fight it, but in the end, I lost.

We were on our way south, just the pilot and me in this tiny plane, when there was a sudden message on the radio from a nearby remote military base, warning about an anticipated nuclear strike. “What the hell?”  I asked myself, “Why in Northern Manitoba?” Right after that, a vibration shook the plane, a pulse that made everything that used power just come to a dead stop.  The pilot’s face went ghost white and he mumbled something about nuclear weapons and an EMT blast.  As the plane started to plummet, he scrambled into the back.  I started to follow, only to notice, just as he did, that there was only one parachute hanging on the hooks in the back – one chute, two of us.  That was when he had turned on me without warning and hit me in the head.  I saw stars and the lights went out.

He hadn’t noticed that I had regained consciousness and he was in the process of trying to hoist the chute onto his back so he was ignoring me completely.  The asshole probably figured that because I was preggers, I was some sort of fragile flower he could beat into submission with one pretty pathetic blow.  I’ve been working up North since I was nineteen, a good fifteen years, and I can promise you if you’re not  tough when you start, you certainly are after your first few weeks there, never mind a decade and a half.  I’m as tough as nails, and my head is even tougher.  The jerk clearly had no clue who he was messing with.

I crawled forward as quietly as I could, searching the compartment for something that I could use as a weapon.  The only thing that struck me as potentially useful that was within reach was a coil of rubber tubing.  I closed my hand over it and waited until he had his back turned to me, as he reached to slide part of the strapping into place to secure the pack for the chute.  Then I thrust myself up onto my feet in one swift but awkward movement, looping the tubing over his head and around his neck.  Working around my bulging belly, I yanked the tubing tight across his throat and held on for dear life.

He fell to the floor, maybe expecting he’d have better leverage there, or that he’d be able to shake me off in the process.  He was wrong – I guess I’m a lot stronger than he was anticipating for a pregnant woman with a head wound.  From that angle, I could actually manage to wedge my knees in his lower back, underneath the pack for the parachute, and pull even tighter.  He tried to reach back and grab me as he gasped and choked for air and when that didn’t work he clawed at the tubing that was strangling him.  That didn’t work either.

Do you want to know what was the most annoying thing during all of that?  It wasn’t the fact that my head was pounding like someone was thumping it with a hammer or that my ankles were so swollen I figured I was going to have to cut my boots open when it would come time to take them off.  Nope – the worst of it was that the nuisance of a little parasite in my belly decided he or she wasn’t too happy about the whole situation.  All the while I was throttling this guy with the tubing, the pest wrestled around inside me like he or she was trying to shove a way out.  It’s really distracting when someone jabs their toes in your liver or lung while you are trying to keep a grip on your strangulation method of choice.

In the end, despite the constant distraction, my stubbornness prevailed.  The antagonistic pilot stopped thrashing around underneath me, his face blue, his eyes bulging and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, kind of like one of those nasty slaughterhouse pictures of a dead cow or sheep.  I got to my feet, gave him a couple of hearty kicks to the head for good measure with my painfully-tight steel-toed boots and then started pulling the chute pack off of his back.

Now I’m just praying I can get the pack on and launch myself out of the plane before it’s too late.  I’m not sure if I’ll have time to get clear of the plane and pull the ripcord with enough distance between me and the snow-covered ground.  I’d prefer not to turn into a splotchy red puddle of goo when I hit bottom.

And the wriggling pest inside of me?  Well I guess I can consider my predicament punishment for not watching out just who I got drunk with.  I’m hoping whoever’s inside of me is as tough as I am, considering all this mess.  That little one may have survived a beating and a brawl, but that’s just the beginning of the problems we’ll have to endure.  As I fling myself out of this doomed plane, I’m just wondering how he or she is going to handle a super-long hike in subzero temperatures in the hopes of reaching anything resembling civilization.  And if we make it that far, if we actually find refuge, then we’ll probably run into the issue of fallout and radiation.  I guess we’ll just have to handle that crisis if and when we get to it.


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WWW Contestant 3: DM Slate

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

DM Slate – Veil of Darkness

Disaster – Strange Matter/Anti-Matter

Location – Interstate Freeway

Helpful Item – Gas Mask

Disability – Elderly Parent



Imagine a world where uncertainty is the only thing that’s certain.  A world where an entire city block can be swallowed and literally disappear, in the blink of an eye.  That is the world that we live in, the world that is now our reality.  In retrospect, it seems fitting that our apocalypse would be manmade…we did this to ourselves.  Scientists created a strange-matter vacuum with greater power than they could’ve ever imagined, and now, there’s no containing it.


Veil of Darkness

By D.M. Slate


Beads of sweat drip from the nape of my neck, running down my perspiring back.  The sun is relentless, scorching my arm as it glares through the driver’s side window.  Reaching for the air conditioner, I flip the switch to high.  Pete sighs in relief, and I glance toward the passenger’s seat, smiling through my sadness.

Tearing my eyes away, I look back toward the grid-locked interstate, choosing my words carefully.

“You know Pete, Sunny Acres is a really great place, and you’re going to make so many new friends that you won’t even have time to miss me.”  The large black cat nuzzles against Pete’s arm, meowing.  “And Gizmo will be there to keep you company, too.  You’ll see…”

Slamming on the brakes, I grasp the steering wheel as vehicles collide and pile up in front of us.  “What just happened?  Pete – are you alright?”

With wide, disbelieving eyes, I stare through the windshield at the rift that’s opened up just before us, in the middle of the interstate.  The black-hole creates a vertical wall of chaos, devouring everything in its path.  Stranded motorists escape their cars, fleeing in all directions, running for their lives.  I grab for the door handle, but then I hesitate, looking over at Pete.  The man has become a father-figure to me, since my own family was swallowed in the Denver rift, last fall.

He’s slumped forward over his seatbelt, head hanging limply.  In that split-second of indecision, the choice was made for me… the rift is upon us.


Nausea turns my stomach and my head spins out of control.  I raise a shaky hand to my temple, pressing firmly against my skull.

It takes all of my strength to will my eyelids apart.  Heart racing, I look to my right.  Pete‘s there, motionless, with Gizmo prancing in his lap.

Confused, I scan the horizon.  Its pitch black outside, and I can’t see a thing.  I catch a dim reflection of my own eyes in the rear view mirror, and in that instant, the memory of the rift returns.

Gizmo nuzzles his head against my side, a small reassurance of life.  I pet the animal briefly, before pushing him aside.  “Pete?  Can you hear me?”  I shake his shoulder, gently, but he makes no response.

Reaching for the ignition I turn the keys, but nothing happens.  Panic stricken, I crank again, and again.  The car gives no response.  Batting at the dash, I hit all of the switches.  Only a dim interior light, and one single headlight respond.  The beam of luminescence cuts through the suffocating black abyss, creating a single line of vision down the ominous black highway.   I peer out, into the murky darkness, searching for answers…

It’s then that I finally stop, and listen, for the first time.

This isn’t right, at all.  Squinting, I peer through the windshield, trying to make sense of the situation.  Scattered before me, I see the haunting outline of several mangled vehicles.

“Gizmo, what’s wrong?”  I turn, looking for the cause of his feral meowing.  Then, I hear the noise.

Covering my ears, I try to muffle the sound.  Its deafening…painful, even.  Smacking at the radio I turn all the knobs in an attempt to make it stop, but the speakers aren’t emitting the noise.  It’s just vibrating in the air, all around, from all directions.

Burying my head in my arms, I use my biceps as earmuffs.  My brain rattles within my skull, and then, my body begins to seize.  Shaking and twitching, I feel my eyes roll back into my head, and then everything goes black.


Gizmo’s sandpaper tongue rakes across my cheek once, and then again.  I’m slumped against the driver’s window, and it takes an incredible amount of effort to sit upright.  My body is drained.  Weak.  Everything moves in slow motion, and eventually, I make eye contact with myself in the mirror.  Startled, I jump, alarmed at my own appearance.

A clotted trail of blood leads from my nostrils, down onto my lips, and then to the bottom of my chin.  I swipe at it, clumsily smearing the half dried blood across my cheek.  A black tar-like substance oozes from my tear ducts, blurring my vision.  Crying out in horror, I claw at my eyeballs with both hands. Staring in the mirror again, I realize that that eyeball its self is changing color.  The blackness spans from the tear duct, to nearly the center of the eye.  My jaw gapes in horrified disbelief.

Looking to my side I see Gizmo, and then, I remember that Pete is here, too.  My eyes skim past the elderly man to the crazed cat in-between us.  He continues to howl, and a stiff ridge of hair sprouts on his back.

“What is it, Gizmo?  What’s wrong?”  I peer out the windshield.

My heart skips a beat when I hear a car door slam.  I subconsciously hold my breath, waiting. Then, a small movement catches my eye.  At the far edges of the light’s reach, I see someone, or something, approaching my car.  The gait is slow, and uneven. I can’t make out a distinct outline, but I can see the denseness getting closer, and closer… yet always just out of view.

Gizmo is plastered to the floorboard, now silent and still.  I’ve lost track of the thing’s movement.  It’s out there, but I don’t know where.  And then, I feel its eyes upon me.  Ever so slowly I turn my head, looking out the driver’s side window.  There, on the other side of the thin glass, stands a boy no more than 7 or 8.  He stands motionless, staring blankly at me with his black orb eyes.

Without warning, the child disappears in a swish of air, followed by a trailing scream and the crunch of bone.  I recoil from the door.  My erratic motion jars Pete’s shoulder, driving him sideways into the passenger’s door.

“Pete – you have to wake up!”  I shake his arm with intensity.  He lifts his head, blinking several times, before turning his gaze upon me.  My stomach drops.  Blackness covers his eyeballs, and another eye-lens has grown over the orb, blinking with independent timing of the outer eyelid.

We stare at each other for a split-second, before he lunges.  In a frenzy of flying arms and scratching nails, he comes at me, full force.  Constrained by his seatbelt, I manage to avoid his grasp and flop into the back seat.  Scattered boxes and belongings fill most of the space… there’s nowhere to go.

Now free of his seatbelt, Pete turns upon me.  Frantic, I grab for anything I can find in the clutter.  My fingers snag the rubber eyepiece of his World War II gas mask, and I swing with all of my might.  The large metal-nosed filter connects with Pete’s forehead, stopping him in mid-motion.

The elderly man keels over to the side, unconscious.  Without a hesitation, I lean forward into the front, opening the passenger’s side door.  I stare out into the blackness, terrified.  Adrenaline urging me on, I shove with all my strength, until Pete’s limp form slides out of the car.  Clambering into the front, I pull the door closed, locking it.

Listening, I hear movement outside…something’s out there!

Before I have time to react, the piercing vibrations tear through the air again, rendering me unconscious.


My eyelids flutter open, and I squint in response.  There’s a distant light on the horizon.  Steadying myself, I focus on it, and then I realize what I’m seeing.  It’s the sun.  It’s rising!  Hope flutters with my being.

I look to the mirror, finding my eyes to be no worse… the blackness hasn’t progressed.  Creeping to the passenger door I look out.  Pete’s body isn’t there.

Calmly, I sit in the seat and stare forward through the windshield, toward the rising sun.  At this point, all I can do is wait to see what’s revealed, once this veil of darkness is finally lifted.



Veil of Darkness
D.M. Slate

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Happy Reading!


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WWW Contestant 2: Shauna Klein

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

Shauna Klein – Static

Disaster –  Terrorist Invasion

Location – Greenhouse

Helpful Item – Skateboard

Disability – Migraine Headache




Shauna Klein

Living in the country has its benefits. I get to enjoy fresh air and fresh food from my garden and to listen to the birds chirping. I even have a pretty big greenhouse that helps us during the winter. It’s just me, my husband and our dogs but we love it.

Everyone had been hearing on the news about nuclear strikes and threats from North Korea. Just like anything else, life goes on. You worry but you hope for the best. That day, my husband had headed into town to help out a friend with a car repair. I had the whole house to myself other than the dogs so I decided to head out to the greenhouse to check on the plants and to rinse off the skateboard we’d picked up for my nephews birthday.

I wouldn’t have had to clean it up if my husband hadn’t decided to act like he was the one with a 12th birthday party. Instead of wrapping it, he wanted to try it out first and ended up falling off. The skateboard flew off into the mud and my husband Rich had a bruised ego and a bruised ass to show for it. It was kind of funny but I was glad he didn’t get hurt.

Unfortunately, I had a splitting migraine. Not the kind that some have where you’re stuck in bed all day but just enough to make me irritable and angry at the world. Once I got done I figured I’d go lie down for a while.

As I was in the greenhouse, I heard something strange on the radio. The newscaster was saying something about an air invasion. I mean, really? What is this, Red Dawn? About that time I heard something.

It sounded like something big hit the side of a building; almost like a large truck or something. As I poked my head out the door I saw it – well, not it but them – it looked like guys with parachutes dropping in. I know, Red Dawn flashed through my head too. I wondered why the North Koreans would bother with my town anyway when I saw something strange. All of the “guys” dropping in had what looked to be old, torn clothing and what made absolutely no sense is that they were all black and white. I don’t mean their race either; everything about them was something out of an old movie. And they weren’t Korean at all.

Now when I was younger I though the world used to be in black and white because of the television shows but these things actually was. I actually closed my eyes a moment thinking I was dreaming or my migraine was actually some kind of brain tumor I hadn’t Googled yet and I was seeing hallucinations but nope, when I opened them again, the colorless sky droppers were still there and landing one after another. The noise I heard was them dropping to the ground. Every time one hit, the sound was enormous. It made no sense at all and I honestly thought I was losing it.

As I stood there staring at them, riveted in one spot – one of them spotted me. I mean they couldn’t have been more than 50 yards from me and like an idiot, instead of hiding I was staring at them like I’d seen a Martian. I might as well have because they made no sense at all. As this thing saw me he stopped and pointed, made some kind of noise that sounded like static and the others looked as well.

At that point I ran back inside of the greenhouse. Little good that would do me considering it’s a big building with glass walls. It’s not like I could hide and it’s not like I had any kind of weapon. Who brings a gun to a greenhouse?

As I tried to find somewhere to hide I noticed I still had the muddy skateboard in my hands. Lot of good that would do me but it’s the only thing I had and I held on to it like a lost kid with a teddy bear. I didn’t have a rake or any kind of weapon in there so all I could do is wait and pray.

As I stood there trembling, just about to pee myself one of them opened the door and stepped in. “Get away,” I yelled. He just stared and brought his gun up and pointed it at me. Oh, did I tell you they had guns too? Everything about them was like some kind of paratrooper but from an old black and white movie. He was about two feet away when I brought the skateboard back and hit him square in the face. He didn’t just fall over or anything, he static’d. It was like an old TV when you can’t find a station – horizontal lines and stuff. His gun went off and shot a burst of electricity into the air but fortunately it was pointing upwards or I might have been fried into a smoking piece of nothingness.

Although nothing made sense at all, the one guy just disappeared. I hit him, he turned into a TV station and poof, he was gone. Now this did nothing to the others except make them follow suit and start to come inside. There were about ten of them and oddly, I’d seen no plane or where they came from. It was like they dropped out of the sky on some kind of old-timey satellite feed from space. I have no idea why the skateboard vaporized the one but it was my only shot so I started swinging wildly. Of course my head was about to explode but obviously that nap would have to wait.

I hit one after the other, trying to make sure to stay out of the line of fire just in case another gun went off. When all was said and done there was nothing left. No old clothing, no guns, nothing; just me in a greenhouse with a muddy skateboard and a few fried plants.

I carefully stepped out of the greenhouse and saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was like it never happened. I headed back into the house and tried to call my husband but the cell phone wouldn’t get a signal. I tried the computer – nothing. . I turned on the TV to see if anything was going on but all that was on the TV was static, like an old TV from the 60’s. I tried flipping a few channels and found some live stations but all they were playing was I love Lucy. In fact, every channel I could get was playing old black and white shows. Odd huh? That’s when I saw her, Lucille Ball was in my kitchen baking a cake and all of the Little Rascals were at the table. At this point I knew I really needed that nap and besides, who doesn’t like cake?

This has been an audio podcast recording of the “Static” written and performed by Shauna Klein. Be sure to vote for Shauna to win the 2013 Wicked Women Writers Challenge at horroraddicts@gmail.com

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WWW Contestant 1: Leigh M. Lane

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Wicked Women Writers Challenge.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #94.

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


Enter the Corruption

by Leigh M. Lane

Oh, dear God, help me!  When—if—I get out of this unscathed, I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to stop them.  I’ll dedicate my life to the cause.  I swear. . . .

A mere half hour ago, I’d been sitting I’d been sitting in economy class, watching the scenery blur by through the nearest window.  I’d tried to sleep, hoping to stave off my boredom, but I was too excited about seeing the family members waiting for me on the other end of the line.

Dear God, help me. . . .

I noticed the woman across the aisle was one of the nanotech implantees.  I could only guess why someone wealthy enough for nanotech implants would travel economy, but she seemed comfortable enough.  She stared straight ahead, her eyes scanning an Internet page only she could see.  She showed a hint of amusement at whatever it was she read before she turned to the little boy sitting beside her in the window seat.

“Go to your father’s URL,” she said, leaning into the boy.

He cocked his head, stared ahead for a moment, and then turned to her.  “What’s so funny about that?”

The sound of his voice made me flinch.  It was as though I watched a boy-sized android responding to his rich, stuffy owner.  His face was devoid of emotion, and he sat upright and perfectly still.  I’d never seen a second-generation tech-head, but I had heard they were about as human as their parents were relative to us.  They were the end product of a scientific “breakthrough” gone terribly wrong, a defilement of both mind and soul that had left the small elite few who had paid the five million dollars to undergo the procedure altered in ways no one could have foreseen.  While they retained some semblance of human emotion, their children were something altogether different.

He seemed to feel my eyes on him and turned mechanically to meet my surprised gaze.  Staring me down, he asked, “Mother, why is that drone watching us?”

I turned away as she shifted to glance over at me.

“Don’t bother yourself with the drones.  Finish your homework.”

“I do not want to finish my homework, Mother.  I want to know why it was staring at me, and why it looked away when it knew you were about to assess its behavior.  What does it want?”

“They stare at things sometimes, son.  Finish your homework.”

“Unacceptable response,” said the boy.

I felt the chill of a cold sweat soaking through my light cotton shirt as I fought the urge to explain myself.  How does one describe horror and pity to a child devoid of all emotion?  What possible words could convey to a person whose brain is nothing more than circuits and nanochips that his mere presence induced such discomfort?

To my surprise, the man sitting directly in front of the boy whipped around to face him and said in a stern, annoyed tone, “She was staring at you because you’re a freak.  Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to read my book in peace.”  The man returned to his seat with an exasperated huff.

I watched the boy through the corner of my eye while he emitted a strange noise that was every bit as unnerving as his mechanical demeanor.  Clearly, despite his inability to understand emotion, he was capable of taking offense.  In a sudden but precise move, he dived forward and bit the man in his ear.

Everyone within view stood, and immediately the car filled with the chaotic din of surprise and revulsion.  The man held his bleeding ear while he stumbled past the passenger beside him and into the aisle.  He fell to his knees, crying out.

Frozen in shock by the unexpected sight, no one moved to help him.  Everyone  rushed to gain their distance.  I felt my heart skip a beat at the sight of the boy expressing something vaguely recognizable to a smile, blood smudged over his lips and chin.  His mother looked annoyed but did not reprimand him.

The man went strangely silent for a moment then went painfully stiff and dropped onto his back in a fit of convulsions.  He stared at the ceiling, his face frozen in a look of terror.  Again, he went still.  He sucked in a deep breath, his expression going flat.  Everyone gasped and watched in disbelief when the blood trickling from his ear went from red to silver.

The boy seemed pleased by the effect and lunged at the next nearest person, then another and another after that.  Those who tried to strike down the boy suffered his mother’s protective fury.  The aisle became a traffic jam of hysterical bystanders.

The man bleeding silver grabbed a passing leg and sank his teeth into the fleshy calf.  I wasn’t sure what exactly was happening, but I knew it wasn’t good.  I vaulted over several rows of seats and fought a handful of others to get through the door.  Only a few people managed to escape behind me before a strong young man gave a forceful shove to the front of the crowd and shut the door.  He, along with a few others, held it shut, while the rest of us continued to make our way toward the next car.  Those seated around us stood and looked around, some asking for an explanation as to what threat fought to breach the closed door.

No one was able to provide an adequate response.  Hell, we didn’t know what we were running from, only that we feared what might become of us should it get through.  I didn’t bother to explain myself, my only concern being to continue forward.  By the time I reached the first class cars, only a couple of people ran with me.  When we attempted to continue to the next car, however, the train’s security guard stopped us.

We tried to push forward, but the security guard held us back, ordering us to return to our seats.  He threatened us with all sorts of ridiculous charges when we persisted.  Suddenly, the door behind us slid open with a forceful shove and a horde of men and women, all bleeding silver from bites on their arms or legs, rushed toward us.  The security guard continued to try to keep order, and I alone managed to slip past him.

* * * *

And so, here I am.  Whatever that child had started, it has spread at an alarming pace.

I dart into the next car, freezing when I realize I’ve reached my final retreat.  I go dizzy at the blurred sight rushing through the front observation windows.  There are only a handful of people seated here, and they look surprised by my presence.

I turn to the sound of the door opening behind me.  The horde pours in.  My heart racing, I make a dash for the open restroom.  I scream when one of them seizes me by my wrist and tugs me from the doorway.

“What’s your hurry?” he asks while the last few unsuspecting passengers scream under the attack.  “Trust me.  It’s all for the best.”

I yank back my arm while he sinks his teeth into it.  I stumble back, into the restroom, and quickly lock myself in.  My throat goes tight at the sight of the wound, knowing something terrible awaits me, when I spot the bottle of hand sanitizer beside the basin.  I slather the clear gel over my wound and rub it in, wincing with the sudden sting.  The blood continues to run red, but I know that could change despite my efforts to kill whatever has infected the rest of the train.  I ask myself, Do I feel any different?

Nothing . . . yet.

My arm begins to itch like crazy, and I wonder if this is the first sign of dissemination.   I feel faint.  Am I losing consciousness?  Is this the end?  What will become of me if the infection does take hold?  I can’t ignore the impulse to rake my fingernails across my forearm, the itching so intense that scratching it does not offer me any relief.

My body jolts with a heavy bang against the door.  “What are you doing in there?” someone asks.  “Come on out,” says another.  “Why haven’t you logged into the network?” asks yet another.

I continue to tear at my arm.  The itching only intensifies, but my blood still runs red.  God help me.

Someone attempts to kick in the door.  A couple others join in on the endeavor.

I can feel the train slowing.  Would the horde file out, leaving me only to infect everyone at the terminal?  The door begins to cave.  Will it stop in time?  Do I want it to stop?  I try to prepare myself to break past them, but I can’t concentrate.  I’ve scratched my arm raw, but to no end.  The itching is unbearable.

The train slows to a halt.

The door hangs closed by a thread.

I can’t stop the itching.  I feel as though my body is under siege.  I can barely breathe.

I hear the platform door open.  I would feel a hint of relief if I could ease my discomfort even just a little.  My arm has grown red and bloody.  Still red. . . .

The door caves with one final kick and a few of the horde bleed in.  There’s nowhere left to run.  I can’t stop scratching.  I can’t concentrate.  I can’t breathe.  A man bites my uninjured arm.  I think to go for the hand sanitizer, but I can’t bring myself to stop tearing at the agonizing itch.

The horde files out, leaving me alone in my misery.  The itch begins to abate, but I no longer feel any desire to reach for the hand sanitizer.  I feel . . . what do I feel?

I feel nothing.

I see the Internet unfold within my mind’s eye, and I log in.  I look down at my wound.  Silver.  Metallic.  What was I doing in here?

I exit the train and look at all the people who have yet to connect.  Look at them scream.  I stride toward the nearest one.  “Don’t be afraid,” I tell it.  “Feelings are so overrated.  Connecting . . . that’s what’s important.”

Still, it screams.



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MMM Contestant 3: Donald Pitsiladis

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Master of Macabre contest.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #93.

Donald Pitsiladis
Location: Old School House
Item: text book




Donald L. Pitsiladis

Barry pulled his car into a parking spot and closed his eyes.  He didn’t need to see the shattered windows or the broken door to know what they looked like.  The decayed building had been a recurring place in his dreams for many years, but he never believed it to be real until just then.  Fear and guilt flooded his mind when he opened his eyes and saw the building stare at him from the rear view mirror.

He stared at the school, unsure of what to do.  The building reached for him and, before he realized it, Barry found himself at the foot of the stairs.  “Come inside,” a little voice whispered, and he climbed the stairs without another thought.  Once through the door, it slammed with a bang that sounded a lot like a gunshot.  It knocked him to the ground hard enough to throw dust into his face and he began to sneeze uncontrollably.  He tried to open the metal door to get some fresh air, but no amount of force got it to move. The only option left was to venture deeper into the school and look for another way out.

The further into the school Barry went, the stronger his feeling of excitement and dread became.  He remembered attending the school when he was the poor fat kid and the torment and torture his classmates inflicted.  Tears welled in his eyes at the whispered insults when a door opened and the voices beckoned him.  “Go inside.  See the surprise we have for you.  You really need to see it.  Go on in.”  Barry entered the room and saw a gray haired man in a bow tie and white lab coat pace the room with a smile.  It was his favorite teacher, Mr. Jenson, the only teacher to treat him with kindness.  When the gentle man’s eyes met his, the smile fell away and an explosion of red blossomed from his chest.  He fell back in slow motion with arms flailing like a kite tail, while the students erupted into motion when they realized what happened.  Then, two bigger boys sprawled to the ground with similar wounds in their backs before things faded to the empty, dust-covered classroom.  Barry felt the rapid beat of his heart as he tried to make sense of what he saw.  A chilled hand gripped his left shoulder, but nobody stood next to him.

A sound of shuffling feet drew Barry into the hall where he found only undisturbed dust and debris on the floor.  “Keep moving,” a disembodied female voice whispered, so he walked on.  Not long after, a bright flash and muffled boom drew his attention to a dented locker a few feet to his right.  A blond girl with a large gaping hole between her once perky breasts slammed into it.  Her confused eyes met his for a moment before she slid down the length of the door and her head sagged to her chest.  “I loved you,” the female voice whispered and he felt arms envelope his body in a cold embrace.  Barry tried to wrap his arms around the girl, but found empty air instead.  Tears welled in his eyes and he moved on to the next room in his spree.

He found himself in the cafeteria after a short walk. There he pulled up a chair and looked around the room full of unaware students and teachers.  His best friend Jamie entered the large room from the far door and, with a look of disbelief on his face, ran towards him.  “Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “You don’t need to do this!”  The pleas drew people’s attention, so Barry pulled the trigger.  Three people fell before a football player grabbed Jamie and pulled him in the line of fire.  Before the first clip emptied, both boys lay on the ground.

“You killed us,” Jamie said and appeared next to Barry with blood oozing from the holes in his chest.  “Why?” the dead boy asked as his face drew near Barry’s.  “Why did I die, Barry?  I was your best friend.”  The blond girl appeared with her arms still around Barry’s body, “Margaret wanted to be your girlfriend. What did she do to cross you?”  The middle-aged teacher gripped his shoulder tighter as he materialized.  “What about Mr. Jenson?  You were his favorite student.  He treated you better than any other student in his classes.”

Barry’s bottom lip quivered and he stammered, “I… I don’t know.”  He looked at Jamie and said, “I didn’t mean to shoot you.  It was that stupid football player’s fault.  He pulled you in the way.”  When he looked at the other two, his eyes squinted in thought and admitted, “I don’t remember.”  Margaret pulled away from him with a hurt expression that stabbed into him.  “The hospital I went to after made me forget a lot.” He took a step toward her with an apologetic smile, but the look on her face remained unchanged.

“That’s quite all right, my boy,” Mr. Jenson said in his jolly way.  “We’re here to help you remember.”  He led Barry to a desk in the middle of the cafeteria and gestured for him to take a seat.  Jamie plopped a textbook in front of him and opened it to the first page.  “I’m sure this will trigger some of your lost memories,” the teacher said as they looked at his body in a pool of blood.  The gaping hole in his chest and the empty eyes drew Barry’s attention to the photo, and then he noticed how a small trickle of blood from the corner of the teacher’s mouth led to a caption which read “Victim Number One”.  As Barry paged through the book and saw the lives he either ended or destroyed, Mr. Jenson walked behind the counter and returned with the same gun used so many years ago.  “This will be your final exam.”

Margaret sat down next to him and pulled Barry tight against her.  “We want to make sure you’re ready for your afterlife when it is time for your Judgment,” she said with a comforting smile.  Barry felt the comforting grip of his best friend’s hand as it grasped his right shoulder.  The whispers of the dead beckoned him to study.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: MMM. Voting ends September 24th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

MMM Contestant 2: Rick Kitagawa

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Master of Macabre contest.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #93.

Rick Kitagawa
Location: Double Wide Mobile Home
Item: black and white television


Uncle Neal’s House

by Rick Kitagawa




The house that had previously belonged to Jason’s late uncle was a double-wide mobile home – a surprisingly well-kept number painted a cobalt blue with a bright white trim.  A thick ridge of cardboard-colored pine needles formed a perimeter on the edge of the gently sloping shingled roof.

When Jason walked out of the small uptown law office two weeks earlier, he was more confused than anything else.  He had barely known his Uncle Neal, yet apparently Jason was the only family member who was both invited to the reading of the will or mentioned in it.

All Jason knew about his Uncle Neal was that his uncle had always been a bit of a black sheep of the family, living off the grid in the Sierra Nevada foothills and never really bothering to keep in contact with anyone.  Now Jason was the new owner of his uncles house and Jason had taken a long weekend to go check it out.

Jason crouched on one knee and peered under the house and laughed.  While the house looked to be in fair condition, his uncle had neglected to remove the axles and wheels from the foundation.  Large wooden wedges had been shoved under the wheels to prevent the entire thing from rolling down the gently sloping cliff it was perched on and off into the gorge that only lay about twenty feet south of the house.

Jason walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down.  The gorge dropped a few hundred yards, sharp rocks protruding from the steep cliff face the entire way to the bottom.  He kicked a few rocks off the edge and listened as they ricocheted their way down.  As he watched the pebble careen further and further away, he realized that there was something shiny and black at the bottom of the gorge.

“Well, I guess that’s where the trash bags go.”  Jason chuckled and snatched the keys from his jeans pocket.  “Now, let’s see what’s behind door number one.”

The first key turned easily, the deadbolt snapping back into the door.  The second key took a bit of jiggling, but soon Jason stepped inside.  He flipped the light switch and was greeted with your typical back-country decor.  Fish mounted on plaques.  Boots lining the hallways.  Beige carpeting and worn crocheted rugs over the parts of the hallways that were linoleum.

Jason went back out to his car to get his backpack and duffel bag.  As he reached into the trunk, he suddenly felt like he was being watched.  He looked up quickly.  No one.  The only thing moving was the curtains gently swaying to and fro.  Jason shrugged it off as the wind and gathered his things.

Feeling grimy from the long drive, Jason pulled his ziplock of toiletries from his bag and grabbed a towel from the hall closet and headed to the shower.

As he stepped into the narrow bathroom, Jason noticed a bunch of paint flakes on the bathtub floor.  As he bent to scoop up the paint, he hit his head on the shower wall, making a voluminous “donk.”

Jason bunched up his face and raised an eyebrow.  He looked at the bathroom again – it was indeed very narrow.  Unnaturally narrow.  He knocked on the shower wall, and the sound reminded him of knocking on a ripe watermelon.  Jason set the towel on the sink and walked out of the bathroom.  On the other side of that shower wall was his uncle’s bedroom closet.  Upon inspection, this closet was very narrow as well.

Jason walked back and forth between the two rooms, counting his steps.  They didn’t add up.

Confused and slightly suspicious, Jason went back into the bathroom and stared at the wall.  The shower wall did look like it was a slightly different shade of white than the rest of the room, and the paint was cracking and peeling at the edges.

“Well, it is my house now, I guess,” Jason muttered and gave the shower wall a good kick.  The drywall gave easily, and as Jason looked into the deep blackness, a strange odor seeped out.  It was alien, yet familiar, ancient and salty, but not altogether unpleasant.

Jason began to rip off pieces of the drywall, kicking at it when necessary.  After a few minutes of struggling, a small crevice of a room lay before him.

The room was only about two feet deep – a closet really, but the interior was painted entirely black.  There was nothing extraordinary about this tiny space, save for the pile of strange gold sculptures on the floor.  Jason bent over and gingerly scooped up a handful.  His heart began to race.   The sculptures were often intricately carved in the shapes of things that seemed aquatic but yet bore the full resemblance to nothing on this earth.

Jason felt a hand on his shoulder.  He suddenly spun around, but there was nothing there.  Jason’s eyes darted around the bathroom.  No one.  Rising quickly, Jason rushed into the living room.  Still no one.

“Hello?”  Jason called out.  The front door was still closed, and the windows were still shut from before he had arrived.  Jason’s face went white.  If the windows were closed this entire time, what made the curtains move earlier?

Jason moved quickly to the kitchen, only now realizing that he held one of the grotesque gold statuettes in each hand.  He set one down, and drew a large kitchen knife, then hesitated.  He set the knife on the counter, stuffed the golden figurine into his pocket, then picked the knife back up.

“Whoever’s in here – I’m armed!  Just show yourself and I won’t press charges.” Jason was breathing heavy now, and his nerves were charged.  He strained to listen for any signs of movement.  Just the sound of his heart racing and his rapid breathing filled the air.

Jason slowly creeped over to the door of the guest bedroom.  He quickly pushed the door open.

All Jason found was a bed stripped of its linens.  No place to hide in here.  Jason pulled the door shut.

Out of paranoia, Jason rechecked the bathroom again, then closed the door.  Although he had just recently gotten a towel from the hall closet, he checked that as well.  Still nothing.  Soon, Jason was standing in the hallway, gold idol in one hand, eight-inch kitchen knife in the other.

Jason stuffed the small octopoid figure into his pocket and opened the door to what used to be his Uncle’s bedroom.  There was yet again, nothing there.

“Give us our lives back.”

Jason spun around.  He had clearly heard a woman’s voice behind him, but there was just the empty living room.

“Repent.”  The voice said.  “Repent.”

“Where are you?  Jason took the knife is both shaky hands.  “What do you want?”


The old black and white television that sat in the living room suddenly clicked on.  Jason stared at the unplugged machine as the static snow’s buzz filled the air.  Jason felt a hand on his waist and he spun again, slashing blindly behind him. The knife silently cut through air as the hiss of the television grew louder.

“Give us our lives back.”  This time the voice was clear, and as Jason slowly faced the living room, the digital noise of the static began to coalesce into a woman’s face.

“You have what belongs to us”  The face was angry now.

Jason’s eyes grew wide.  He ran back towards the bathroom and dropped his knife on the floor.  He began to shovel the gold trinkets into his pockets, and when they were full, he began to stuff the bottom of his shirt with them.  Sweat began to run in rivulets down his face, and his hands began to shake.

“They’re mine.  They’re mine, and you can’t have them.”  Jason feverishly began to waddle towards the front door when he stumbled and some of the blasphemous figurines fell to the floor.

As he knelt to pick them up, Jason spilled even more of them.  Jason spied his duffel bag and while he clutched his shirt tightly with one hand, he fumbled with the zipper to the bag.  As he began to empty his shirt’s contents into the bag, he could feel scaly hands pulling at his hair and trying to work their way into his pockets.

“No!”  Jason trashed about, but the hands persisted.  He took up his bag and ran for the door, but something grabbed his leg and he tumbled headfirst into the adjacent wall and crumbled to the floor.


Jason was outside suddenly, the sky bright with stars.  He saw his Uncle Neal carrying something large wrapped in black plastic trash bags slung over his shoulder.  Jason watched as Uncle Neal, with bloodstained hands, tossed the long package over the edge of the cliff.  Jason seemed to then float above it all as he watched his uncle make four more trips, with four more black lumps.

Jason was then deep in the woods. His uncle was standing in the center of a large circle of blood, placing a plate covered in hearts in the center of the circle.  Uncle Neal stepped out of the circle and lit seven black candles.  Soon, the beating of leathery wings could be heard, and from the cloudless sky descended a faceless, horned monstrosity.  This hideous thing landed soundlessly, then released a deafening, otherworldly shriek.  It snatched up the hearts, and as it lifted off into the air, it dropped a small satchel that landed heavy in the dirt with a clink.


Jason managed to open one eye. Something was sticky on the side of his face, and there was a throbbing pain that clouded his already limited view.  Jason immediately reached down to confirm that his golden statues were still safely tucked into his pockets.

He gingerly touched his head, and as he pulled his hand back he found his fingers coated with blood.  It was then he felt the trailer move.  There was a low groaning, and then a high pitched whine.  He could hear something heavy being dragged through leaves, and as he looked out the window, he saw the wheel blocks sitting next to his car.

Suddenly, Jason was flung back to the floor, as the entire house jerked and began to pick up speed as it rolled over the gravel and onto solid dirt.  Jason tried to stand, but his vision was blurry and the room started to spin.  He continued to fumble for his bag and tried to stumble to the front door.

Jason pulled himself up to one knee and watched at the deadbolt on the door slid into place on its own.

Jason began to crawl to the door, then used the doorknob to steady himself as he stood.  He struggled with the deadbolt, but it wouldn’t move.  He began to throw his shoulder into the door, pain arcing through his head with every impact, but the door was surprisingly solid.  As he tried to back up to gain more momentum, he was thrown to the ground as the first pair of wheels went over the edge of the cliff.

Jason slid towards the side of the house tipping over and as he looked through the nearest  window, he could see five women standing at the bottom of the gorge who appeared to be looking up at him.

It was then the house tipped over completely, and as he began to go into freefall, Jason did all he could do – he clutched the bag of golden idols to his chest and closed his eyes.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: MMM. Voting ends September 24th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

MMM Contestant 1: Rish Outfield

The following text is posted as part of HorrorAddicts.net‘s annual Master of Macabre contest.
This text is presented as is, from the author, with no editing.
Contestants should be judged on text, audio, and use of the challenge items listed. Please read the bottom of this post for voting instructions. Audio is playing at HorrorAddicts.net, #93.

Rish Outfield
Location: The White House
Item: An unopened letter from 1842


White House Tour

Rish Outfield

In the summer of 2013, I was ten years old.  My mom had remarried, and my new stepdad, Corin, had decided to take us to Washington D.C., to see the nation’s capital.  Corin loved history and the founding fathers and war and stuff, so we went to see the Reflecting Pool, and the Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument, and something not-at-all-scary called the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and on our last day, we were going on a tour of the White House.  Best for last, they kept telling me.

I wasn’t bored, exactly, and Mom had lectured me before we left about not being selfish, and to look at this as a new beginning, and I did try my best to like Corin.  After all, he made my mom so happy, and the smile on her face when he held her hand or put his arm around her or, yuck, even kissed her was a smile I didn’t used to ever see.

We had to wait almost two hours for our turn to join the tour–there had been a whole busful of kids in identical uniforms that got there right before we did–and I kept busy with my iPod until the battery died, and then I had to sit quietly, which isn’t easy as a grown man, and certainly wasn’t as a little boy.  My feet hurt from all our walking, and Corin’s response was that a man doesn’t complain about sore feet.  I responded that ten years old was only a man in Mexico, but he didn’t think I was very funny.

When our tour began, Mom mouthed “Be excited” to me, and I tried to do that too.  I know I wasn’t a brilliant kid, but I had been convinced that we’d get to meet the President–it was Obama in those days–and was really disappointed to find out that wasn’t part of our tour.

The White House was a big, low-ceilinged building, much more like a museum than a house.  There were lots of paintings and desks and cabinets and things under glass, and while the tourguide, a nice stocky black lady in her thirties, was exuberant, I couldn’t get excited about it all, or even pretend to be.  There were a couple of children in our group, but they were drugged or something, because they stayed quiet and looked around with wide eyes like we were at a zoo or toy store.  I thought about sneaking off, going exploring in the huge place, trying doors and seeing if I could find the room where the missiles were or something, but everything was roped off, and there were actually security guards with pistols who were probably just waiting for something to do.

I was staring at a motion detector in the upper corner, watching the red light blink when I moved when I realized I was being left behind.  “Come on,” a voice said, and I was relieved to see another kid my age waving me over.

“Jonathan?” Mom said at about the same time, and I hauled butt to catch up.

“Don’t lag behind, okay, buddy?” Corin said, and I did my best not to scowl at him.  Maybe in his mind we really were buddies.

“Hey,” the boy said, and I said hey back.  “Have you ever been to the White House before?”

“No.  You?”

“I’ve been on more tours than you could imagine.  But I live here, so what else am I going to do?”

“This is our first trip to Washington.  My mom says there’s a lot of crime here.”

“Yes, but there’s crime everywhere you look.  I’m Willie.”

“Jonathan.  How do you not get bored here?” I asked, and I saw Corin stiffen in front of me.  I lowered my voice.

“I do, sometimes.  But Mardelle is a good tourguide.”

I looked to the head of the group to our guide, who was talking about Canadians trying to burn the building down.  I tried to pay closer attention.

“If you’re lucky,” Willie whispered, “she may talk about the ghosts.”

“What ghosts?” I wondered, at full volume.  Whoops.

“Excuse me?” the guide asked, looking right at me.  Now everyone else did the same.

“Are there really ghosts?” I asked.

I saw the embarrassment in Mom’s eyes–but not in Corin’s curiously–but the tourguide smiled.  “I do get asked that a great deal.  And it’s not an easy question to answer.”  She addressed everyone now, and I liked the way her voice projected.  She wasn’t shouting, really, but we could all hear her clearly.  “I, personally, have never seen a ghost here, but many believe the White House to be haunted.  In the three years I’ve worked here, I’ve been on three, maybe four tours, when someone has claimed they saw one.  So, look carefully, and maybe you will too.”  She started walking again, and we followed her.

“See?” Willie said, and his grin was infectious.

“Whose ghost do they see?” asked a man with a cool accent.

The tourguide stopped walking and turned around.  “Usually, it’s Abraham Lincoln, our 16th president.  He’s been spotted here, in the halls, at the window on the east side, and in the Lincoln bedroom, which was a meeting room in his day.”  An old woman on the left looked around as though she was afraid she’d see him too.  My mom glanced back at me and raised her eyebrows.  I did it back.  The guide continued.  “The man who was head tourguide when I first started claimed he had seen Lincoln twice, and heard him several times more, but I was never sure whether he was exaggerating, or just telling a good story.”

“And is he wearing the hat and beard and everything?” I asked.  Corin didn’t seem pleased by this, but I was actually getting into the tour, so he shouldn’t have been able to complain.

“The hat sometimes, but the beard definitely,” the guide said, and people chuckled.

“And how close was the ghost to Daniel Day Lewis’s performance?” my step-dad asked, and most all of the adults laughed at that.  There had been a movie about him around that time.

The guide resumed the tour, now talking about other things.  I wanted to ask more about the ghosts, but got the feeling it would be rude, even though it was relevant to what we were doing.

We passed a big brown chair that looked almost like a throne, and somebody I couldn’t see asked how much of the furniture and stuff was the same today as it was back then.

“None of it,” said Willie beside me.  He was starting to look bored too.

“Hardly any of the original furnishings are still here, though much has been reproduced to look like it did,” said our guide.  “Even most of the walls and ceiling are new.  In fact, today is the first day tours are going into the Autumn Alcove since they renovated that room.  There was a water leak at the base of one wall, and it was all replaced, but it looks identical to how it did before.  Interestingly, they found some coins, some papers, a rusted fork, and an unopened letter from 1842 in that wall.”

“What was in the letter?” I asked, but didn’t dare to raise my voice.

Willie said, “It was nothing.  A dull request for more militia in Rhode Island.  Something about the Dorr Rebellion.  Did I mention it was dull?”

The tour continued, so I whispered to the boy.  “Have you ever seen ghosts?”

Willie shrugged.  “My mom heard Andrew Jackson’s ghost here once.”

“Who’s Andrew Jackson?” I asked.  Not because I was stupid; I knew he was somebody famous, but I couldn’t remember for what.

“Andrew Jackson?” the tourguide said, not at all irritated by my question.  She was cool.  “He was the seventh president of the U.S..”

“Old Hickory,” my new step-dad exclaimed, which didn’t mean anything to anybody.

“Is he a ghost too?” I asked, more to the lady than to Corin.

The tourguide chuckled at that.  I was beginning to think she was pretty.  “Yes, he is–reportedly–one of the ghosts who haunts the White House.  As well as Presidents Cleveland, Harrison, Tyler, and Thomas Jefferson.”

“See,” Willie said beside me.  “She’s the best guide.  One of them, Rodrigo, won’t even mention the ghosts if you ask.”

“They should have a tour that’s just about the ghosts,” I said.

“Shhh,” my step-dad said.  His goofy smile was gone.  Of course, nobody shushed Willie.

I tried not to say anything for the rest of the tour.  Another lady asked if we’d be visiting the Oval Office, so I wasn’t the only one who thought we’d be meeting Obama, but the guide didn’t make her feel stupid in the least.  Being a tourguide didn’t seem like the worst possible job in the world to have.

“Do you want to go exploring?” Willie asked, as we were going around a corner.

I did, most definitely, but I didn’t dare.  I thought I’d been on my best behavior, but I got the impression Corin didn’t agree.  I wondered who Mom would side with, and I dreaded learning the answer.

A few minutes later, we reached the end of the tour.  Mardelle asked if anyone had any questions, and a lady asked about the letter.

“Which letter is that?”

“The one you found in the wall.”

“Oh.  I didn’t find it, some workmen did,” said the guide.  “I never even saw it.”

“But what was in it?”

“Like I said, it was unopened.  No one knows what it was about yet.  Somebody at the Smithsonian is going to take a look, but apparently, that’s a lengthy process.”

“What about the coins?” asked Willie. “Who gets those?”

The woman didn’t answer.  She asked if there were any more questions.

It occurred to me again that nobody shushed Willie, and that I didn’t see his parents around.  “Are you by yourself?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“Do they do reenactments here?” I asked.

“What?” Willie asked.

The tourguide glanced my way, but a man with a–what do you call it–a turban asked her something and she turned her attention to him.  I looked at my new friend.

“Why are you dressed that way?”  He was in old fashioned clothes, though I had only noticed it when I saw his shoes.

“Oh, this.  My mother chose this outfit for me.”

“She works here too?”  Once again, my new step-dad shushed me.  We had reached the end of the tour, so he shouldn’t have cared.  But typically, he still did.

Willie leaned close to me and whispered, “Come on another tour.  They can be fun.”

I nodded, but I doubted we would ever come back.  Little Rock was an awfully long way away.

“Ask another ghost question,” he prompted.  I tried to think of one.

“Any other questions?” she asked.

Somebody asked how much she got paid, and she dismissed it.  Silence hung in the air for a moment, and Willie said, “Ask her if she’s met Willie Lincoln.”

After nobody acknowledged his words, I cleared my throat, and repeated it.

“A good question,” the guide said.  “Another history buff?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.  Willie seemed to be stifling a laugh.

“Yes, another reported ghost is that of William Lincoln, the eleven year old son of Abraham Lincoln.”  Corin gave me a look, but I couldn’t tell if it was irritated or impressed.  Maybe both.

She continued, “He died here in this house, of typhus in, oh, the early eighteen sixties.”

My mouth started to open, and I turned to look toward Willie to say something to him, but he was gone.  Of course he was gone.

We left the White House, got on our bus, and Corin never criticized me for my behavior.  That was nice, but I almost would’ve preferred he yell at me, for the distraction.

When I got back to our hotel room, I plugged in my iPod, and got on the internet.  Sure enough, the friend I’d made on the tour was none other than William Wallace Lincoln, looking exactly as he had in the photograph that came up, the one from his obituary in 1862.

The trip ended up not so boring after all.


To vote for this story, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: MMM. Voting ends September 24th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

HorrorAddicts.net 093, Masters of Macabre Contest

Horror Addicts Episode# 093

Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich

Horror Co-Host: David Watson


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

To vote, send an email to: horroraddicts@gmail.com with the subject line: MMM.

Voting ends September 24th, 2013, 11:59a, PST.

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

HorrorAddicts.net 090, Rish Outfield

Horror Addicts Episode# 090

Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich

Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini


rish outfield | lo

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

| give me brains | goths in hot weather | lo | movie contest |

| the wickeds | horrible disasters | seven slightly sadistic stories |

| blood feud | matters of the blood | a method of madness |

| black magic | the innocents | goth summer fashion |

| events | dead mail | nyx | night’s knights storycasting |

| ghirardelli | rish outfield |


Give Me Brains ~ Billy and Mandy


Goths in Hot Weather


The Wickeds


Horrible Disasters


Seven Slightly Sadistic Stories


Night’s Knights Storycasting


Rish Outfield


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



h o s t e s s

Emerian Rich

s t a f f

Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Dan Shaurette, Marc Vale, KBatz, Mimielle

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c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s


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Movie Quiz & Prize Contest : The Raven

the_raven_(2012)_wallpaper (1)Answer ONE of these questions (that has not already been answered)
in the comments and be entered to win a Poe Prize Pack from HorrorAddicts.net.

  1. Who plays Edgar Allan Poe in… The Raven?
  2. What city did Poe live in at the end of his life?
  3. What famous poem does Poe give to Emily?
  4. What is the name of the paper Poe writes for?
  5. What stage play do the police barge in on to stop the murderer?

Comment below to be entered into the drawing for a Poe Prize Pack from HorrorAddicts.net.

Movie Quiz & Prize Contest : Horror of Dracula


Answer one of these questions (that has not already been answered) in the comments and win a signed copy of my book, Artistic License.

1. What Famous studio produced Horror or Dracula?

2. Who wrote the screenplay adapted from Bram Stoker?

3. What famous monster remake did director Terence Fisher helm the previous year?

4. Name another film pairing Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing.

5. Which film in the Dracula series does not star Christopher Lee?

Comment below to be entered into the drawing for a copy of my book, Artistic License. 


Horror Addicts Top Ten Contest – The List and The Winner


The votes are in and they have been counted. So without further delay here is the TOP TEN MOVIES as voted by you the listeners.

  1. Ghost Ship – 2002 – Domestic
  2. 1408 – 2007 – Domestic
  3. Brotherhood of the Wolf – 2001 – French
  4. Paranormal Activity – 2007 – Domestic
  5. The Descent – 2005 – UK
  6. Saw – 2002 – Domestic
  7. The Mist – 2007 – Domestic
  8. The Ring – 2002 – Domestic
  9. Dead Silence – 2007 – Domestic
  10. Case 39 – 2009 – Domestic


Now on to the winner of the prize package which includes copies of some featured films from this season, and a copy of the book, “Vikings, Vampires and Mailmen”.

The winner is (Insert your own drum roll here);

Bill Rafferty of Illinois.

Congratulations to Bill and thank you to all that entered the contest.

Below are the movies Bill submitted to the contest in the list he had them in order.

  1. The Strangers – 2008- Domestic
  2. Laid to Rest –  2008 – Domestic
  3. Paranormal Activity – 2007 – Domestic
  4. Shutter (remake) – 2008 – Domestic
  5. Dead Silence – 2007 – Domestic
  6. Insidious – 2006 – Domestic
  7. Halloween (remake) – 2007 – Domestic
  8. Hostel – 2005 – Domestic
  9. Ghost Ship – 2002 – Domestic
  10. Saw – 2002 – Domestic

Horror Addicts 079, Wicked Women Writers Challenge


Horror Addicts Episode# 079
Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich
Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini
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
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
m u s i c
t a p i n g . s t u d i o
Quills, A Place For Writers
13 Nightmare Lane, Awen, Second Life

Horror Addicts Top Ten Movie Contest Update

Horror Addicts it’s time to give you an update on how the movie contest is going.

The below list is the list of the Top Ten so far from the user lists that have come from our listeners, and readers.

Do you agree with this list of Top Ten movies or do you feel your movies are missing? There isn’t a lot of movies from those who are fans of Foreign Horror Fans.

Well this is just a reminder it’s your time to get your top ten list into the email address of HAddictsmovies@gmail.com to get a chance of seeing one of your films listed.  The deadline is August 15th so time is running out.

Again all we want is your top ten films, year of release and country of origin.

We have had some great sample lists provided to us as examples so check them out.

They were provided by writer Kevin Glennon and Directors Philip Chidel and John Pata.

Now without further delay here is the list of films that have gotten the most repeat submissions and will be in the Top Ten.

  • Dead Silence – 2007 (US)
  • Ghost Ship   – 2002 (US)
  • Paranormal Activity  -2007 (US)
  • Saw  – 2004 (US)
  • The Descent – 2005 (UK)
  • The Mist – 2007 (US)
  • The Ring   – 2002 (US)
  • Case 39 – 2009 (US)
  • Frailty – 2002 (US)
  • The Strangers – 2008 (US)

Some films that are just short of the Top Ten.

  • Shutter – 2008 (US)
  • Brotherhood of the Wolf – 2001 (French)
  • Insidious – 2010 (US)
  • Let Me In – 2010 (US)
  • Orphan – 2009 (US)

The key thing to note about the above list of film so far is that most are from the US. I know we have fans of Foreign horror but nothing has really come in for those movies. So the challenge is on.

So get your personal list of Top Ten Horror Films released during form 2000 to end of 2011 into us as soon as you can.  Their are prizes at risk for those within the US and Canada, and for those overseas bragging rights to see one of your films listed.

Horror Addicts Top Ten Movie Contest

Are you tired of seeing those movie lists telling you, yes you, the viewer what the top films are?  Wouldn’t you like to have the chance to share what you consider the top ten films of the past decade to be?

Well you no longer have to wait as your time has come.

Horror Addicts wants to give our listeners a chance to give us their top ten list for 2000 to end of 2011.

Yes that’s right we are asking you all to put your list together and send it to us.

All you have to do is send your top ten list to our email address of HAddictsmovies@gmail.com.

So you may ask yourself, “That’s great but why would I want to take the time to get a list together and send it to Horror Addicts?”

 How’s this for a good reason, a chance at winning some free stuff that will include a few films that were featured on Horror Addicts!!  You could see your films listed on a special Horror Addicts Fans Top Ten List.  Yes we will take all the entries and come up with fan based Top Ten.

A Horror Addict screams: “So tell me, please tell me what do I have to do to get in on this!!

 Relax patient Horror Addict let’s get to the official steps on what you need to do.

 Official Entry Rules

1.       Put together your top ten list of films starting in 2000 to end of 2011.

a.       List should contain

                                   i.      Movie Title (year of release)

                                  ii.      English or Foreign Film

2.       Include your full name and mailing address

a.       Entries welcome from around the world but movie winners will be chosen from all US/Canada entries due to cost of mailing.

3.       Email the list to HAddictsmovies@gmail.com

4.       Send the emails in by August 15, 2012

 Horror Addicts Obligations:

 1.       Compile all the received top ten lists together.

2.       Count number of votes for a film and create a Horror Addict Fans Top Ten List.

3.       Post this Top Ten List on the blog.

4.       As entries received give them a number for the drawing.

5.       Using a random number generator pick a winner from out of all the US/Canadian entries.

6.       Post the winners Name and there Top Ten List to the blog.

7.       Send the winner their Horror Addicts Movie Prize Packet.  Prize includes copies of Dead Weight and ‘Til Death, and more great stuff.

8.      If list to diverse than a blog poll will be created to get the top ten films.

To help show you what we are looking for, watch the blog for TWO special guest lists of their TOP TEN.

Masters of Macabre Challenge 2012 Announced!


An opportunity for male horror writers, published and unpublished, to strut their stuff! You write and record your own scary story, we post it on the internationally famous HorrorAddicts.net site and let the listeners vote for the best one. The winner receives a host of prizes, most importantly the coveted “Master of Macabre” title and the privilege of organizing next year’s MoM Challenge. You can listen to last year’s stories here.


This year’s Challenge will lure us into the dark domain of malicious hexes and inescapable afflictions. Contestants will be tasked with telling stories inspired by famous, or once-famous, curses from around the world. The real curse will be on us listeners who have to choose a winner. Woe is us!


  • Entries will be accepted until April 11, 2012.
  • Each entrant will be assigned a curse from somewhere in the world. Look here for an idea of the kinds of curses we might give you.
  • The entrant is to write a story of 1500-3500 words in which the assigned curse plays a central role. Stories should explain the curse for listeners who have never heard of it, but should not be merely a re-telling of the original story.
  • The entrant records the story. Horror Addicts will not provide readers this year. If you need help recording your story, the MoM group on Facebook is a great place to ask questions. Audio will be due in mp3 format on May 11, 2012. After your story, you may tell listeners how they can find more of your writing.


June 30, 2012: contest airs and voting starts

July 27, 2012: voting ends

August 25, 2012: winner announced on HorrorAddicts.net podcast


1. Send the following information in the body of an email to momchallenge2012@gmail.com.

Email address
Skype name (if you have one)
Websites and blogs (if you have any)

You will receive a brief contract for your perusal.

2. Return contract, a short bio (50 words or less) for our website, and your headshot to momchallenge2012@gmail.com.

3. Shaunessy Ashdown, the current Master of Macabre, will assign you your curse (but not curse you) and you can get writing!

Who will be the next Master of Macabre?

Band Contest – HorrorAddicts.net Theme Song

Contact: http://www.horroraddicts.net

Every three seasons, HorrorAddicts.net chooses a new theme song.

Bands/ Musicians are now welcomed to submit their song for possible use on the show. If chosen, your song will be played as the theme song every show for three seasons.  Your band name will be mentioned on every show to thousands of listeners across the globe. HorrorAddicts.net is an international podcast with our largest fan bases located in: UK, USA, Australia, Canada, and South Africa.

The song submitted must be in mp3 format.
Send us an email to: emzbox@sbcglobal.net

Email must include:
*Your band name

*Short (100 words or less) bio.

*An mp3 of the song you’d like considered

*Contact email

*Picture of the band in png, or jpg format.

This contest closes Dec 31st, 2011 and winners will be announced publicly in 2012.

The new theme song will debut on Season 7 of HorrorAddicts.net starting in 2012.

By entering this contest, you are agreeing to allow your song played for three seasons of HorrorAddicts.net.

HorrorAddictsCon: Masters of the Macabre 2

Heather and I had an awesome time listening and chatting about the entries these guys made in the first ever Masters of Macabre Contest! When I asked Heather if she enjoyed herself, she had this to say, “In a challenge based around phobias and masculine activities, the MMM writers brought stories breathtaking in their diversity and originality. What fun to judge and weigh the individual stories, beautiful like cut stones, against each other. And how impossible not to have a favorite! I’m thrilled with the selection the listeners made, but the collection should be enjoyed all together.”

If you happened to miss the Masters and their stories, now is your chance to catch them again! Even if the contest is over, you can listen and vote with friends in the privacy of your own home with the links below. Are you interested in being in the contest next time? Check out our contest page for updates here: https://horroraddicts.wordpress.com/writer-contests/

1. Chris Ringler
Agyrophobia – fear of crossing roads
Golf clubs

2. R. Michael Burns
Ailurophobia – fear of cats
Stereo or sound system

3. Jerry J. Davis
Technophobia – fear of tech

4. Rish Outfield
Entomophobia – fear of insects
Hang Glider

5. Colin Barnes
Necrophobia – fear of death & dead
Gallery opening
Hunting Knife

6. Tom Andry
Osmophobia – fear of smells
Outdoor Picnic

7. Shaunessy Ashdown
Spectrophobia – fear of mirrors and one’s own reflection
Bachelor Party

8. Don Pitsiladis
Astraphobia – lightning & storms
Sporting event
Riding Mower

Masters of the Macabre Contest!

Please listen to all 8 stories, before casting your vote for…
Who will the first Master of Macabre
Email your choice to: horroraddicts@gmail.com
Voting ends October 1st! Get your vote in now!

1. Chris Ringler
Agyrophobia – fear of crossing roads
Golf clubs

2. R. Michael Burns
Ailurophobia – fear of cats
Stereo or sound system

3. Jerry J. Davis
Technophobia – fear of tech

4. Rish Outfield
Entomophobia – fear of insects
Hang Glider

5. Colin Barnes
Necrophobia – fear of death & dead
Gallery opening
Hunting Knife

6. Tom Andry
Osmophobia – fear of smells
Outdoor Picnic

7. Shaunessy Ashdown
Spectrophobia – fear of mirrors and one’s own reflection
Bachelor Party

8. Don Pitsiladis
Astraphobia – lightning & storms
Sporting event
Riding Mower

Horror Addicts #68, Masters of Macabre Contest!

Horror Addicts Episode# 068
Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich
Intro Music by: Saints Of Ruin
1990s | masters of macabre contest | in the mouth of madness | aggroaphobia
Find articles at: http://www.horroraddicts.net


| 1990s horror tunes | hallowen costumes | in the mouth of madness |
| dance of the vampires | dragons of night | spiral tattoo |
| encyclopedia gothica | dom ice skate boots? | vampire cruise |
| perth goth group | super hybrid | books | dracula unbound |
| sexy vamp trading cards | movie suggestions | vamp joke |
| 100 word stories | frightfest uk recap | ha horror con |
| band contest | writers workshop | events | aggoraphobia |
| masters of macabre contest | bloopers |

Quills New Address: 13 Nightmare Lane

http://www.amazon.com/The-Spiral-Tattoo-ebook/dp/B0058DUKOU/ref=ntt_ at_ep_dpt_1




vampire cruise

perth gothic friends

Having trouble with the audio button above? Try this direct link:

h o s t e s s: Emerian Rich
s t a f f
Knightmist, Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Ed Pope, Dan Shaurette
Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email emzbox@sbcglobal.net
c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s
t a p i n g . s t u d i o
Quills, A Place For Writers
13 Nightmare Lane, Awen, Second Life

Guest Blog: Rhonda R. Carpenter on Wicked Women Writers Most Wicked 2010

A little over 3 years ago I started dabbling in horror. It all started as a joke. Emerian Rich, the founder of Horroraddicts.net and author of Night’s Knights a vampire series,  joked on her podcast she needed to make me scary. She stated in her podcast 13 things that would make Rhonda scary.

You see I tend to write historical fantasy fiction like The Mark of a Druid which is available everywhere even in pod novel formats and I am pleased to say for a first time author it has done exceptionally well including hitting the top of the UK Amazon Kindle Charts at #2 in Historical Fantasy just a few weeks ago.

Horror doesn’t come naturally to me. But I completely enjoyed the Horror Addicts platform and have written several things for them and the support group of Wicked Women Writers in an effort to stretch myself as an author.

Simply put WWW is a private facebook group of female writers that mostly produce horror but we discuss all kinds of writing styles and genres. We check in on each other, brain storm, encourage and sometime kick each other under the virtual table of; come on you can do this, support. For the last 3 years WWW has held a competition that is fan voted. The winner carries the title of Most Wicked for the year and receives books and prizes. Last year my story, Barring Lilith, won! And because of that win a new audience was introduced to my work.

Well it is now time to hand that title to the next Wicked to win. On July 7th the 10 stories from this year went live on Horroraddict.net. Voting will close August 1st, 2011 at 12:00 pm PST. So you still have time to listen and vote for one of these Wicked Women Writers.

What does this mean for you and why should you care? I don’t know about you, but I am always on the lookout for the next new author that is going to make my day with their writing. The awesome thing about this competition is that all you have to do is listen and vote via email. One lucky voter will win free books, ebooks and schwag from HorrorAddict.net and all 10 of the WWW and me. It’s like Halloween with Christmas presents.

Hear 10 new authors!
10 Free short stories that will scare you silly!
One author wins!
One lucky voter wins too!

Listen at www.horroraddicts.net and vote for your favorite by sending an email to horroraddicts@gmail.com . Make sure you include your snail mail address in case you are the winner the gals can send your prizes.

Until August 1st I am still the Most Wicked Woman Writer but I will always be WWW2010. My name is Rhonda R Carpenter I am an author, podcaster, and co-host of the wildly popular www.podioracket.com where you get the news and contest info, author interviews, writing and podcasting tips from all the Podiobooks.com authors. You can find out more information about me and my works at www.themarkofadruid.com, www.rhondacarpenter.com. Come say hi to me on Twitter @RhondaCarpenter or find me on facebook http://www.facebook.com/rhonda.carpenter. And just because you are reading this blog you get the Ebook Version of the full novel by entering the coupon code when you check out YV24T at  www.smashwords.com. This coupon is good until July 30th, 2011.

Zombie Cookie Model Contest!

The 2010 International Cheetham’s Zombies Photo-Cookie model search begins August 1st 2010.
Born by a collaboration between Eric Maciejkow Myphotocookie.com & dark fiction writer James Cheetham, Zombie Cookies are an original and delicious new concept in Halloween treats. 
Customers send a good clear head & shoulders photo (must be over 1 MB) to James Cheetham who transforms the subject into a creepy, colourful member of the wandering dead. That image is then transferred to fresh, tasty cookies (available in various flavours and colors) by Eric Maciejkow, owner of Myphotocookie.com and shipped out in time for Halloween events. These one of a kind delicacies are available for Halloween parties, Haunted Attractions, Zombie Walks, Socials and Movie Premieres.
Beyond offering individual Zombie cookies customized for the customer, Eric & James are holding their 2nd annual Zombie model search. Via online communities like Myspace & Facebook, the cookies have gathered quite the following, and in return, four people are given the chance of a lifetime simply by showing their support for the growing fad. From all the people ‘officially infected’ over the year, four of Cheetham’s Zombies will be picked at random to become the 2010 Cheetham’s Zombies Photo-Cookie designs, available to the general public should they not want to nibble on their own rotting images, they can even order a variety pack if preferred. 
After the cookies were featured in the Winnipeg Free Press last year, showcased at comicon, and the Minneapolis Crypticon as well as various other media outlets, the 2010 Zombie Cookies are looking to expand their infection around the country.
If you are interested in entering the contest, carrying the cookies in your store, featuring them in your publication or on your website, or see the possibility of a collaboration, feel free to contact James & Eric for more information or see the links below. We are always interested in new collaborations or ideas that can help spread our yummy zombie delights.

Zombie Love!
James Cheetham & Eric Maciejkow