Firehouse by Jesse Orr

Cecilia moved through the night with what appeared to be a small bundle of rags held against her chest. Only a keen observer would catch the subtle movements it made. The sounds coming from it were so small they were easy to miss against the nighttime sound of the city. The young woman stopped at a street, mindful of the red DON’T WALK signs. She waited, shifting her burden from one arm to the other. It moved again and made noise.

“Shut up,” she hissed, knowing it was useless to speak and doing it anyway. “Shut up or you’ll get us both killed.”

The bundle was silent. The light changed and Cecilia scurried forward after again looking left, then right. She was breathing hard already and her body was sore. She hadn’t showered properly in some time, had not been able to do more than just sit in a tub of hot water in weeks. Once this was over, she looked forward to a proper scrubbing and sleep for the first time in nearly nine months.

A siren split the night and instinctively she jumped, clutching the bundle closer to her. A second siren joined the first, then a third until the night was filled with howling noise and flashing red lights. In the distance, she could see fire trucks pulling out of the station. She hastened her steps, now that the end was in sight. Soon it would be over. Soon she would be free.

Craig Jones sat at the front desk of Station 451, listening to the receding screaming of the sirens. A beeping from the front desk’s microwave reminded him that stuck in the station or not, he had dinner to eat. Swiveling his chair, he opened the microwave beside the desk and reached for his plate. It was hot, too hot, and he nearly scalded himself getting it out of the microwave. He set it down on the table with an oath, blowing on his scorched fingers. Hearing the front door open, he raised his eyes.

A girl stood before him, no more than fifteen, wrapped in a large brown coat that hung to her knees. Her eyes were huge and afraid above large dark circles framed by her matted hair. In her arms she carried what appeared to be a small bundle of rags.

“Hi, can I help you?” Craig asked, rising to his feet behind the desk.

“Can I leave this baby here?” the girl whispered. She held out the bundle of rags, one of them falling aside to reveal the face of a newborn, still clotted with drying blood and slime. As the cool air touched its face, it let out a cry.

Craig nodded and came around the desk. “You sure can. I’ll take it.” He held his arms out.

The relief that spilled over her face was enormous. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quavery. “I’ve been walking so long; I think my arms are asleep.”

“No problem,” said Craig. He positioned his arms beneath hers in a cradle shape against the baby’s back. “Just let go. I’ve got it.”

The baby made another sound as it slipped from her grasp and Craig caught it, bringing it in to hold it against his chest securely. “I’ve got it ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she said again, already moving toward the door. “I’m sorry, I just…can’t…” she trailed off, still moving to the door. She shrugged at him, slipped through the glass door and was gone into the darkness.

Craig stood in the brightly lit fire station lobby, looking after the girl, wondering if it had really happened. But yes, the lobby floor, usually kept so neat, now had dirty footprints leading in and out. And there was the baby, held against him, stirring slightly in its rags. The music played, a tribal drum beat complementing the strings.

“Just a minute, little one,” said Craig to the bundle. “I’ve got somewhere nice and warm for you.”

Walking into the fire station’s empty cavernous garage, Craig looked with envy out the windows of the garage door through which the fire trucks had vanished. He would have much preferred to be in one of the vehicles but this was also part of being a fireman. Some guys enjoyed it but he never had.

All the way in the far right corner of the garage was a what looked like a mail drop with a sliding receptacle and a large silver handle. Juggling the baby in his arms, Craig freed his right hand and grabbed the handle, pulling it down and sliding the door open. He placed the baby inside where it fit neatly. He pulled the handle halfway up, shutting the door and sealing the baby inside. He could hear it beginning to cry, its sound amplified in the metal drawer. Better hurry before it really gets loud, Craig thought, and banged a hand down on the large red button to the side of the receptacle, the one marked INCINERATOR.

It was only a few moments before the green light above the button lit up, indicating the incinerator was up to the appropriate temperature. Craig pulled the handle silver handle all the way up. There was a grinding, sliding noise as the interior compartment rotated. Behind the wall, the wailing stopped. He could hear a whomp as the bundle of rags was consumed.

Craig waited for the federally mandated ten minutes before pulling the incinerator button out again. The sound of flames faded and died. The hiss of the incinerator wound down slowly until the only sound in the cavernous garage was the tick of its cooling grates behind the wall.

Picking up the log, Craig flipped to the day’s page and entered his name, the time and the number of beings he had incinerated. That done, he banged the log shut with a snap and returned to the front office. By now, he thought, last night’s barbeque would be just the right temperature.

Book Birthday : #NGHW Editor’s Pick: New Publication and Blog Tour

HorrorAddicts.net continues our Horror Bites series with a bundle of new fiction by our Next Great Horror Writer Contestants.

Featuring work by:

Jonathan Fortin
Naching T. Kassa
Daphne Strasert
Jess Landry
Harry Husbands
Sumiko Saulson
Adele Marie Park
Feind Gottes
JC Martínez
Cat Voleur
Abi Kirk-Thomas
Timothy G. Huguenin
Riley Pierce
Quentin Norris

With an introduction by Emerian Rich.

HorrorAddicts.net is proud to present our top 14 contestants in the Next Great Horror Writer Contest. The included stories, scripts, and poems are the result of the hard work and dedication these fine writers put forth to win a book contract. Some learned they loved writing and want to pursue it as a career for the rest of their lives. Some discovered they should change careers either to a different genre of writing or to a new career entirely. Whatever lessons came along the way, they each learned something about themselves and grew as writers. We hope you enjoy the writing as much as we did.

Just 99 cents at Amazon.com

 HorrorAddicts.net

for Horror Addicts, by Horror Addicts

Listen to the HorrorAddicts.net podcast for the latest in horror news, reviews, music, and fiction.

HorrorAddicts.net Press

www.horroraddicts.net

Author Interview: Chad Lutzke/The Bedmakers

 

1. What is your name and what are you known for?

I’m Chad Lutzke, and I write dark literary fiction. I’m most known for my heartfelt take on the dark side of humanity and everyday life. It’s not uncommon for me to pull at the heart strings and disturb the reader in the same book. Sometimes I even accomplish the same with humor.

2. Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it.

Well, since I’m promoting my newest novel THE BEDMAKERS which I wrote with author John Boden, let’s get to that one. THE BEDMAKERS is a story that takes place in 1979 about two elderly homeless men who hop a train car to head out west in search of work. On the way, they run into some people who turn a bad situation unspeakably. By the time they reach their destination and leave the ugly behind, they find themselves in a quiet Colorado town, where dormant secrets are unveiled, graves are robbed, and people are murdered. All fingers point to them, so they set out to get answers and clear their name. For fans of Joe Lansdale and David Joy.

3. What places or things inspire your writing?

Big cities, troubled people, oddball news articles, and staring sessions with the nearest wall or carpet.

4. What music do you listen to while creating?

I don’t usually listen to music while I write, but if I do it’s film soundtracks, particularly ones from the 70s and 80s.

5. What is your favorite horror aesthetic?

Anything with a retro feel.

6. Who is your favorite horror icon?

Michael Myers and The Overlook Hotel.

7. What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

When I was very young, I thought I saw a ghost in the window at night. It traumatized me. I was in a room full of people, and nobody else saw it. They assured me it was a reflection, but I never believed them. Still don’t know what I saw. I just remember the petrifying fear.

8. If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

I can think of a few writers I’d love to hang out with for the night. Jack Ketchum. I’d bring a bottle of Scotch (even though I don’t drink). And Josh Malerman. We’re friends, but I’ve yet to meet him in the real, despite having been invited to his house a few times. One day, Josh!

9. What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

Book: The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski. Movie: November. Musician: Patrick O’Hearn and Scowl.

10. Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

Despite my story above, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a ghost.

11. What are some books that you feel should be in the library of every horror addict?

The Drive-In by Joe Lansdale, House of Leaves by Marc Z. Danielewski, Books of Blood by Clive Barker, Peaceable Kingdom by Jack Ketchum, Silver Scream edited by David J. Schow, Intensity by Dean Koontz.

12. What are you working on now?

Way too many things to list here and not be embarrassed.

13. Where can readers find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

http://www.chadlutzke.com

Author Interview: Jason Marc Harris/Master of Rods and Strings

What is your name and what are you known for?

Answer: Jason Marc Harris. I’ve been doing creative and academic writing the last couple of decades.  I have a weird horror novella emerging in January from Crystal Lake Publishing: Master of Rods and Strings. I’ve alsowritten two folklore books based on fieldwork—The Troll Tale and Other Scary Stories and Laugh Without Guilt (both collaborations with Birke Duncan)— and the critical book Folklore and the Fantastic in Nineteenth Century British Fiction (Routledge). I’ve done some screenwriting and writing for audio plays too, such as Union of the Snake (yes, title borrowed from Duran Duran!)

 

Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it.

Answer: Master of Rods and Strings is a compelling story about how a boy aggrieved by separation from his sister due to her prodigious skill at puppetry changes over time as he becomes a young man obsessed with achieving vengeance against his uncle and gaining mastery of puppetry through occult secrets, or as the back cover says, “Jealous of the attention lavished upon the puppetry talents of his dear sister—and tormented by visions of her torture at the hands of the mysterious Uncle Pavan who recruited her for his arcane school—Elias is determined to learn the true nature of occult puppetry, no matter the hideous costs, in order to exact vengeance.”

 

What places or things inspire your writing?

Answer: Whatever offers glimpses at compelling images and ideas for the imagination.  For instance,  the Brothers Quay’s animation of “Street of Crocodiles,” and folk tales and legends, such as “Wanto and the Shapeless Thing” (Cameroun tale with a mysterious and sadistic gift-giver & taker, same tale-type as “The Fisherman and His Wife,” anthologized in Richard Dorson’s Folktales Told Around the World) and “Sennentuntschi” (Swiss legend of an exploited adult occult doll and the vengeance that follows, also found in Dorson. It’s been made into two horror films I need to watch one of these days too).

What music do you listen to while creating?

Answer: Varies, but Daft Punk, Pink Floyd, Mozart, the Handsome Family, Iron Maiden, Jean-Paul Albert, etc.

What is your favorite horror aesthetic?

Answer: Disconcerting weirdness that conveys there are impenetrable but evocative mysteries behind our recognition that can never be dispelled or fully understood—the uncanny spell that haunts your strange dreams and moments of solitude with unease. “The White People” by Arthur Machen. “The Clown Puppet” by Thomas Ligotti. “The Puppet Hotel” by Gemma Files.

Who is your favorite horror icon?  

Answer: Thomas Ligotti. A visionary with consummate craft, memorable style, ironic humor, and relentless darkness.

What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

Answer: Once I was in line at a Halloween haunted house with my mother, a woman, carrying a large red cannister, approached a man with a little daughter who were in line behind me and my mother. I was a child, and I didn’t know much of what was said, but the man looked somber and focused as he listened, and he abruptly reached into his pocket and gave the woman something, and she looked at what he gave her and with a smirk she left with her red cannister. My mother explained to me later that the woman was carrying a gasoline dispenser, which I realized later was certainly true, and she insisted that the woman in a direct cheerful manner had told the man that she would pour the gasoline on his daughter and light her on fire if he didn’t give her money. So, I suppose that’s perhaps more about the scary thing I didn’t quite witness, but came close to witnessing. What might have been quite awful, though the narrated reality from my mother was disturbing enough. She was a fan of horror literature, though for me to say that now probably casts more doubt among the skeptics.

If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

Answer: I don’t think it’s possible to meet up with Thomas Ligotti in person, and I’m grateful for having corresponded via email, but as for in the living or dead flesh, better luck perhaps resuscitating the eldritch H. P. Lovecraft, and I would “endeavor to procure some liquid refreshment” and bring him Master of Rods and Strings to see what he thought and see what else he might have thought about writing but was cut short on the young side. I’d like to see Samuel Taylor Coleridge too; he was known to be a wonderful talker, and both Christabel and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner have that gothic horror vibe. 

What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

Answer: Let’s time-travel a bit into the past: The Monk (1796) by Matthew Gregory Lewis.  A frenzy of mad bloody obsessed fun. Also James Hogg’s The Confessions and Memoirs of a Justified Sinner (1824) by James Hogg: 19^th century text of intriguing layers of narrative from editor to collector to narrator and possibly the devil himself enmeshed in the storytelling that tests the question whether the elect can lose their salvation if they murder someone. A bit of a Scottish take on Crime and Punishment (1866) but forty-two years earlier.

Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

Answer: Possibly but probably not? When my mother died, I heard the slightest tap on the dresser next to my bed. If not a ghost, an interesting coincidence in time with when she had died that morning in hospice. I never heard such a sound prior or afterwards. She suggested that I should communicate with her spirit using the Ouija Board. I need to try that more one of these days perhaps, but I’m Ouija-jaded.

What are some books that you feel should be in the library of every horror addict? 

Answer: The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories edited by Ann and Jeff Vandemeer, Songs of a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe by Thomas Ligotti. Through a Glass Darkly by Sheridan Le Fanu.

What are you working on now? 

Answer: Sequel to Master of Rods and Strings.

Where can readers find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

Answer: “forthcoming” [Crystal Lake Publishing will be sending link when ready]

https://www.amazon.com/Master-Rods-Strings-Jason-Harris

Book Review: Head Like a Hole by Andrew Van Wey

Review by Megan Starrak

Andrew Van Wey’s Head Like a Hole: A Review

A gurgle from her throat as foam poured past her lips. Her gray tongue
traced ruined teeth flecked with seaweed. With a crunch, a seasnail tumbled
from her mouth…He stretched out a hand, and her mouth opened
to receive it. He could see them inside, the barnacles and snails all
clinging to her cheeks and blocking her air.

– Head Like a Hole by Andrew Van Wey

Like many people, I am guilty of buying books based on their cover art, and I’d be hard-
pressed to find a cover as eye-catching as the one for Andrew Van Wey’s Head Like a Hole. The
artwork may have convinced me to buy the book, but I stayed for the story I would describe as
a twisted mashup of Frankenstein and the tale of a vengeful murder victim.

The book has a cast of characters whose storylines slowly converge into one climactic
finale. There is Louis, a fisherman who reels something up from the depths, and let’s say it’s not
a fish. Then there is a young woman named Megan and her friends who start meeting ghastly
demises. We also encounter a detective tasked with following the trail of bodies to figure out
what’s happening. And finally, a true crime podcaster whose fate left me stunned because I did
not see it coming at all.

Head Like a Hole is one of the first body horror books I have read, and some of the
scenes hit me very viscerally. We tend to forget how fragile the human body is; many think of
themselves as invincible. But books like this remind us that we are delicate creatures. Our
bodies and minds can be torn quite easily. And when that happens, secrets best left
undiscovered become exposed to the light of day.

There’s not much more I want to say for fear of spoiling it for readers. So, in closing, I
will say that Head Like a Hole is a tour de force in body horror. Its characters and descriptive
scenes will stay with you long after the book is left behind.

Logbook of Terror: The Flowers of Eternal Night

“C’mon, tell me the story,” Sadie pleaded.

Chelsea grinned. “Alright.” 

Sadie clapped and straightened up in her criss-cross sitting position. A chilly wind blew through the old cemetery, causing a nearby patch of flowers with bright purple blooms to sway gently back and forth. 

Chelsea began. “It was a chilly Autumn night, just like tonight, when Gregory and the love of his life, Elise, were chased into this very graveyard, to this very spot, by a group of townspeople. Led by the church pastor, Father Franklin, the group gunned the couple down.” 

“Wait, guns can’t hurt vampires!” Sadie chimed in.

“They can if they’re shooting wood-tipped bullets,” Chelsea said. 

“Ah, that’s right. I forgot about that part,” Sadie said with a chuckle. 

“So,” Chelsea continued, “With Gregory and Elise lying wounded on the very spot where that patch of flowers now grows…” Chelsea nodded toward the purple blooms. “…The band of villagers closed in…”

As the tiny mob drew closer, rage surged in Gregory’s  heart, pushing him past his pain, giving him the strength to stand and fight. One by one, he attacked and destroyed the villagers. With dead bodies littering the ground and his blinding anger subsiding, Gregory remembered that Elise was still lying on the ground, horribly wounded. He turned just in time to see Father Franklin driving a wooden stake deep into Elise’s heart as revenge for Gregory and Elise having seduced and turned the preacher’s only daughter. After discovering what she had become, the minister had killed his daughter while she slept quietly in the cellar on a Sunday afternoon.

Gregory cried out and rushed to his lover’s side but it was too late; the un-life that filled Elise was slowly slipping away. 

Shouting curses and weeping for his daughter, Father Franklin fled the cemetery. Focused on Elise, Gregory let the preacher go. 

Knowing that there was nothing he could do, Gregory held Elise in his arms and wept. And there he stayed, holding his one true love’s empty body and grieving. 

When dawn broke and the sunlight pierced his pale skin, Gregory hugged Elise tight as they were both engulfed in flames. 

Nearby, in the dark of the trees was the cemetery’s caretaker, a woman who had long been cast out of the village and was rumored to be a witch. Watching the flames rise into the morning sky, her heart broke for the two lovers. 

Once the fire had burned out and all that remained of Gregory and Elise was a pile of ash, the caretaker came out of her hiding spot. With her gardening spade she turned the soil and worked the ashes into the earth, all the while reciting a powerful incantation. And ever since that day in 1823, the Flowers of Eternal Night have grown in that very spot. 

Tears brimmed in Sadie’s eyes. “It’s so sweet; so romantic! Do you think we’ll be like that?” 

Chelsea grasped Sadie’s hands and squeezed tight. Tears formed in her own eyes. “Of course we will, my love. There’s just one thing we need to do.”

“What’s that?” Sadie asked. 

“We need to eat the flowers.” 

Sadie smiled. “Okay, but why?”

“So we can be like Elise and Gregory.”

Sadie’s brow crinkled. “You mean, become vampires?” 

Chelsea nodded. 

“But, don’t you have to get bit and drink blood and all that?”

“Usually, yeah, but the spell that the caretaker cast made it so that anyone who eats the flowers will turn into a vampire.” 

“And…you believe it?” Sadie asked, sniffling.

Chelsea replied, “I do. I can feel it.”

Sadie’s smile widened. Tears spilled down her cheeks. “Okay then, yes, let’s do it!” 

Chelsea kissed Sadie passionately and helped her to her feet.

Hand in hand the two lovers went to the flower patch and picked a handful of the bright purple blooms. They brought them back to their spot and sat down. 

Chelsea said, “One last thing. To complete the ritual and activate the spell, we each have to spill some of our blood onto the other’s flowers.” 

“Okay,” Sadie replied. 

With a ceremonial knife, each woman carefully cut herself and bled onto the other’s flowers. As they were raising the blooms to their mouths, a voice called out from the trees, “Children! Stop!”

Startled, Chelsea and Sadie turned toward the voice. Although it sounded as if it came from some distance, a middle-aged woman stood just several feet away, moonbeams glistening in her raven black hair. 

“Who are you? And why did you call us children, I’m twenty-two years old,” Chelsea said. 

“I am Emerian, the caretaker of these sacred grounds.” A stern look was set in her eyes. “Do you truly know what you are about to do? Do you realize it is an action which cannot be reversed?” 

“Yes, we understand,” Sadie replied. 

“How do you know about the Flowers of Eternal Night?” Emerian asked. 

“Kate told us. She does volunteer work here sometimes,” Chelsea replied. 

Emerian shook her head. “Oh, Katie…Well, if you are positive that this is what you want, I will not stop you.” 

The two young women smiled at Emerian and each other. 

 

Then, Sadie asked Emerian, “So, you seem serious about the legend of these flowers. You really believe it’s true?” 

The caretaker smiled wide, revealing a pair of fangs that sparkled in the moonlight. “Oh, I know it’s true. I tried it myself, on this very night two-hundred years ago.” 

And Emerian the caretaker cackled as Chelsea and Sadie took their first timid steps into the forever life of eternal night.

 

Book Review: Maner of Frights/Edited by Emerian Rich

Review by Veronica McCollum

An Anthology Book-17 short stories

This anthology is a great read and once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down. I thoroughly enjoyed the collection of stories which center around the rooms of an eerie manor. I was also surprised by the fact they were also from different time periods in the manor’s life. You really get a sense of the history of a building, and the dark side. I really enjoyed all the stories and was pleasantly surprised by the original ideas and takes on the rooms. The book also has in the back maps and a timeline which is cool.

I not sure I could pick one story that I liked best, but I will say I will be forever traumatized by the hidden rooms in a kitchen. This book has something for everyone, if you are into eerie plants, toys, and kids this is the book for you. If you want to be creeped out and feel the need to turn on the lights before entering a room this book will confirm your worst suspicions places are holding on to some dark history. The Manor of Frights reminded me how special a collection of short stories can be, and I liked how at the end of each story I was like whoa.

I will say the short stories “Flowers in the Foyer”, “A Green Thumb” and “Lanai” just reminds
me how you can’t trust plants or people as they can be dangerous and twisted literally.
“Turning Pages” and “Dinner Guests” I thought were both evil and elegant all at the same time.
“A fresh Start” and “The Living Room” if the place sounds too good to be true it probably is, and
you should turn back. “Nightbears” might not leave my memory for a while. I can also say I
read, “Storage” and” Bye, Baby Bunting” twice. I had to look up the word, “Cacophony” but the
story was eerie and magical all at the same time. “A Study in Terror”, “Missing” and “Come find
me, Mommy” I thought the characters and the stories were the things of nightmares, and I am
not sure what was scarier the people or the rooms. I loved the “Desiccated Heart” it was
wonderful story, and the characters were cool and young and thinking they are invincible, but
they might have met their match this house don’t play. “Beyond the Ensuite” and “Withered
Bindings” remind you that you should not touch or go to some places as they are not safe but
once you start it’s too late. The short stories have the things of nightmares, wonderful
monsters real and imaginary and twists and turns. There is truly something for everyone. You
will completely enjoy all the scary and spooky stories.

Author Interview: Kenneth W. Cain/co-edited Never Wake: An Anthology of Dream Horror

1.What is your name and what are you known for?

I’m Kenneth W. Cain, and I’m mostly known for my editing and the short stories I’ve written. I’m a horror and dark fiction author and an award nominated freelance editor.

2.Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it.

Well, there are many I’d love to talk about, but I’ll go with Never Wake since it comes out next month. It’s an anthology I co-edited with Tim Meyer, full of some fantastic short stories about the dream world and the nightmares we experience within them.

3.What places or things inspire your writing?

Everywhere and everything really. I take down notes in my phone app all day long as I go about life. I’m always watching and listening for interesting things. But I tend to write about tight spaces, deep waters, bullying, and loss/grief a lot.

4.What music do you listen to while creating?

Sometimes I listen to podcasts. Other times, I listen to short stories (podcasts again, and yeah, I know it’s weird. Sometimes I can separate the sides of my brain, I guess. Not always though, and less so now that I’m getting older). When I do listen to music, I love the ’80s and classic rock, especially Pink Floyd.

5.What is your favorite horror aesthetic?

Oh, I’m not picky. I like it all. Every bit of it. Every trope. All the horror!

Who is your favorite horror icon?

I’ve always been fond of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Murky water sort of freaks me out. What’s down there? Now we know. 😀

6.What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

So…many…things. From ghosts to creepy dudes in the woods to ghost dogs to supernatural encounters. Umm… Okay, this one time a buddy of mine and I had dates we took to this house. You know the sort…the one in every town where the mad scientist killed his family. Anyway, we climbed up in the loft, and the four of us were sitting there drinking beers when we saw this tiny red light on the stop sign down by the road. It was back when those handheld laser pointers became popular. And then the light came off the sign and started moving toward us. And the closer it got, the bigger it got. And when it came within twenty yards, it burst, and suddenly all the bales of hay behind us exploded. Stuff like that happens to me a lot for some reason.

7.If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

Oh my… Can I invite them all? I mean, I’ve always wanted to meet Stephen King, but I think I’d get along with his son, Joe Hill, better. So, I’ll go with Joe. I absolutely loved Heart-Shaped Box and Twentieth Century Ghosts.

8.What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

Definity Bloodsucking Bastards. That’s some grade A gory, gooey horror hilarity right there.

9.Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

Yes, many. Three houses, dozens and dozens of encounters. Some small, some more significant. Some people, and some animal.

10.What are some books that you feel should be in the library of every horror addict?

Oh, geez. This is so difficult to answer. All the classics, of course—especially Dracula and Frankenstein. Many, many anthologies; they’re a great place to find your favorite authors. And anything by Stephen King, Joe Hill, Kathe Koja, Stephen Graham Jones, John Langan, Lee Murray, Clive Barker, Jack Ketchum, and way too many others to name.

11.What are you working on now?

I keep busy, so I’ve always got a ton of projects going on. I recently had my 5^th short story collection released (Hell, Delaware) and I wrapped up another anthology for this year (October Screams) which is now available for pre-order. I’m reading novel and novella subs for Torrid Waters, an imprint of Crystal Lake Publishing I run. And I’m freelance editing for several projects. And I’m also working on edits for several new short stories and long fiction pieces of my own. Possibly a new secret project Tim and I hope to announce soon, too.

Where can readers find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

My website (kennethwcain.com) has my entire publishing history with links to my social media and all my books. And you can even purchase signed copies there.

Shadows Love Part 2: Episode 9 / Wedding and Death

The arena fell silent as Audrey entered, looking sick. She was flanked by two female vampires holding her arms as though they were supporting her. The council leader grinned at his daughters as they brought her before him. His eyes flashed and he held out a hand. “My lady.”

Audrey took it, as one would hold a dead fish, not looking at him. From his seat in the stands, Lastor could see the pain in her eyes and could feel the revulsion coming off her in waves. His stomach tightened and his hands clenched as he watched.

The council leader’s words washed over him, drowning Lastor in pomp and pretension. The ceremony was accomplished in a trice with the air of someone going through the motions in order to get to something more interesting. The council leader conducted it with his daughters flanking Audrey, lest she change her mind.

“Do you, the Lady Audrey, swear undying devotion and servitude to me, our cause, and the glory of The Land Below?” the council leader intoned solemnly.

For a moment, Audrey did not move or speak. One of the vampires flanking her tightened her pincer like grip on Audrey’s arm. Finally, she nodded once.

The council leader seemed pleased. “So mote it be,” he said, and stepped forward, raising Audrey’s chin. Her eyes remained downcast as he leaned in and kissed her. Even from that distance, Lastor could hear her mind screaming in protest, shame, revulsion and hatred as well as helpless rage at her position, rendered weak and powerless by her own choices. Blood dripped from Lastor’s hands, the long nails once again piercing his palms as he watched council leader’s tongue probing her mouth. His daughters smirked.

After an eternity, council leader broke the kiss, a self-satisfied smile on his smug face. “Now, my darling, you will remove yourself to the council hall and wait. Once the entertainment is under way, we will consummate this union.” There was no mistaking the leer in his eyes.

For the first time, Audrey raised her eyes to meet the council leader’s. She looked as though she were about to speak, but the council leader’s daughters pulled her away, down the dais steps as council leader turned to the multitude, preparing to work them into the bloodthirsty frame of mind that always preceded the weekly bloodbath. Lastor forcefully pulled his mind from the dark place where council leader sweated atop Audrey and realized – now was the chance. Surreptitiously, he stood and moved along the rows of seats leading to the exit.

Tara and Malicia, council leader’s daughters, pulled Audrey out the gates of the arena, leading her forcefully to the council building. The moment they had passed through the wooden arch, something hit them like an anvil. Before they could even lay eyes on the source of the violence, Lastor had grabbed them both by the hair and bashed their heads together with furious energy. They dropped to the ground, senseless, blood trickling from their ears. Lastor dispatched them with a large chunk of rock, compromising the integrity of their skulls forever. The whole business had taken about five seconds.

Audrey stood there, stunned at the suddenness of her relative freedom. Lastor was not. “Come, darling. We must fly before your husband comes this way.” He spat the words angrily.

Audrey stepped close to him, placing her hands on his face lovingly. “You are my husband,” she whispered, kissing him gently.

Lastor allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the kiss before breaking it. “I’ll hold you to that.” He took her hand and they melted into the shadows surrounding the arena.

With a final soliloquy suitable for opening a macabre celebration of death and torture, the council leader relinquished the dais to a vicious looking female vampire with a twelve-year-old boy in tow who looked positively terrified, a trickle of blood running from one nostril. The council leader’s mind drifted to the prize awaiting him in the council building. His mouth watered.

Until he walked out of the arena and came across the bodies of Tara and Malicia. Their heads were cracked open, gray matter inside spilling out on the ground. For a moment, the council leader stood frozen, looking at the insides of his daughter’s heads.

Then he screamed.

Shadows Love Part 2: Episode 8 / Old Blood

The messenger peered out the window of his room in the council hall, shrouded by
silence. It was only a few hours to daylight. There was a sound. The messenger spun to see his
father framed in the doorway, his silhouette alone in the gloom. The messenger couldn’t help
being reminded of the old vampire movies.

“Father,” the messenger said evenly, though his heart was racing. “What is it?”
The council leader looked at his son, devoid of any expression. Emotions flickered
behind his eyes too fast to be read. Eventually they settled on a look the messenger recognized.

“Nicholas is dead. I… have no son.”

“Father, I am your son,” the messenger said, apprehensive. The council leader looked as he
had after murdering the Pinions.

“Not for long,” the council leader hissed and sprang forward with unbelievable speed.
The messenger’s last conscious memory being torn apart by a frenzied bloodstained monstrosity
who bore a striking resemblance to his father.

The council leader stood over the pieces of his youngest son, covered in his blood as he
watched the messenger’s heart beating. With Nicholas dead, nothing was going to stop him from
possessing Lady Audrey for himself. He ran his tongue over his fangs, savoring the taste of fresh
blood. It would be exquisite when taken from Audrey after dashing all her hopes and dreams,
once he owned her. Despair was his favorite elixir. In his hand, the messenger’s heart and finally, stopped beating. Lastor paced back and forth, on his last cigarette. Thoughts pelted through his head,
heedless of all attempts to quash them. Brittany-Holli’s blood was weak and foul tasting and had
given him a headache. He leaned against the wall, watching the ember consume the cigarette
slowly. He could hear the vampires beginning to return to the underground. He swore to himself.

The wedding and entertainment were due to start at any time and the messenger had still not
shown himself.

The cigarette winked out. As if it were a signal, Lastor dropped the butt amidst the
corpses that had accumulated during his tenure. The gay vampire, the hopeless hooker, and Holli
– doomed from the moment her superiors had laid eyes upon Audrey and chosen her for royalty.
Lastor moved toward the mouth of the alley. Peering out around the corner, he saw dozens of
heads flocking toward the arena, and a steady stream of bodies moving down the ladder leading
for the cavern floor. Here and there, Lastor could feel terror and misery as some of those doomed
to be part of the entertainment moved toward the arena with their captors.

“Third act, time for the dramatic conclusion. Too bad I never read the script,” Lastor
mumbled.

Audrey had been unshackled and dressed in what seemed to be some sort of dark barbaric
finery. The council leader’s daughters, Tara and Malicia, painted her face and dramatized her
eyes with dark makeup, making her appear…

Dead.

Audrey looked at herself in the mirror. She did look dead. Her eyes were sunken hollows,
her face not white but a paler shade than even her own normal complexion, out of the sunlight
for years. She looked like a caricature of a vampire maiden, and realized with despair that that
was the point. She was a figurehead, a symbol.

A solitary figure meandered casually from the alley and joined the throng of vampires
leading to the arena. Lastor kept his eyes downcast as if he was attempting to memorize
everybody’s shoes as he plodded along toward the arena. Most were busy talking about the marriage or the entertainment and did not spare Lastor a look. They pushed past him, and he let
the swell of bodies carry him toward the arena. The seats were filling fast and Lastor quickly slid
into a spot close to the exit, feeling pathetically impotent. There was nothing for him to do but
watch someone else marry his wife.

The arena continued to fill, and Lastor was surprised to notice the variance in opinion
regarding the imminent marriage. A number of vampires sneered at the concept of Audrey taking
a place among those in authority, while many pale-faced females scoffed and gossiped about
Audrey and the council leader’s son. There were also a number in pure blind support of anything
the council decided. Hail to the queen! There were also many to whom the marriage was naught
but a marginally interesting opening act before the main event. Their gossip reminisced of past
tortures and Lastor heard many “If I was doing it, I’d” from sadistic souls.

“Greetings comrades/brethren!” a booming voice echoed through the arena. Lastor jerked
his attention to the platform at the center where the council leader stood. “This night once again,
blood will cover the platform for the glory of The Land Below!” he said to tumultuous roaring
and applause.

“As you know, my son was to be married to the Lady Audrey tonight. A union between
our house and a creation of one of the oldest bloods ever known to our kind…it would render us
invulnerable. For through Lady Audrey’s veins flows blood given from one of the first vampires
ever to be created!”
Is that mine? Lastor felt sick. Had his blood led them here? Was this why?

“However,” the council leader continued and the crowd fell silent, “there will be a slight
change in the program; as Lastor Valorian has seen fit to enter unseen and murder both of my
sons, I will be forced to marry her myself.”

There was a mixed bag of reactions: cheers, gasps of horror and bloodthirsty “get on with
its” from the vampires craving torture. Lastor stood frozen as everyone reacted around him. The
messenger wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. It couldn’t have happened.

“As many of you are undoubtedly eagerly anticipating the entertainment, we will not
leave you wanting for long. We will complete the union of blood without hesitation.” He looked
around him imperiously. “Bring forth the Lady Audrey.”

Shadows Love Part 2: Episode 7 / Death and Revenge

I met her in the park that night, later after Lastor had passed out drunk, barely able to lean over and puke over the bed into a pot. At that point, I was ready to leave him to die there and get on with something more meaningful but I didn’t want him to be a liability. Better wait until he’s crawling around on his own to tell him I’m going to The Land Below. 

There’s just one thing left to do. 

Newborns cannot go to The Land Below.

Holli hands me a bottle. I don’t have any reason not to, she says. It’ll make the blood flow easier, and it’ll hurt less. Besides, it’s not like I’ll have to worry about FAS.  She snickers nastily. I smile thinly without much humor and take a decent swig. Dickel’s whiskey. I feel a twinge as a thought leaps unbidden to my mind – at least Lastor has good taste in booze, most of the time. As quickly as it comes, the reason I’m here quashes the thought and I purge all thoughts of him from my head and take another drink, angry at Lastor again for having such control over my thoughts. 

I finish the bottle and throw it away. Bile rises unbidden to my throat and I swallow hard to keep it where it belongs. After a little fighting and scuffling and brief rearranging, my insides quiet down. The whiskey kicks in all at once rather than shot by shot. I’m dizzy and seeing double nearly all at once, but when the rancid taste of whiskey is gone I feel fine. Just… drunk. 

“Do it,” I slur.  

She drains the rest of her can of beer and crushes it, flinging it over her shoulder as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a police nightstick, one with the handle on one side, and holds it tight along her forearm. 

“Raise your arms up above your head and relax your stomach,” she says, hardly slurring at all. She confesses to me later in an opium daze that she loves doing this kind of thing, along with the taste of blood ever since she was twelve, and being really drunk just detracts from the pleasure she gets from destroying life. 

I acquiesce and raise my hands above my head in the position of submission frequently demanded by authority figures, and relax all the conscious muscles in my body that do not hold me upright, willing my abdominal cavity to be soft and pliable for the hard unyielding stick extending from her arm. I shut my eyes tight though. This is going to hurt. But it is worth it, if I can go to the Land Below. 

“This is going to hurt,” Holli says. I open my eyes to tell her it’s ok, but all I catch is a glimpse of her face, contorted wild and bestially as she slams the butt of the nightstick into my stomach. 

Pain beyond anything I have ever felt. Nothing could have prepared me for it. Wild horses ripped me apart inside and wolves tore at the pieces. The alcohol did nothing. I became aware eventually after an eternity of ripping and tearing that I was laying on the cold concrete floor of the park, my cheek pressed against the dirty cement. The ripping and tearing had subsided a bit. Now there was a throbbing empty hole, filled with misery. Tears sprang to my eyes as I felt blood flowing. The alcohol had done that part of its job well at least. 

Holli grinned, incorrectly attributing my tears to the pain she had caused. “Yeah, it hurts. Not much you can do about that.”

In my black sea of misery, I hated her then, for thinking my child’s death was about her. Eventually, I came to regret hating her. But even after that, I would come to hate her more than anybody I could ever imagine hating for everything she had taken from me. 

From Lastor. 

From Us.

Our Daughter.

 

Filled with savage energy, Lastor’s grip kept tightening on her neck, mercilessly squeezing each drop of memory from her head as one would a sponge, not stopping even when the last memory of her life – Lastor strangling her – had been wrung out. 

“It’s all your fault!” Lastor shrieked, losing himself completely as he fell upon the corpse, his fury unleashed fully as limbs were shattered, joints were reversed and great gashes were torn in the pale flesh, punctuating the destruction with further accusations as the cadaver came to look less human and more grotesque. 

Eventually, he emerged from the red mist, stained with blood. The girl was completely unrecognizable. Her skull had been splintered by the ferocity of the attack and her face was a bloody mess. Her head now resembled a chopping block, one swing of the axe from exploding into firewood. The only discernable mark was the tattoo across her breasts. Lastor glared at the body as if daring it to speak. 

The corpse said nothing. 

 

Review : The Science Fictionary: A Dictionary of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror written by Robert W. Bly

 

Reviewed by A.P. Hawkins

Who are the Big Three of science fiction? What is ephemeral? And what work of science fiction first dealt with the concept of androids? All these questions and many more are answered in The Science Fictionary: A Dictionary of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror by Robert W. Bly.

If a term or concept in a science fiction, fantasy, or horror book has ever left you scratching your head and wondering, “huh?” or if you’re looking for mementos of all your favorite media collected in one place, then you will not regret picking up The Science Fictionary. From “3D Chess” to “Zurg”, The Science Fictionary explains characters, places, and concepts in plain English and highlights notable appearances of those concepts and terms in media.

When paging through this dictionary, it’s often unclear why some words are included and others aren’t, particularly when the list strays from more general science fiction, fantasy, and horror concepts and into specific characters and places. For example, The Bloody Baron, an extremely minor character from the Harry Potter series, is included, while Harry Potter himself is not. I found myself looking for common tropes of science fiction, fantasy, and horror to appear in the list, such as the “MacGuffin” or “The Final Girl”, and was mildly disappointed when they didn’t materialize.

However, The Science Fictionary is full of fun reminders of some of my favorite books, movies, and television shows. Seeing familiar words included, such as Ursula K. Le Guin’s Ansible, Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, and Star Trek’s Kobayashi Maru, never failed to make me smile. Other, less-familiar entries made me curious to seek out the stories they came from, such as the chrono-synclastic infundibulum from Kurt Vonnegut’s novel Player Piano and Quiru from The Sword of Rhiannon by Leigh Brackett.

From the obscure to the commonplace, The Science Fictionary is a great resource for anyone looking to rediscover old favorites of science fiction, fantasy, and horror, and maybe find a little something new along the way. It is available for purchase in Kindle, hardcover, and paperback formats on Amazon.

Logbook of Terror : Inertia Creeps

Ashley lit another cigarette while the music swirled around her and into her soul. Who was this singer? She watched and listened in awe, and the song drew her further in. The cigarette suddenly felt like her anchor to reality as she was cast afloat in the grim melodies that staggered out of the speakers of the club’s tattered sound system. 

   This was Ashley’s club, the one she’d started with her punk rock ex-husband as a scrappy dream that grew and held on and was still holding on. And here she was, watching yet another in an endless stream of interchangeable underground bands, all dark, all brooding, all the creepy things, all the time. All the young, pale faces, seemed to stay young and glum and float by while she got older and jaded and watched life go on without her. And the sounds all blended into one another in a disaffected wave of darkness, until, every once in a very great while, one of the groups or the performers would really, truly shine that dark light so bright that it pierced her rusty armor and reached into her withered, pain-filled heart. And tonight just so happened to be one of those nights. 

     On stage, the singer’s hips glided from side to side while her hands gripped and slid up and down the microphone stand. An elaborate tattoo of a sparrow engulfed in flames stretched its fiery wings across her exposed chest. The remnants of a tattered black t-shirt struggled to cover her ample, heaving breasts. Her milk-white skin held secrets, whispers, and caresses of those who’d wished to possess her. 

     Ashley glanced around the room. Men on either side of her, dressed head to toe in black clothes with faces obscured beneath layers of wild hair and pasty pale makeup, swayed gently out of time with the music, their mouths agape, their eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on the woman singing in the center of the stage; the woman with the voice that Ashley had been waiting and searching and hoping for her whole life, singing the melodies of dark saints and deaf angels. Her long black hair obscured the perfect face that lay beneath. But all of that didn’t quite matter because there was the voice… her voice. 

That was when Ashley realized she’d stopped breathing. Her feet dragged along the dirty concrete floor, her body stiff and still and floating, moving up slowly, pulled toward the stage by some invisible force, her own inertia pulling her along. Within seconds she recognized what was happening. She looked around. The entire audience hung suspended slightly above the floor, floating toward the stage, their feet scratching the floor below them. 

   The music and vocals took on an even darker tone. To Ashley’s left, a man zoomed through the air, hurtling toward the stage where his head smashed against the sharp metal corner of a lighting rig and snapped his neck in two. On either side of the band, bodies flew through the air and crashed against stacks of amplifiers and the back wall and broke under the strain of flesh and bone versus metal, wood, and concrete. 

     Ashley hovered in the air, struggling to draw a tiny breath while bodies all around her smashed into the stage, equipment, and walls until she was the last one left alive, still floating, moving slowly toward the stage. The music rose to a crescendo. The singer pointed her black-fingernail-tipped hands at Ashley. With each soaring note she pulled breath and life from the aging club owner until Ashley was nothing but a dry husk floating above the dingy floor.

The song ended. Ashley’s body fell to the floor and exploded into a cloud of dust. And the band grinned at one another and began to pack up their gear to head to the next town. 

Shadow’s Love Part 2: Episode 6 / Second Meeting and Poison

Before long Lastor smelled the fresh coppery stink of the hooker and the vampire’s remains, and stopped, turning to face Brittany. 

“Nice place you have here,” she said coyly, wrapping herself around Lastor again, pushing his head back and sucking on his neck. Lastor looked up at the glow from the ceiling, thinking about how he missed the stars.

Brittany reached behind her, undoing her bra and pulling her tank top over her head. Her large pale breasts had a tribal design tattooed across the top, both nipples pierced with spiked barbells. 

Lastor moved toward her, forcing her back against the wall. Her eyes showed no fear, only blind lust. Lastor brought up his hands to her head, feeling the scraggly true hair beneath the falls. His grip tightened into what remained of her that was real. Jerking her back from his face, he registered a split second’s look of shock replacing lust in her eyes before he bashed her head into the brick wall, knocking her out instantly.

Lastor wiped his mouth and spat a few times to get the taste of her out of his mouth. He pulled her limp body upright, leaning her against the wall in a sitting position. One of her falls had come loose and hung in her face from its stretchy anchor. Pulling her forward, Lastor lifted her hands up and wrapped the dreadlocks around her wrists behind her back, binding them together. He wound the dreads around her hands, tying them tightly. The other fall he pulled from her head, relishing the soft ripping sounds as the elastic tore out her hair. Lastor lifted her head back up and stuffed the wad of false hair in her mouth, securing the gag with the elastic around her head. 

Lastor straightened up and sighed. It did seem like an awful lot of effort for a few matches. Fortunately, he found several books upon digging through her bag. Perhaps it had been worth it. Pocketing them, Lastor produced a cigarette and lit up, blowing smoke in the unconscious girl’s face. He could still taste her in his mouth, a sickly sweetness mixed with stale beer. He inhaled deeply again, letting the smoke fill his mouth, and held it there, willing the tobacco smoke to steam the pungent taste of her tongue away. Leaning back, he gazed at what he wished were stars as he smoked.

When the cigarette had mostly gone, Lastor’s attention dropped back to the unconscious girl at his feet. He nudged her idly with his foot, but she did not stir. He crouched down and touched the cigarette to the swell of her breast, twisting the butt as her flesh sizzled.

She jerked awake and squealed with pain, attempting to twist her body away from the cigarette into the brick wall behind her. Lastor tilted his head and grinned, relishing the sound of her burning flesh and the muffled sobs behind the gag she had made for herself. He flicked the butt in her face contemptuously, laughing as she flinched. 

“You’re just lucky it wasn’t your eye. But I want you to see everything, Holli. Oh yes, I know it’s you.” he continued, for she was obviously shocked, “This –“ He flicked her tattoo where the cigarette had burnt, making her squeak, “- is really hard to forget.”

***

Against his better judgment, he had allowed Audrey to persuade him to meet with a group of her new acquaintances. Locked in a perpetual smile, Lastor turned to the bartender. Catching sight of his face in the mirror, Lastor rearranged it into less of a grimace and said “Two shots of Everclear, my good man.”

“Wow! You’re going to need a chaser,” the girl said from beside Audrey. 

Lastor shook his head. The bartender poured the drinks with a flourish. Lastor downed them and shuddered inside.  

“You don’t know him, I’ve seen much worse,” Audrey said, kissing the girl on the cheek and laughing. “Lastor, this is Holli.. She’s got the most amazing tattoo I’ve ever seen, show him! It’s crazy.”  

The girl shook back her long blue dreadlocks and lowered the collar of her shirt, leaning over with a coy look in her eyes. Lastor duly took in the tribal symbols splashed across her chest in an explosion of ink as the Everclear kicked in. “Wow.”

“That hurt sooo bad, especially when it got lower.” Holli straightened back up, smirking. “But that’s the point. I love pain. I’ve gotten my nipples pierced twice.”

Lastor turned back to the bar, signaling for another shot, hoping it would make this evening bearable. 

“Audrey, aren’t you going to drink?”

“I can’t. I’m pregnant.” She smiled. 

Brittany’s jaw dropped.

Lastor took his shot, and the world went black. 

***

His eyes opened. His head was pounding. Sitting up, his stomach was rocked by a violent wave of nausea. He leaned over and vomited into the pan that had clearly been there all night.

“Feel ok?”

Lastor looked up blearily.

Audrey’s face was frozen in an unreadable mask. She leaned against the doorway, crossing her arms over her chest. “You want to know what happened last night?”

Lastor nodded, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“We went out for you to meet my friends, then you throw up all over me and my favorite coat!” Audrey’s voice worked up until she was screaming. “By the end of the night, you were hanging off me like a necklace! Everybody felt sorry for me! Do you know how fucking humiliating you were?”

Lastor sat there, smelling his vomit and the hate that was coursing through Audrey, directed at him for the first time. She sat in icy silence, her eyes shooting daggers.

Finally, Lastor croaked, “Audrey…you have no idea how much I hate myself- ” 

Her lip curled. “Shut up,” she snapped. “I don’t need your self-pity.”

He opened his mouth to say something, anything.

“Just don’t talk to me,” she hurled over her shoulder.

Manor of Frights : Sumiko Saulson

What is your name and what genre of Horror do you usually write about?

My name is Sumiko Saulson and I usually write Afrosurrealist and multicultural psychological horror and horror romance. When I say Afrossurealsist or psychological horror, think Jordan Peele’s “Us” or “Get Out.” The Twilight Zone and Outer Limits also featured a lot of psychological horror stories.

What is the title of your story in Manor of Frights and what is it about?

“The Dessicated Heart” is about a seventies punk garage band and their particularly terrifying tastes in rehearsal spaces. As you know, the stories are each set in different parts of the house, and the old carriage house, which was originally built for horse-drawn carriages, was been renovated and turned into a garage for automobiles later on and has a storied history including ties to the Hellfire Club. That attracts the band, and although it has been in a fire and seen better days. they decide to rehearse there. What could possibly go wrong?

What inspired you to write your story for Manor of Frights?

I was a teenager in the early eighties daydreaming about the generation before and the idea of setting my Manor of Frights story right in the late seventies punk scene put a huge smile on my face. The store is inspired by the bands that proceed the queercore movement of the eighties, bands like the Buzzcocks, The Slits, and The Runaways that were queer or had queer members and inspired the later movement. And where I grew up in Hawaii, punk was very multicultural, so the characters in my story were as well. And I think when you read it you’ll see that I was also inspired by the punk and underground horror movies of my adolescence, such as The Evil Dead and Return of the Living Dead, although the story has the seventies rather than an eighties feel. I was on the Hawaiian punk scene from 1981 to 1987 and that definitely inspired me.

What is your favorite Horror house story in fiction, movies, or TV, and why?

Toni Morrison’s “Beloved.” Her gift for language, and for descriptive writing was unparalleled. The memorable first line of the novel “124 was spiteful” refers to 124 Bluestone Road, the haunted house where the story takes place. The ghost haunting the house is that of a small child, the protagonist Sethe’s daughter who was murdered before she was two years old. But in classic Gothic horror fashion, the house itself is also a character. Rather than dread, there is an overwhelming sense of soul-sucking grief associated with the place. The child ghost chases off her sons, but it is the house itself that sucks all of the joy and life out of Sethe’s mother-in-law Baby Suggs.  The house represents how slavery tore away the foundation of this family, even after they were freed from it. The addresses numbers 124 represent the absence of Sethe’s third child, Beloved – one, two, four. Toni Morrison is the best-known of the Afrossurealist writers and although her status as a literary legend often obscures the fact that Beloved is a ghost story, this is one haunted house that will show you just how deep horror can go. 

What music most inspires you to write Horror?

It depends a lot on the story I’m writing, but for this one, obviously, the bands I mentioned earlier such as the Buzzcocks, but also Iggy and the Stooges, Television, New York Dolls, and other punk of the era, especially that which was in various ways queer, as well as bands that existed in the punk era but were later known as goth bands, such as the Damned and early Siouxsie and the Banshees. There’s one gothic or proto-gothic character in the band. I was also inspired by the bands I actually got to see in the early 80s which included Black Flag, Circle Jerks, Agent Orange, and a bunch of Hawaii Punk bands like Something Really Offensive, The Vaccum, and Devil Dog from back in the day.

Where can readers/listeners find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

https://sumikosaulson.com/

Interview : Author Jessica Landry

What is your name and what are you known for? 

I’m Jess Landry, I’m an author, editor, and screenwriter living in Canada. I’ve published a lot of short stories, enough to make a collection called THE NIGHT BELONGS TO US, including “Mutter,” which won the Bram Stoker Award in Short Fiction in 2018; I’ve also edited several anthologies, including “There Is No Death, There Are No Dead,” which was nominated for the Stoker, a Shirley Jackson Award, and a British Fantasy Award. And I’ve written a ton of Lifetime and Tubi thriller movies and one drama called List of a Lifetime that you may or may not have seen. ✍

Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it.

If you like slow-burn horror, you may like me! I’m a big fan of the build-up and the set-up…I love planting little seeds throughout the beginning and middle sections of the stories, then coming at you with the big reveal at the end. I think that’s why “Mutter” resonated with a lot of folks – I intentionally built it up as one thing (without spoiling, it takes place on the Hindenburg), and then in literally the last lines, I reveal it as something completely different. 

What places or things inspire your writing?

I have a lot of spooky art in my office that helps with the inspiration – I have an original Clive Barker painting, posters of The Thing and Hellraiser, and some photography by Nona Limmen. I’m also surrounded by old, creepy looking books and other random spooky knickknacks, like the Lament Configuration, a figurine of Sam from the movie Trick ‘r Treat, and a mask of the alien from They Live. If it’s creepy, I want it in my office!

What music do you listen to while creating?

I listen to a lot of instrumental, orchestral works; a lot of beautiful, spooky sounds. I’ve constantly got Max Richter or Jóhann Jóhannsson or Philip Glass playing. 

What is your favorite horror aesthetic? 

I’m very much into being creeped out. I love seeing shadows through the cracks of doors; passing by windows without realizing someone’s outside looking in; things dwelling underneath the stairs while someone with exposed ankles ventures down one step at a time. I come from a graphic design background, so I think very visually when I write – I can always see what I’m jotting down, be it the character or the scene, or the overall vibe. And I love a good spooky vibe. 

Who is your favorite horror icon?

Elvira! Rick Baker! Clive Barker! Bruce Campbell! Pinhead! The Cryptkeeper! I have so many, I can’t narrow it down. There are a ton of characters that I love, a ton of actors, hosts, creators, whoever. I grew up in the 80s/90s, so I have a lot of nostalgic feelings toward movies and books and shows from those decades. 

What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

I’ve watched someone die. It wasn’t quick, it was over several weeks, and it was the scariest, most traumatic, most heartbreaking thing that I’ve ever seen. 0/10. I do not recommend.

If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

Well, I’m a terrible cook, so I’d definitely bring something pre-made from the grocery store. Maybe a black forest cake – sounds creepy, but is delicious. Win-win. As far as someone I’d like to have dinner with…I’d love to pick at Clive Barker’s brain for a few hours. I think he’s wildly creative, and I love everything that he does.

What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

Oof, I feel like horror folks are very well-versed on what they should be watching and reading, and hearing, so someone may read this and scoff at my recommendations. Hey, take it or leave it, pal! But last year, I stumbled upon a 1980s Giallo film I’d never even heard of called STAGE FRIGHT (or DELIRIA, or AQUARIUS…it has a lot of titles for some reason). It’s directed by Michele Soavi (who worked alongside Argento and Fulci), and written by Sheila Goldberg and George Eastman. I thought it was beautifully crafted, and that the mask that the killer uses is one of the best I’ve ever seen. It was on Shudder, and might still be, so check it out! 

Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

Well…that’s complicated. Here’s why: I suffer from hypnagogic hallucinations, where every time I’m in between being awake and falling asleep, I see things. Faces shadow people, giant spiders creeping across the walls, you name it, I’ve probably seen it. Hell, I used to see my cat resting on my ceiling fan. I’ve had this my whole life and it used to terrify me. But these days, I’m too tired to care, so I just roll over and go back to sleep. 

What are some books that you feel should be in the library of every horror addict?

I’m a big fan of Clive Barker and I think it should be the law to have a copy of “The Thief of Always” in every home. It sways more on his fantastical side, but it’s a beautiful story of innocence lost and I don’t know why it hasn’t been made into a film yet. I would also recommend that everyone should own at least one version of “Frankenstein,” because that really started it all. Props to Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. 

What are you working on now? 

On the editing side, I’m gearing up to co-edit another awesome horror anthology alongside a great press. Writing-wise, screenwriting takes up 99.9% of my time, be it on a writer-for-hire job or my own original content, so my focus is entirely there and not so much on short fiction at the moment. I am in talks to direct my first feature film, based on a script that I wrote, so hopefully that’s coming down the pipe this year, and I’m working with another director and producer on adapting one of my stories from THE NIGHT BELONGS TO US as a feature. So lots to come!

Where can readers find your work? 

You can find me at jesslandry.com, which I sometimes remember to update, but it has all of my fiction and films on there. Or you can check out my Amazon author page here.

Logbook of Terror : Slice of Society

“Put the knife down. Please.”

Sharon’s words were calm and measured. She held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

     Toby exhaled hard. Slowly, he handed the twisted silver blade over to his mother.

     Behind them, in the back of the room, a woman dressed in a purple track suit and stretched out over a stone altar squirmed beneath heavy restraints. Sharon shot a glance at the woman before turning her eyes back to her son. 

     “I told you,” she said to her child in a tone that was loving and patient yet firm, “No more playing ritual sacrifice before bedtime. It gets you worked up and then you can’t sleep. Come on now, off to bed my little prince.” 

     With reluctance and a slight roll of his eyes, the nine year-old Toby saw the logic in his mother’s words and slouched off to bed, leaving Sharon and the would-be sacrifice alone in the den. 

     Sharon went to the woman and plucked the gag from her mouth. 

     After stretching her mouth and licking her dry lips, the woman said, “Sorry Mrs. Osborne. I didn’t mean to overstep. He said it was a game he’d played before.” 

     “It’s alright, Haley,” Sharon said with a chuckle. “You’re so kind to play with Toby.” 

     “He’s a good kid,” Haley replied. 

     “Yes, he surely is.” Sharon smiled again, stretching out the lines that age had written on her face. 

“I think he wants to be a priest or something like that when he grows up. He sure is good at tying those knots,” Haley said. 

Sharon stilled her hands just as they rested on a complicated knot that held the ropes and Haley’s wrists together. “He told you this?”

“Ah, well, not specifically, exactly. I mean, we were talking. He said some things. I inferred a few things.”

Haley smiled yet her eyes trembled lightly. 

Sharon pulled back and loomed over Haley. Her mouth thinned into a severe line.

“Is everything okay, Mrs. Osborne?” Haley whispered. 

The lights went out. Thick darkness engulfed the house.  

“We don’t have priests, Haley,” Mrs. Sharon Osborne hissed in the gloom. “They’re called managers, and of course Toby will be one; it’s the family business.” 

A guttural cry erupted from Haley as the ritual knife plunged through her heart. 

“Wh-why?” Haley sputtered. 

“Because. I’m already a manager, and it’s not anywhere near my bedtime.”

Sharon giggled maniacally as she pulled the knife high into the air and brought it down again.

That Friday afternoon the Osborne’s pizzaria, A Slice of Society, was even busier than usual.The specialty pizza of the day, “Haley’s Hamburger Pie”, was the fastest-selling menu item among the lunch crowd. 

As Toby took a bite out of his slice he said, “Haley was such a good neighbor.”

Sharon smiled and, chewing her food, said, “Yes, she certainly is.” 

“Hail, Satan!” Toby exclaimed with a wide smile.

His mother smiled with pride. “Yes, my dear prince, hail Satan indeed.” 

Shadow’s Love Part 2: Episode 5 – New Friend , Old Enemy

Lastor turned up his collar and made his way purposefully to the door, pushing it open and striding inside. Inside it was somehow darker yet, lit by a row of black candles around the room, tiny flames winking from the corners. Eerie somber music was being piped in and instead of a bar with alcohol, behind the bar area, a thin reedy vampire with dark eyes and a sunken emaciated face was dispensing pipes and small baggies with black contents. As someone nearby exhaled, smoke enveloped Lastor, surrounding him with the stink of opium.

“All I need are matches…” Lastor mumbled, taking refuge by a stack of speakers. The cloud of opium smoke was thick and the haze hid the darker parts of the room. As Lastor’s eyes roved over the room, the flicker of a match from one of the darkest corners caught them. 

Illuminated was a pale vampire with black and blue dread falls framing her heart-shaped face, eyes outlined by thick black makeup, and thin penciled eyebrows. A ripped tank top, tight pants, and giant platform boots were all she wore, giant breasts threatening to escape the flimsy material of her top as her too-small bra valiantly tried to contain them.

She coughed, sending a plume of smoke to merge with the haze filling in the room. Her eyes met Lastor’s and she winked at him, crooking a finger as she took a drink from the can of beer on the table before her. Lastor made his way through the opium fog and sat down at the table, taking the pipe she offered and struck a match from the book beside her can of beer. He blew the smoke at her and she giggled.

“I’m Brittany,” she said, taking her pipe back and lighting up again. “I haven’t seen you before, have I?”

“Perhaps, elsewhere,” Lastor said, lighting a cigarette with another of her matches. “But this is now.”

She giggled and coughed blue smoke. They shared another pipe or two of opium and Brittany worked her way through another few cans of beer and around the table into Lastor’s lap. She was giggling foolishly at everything he said and rubbing up against Lastor as she smoked, wrapping her legs around him. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk down one of the alleys, get some fresh air.” Lastor winked at her.

“Ohh yes,” Brittany purred, pushing her tongue into Lastor’s ear, nipping at his earlobe. “I’d love some fresh air.”

They picked their way through the junkies littering the corners of the club and out the back door. They had scarcely made it into the alley when Brittany pushed Lastor up against the club’s wall, shoving her tongue in his mouth as she groped him. Lastor sank his fangs into her tongue a little, causing her to gasp and shudder against him. He pushed away from her and took her by the hand, leading her toward the entrance to his alley.

She followed him, giggling stupidly and prattling on at length, something about the taste of blood since she was twelve. Lastor nodded absently, leading her deeper into the bloodstained alley. His mind was lost again, lost in another time, another happening.

Audrey came out of the bathroom, paler than usual, sweat beaded on her face along with a peculiar look. Lastor was sitting in a corner writing and looked up, a rarely used expression of concern on his features. “Are you all right, darling?”

“I’m not sure…I’ve been sick the last several days around sunset.” She wiped her forehead on her sleeves. 

“You can’t be sick..”

“What about…morning sickness?” She shot him a tentative glance.

Lastor’s mouth was suddenly dry. “I’m…I don’t..I’ve never…I really wouldn’t know, actually.”

Lastor trailed off, looking at Audrey. She was chewing on a fingernail, lost in thought. After a moment she spoke softly as if to herself. “What else could it be…?”

She walked from the house with the air of one in a dream, taking her bag as she left and leaving Lastor sitting alone in the dark with his thoughts in a jumble. He had never known two vampires to have a child, but then, he had never known two vampires, living as one.

He didn’t get much more writing done. 

Audrey had walked through the drizzling dark and had been unable to resist the temptation of a slight detour a couple blocks down an alley to drain the blood from a hapless gigolo before arriving at an all-night pharmacy. Putting on her sunglasses, she steeled herself against the glare of the fluorescents and headed directly to the aisle with the pregnancy tests. 

An hour later she was sitting in their bathroom, staring at three plus signs on all three tests she had bought and taken. Her heart was in her mouth.

Pregnant… with Lastor’s baby.

Would he even want it?

Would he still want her?

She gathered the tests and returned to the living room. Lastor looked up from doodling as she sat down on the floor with him and wordlessly lay them out.

Lastor looked at the tests for a long while, staring at each one in turn. Eventually, he looked up and she was relieved to see him smiling with a gleam in those crimson eyes she had fallen in love with so many times. 

Audrey nodded. “We’re going to have a baby,” she sighed, leaning up against him, taking his hand land lacing their fingers together. 

“I should warn you – I’ve never done this before,” Lastor said, his stomach in knots.

Audrey kissed his fingers and closed her eyes, inhaling his scent and his warmth. “You’ll learn,” she said peacefully. 

AUTHOR INTERVIEW : Kyle Toucher

 

What is your name and what are you known for? 

My name is Kyle Toucher. I’m likely best known as the frontman/songwriter for the band Dr. Know. After that I’d think my twenty-plus year career in Visual Effects spans from Star Trek: Voyager, to Firefly, Battlestar: Galactica, and Top Gun: Maverick just to name a few.  These days, I’m writing fiction, largely in the horror realm.  My new novel is titled Live Wire, from Crystal Lake Publishing.

Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it

Live Wire is a high-octane, full-throttle horror novel. Not only does it contain action on a massive scale, but it also drills deep into the psyche of our characters as a malevolent force, summoned from the very fabric of creation, escapes its captors―then flees into the power grid. Soon, miles upon miles of hundred-foot electrical towers, those steel giants everyone has seen winding through the landscape, become animated beneath a colossal, cyclonic storm. In tandem arrives The Signal, a dissonant machine language, an intrusive frequency that bores into the emotional fabric of those unfortunate enough to be swayed by it. Surviving the marauding giants is terrible enough, but the danger and bloodletting are compounded when the most sensitive frayed ends of guilt and shame are exposed. 

If pressed into an elevator pitch, I’d say it’s the closest you can get to Stephen King and Michael Crichton on an afternoon bender, planning epic atrocities together.

Live Wire is a wide-spectrum read that burns hot and bleeds red. Black Magic meets Big Tech. What could go wrong? What places or things inspire your writing?

I never know where that’ll strike. Sometimes it appears while in a state of road, hypnosis stuck in traffic. Other times it’s a fragment of a sentence someone utters in conversation. It always finds a way to make itself known. I rarely write with any type of outline, which makes the rewrites arduous, but the fractal nature of the creation process is beautifully feral. Ride that bull as long as you’re able, I say, then buckle down and smooth it all out.

What music do you listen to while creating?

I used to blast music in the old days; Black Sabbath, Germs, Black Flag, Robin Trower, and Johnny Winter.  You get the idea―a lot of seventies-era, guitar-laden monstrosities. Sometimes I went whole hog and went for massive orchestral stuff, from Wagner to film scores. These days, though, I like it quiet when I write. I’ll play music every now and then, but it’s rare.

What is your favorite horror aesthetic? 

The unknown. Malevolence from Elsewhere. The Supernatural.

Who is your favorite horror icon?

This list will be all films. I have a fondness for Godzilla, but that was burned onto the motherboard at a very young age. Always liked the green Gargantua as well.

Doug Bradley’s performance in the original Hellraiser is hardcore and uncompromising. Karloff’s Frankenstein monster, especially in the first two outings, was just outstanding. Christopher Walken as the angel Gabriel in The Prophecy. Honorable mention to Viggo Mortensen as Lucifer in that film as well. And we can not leave out Angus Scrimm as The Tall Man from Phantasm.

For horror anti-hero badass, MacReady from John Carpenter’s The Thing. “I’m a real light sleeper, Childs.”

Let’s never forget the film frontier, paved by F.W. Murnau, Fritz Lang, Max Shreck, Conrad Veidt, Todd Browning, James Whale, and Georges M駘i鑚, the Godfather of VFX. We owe them a lot.

What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

I witnessed a horrific car crash when I was very, very young. A station wagon was T-boned, and the driver was flung about inside. He tumbled like a rag doll, and the smashed car came to rest inverted. I’ve never forgotten it. I also sat through Godfather III.

If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

Tony Iommi. I believe he’s a wine drinker, so I’d find a great Cab and bring a couple Padron 1964 cigars.

Also, wouldn’t it have been fun to get hammered with Stephen King in the old days?

What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things.

Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

Oh yes. In an old Craftsman house in Santa Paula, CA. There is no friendly Casper, let’s be clear on that. And ghosts are not the disembodied spirits of the dead―let’s be real clear about that. There are other realms, and one of them does not like you. At all.

What books do you feel should be in the library of every horror addict?

The Exorcist and Legion by Blatty. Hell House by Richard Matheson. Surely The Shining and Pet Semetary by King. The entire Books of Blood by Barker, as well as his epics Weaveworld and Imajica. Del Rey put out a fantastic H.P. Lovecraft collection called Bloodcurdling Tales of Horror and the Macabre that has all the hits. I read it ragged. The Whisperer in Darkness must not be missed.

There are so many, and so many I’ve never read. 

What are you working on now? 

Just finishing up Life Returns, a novella based on a Dr. Know song, written specifically for fans of the band. It takes the events described in the 40-year-old song and brings them into the fictional universe I’m building today. It will be a free download from my website. Also, I’d love to release a shorter tale collection. I have piles of homeless stories a little too long for anthros, and a little too short for novellas.

But my main focus is getting the word out on Live Wire, and after that, back to two novels I have on the slab.

Where can readers find your work? 

http://www.kyletoucher.monster

Book Review : Memory Bound by A.R. Clayton

Review by Ariel Da Winter

I found Memory Bound to be an enjoyable read. If you like paranormal and psychological thrillers this is the story for you. I felt all the characters in the book were engaging and I wanted to know more. The main character’s name was Anne Ditchfield and she has a mental illness. I liked the fact the author didn’t dummy down mental illness and didn’t make the main character seem weak or stupid. I liked the main character’s interaction with the world and people around her while dealing with a haunting. 

The story centers around a plantation called Myron Manor which our main character moves into and is rebuilding for Historical preservation. I also enjoyed the author’s descriptions and I felt I was there. I liked the haunting part of the story and felt it had enough of a twist to not seem like all the other stories out there. The town is also dealing with a crime and the two stories get drawn together but not in a campy overdone way.  I felt the supporting characters kept the story moving along and had the correct number of protagonists. I liked the fact the paranormal characters were not just good and evil there were many levels to their depth. The story also has some humor in it so to make the characters feel real.  I kept wanting to know more and found the story intriguing throughout. The town and characters in the town were great, and the town’s past could be a whole story in itself and I always enjoy a story that makes me ask myself did this really happen. I found I was hoping for a part two as the story was great and I would of even enjoyed a prequel as I was intrigued by what happened to Anne before she comes to the plantation. The story had psychological and physical ghosts, great plot twists, and a well thought out ending.   

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and I could read it again.

From The Vault: The Leaf Pile by Emerian Rich

Leaf Pile

by Emerian Rich

Jason said it was safe, so I went ahead and jumped. What harm could a pile of leaves do, right? He said he’d done it before. Loads of times.

I had on my big orange ski coat ‘cause the cold had come early and Mom hadn’t had a chance to get me a new jacket. With that ski coat on, I felt like a wrestler. One of those huge guys with big muscles. Nothin’ could hurt me. Maybe I was more like The Hulk. Yeah. The Hulk in rage mode. Indestructible. Not even Thanos could hurt me.

I zipped up and pulled the hood over my ears. The pile of leaves was a big, orange-brown-red cushion, waiting for me to plow into it and land on the other side. If only I had a mini-trampoline to jump in from higher like I did on the diving board to make a bigger splash.

I ran and jumped as high as I could. Just before I sunk in—expecting the crinkle and crunch of smashed leaves—a deep, dark hole opened up. Mid-air there was nothing I could do. I fell into the damp hole, leaves clinging to my legs and face, forcing me deeper into the mass of foliage.

Now, I’m a part of the pile. I can’t move. The leaves have me tied down in my big orange coat. My legs feel like they’ve been bound by vines, but I can’t move to look down and see. My vision is blurred orange as if I’m behind a stained glass window. It’s hard to breathe and I can’t speak. Leaves have covered my mouth with their thick, earthy stench.

People see my orange ski coat as they walk by, but they just dismiss it for leaves. Even Mom didn’t recognize it when she walked by, calling out my name in a panicked yell.

Soon it will be dark and they’ll give up the search. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to survive, but I feel warm living fur behind me. I just wonder…will it save me? Or eat me?

Manor of Frights : Amanda Leslie

What is your name and what genre of Horror do you usually write about?

Amanda Leslie. I typically write monster/paranormal horror, but I’ve also dabbled in writing dystopia and slasher horror.

What is the title of your story in Manor of Frights and what is it about?

My story is titled “The Living Room.” It’s about a woman stuck living the same day over and over and over while she slowly loses her mind. I won’t spoil the ending here, but it’s one of my favorite things I’ve written.

What inspired you to write your story for Manor of Frights?

I was inspired by the theme of Manor of Frights! I mostly write Horror that takes place in a single location, but a story taking place in a single room/mostly in one room was a challenge that inspired me.

What is your favorite Horror house story in fiction, movies, or TV and why?

The Hell House LLC series of movies is by far my favorite. Much like this book, it takes place in a single location. I watched the entire series over quarantine, and it quickly became my favorite to the point I recommend it to anyone. It’s just a fun horror movie that I think anyone can enjoy.

What music most inspires you to write Horror?

Post-metal, dark classical, “wonky rock,” and folk punk inspire me the most. My story in this book is particularly inspired by Shayfer James and Miracle Musical — both artists that I would firmly place in the “wonky rock” genre.

Where can readers/listeners find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

I have a blog at http://amandaleslie.com where you can get updates on all of my work.

 

 

Shadows Love Part 2: Episode 4/ Dispatching by Jesse Orr

The metal spike sank sharply through the girl’s eardrum and impaled the cochlea. The sound of popping small bubble wrap leapt unpleasantly to the front of Lastor‘s mind. Fresh blood and other fluids oozed down her face as she screamed hysterically into the gag. The vampire leaned down and kissed her cheek, forcing the ice pick deeper and licking the blood that had dripped down from her ear as he grinned at the audience in his head.

“Enough,” Lastor said.

The vampire jerked up and snatched the ice pick from the hooker’s ravaged ear with a sick squelching sound.  Free of the encumbrance of the vampire, she began madly scrabbling at the gag, breaking her nails on the tight knot. The vampire took no notice.

“Who’s there?” His voice was like gravel. Behind him, the hooker had managed to claw the gag off and vomited red and gray filth on the alley floor. Blood dripped down off her face to pool with her last meal on the alley floor.

“See that? You went too deep! Now she’s going to die, and much too fast for your needs, I’m sure.” Lastor’s voice dripped sarcasm.

“They’re easy enough to find,” sneered the vampire, brandishing his pick threateningly in what he was reasonably sure was the right direction. “Show yourself!”

Lastor materialized out of the gloom to the left of the vampire’s focus. His peripheral was the first to notice and he snapped to the left, raising the pick for a strike. He took in Lastor’s face for a long moment before recognition dawned.

“Hey, you’re Audrey’s husband. Valorian.” 

Lastor’s eyes flashed at the mention of her. “I am. And you are not worthy to think her name, much less utter it.”

“Huh, I could get a lot of money for you,” the vampire grunted, and brandished his ice pick.

“Yes, you could.” Lastor’s face did not move.

“On the other hand I could use you in the entertainment,” the vampire said, pondering. “Or I could just kill you.”

Lastor grinned. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “No, you couldn’t. You won’t be allowed to kill me. You are inferior to many who have already tried and failed miserably. Awfully. Horribly. Lots of pain.” 

The vampire may have been thick but he recognized an insult when he heard one. With a roar, he charged at Lastor, ice pick raised. 

Lastor took another quick drag off his cigarette and flicked it in the charging man’s face, sending a shower of sparks into his eyes. Taking advantage of the vampire’s momentary blindness, Lastor ducked under the wrist with the pick and snatched it tightly. He gave a hard twist, sending the vampire over and onto his back on the ground with a thud. Before he knew what was happening, Lastor had pinned him down and slit his throat with one long fingernail. 

Leaving the vampire to gurgle helplessly on the ground and contemplate this latest development, Lastor crouched down and examined the whimpering girl laying in the fetal position. The blood had stopped flowing from her ear but the hooker’s eyes were blurry and unfocused. The damage was done. Lastor could feel her heart gradually slow down as her life ebbed. He touched the hooker’s brow and her eyes turned to him. She tried to speak but was cut off as Lastor dispassionately snapped her neck, ending her suffering forever. 

The alley was quiet and dark once more, with the scent of fresh blood hanging in the air. Lastor seated himself alongside the dead hooker and extracted another cigarette from the pocket housing them. Opening his book of matches, he received an unpleasant surprise – no matches. A book of nothing.

“Well that sucks,” Lastor grumbled, pushing himself back up and going over to the body of the vampire and dug through his pockets. 

“Glkfhaaau,” the vampire bubbled, air hissing out of his slashed throat.

Lastor looked at him in mild surprise as he picked through the meager offerings in the vampire’s pockets. “Still alive, then? You don’t have a lighter or anything do you?”

The vampire gurgled apologetically. Lastor pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds out of the vampire’s pocket and a book of matches with one remaining. Tossing the pack at the vampire’s face, Lastor lit his cigarette with the remaining match and stepped on the vampire’s neck, crushing his mid-cervical vertebrae. The gurgling stopped.

Lastor was still faced with an issue. There were still hours remaining before the wedding and entertainment. He needed matches. And he was getting hungry.

Nothing else for it, he would have to find somewhere to satisfy both. 

Lastor made his way through the alleys, following the distant sound of music. He felt like King Kong, drawn to a gate by drums for a maiden sacrifice. Before long he was peering at the entrance to an artistically run-down club, boarded up windows and dark peeling paint which could only be blood. 

Manor of Frights : Lesley Warren

What is your name and what genre of Horror do you usually write about?
My name is Lesley Warren and I enjoy writing psychological horror stories with unexpected twists. As someone living in a different country from where I was born and raised, I often write about the feeling of “otherness”, and this manifests itself in protagonists who do not quite fit into the boxes in which they are placed by their surroundings.

What is the title of your story in Manor of Frights and what is it about?
My story is called “Bye, Baby Bunting”. Ida Wells, a young and beautiful widow, is left to care for her newborn baby in the grand but eerie manor house she once shared with her recently deceased husband. During the first few months of the child’s life, Ida struggles in vain to bond with baby Minnie; ghastly visions transform her from an innocent infant to a demon, from Ida’s point of view. Is the bereaved and exhausted mother losing her wits, or is there really something strange about the baby, who seems to have her dead father’s eyes?

What inspired you to write your story for Manor of Frights?
I have always enjoyed reading stories and watching films in which things are not as they first appear to be. Some of my friends have embarked on the rewarding but demanding journey of parenthood in the past couple of years, and I get the feeling that it’s something you never quite feel prepared for – I thought it would be interesting to combine the challenges of raising a child with supernatural phenomena in my story. Add a spooky manor house and the age-old question of whether or not the strangeness is real or just happening inside the protagonist’s head, and you’ve got a recipe for a spine-tingling read.   

What is your favorite Horror house story in fiction, movies, or TV, and why?
As an avid watcher of Asian horror movies, the first film that comes to mind when I think of haunted houses is definitely the Korean psychological horror masterpiece “A Tale of Two Sisters”. It’s a perfect example of how the same events shown from two different perspectives can paint an entirely new picture. Without giving too much away, I can say that it manages to be hauntingly beautiful at the same time as shocking you speechless and breaking your heart. No mean feat! 

What music most inspires you to write Horror?
I’m a lifelong gothic rock and metal fan, so it’s never been difficult for me to lean into my darker side. I write best with music as background noise. Usual bands in my rotation are alternative rock band Palaye Royale (the musical equivalent of an espresso shot), rock cellists Apocalyptica (great for conjuring up atmospheric settings), and Viking-esque groups such as Wardruna and Heilung (perfect for tapping into one’s primal instincts – after attending a Heilung concert, my friends are still convinced that I have joined a pagan cult!)

Where can readers/listeners find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

My work has been published in several online and print journals. You can find a couple of my short stories by searching for the “Open Bookcase” anthologies of the Frankfurt Creative Writing Group, readily available on Amazon. In the virtual sphere, you’ll find me enjoying the kind-spirited feedback and camaraderie of my fellow writers at ABCTales.com; this is my user page: https://www.abctales.com/user/lem. 

Logbook of Terror: Baby Fever

Smothered by emotion, Alyssa smiled through the tears that streamed down her face. The baby was so precious! 

     Why can’t I have my own baby? Why can’t I be a mom? She wondered. Why doesn’t anyone want to have a family with me? 

     Alyssa sniffled, pulled a tissue from her purse, and wiped the tears from her face and eyes. Seeing her distress, a passing store clerk stopped and asked if she was alright. 

    “Yes, thank you. I’m fine,” Alyssa said. “It’s just the baby; she’s so beautiful.” 

    The clerk glanced down at the plastic baby doll that sat silent and still in a box on the shelf beside him. “Oh, you mean Chloé?”

Alyssa nodded. 

The clerk shook his head and sighed. “Lady, that doll isn’t beautiful, she’s the sister of that other psycho baby doll that killed all those adults last Halloween. I can’t even believe that it’s on the market but people want it so we sell it. This world, I tell ya…” 

    “I want her but they won’t let me buy her because I’m not attached,” Alyssa said.

    “That’s right, single women aren’t allowed to own one. The manufacturer says it’s too much, what with the responsibility and all,” the clerk said. “Add to that, the danger and  potential for violence.” 

     “It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all!” Alyssa yelped at the employee. 

    “I know,” he said as he put a comforting arm around Alyssa. “It’s not fair at all.” 

     The clerk pulled Alyssa closer. She turned toward him and jammed her knife into his gut. He coughed and sputtered. 

    “I’m going to be a mom and no one is going to stop me!” Alyssa whispered into the dying clerk’s ear. 

     Alyssa withdrew her blade and watched the clerk slump to the floor. 

    The baby’s eyes moved. Her plastic lips curled into a smile. Her tiny plastic hands pressed against the plastic box. She cried out, “Mommy!”

    “Baby Chloé!” Alyssa cried out.

    “Let me out, Mommy! Let us all out!” The Chloé doll said. 

      Let them all out?

       Alyssa knew the manufacturer’s warning, that, once they were activated, the dolls were dangerous in groups of two or more. Wait, was that true, or just a ruse to sell more dolls to more humans since there could only be one Chloé per household? Why were there so many rules? Why would such a potentially harmful thing be allowed to exist? Confusion clouded Alyssa’s mind. Wrinkles creased her brow. She looked into the doll’s eyes, made of glass but somehow full of life. Alyssa had looked into those eyes so many times. It was her job, after all. She installed eyes at the Baby Fever baby manufacturing plant. Maybe that’s why she loved them so much because she’d spent countless hours with them, gazing into those mesmerizing orbs. Oh, how she did love them! 

     Three hours later Alyssa was walking out of the warehouse baby store with thousands of Chloe models strolling along behind her. 

Six hours later the city was in flames and Alyssa wished that her own mother had told the doctors to remove Alyssa’s maternal desire before she was even born. Babies, they just aren’t worth the trouble they cause, she thought to herself seconds before she leaped from the top of the bridge and no one saw her again and once she was gone, the humans forgot that the Alyssa model had ever existed at all. 

Shadow’s Love Part 2 : Episode 3 / Hiding

Lastor’s face erupted in the glow of the flame held to the end of the cigarette. He inhaled, and the light vanished as the match was extinguished by the bloodstained dirt of the alley. Only the ember of the cigarette cast a light, smoldering in the darkness like a dying star.

He’d lost count of the hours he had sat, his back in the corner of an alleyway stained with blood and reeking of death. Even the air was still, as still as death, as silent as death, death death death. It was as if the place itself had died. The inky blackness was not penetrated by any of the ambient glow that lit the community. That suited Lastor just fine.

He could feel Audrey nearby, and it was maddening. He kept reminding himself the messenger knew what he was talking about. It was a good plan. He had been right so far, hadn’t he?

But that was the other thing that was bothering him – it had been too easy. Wait until the messenger returned, take Audrey out, sneak back above, and he would have Audrey back, happily ever after?

“Nobody is happy ever after,” Lastor muttered to himself as he extinguished the only light in the alley beneath his foot.

Everybody lies. Who stood to gain the most by lying to him? The messenger stood to gain a wife, the reward for Lastor, as well as having Lastor out of the way, and the elimination of his brother in a rise to power. 

And Audrey…

Lastor was still locked in fierce combat over his feelings for his wife. She had betrayed him and cast aside their years together for manipulative con artists without a second thought. Lastor could still see the hate in her eyes from the night she left. But saving her was… well it was a given. Lastor could not bear to leave her to this fate. But once they were out of danger, assuming the messenger was as he seemed, what then? Would she leave him again the next time she heard answers he could not give?

Someone was coming. 

Lastor pushed himself into a crouching position. It sounded like several people, but as the source rounded the nearest corner, Lastor made out only two shapes in the gloom. One was fighting and thrashing, giving off muffled screams through a gag. The other was significantly taller, with great hulking shoulders and a bald head. 

Lastor remembered what the messenger had said about vampires who used this alley to practice for the entertainment. Sure enough, the vampire stopped in the alley and bashed the captive’s head against the wall, knocking them to the ground. The hulking vampire grunted in apparent satisfaction and unslung a satchel from around his shoulders. Pulling it open, a match sparked and lit a black candle, throwing relief on the whole scene.

The vampire was large and muscular, with a goatee and heavily lidded eyes. He was clad in vinyl pants and a tight-fitting top. His face had a malevolent leer as he reached back into his bag and pulled a long thin ice pick from its depths. He ran his tongue down the length of it, savoring the taste of the dried blood there. 

Lastor could not see the victim; a crate was blocking his view. Taking care to stay out of the yellow glow of the candle, he edged around the crate until he saw a girl, no more than twenty. Her pantyhose were wadded up in her mouth, secured by a length of cord, her eyes rolled back in her head. Blood trickled from the corners of her mouth, her nostrils, and down her neck from a wound on her head. She moaned and looked around dazedly. 

The vampire turned to face her. Her eyes focused with difficulty on the ice pick in his hands and they widened in terror. Her legs began working, desperately attempting to push her into a less submissive position. The vampire let her get halfway up before knocking her feet out from under her with a wild laugh and stabbed the ice pick into her head. The hooker screamed in her throat beneath the gag as the ice pick forced its way through six of the seven millimeters of the frontal plate of her skull. The vampire halted the ice pick’s journey through her head just short of puncturing her brain, sparing it by barely a millimeter. Lastor felt a twinge in his forehead and shuddered.

The vampire shoved her down roughly onto her side and straddled her, pinning her arms to her. Shoving her head into the dirt, he took the ice pick and began slowly and delicately inserting it into the hooker’s ear. She sobbed, breathing raggedly through the gag, and redoubled her efforts to escape, but the vampire’s grip was like iron and held her steady as the pick continued its inexorable penetration of her ear canal. Lastor could hear crying now, sobbing through the gag as the blood began to flow in earnest from her ear. Here the vampire finally encountered some resistance. He left the pick there, balanced on her eardrum under its own weight, pushing gently on it with one finger and releasing the pressure, bouncing it on the eardrum. The hooker screamed, a desperate guttural sound of horrified anticipation.

“Nhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

The vampire seemed dissatisfied and cast about for a suitable rock. He came up with a hefty chunk, at least a pound. Grinning, he held it over the ice pick and dropped it. 

Book Review: Keening Country by Seán O’Connor

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For:  Those who are looking for something different.

Content warning: There is an intense gore story in the mix, but the rest are not as graphic.

Keening Country is a well-written collection of stories by an author I haven’t read before. When I saw that this book was comprised of “experimental horror” I was a little worried, but these stories are different in an exciting way. They’re each unexpected and take different turns than I am used to. 

My favorite story was called “Seven Years Gone,” about a man who’s haunted by his wife who disappeared seven years ago. And yet, it isn’t as straightforward as that. He is a train conductor and nights on the tracks can do funny things to your mind. The reveal was something I could have never predicted and I found it so refreshing that it didn’t follow the expected path. 

Another great story was “Ariel’s” with a sort of Luddite “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” storyline. I really enjoyed how it unfolded before me, frightened of the moment when they would “get me.” 

“Down Below” starts off as a story about a scary spider in the shed and, as I’ve said about the other stories, gives you something else entirely.

There was one terrifying story that was a bit much for me, dealing with cutting and a bit gorier than the rest. Just a warning for those of you who are a bit more queasy, you might want to skip that one. For those of you looking for a bit of gore, it will definitely give you that gross factor you’re looking for.

I encourage you to try these experimental horror stories out. If you’re looking for a horror that’s a little different than the rest, for unexpected paths and resolutions, you won’t be disappointed. I enjoyed them very much. I liked being caught off guard.

 

Logbook of Terror : The Haunted Garden

Vera’s eyes scanned slowly across the property until they fell upon an unexpected sight. She pointed and asked the real estate agent, “Is that part of the yard?”

Turning in the direction of Vera’s question, the agent smiled and replied, “Oh, the garden? Why yes, it is, although it sits right on the property’s edge.” 

Vera squinted and gazed into the absurdly unkempt patch of vegetation. “It looks so neglected.”

“Well, the home has been unoccupied for several years and folks in town have just left it alone. It’s actually considered something of a local oddity,” the agent said. “The children say it’s haunted. Can you imagine; a haunted garden?” She giggled to herself and then sighed.  

Vera’s husband, Lon, stepped to his wife’s side. He eyed the sprawling, overgrown garden with curiosity and, for an instant, he thought he heard whispers floating out of the wild green space. He blinked and shook it off. 

“Hey, you okay?” Vera asked him.

“Yeah, I just thought…” Lon trailed off, his gaze again locked onto the garden, watching huge leaves of massive plants sway gently in the breeze. “…Nevermind, it’s nothing.”

Vera smiled and took his hand.   

Pam, the leathery old real estate agent, smiled and said, “Let’s take a look inside. You just won’t believe the miracles that the restoration crew worked with this place.” 

After a lengthy tour of the home, filled with all the questions that nervous first time home buyers ask, Vera and Lon found themselves outside again, gazing into the lush, wild garden. 

“So, what do we think?” Pam, the real estate agent asked as she approached the couple from behind. 

Without turning or taking their eyes off the garden, the couple said, “We’ll take it.” 

 

One week later, after the house had begun to take on the appearance of being lived in, Vera was awakened late one starless night by a soft voice calling out her name, like a melody floating on the wind. It roused her out of sleep and drew her to the bedroom window. She looked out over the yard to the garden which was bathed in moonlight. As she stared, the plants swayed back and forth, dancing in the breeze. And again, her name drifted to her on the wind. 

Vera’s forehead creased. It didn’t make sense. How could she hear anything through the closed window? How could she be hearing her name? Surely it must have been her imagination. Then, just as the thought had flitted through her mind, she heard her voice again, as if it was in her mind and all around her, everywhere at once. She looked deeper into the garden. A child’s pale face moved out from behind a bundle of wide, green leaves, and grinned up at her with young, girlish features that took on a maniacal glow.  

Vera’s breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back to the bed and shook her husband. He rolled over, his eyes wide and alert. He was already awake, as if he’d been waiting for her. 

“Lon, there’s someone in the garden!” She whispered, her tone shaky and laden with fear. 

He smiled and replied, “Let’s go see.” 

“No, I don’t think–”

“C’mon, honey, there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s okay; it’s all okay.” 

Vera’s eyes watered. Her hand trembled. 

Lon stroked her hair and stared deep into Vera’s eyes. Her gaze locked onto his. She nodded slowly, taken in, mesmerized by whatever force had taken root inside of Lon.

“Yes, it is okay,” Vera said.

“That’s right,” Lon said. “They told me everything. They really want to meet you. I told them we would come visit.”

“Who?”

“Them.” Lon beamed. His face glowed in the pale light of the moon as he nodded in the direction of the garden. 

Together they rose from the bed and, hand in hand they left the bedroom and made their way to the garden. 

 

THREE MONTHS LATER

Pam smiled wide at the young couple. 

“It’s a beautiful old house,” the young woman said. “What happened to the previous owners?”

Pam shrugged and replied, “No one really knows. They just up and disappeared one night.”

The young woman glanced around the yard, her roving gaze stopping at the garden. She laughed. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice that before; it’s huge. That poor garden could use some love.” 

“Sure could,” agreed the husband. “Who would let it get into such bad shape?”

“I’d love to spend some time there,” the young wife said. Her eyes widened. ” Maybe a lot of time.”

“Well, you surely could do that,” Pam said, smiling devilishly. “I bet those old plants would love the company.” 

The wife grabbed onto her husband’s arm. “I love it here.”

“Me, too!” The husband said, still staring at the garden, feeling that it couldn’t be possible, but he could have sworn he heard the plants whispering his name.  

Shadows Love Part 2 : Episode 2 – Flight

Lastor poked his head out of the entrance to the basement of the council hall, eyes taking in everything. There were more vampires Below now. Lastor dropped to his hands and knees, scurrying beneath an ornate table at the side of the main room as feet passed by. Peering over the table, he could see what had to be the head council leader and his entourage heading down the staircase to the dungeon. Throwing caution to the winds, Lastor stood and walked purposefully out the door, heading to the street as if he had every right to be there. 

Outside, Lastor glanced up at the ladder leading down from the tunnel to the underground and saw a steady trickle of vampires descending. It would only be a matter of time before someone recognized him. Already, he could hear the footsteps of the council leader’s entourage making their way to the basement, the sound echoing in the stillness. Hugging the shadows surrounding the council building, Lastor heard a bloodcurdling scream of fury rent the underground air. They had found the death he had left behind in the basement where they kept Audrey.

Adrenaline coursing through him, Lastor darted across the gap between buildings and dove through the partially collapsed door of the nearest structure. He threw himself against the ruined door, jamming it into the doorframe as best he could before blocking it in with some debris. That done, he peered through one of the cracks he had been unable to stifle. 

An hour later, the council guards known as the Pinions had all been slain for allowing the death of the council leader’s son. Their bodies were being draped over the giant boulders standing in front of the council building atop the staircase. Rivulets of blood were dripping down the boulders and trickling down the stairs. The limp bodies now looked only vaguely human. The council leader’s tears stained his cheeks red as he raved, extorting his subjects to find the intruder as he cradled his son’s severed head in his arms. 

Twice, someone had tried to force the door of his hovel open, causing Lastor to throw his weight against what was left of the hovel’s door and prepare for the worst. But twice, someone had yelled to whoever was at the door, calling them away, and he had been left alone.

He looked back out his window and started as he saw the messenger come striding up to the center of the courtyard where his father stood, glaring at the bodies he had just flayed. He looked over and saw his son approaching. 

“Your brother is dead,” the council leader said. “You must marry the girl.”

The messenger’s face was grave. “Why have you murdered the Pinions?”

“They have failed me. They have allowed Lastor Valorian to torture and murder my most beloved son Nicholas.”

The messenger’s face darkened for a second, barely betraying his disgust at the council leader’s blatant favoritism, before returning to a blank. “How can you be so sure it was Valorian?”

In a sudden burst of rage, the council leader hit the messenger across the face. “Idiot! Use your head! Who else would dare enter the dungeon and murder my son? Who else’s wife is chained up in the dungeon?”

The messenger winced slightly as his father hit him, but his voice was steady. “Why would Valorian bother to learn the location of The Land Below, murder Nicholas and two guards, and leave the girl?”

The council leader glared as he reviewed the Pinions, stretched across the bloody rocks. A crowd was gathering, onlooking from a distance. No one was keen to get too close to the bodies, or to the council leader. 

“No one,” the council leader said finally. “No one else would dare. But it matters not You will marry her, and the Entertainment will go forward.”

Throwing himself to the ground inside the hovel, Lastor clutched his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. There was no end to this madness. He sat, wracking his brains in the ruined hovel, trying to think of what he should do next. All he could think of was a bottle of liquor, surely available at the nearest liquor store Above, no questions asked. It would render all of his problems obsolete, at least temporarily. At this point, temporary was all he cared about. 

These thoughts were interrupted as the ruined door slammed open, throwing Lastor aside as it was shoved in from the outside. A shadow darker than the gloom of the underground cavern entered the little hovel. Lastor tried to make himself as invisible as possible but the silhouette turned its head and saw him.

“There you are!” the messenger hissed, pulling the remains of the door into the frame behind him. “What happened? I gave the Pinions the slip and when I got back, they were all slaughtered and my father is carrying Nicholas’s head around.”

“It got messy,” Lastor said, shrugging. 

“If you were wise, you would remain hidden until I come find you, after the marriage. Once we are Above, this entire ordeal should be behind us. I suggest you make your way to the section of the community I was hiding in. Take the path to the right of the council steps and continue onward. Stay to the right. You will find yourself in the alleys used to practice for the entertainment.” The messenger grimaced. “You will know when you find it.”

Peering out of the hovel’s door, Lastor saw to the right of the council steps a path leading to the yawning chasm between the council and the nearest building. Like a breeze, Lastor slipped out and into the shadows. 

Instantly the blackness swallowed him. Leaning against the wall to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, Lastor could feel the oppressive dark crushing down on him. Evil had been here. This alley was thick with the scent of death, decay, and blood. 

Lots of blood.

Book Review: Blame it on the Pumpkin

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For: Readers who dig Halloween and pumpkins.

Content warning: If you are sensitive to bad language, gore, or descriptive killing, you should skip this one.

Blame it on the Pumpkin is definitely unlike any other Halloween anthology I’ve ever read. Although I picked it up for the spooky fiction I might find, I was presented first with a nonfiction piece by Marjory E. Leposky about how pumpkins are grown, harvested, and carved. Even though I’m a Halloween fan, I’ve never even thought about that process much further than carving and roasting the seeds. Starting out the book with an education about where the pumpkins actually come from was refreshing and put me in the right mood to enjoy the pumpkin-inspired fiction.

This is an anthology filled with the oddest stories I’ve seen put together. Unexpected tropes like people turning into ravens and a kid haunted by a compulsion of self-harm were a surprising twist alongside some more common themes of man-eating plants and evil townsfolk.

My favorite story in this book is a sort of Little Shop of Horrors-themed tale by Jennifer Kyrnin called “Vampire Gourd.” Although as a horror reader, you may have seen this type of story before, the way it is written is from a different viewpoint and I like the way the main character becomes so entwined in the lives of the plants. It’s a symbiotic relationship that had me wondering if I might want to grow a little something myself. And then I remembered I’m a total city girl, allergic to most nature stuffs, and shook myself out of it. But the character in this story was really well constructed and had me on his side for much of the story.

Another standout was “Flock of Badb” by S. P. Mount.  It was certainly the weirdest story I’ve ever come across. Based on the concept that all people born on October 31st are cursed (or blessed) to become ravens, the transformation scene and how and the situation around it unfolded was truly bizarre and yet, I couldn’t stop reading. It had me completely intrigued.

You can also enjoy a tale by HorrorAddicts.net author, Pamela Kinney, which explores an evil town that lures Halloween addicts to a sinister night like they’ve never experienced. Might give you some nightmares and have you thinking twice about visiting those unknown haunts in the boonies come this October.

All in all, this book is a group of oddball stories that should appeal to pumpkin lovers and Halloween fanatics alike.

Shadow’s Love – Part 2 – Episode 1 – Reuniting by Jesse Orr

Wiping his hands disdainfully on the guard’s clothing, Lastor turned to Audrey. Tears streamed down her face as she looked at him pleadingly. Lastor could almost hear her crying for him inside his head. He walked toward her slowly, his eyes penetrating her, staring deeply inside her soul.

He reached her and stopped. She was trembling. Slowly he raised a hand to caress her face, his fingers drinking in the touch of her skin. She tilted her head a little, still pleadingly staring at him, her eyes speaking a thousand words. As if in answer to her unspoken request, he leaned in and kissed her. 

Everything vanished – the years past, the hate, the chains, the cage, the dead and senseless bodies that littered the ground around them. Everything that had ever happened turned vapor and inconsequential. They were all there was, and they were all they needed. Their kiss was forever.

Until Lastor was brought back to reality by the sound of the council leader’s brat sobbing. Gurgling, really, was all he could manage. With an effort, Lastor broke away from Audrey and turned to the terrified brat who was scrabbling toward the stairs while still holding his injured chest and wheezing a fine red mist. Curious, Lastor crossed the room and put a hand on the brat’s sternum, feeling around none too gently. The brat wailed louder until Lastor silenced him with a backhand to the face and pressed an ear to the brat’s chest, listening. As the brat struggled to suck air, Lastor could hear a rushing and bubbling sound coming from his lungs. As he listened, the brat coughed, spewing blood into Lastor’s face.

Lastor beamed. “A splintered rib appears to have punctured your right lung! That can’t feel good. But you won’t have to feel it for much longer.” 

The brat tried to start sobbing again but could only gasp for air with tears rolling down his cheeks. Lastor stroked the brat’s face, tracing the intricate makeup lines the brat had drawn, speaking soothingly. “You are going to die, here and now. Before you go, though, there is something you need to know.”

Lastor brought his lips close to the brat’s ear and whispered, “You are not special. There is NOTHING about you that is special. If you had known that, you would not be here now. So you see-” 

Lastor slowly sliced a nail through the brat’s cheek, tearing it so deeply the brat’s fangs were visible through the cheek. Now the brat was trying to breathe while drowning in his own blood. 

“…this is all your fault.”

Gurgling. 

A convenient rock sat on the ground, close enough to reach. Lastor picked up the rock, bringing it close to the brat’s face and scraping it up and down against the fangs in his mouth. 

“You prize these so much, how would it feel to lose them? Which would sting more to you, the pain or the humiliation?” Lastor nearly crooned, bearing down with the rock as he spoke the words. The grinding sound was soft to his ears, but must have been deafening to the brat inside his own head. Screaming, blubbering, he tried desperately to pull away from Lastor and only succeeded in pressing harder against the stone wall. 

Lastor delivered a sharp blow to the brat’s left fang. The cracking sound raised the hair on Audrey’s neck, however she did not look away, nor did the vicious pleasure leave her eyes as Lastor performed the same service on the other fang before reaching in with both hands and twisting to and fro before ripping the brat’s fangs out between his wails of agony.

“Some vampire,” Lastor sneered, waving the fangs before the brat’s eyes.

“Lastor,” Audrey said softly, and his eyes snapped to her. He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice. In that moment, he was reminded again of everything she had ever meant to him, and everything he had lost. For the moment, he stared at her, unable to look away.

The brat groaned, struggling to move his head.  

In a savage rush, Lastor‘s fangs tore into the brat‘s throat, burrowing deep, only stopping their penetration upon scraping against the spine, just to be sure. He sucked the blood from the brat, feeling his life drain away, relishing the feeling of the brat’s vitality draining away. Eventually, it was gone, sweet as it was rising from the corpse, he went to Audrey and kissed her, fresh blood on his lips. She kissed back, hungrily licking the blood from his mouth, seeking strength. Finally, tearing away, he stared at her, eyes wild.

“Lastor…please…you have to take me,” Audrey said, her voice shaking, her mouth bloody, her tongue running back and forth across her lips, desperate to consume every last drop. “You can’t leave me here.”

“My darling, I never wanted to be here,” Lastor said, shutting his eyes and pressing his forehead to hers, willing himself to do what needed to be done. “But the reality is that I cannot take you with me now. You must stay here for a little longer.”

Audrey’s eyes filled with tears. “But you must…if you leave me…they’ll…” she broke down, weeping softly, her head hanging down between her pinioned arms.

Lastor took her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. “You must trust me, my love. I will come back to you.”  He took a breath and sighed, a pale finger caressing her face. “I will always come back to you.”

A teardrop slid slowly down her face, and she nodded. He kissed her once more and turned back to the staircase. He listened carefully for any voices alerted to the carnage in the basement. Miraculously, no one appeared to have heard it. He turned to look at Audrey, who managed a weak smile at him. Before he could falter, he turned away from her and crept up the stairs.

Book Review: Tales of Nightmares Edited by Loren Rhoads

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

Tales of Nightmares consists of a handful of horror tales, each wildly different from the other. Some modern, some period, they’ve got yokai, killers, werewolves, monsters, and haunted houses in here. Although not all the stories were my cup of tea, there is sure to be something you’ll enjoy in this anthology. There are some real gems here and I’ll highlight my favorites below. 

My favorite story in the collection was “The Haunting of Mrs. Poole” by Angel Leigh McCoy. Reminiscent of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, this tale takes place in 1872. Revolving around a young woman who is about to be married, it involves a spooky “Charred Lady” ghost who is so much more than the ghosts we are used to seeing in Victorian tales like this. I really like how decomposed items kept showing up in her bed. How creepy is that? 

Another great one was Loren Rhoad’s “Elle a Vu un Loup,” which casts her heroine, Alondra, as a visitor to an island where horrible killings have been committed. As tourists and locals alike flee for their lives, Alondra is heading into the abandoned location to find what human or creature (or both?) is doing the damage and how to put a stop to it. Alondra is a likeable character and the way she interacts with the other characters makes you want to read more about her. Thankfully, Loren has a series of Alondra stories you can read via Kindle if you want to read more of her adventures. 

The modern tale “Twenty Questions” by Jennifer Brozek was a refreshing change of pace as it dealt with a young woman caught up in a computer chat program. Someone has invited her to play a game via chat and although at first she thinks it might be a scam, she goes for it out of curiosity and perhaps boredom. The outcome is nothing she could have guessed and a fun ride for the reader to follow. 

The last I’ll mention is “The House on River Road” by Bill Bodden. With a sort of Stranger Things feeling, the story starts out innocently enough with two kids snooping around the town’s token haunted house. When a bully crashes their party and starts causing trouble, he’s attacked by “something.” This is one of those great tales where the house becomes a character itself and you are never really sure if the monster came to the house or if the house bred the evil that lurks there. Can I just say…any story with a disappearing evil house is great in my book!

As I said, the stories in this book vary so widely, which is apparent in those I discussed above. The big plus to reading it is, you get a good taste of each author’s story-telling skills. If you enjoyed an author’s work, more anthologies from this group are coming out, so you can read more as they are released.

Horror Curated: Books in Review

Queen of Teeth
by Hailey Piper
Rooster Republic, LLC

In the near future, Alpha Beta Pharmaceuticals (ABP) accidentally unleashes the 00 virus. The virus has varied effects, but in some cases it causes multiple children to be conceived. Then, one zygote consumes the others before birth. These are Chimeras and one-half of their genetic code is the property of ABP. ABP monitors them closely, waiting for the time when one part of the genetic code violently attacks the other, tearing the Chimera apart.

Yaya is one such Chimera, but rather than her body destroying itself, it grows a new consciousness—and teeth. The vagina dentata transforms Yaya’s body and forces her to go on the run to avoid becoming an ABP lab rat. Meanwhile, Magenta, her new “self” is becoming hungry.

Queen of Teeth balances tension-filled action with tender moments of reflection and interpersonal growth. Artfully concealed plot pieces dropped at the beginning return again in a satisfying manner, like a camouflaged Chekov’s Gun. Piper seamlessly blends elements of Science Fiction, Horror, and Romance, creating a multifaceted story that never lets up.

Piper’s writing is a solid foundation for a fantastic story. She doesn’t fall into too much exposition, despite a complex world. Her dialogue is light and snappy. There are moments of poetic description, but her best writing is really saved for the scenes of action and body Horror. Be warned, the descriptions are graphic and disturbing, so if you are squeamish, you may want to steer clear.

Overall, Queen of Teeth is an incredible debut novel from Hailey Piper, and well-deserving of its Bram Stoker award (Superior Achievement in a First Novel). If you like body Horror, tragic romance, and political commentary in your reads, this is the book for you… Read more in Bloody Tea.

Book Review: Dead Ends and Damnation by Christopher K. Fielder

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For:  Those who enjoy Action-Adventure and journeying through the afterlife.

Dead Ends and Damnation by Christopher K. Fielder is a well-written book that had me engaged from page one to the very end with the most satisfying ending I’ve read in a very long time.

Austin is a jaded afterlife transporter who’s been plodding along for 60+ years, delivering souls to their assigned destinations. All is boring and uneventful until one night when he gets a fare he didn’t expect. A child, bound for the fiery depths of hell. But kids aren’t supposed to go to “the bad place” and this causes Austin to break the rules and embark on an adventure to find out how the kid ended up damned and who is responsible. 

I wouldn’t exactly call this book Horror, but it has elements Horror readers will enjoy. It explores demons, angels, witches, heaven, hell, purgatory, and occult enthusiasts in a non-fantastical way. An Action-Adventure, it traverses our world through the eyes of one existing in the shadows, greeting those who die. I enjoyed the reaper view of our world and the “lobbies” of heaven and hell. I also enjoyed traveling through the mundane plane of the reapers and other “employees” of the afterlife. Austin also has a whole relationship with his car that I enjoy.

My best description of the feeling of this book is if Hellboy were to explore the Beetlejuice afterlife office world, trying to find answers about who to blame for this mix-up. Austin’s blasé attitude and yet obstinate personality is quite a fun point of view to be in. The best part of this book is the satisfying ending. Without giving anything away, I can say the ending of this book is the most satisfying ending I can remember reading in recent years. Not only that, it sets up for  a continuation that I would be excited to read. The book itself seems like a movie-length pilot to one of those late-night guilty pleasure TV shows of the 90s like Forever Night. I’d love to see this produced as a series. It’s got the kind of depth and grit to become an instant cult classic.

I don’t usually rate books, but I’m going to give this a “top five” score. It was enjoyable, fun to read, and didn’t drag. It kept me interested from start to finish.

 

 

Book Review: Owl Manor, The Dawning

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For: Readers who enjoy Jack the Ripper stories or horror that takes place in spooky mansions.

Content warning: Jack the Ripper-style murder, abuse, owl attacks.

Owl Manor, The Dawning, by Zita Harrison is a gothic tale that borders on romance but doesn’t forget to bring the terror of living under the thumb of a madman.

This book did not start out like I thought it would. The description doesn’t give any hint of the “Jack the Ripper-like” storyline and not being a fan of that trope, it took me aback a little. The heroine’s voice is also decidedly modern and that, too, popped me out of the story. But I don’t tell you these things to deter you from reading, quite the opposite. After about four chapters, I began to get interested and by the middle of the book, I was glad I gave it a chance to get going. 

Set in the unusual location of Denver at the height of the gold rush, this pioneering atmosphere seemed an odd place to begin a gothic mansion horror story. Yet, I found the surroundings absolutely charming, and the depth to which the author wove this little community was absolutely crucial to keeping my interest as the story grew.

What I was most interested in–the manor–doesn’t come into play until later and it is truly the star of the show. Interest in the upstairs/downstairs personalities in a wealthy mansion as well as the odd master creates an atmosphere you both want to be in but also cringe at the thought of. Although I am normally pulled into the female lead and want to watch her battle demons and prevail, my favorite character was Mr. Gilbert, the master’s manservant. The only one privy to a macabre secret held by the master, his story is the one that intrigued me to read on. A good man, he is unwillingly pulled into a desperate situation. If he keeps the master’s horrible secret, he is safe, but if he tries to tell anyone…death surely awaits him. 

And then there is the question of the owls. Are they attacking of their own accord? Or are they controlled by some sort of witchcraft to help stop the master’s bloodthirst? Another strange entity in this book is the marsh-soaked ghost woman who creeps about, showing herself only when the viewer will appear most insane by those they tell. The way she can appear solid and seems to be able to mess with the passing of time makes her an original entity worth investigating. 

Mr. Gilbert’s story is a great one and although I guess Eva is supposed to be the heroine, I find her more interesting when viewed through Mr. Gilbert’s eyes. He is the character who pulled me in and made me want to see this story to its exciting conclusion.

Although I feel this book started a little too early for my tastes, after it got going, it was a fun read that had me on the edge of my seat. Those last few chapters were nailbiters, wondering what would happen to whom and if the owls would finally get their prey!

This is a great book for those who like books like Rebecca and Jane Eyre.

Book Review: Floaters by Garrett Boatman

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

Content Warning: Gore and descriptive cutting, fighting, and dismemberment.
Zombie Type: Mid-fast, come from the water.
For: Zombie fans who just want to read some good ‘ole zombie-fighting.

One of the biggest complaints I hear from zombie-loving readers is… “There’s not enough zombie-killing action.”

Well, this book answers that call.

Floaters by Garrett Boatman is an action-filled, zombie-squelching, fight fest. The action in this zombie novel starts right away. There is no information about how the zombies came about and there is no build-up or pre-apocalyptic preamble. From page one, the reader is steeped in Victorian London and the underground happenings of the gangs there. The underground life seems genuine and interesting. I also liked that these zombies are different from what you normally see. Since they come from the water, they are bloated, waterlogged, and original. The descriptions are terrifying and will have you looking at any body of water you pass with trepidation.

When the undead emerge from the water, the gangs get nervous. Since most of their work takes place on the docks or in the under-city tunnels, they are the first target for the zombies. As the gang numbers decrease on the live side and increase on the dead side, they decide to make a plan to destroy the “Deaders.”

As the undead attack anything in their path, regular citizens pack up their belongings and jam all the non-aqua exits out of the city, but the gangs aren’t willing to give up their territory. In a scene reminiscent of the gangs gathering in The Warriors movie circa 1979, the gangs of London gather to plan how they are going to deal with this new adversary. Each gang has their own look and members and although they are normally against each other, they commit themselves to peace until the undead are conquered. One copper is tolerated at the gathering, and they come up with a plan to save London.

While reading this book, I felt more like I was watching a great Victorian zombie flick rather than reading a traditional novel. There are tons of weapons descriptions and I found myself wanting to know what each of these weapons looked like. Because of all the action, I never got the chance to connect with any of the characters and there are a lot of them. With all the names and gang titles it was a little hard to figure out who was what, and the body count rose by the page, but if you’re interested in a zombie-killing spree, that won’t bother you. If you like fighting sequences, you will love this book. There is nonstop zombie-fighting action here. You won’t be disappointed.

Free Fiction: They Did It For Their Freedom – By Dylan Thomas Lewis

 

The sun rose as they moved the slaves young and old through the gates of Cathartra. Off the hardened pozzolana and onto the crude, unkempt path towards the Anglo River. The slaves in their thin, ebony rags amongst the Cathartrans in their flowing, ivory robes. Two days prior, the former had taken captive three of the most powerful families in the land, raiding their property and moving them to the valerian fields in the dead of night. Just before dawn, they allowed one of the captives to flee, instructing him to inform the Council of Six of what had occurred. 

The child dashed through the streets in his soil-stained garments until he came to the council building, a band of warriors stationed at the front. Flamed with righteous indignation, the Council rushed to conduct an emergency session. Noon came and the slaves approached with the three families in their grasp. They did it for their freedom, they said. They wished to speak with the council and negotiate a peaceful resolution between their people. To raise the land as equals under Cathartran law.

The eldest seven were invited to discuss terms. For hours the soldiers stayed planted outside, watching the slaves with distrustful stares that were readily reciprocated. The tension pranced amongst them like a phantom, temptress mare, urging them toward bloodshed until the negotiators reemerged.

The slaves were promised full rights under the courts as well as a mule per person and land at the outskirts of town; roughly forty acres per family. Men were granted entrance into the military and the group as a whole would no longer remain responsible for the trades previously forced upon them. Rather, tasks would be split evenly between them and the Cathartrans and training was to begin immediately so that all could become educated on such matters. Upon graduating from this instructional period, the two groups would come together as a single labor force.

The last promise was, to symbolize their status as true citizens, each slave would be taken to engage in the Rite of Till at the Temple of Kings. In two days time, a party of Cathartrans would lead half the slaves to conduct the ritual while the rest would attend the morning after. This latter group would remain in Cathartra to commence preparations as they awaited the others’ return. Once these terms were announced, the slaves released the families and took camp in the valerian fields while the Council called the soldiers in for the night.

It was noon when the first party marched onto the boats. Cries from the infants had been audible since they left, resounding through the ranks and vexing the Cathartrans’ ears the further they traveled. They docked on the opposite shore and continued on through the Fifteen Fields. Soon the slaves began to sing songs of torment and sorrow. At first, but a single child recited the tunes, though, within the hour, the entire party had joined, rousing a powerful chorus that resounded through the land. Though they spoke in tongues foreign to the Cathartrans, the emotions touched deep within their marrow.

The vocals continued as they entered Brown’s Forest at evening’s dawn, sentiments still rocking like great, granite swings from the gods. From there, the Temple would not be far. As they trudged forward, the grass and trees grew thick and tangled, blocking sunlight from their struggling forms. It didn’t take long for the singing to diminish and eventually die within the darkness, giving once more to the cries of infants.

The Temple was dilapidated, and overrun with vines and other forms of wildlife. A screech sounded in the distance as an unrelenting stench sauntered about. The Cathartrans looked to the building with a familiar air while the slaves gaped with mixed emotions. Even the children fell silent upon arrival. The Cathartrans led them inside, the lone source of light now the torches in hand. Hordes of cobwebs were scattered about the place, all coated in a clean sheet of dust, including the aged, yet dominant obelisk at the center. It reached near the very top of the Temple, inscribed with pre-Cathartran text.

The Cathartrans rested their torches upon bronze sconces as the slaves gathered around the obelisk, vying for proper views. The eldest of the negotiators shuffled to the front and roamed once around the pillar, sliding his fingers across the text in a slow, gentle stroke, pondering as if caught in a profound, yet forgotten memory. He crouched to examine the base, then rose and whispered in a vernacular unrecognizable to anyone. It was as he did this the Cathartrans unsheathed their swords.

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

Evidence was taken of their deed as a warning for those left in Cathartra; menial objects such as clothing, necklaces, and bracelets. Some then graduated to thieving sections of the slaves themselves. Eyes, scalps, tongues — even severed legs of the children. The survivors gathered their torches and trudged out of the Temple. The return journey through the Forest was cruel and arduous on account of their labor and the blood-soaked robes holding them down.

When they maneuvered their way into the Fields, there was but a single ray of sunshine glistening over the horizon. The last image one could see as it disappeared and gave way to night was that of their demented figures, united in a call to slaughter. Crimson shapes in the dark. Hellish protectors of their way of life. They stepped forward and left the Forest behind them, marching backward through the night. On toward Cathartra, the glorious polis they loved without condition.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dylan Thomas Lewis was born on April 8th, 1997 in Kirksville, Missouri. He graduated from Central Methodist University in May of 2019 after serving as co-editor of Inscape Magazine for two years. He writes short stories, screenplays, and music; and is the guitarist for Electronic Rock band Secular Era.

Book Review: Cursed by Richard Schiver

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For:  Those who enjoy small-town horror stories and mysteries.

Content warning: Suicide, child abuse, child abduction, addiction, prostitution, murder, hanging.

In Cursed by Richard Schiver, Susan and her daughter are trying to rebuild their lives after her husband’s death. His absence has left them alone and grasping for a new sense of normal despite their grief. Local contractor and Susan’s possibly new guy, Eric, wants to be part of their world, but can he?

Meanwhile, little kids are being drawn away from their homes by a ghost girl and a supposed witch. This is a curse that’s been infecting the small community of Porter Mines for decades. They are led to a pond and can fall into the pond or into crevices and tunnels that are around it.

Susan’s daughter, Christine, is drawn away and her bunny–that was a last gift from her deceased father–falls into a crevice. Thankfully, Christine is saved by her mom and Eric, but the bunny is lost in the crevice. The Porter Mines witch has struck again!

As the missing children count goes up, the sheriff strives to investigate. The sheriff was just a rookie when the first disappearances happened 30 years ago and he’s been ruminating over them ever since, but now it’s happening again. He hopes he can stop it this time. But when a guy from town returns to exact revenge on those who he feels wronged him, will he mess up the investigation by killing the sheriff? Or is he involved in the decades-long curse?

Although the witch is blamed, it seems pretty clear that she is not what is taking the kids, but who is? Is it a human drawn to the allure of children and reenacting a supposed urban legend? Or is it something supernatural? And when Christine disappears again, the time clock speeds up for Susan and Eric to find her and put an end to this crazy curse.

This novel was a fun read. It unwinds slowly and gives you pieces of different stories and layers of information that have you always wondering if the villain is a supernatural or a human monster. I enjoyed the different storylines and felt like even though we were getting closer and closer to the truth, the other storylines had just as much importance to the tale as the main thread of child abduction. 

Although the main character is Susan, I felt also drawn into the lives of the sheriff and the poor little girl (Twila) who had to put up with an addicted mother. One strange thing that I don’t know was intentional was the similarities between the characters. Although Susan and Twila never really interact, their backgrounds are so similar, it feels like the author is showing us an unspoken camaraderie they carry for one another. Can the abused sense the abused, even without saying a word? Are we seeing a child and then a grown-up version of the same child? Or perhaps the author is showing us that everyone–from the little school girl to the sheriff–have troubles in their lives that are never spoken of, that they are not proud of, that haunt them…and we are all not so different after all. You’ll have to read the book to discover which message he is trying to convey.

This is a great book for readers who enjoy small-town horror like Stephen King’s The Storm of the Century or Koontz’s Phantoms and is available at Amazon.com.

Book Review: Daughters of Darkness II

 

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For: Readers who enjoy horror stories written by women, religious conspiracy, spirits, and demon possession.

Content warning: infant death, hate crime, murder, abuse

Daughters of Darkness II is a set of horror stories by women, curated by two awesome horror writers themselves, Stephanie Ellis and Alyson Faye.

My favorite of these stories is by Lynn Love called, “A Light in the Darkness.” Occupying a large part of the middle of this volume, it takes place in three parts during three different parts of a young girl’s life. Starting out as a melancholy tale about her mother losing multiple children, the story transforms into a story about an evil spirit and the love between a sister and brother. Patricia is a girl who isn’t quite sure of her purpose until she is told a secret hidden in the family Bible. This story is fabulously crafted and left secrets that even I didn’t pick up until the end. It’s got a dark, dismal sort of atmosphere from the start leads the reader on a beautiful road of destiny. Just as I thought I knew what was going on, something else unraveled, leading me down another path. The ending went so fast, I kept looking for more to read! I supremely enjoyed this tale and the story is intriguing enough to launch a series. It very much reminded me of Anne Rice’s Lasher books.

Another great tale is “Hummingbird” by T.C. Parker. Told in two parts, this will excite anyone who likes stories about cults, religious conspiracy, or fanatical religious groups. Although I’ll give a warning, it may be triggering for members of the LGBTQ community, especially if you have ever been treated unkindly by a fanatical religion or members of a church group. Jodie is a lesbian and one of Connor’s moms. A religious group is picketing Connor’s school, warning of the dangers of families that don’t have the cookie-cutter mom and dad they believe is God’s gold standard. As a pretty meek and kind gal, Jodie tries to ignore the madness, but when she’s forced into the drama by one of the more aggressive church members, she has no choice but to become involved. Without support from her partner, she turns to a fellow mom who has a secret of her own. In part two, we get a bigger look into the religious side of things and man…I wouldn’t spoil the reveal for all the world.

If you’re looking for an anthology with longer stories by some great women horror writers, this should be right up your alley.

Free Fiction: The Surgeon of the Forest Floor by Ronnie L. Roberts II

A hike would clear his mind. 

The early Spring air released a bearable yet unsettling frigid feel as the strong breeze swept across the forest floor. Birds chatted in singsong tones while dead leaves shattered under Edward Canty’s worn-out boots. About a mile in and off the trail a clearing of trees revealed stumps in a large but otherwise empty plain. 

One tree remained.

The leaves on the tree were thin crepe sheet cuts, yet to wander off from the summer scorch. The tree, shorter than the surrounding others, remained dead, its leaves whistling and crackling, mimicking the sound of a smooth waterfall. The colors stuck out against the greenery beginning to emerge bottom-up throughout the forest. A short step ladder was flipped open and hidden behind its trunk. Edward walked off the trail through glossy spider webs and outstretched branches. The tree grabbed his attention, its branches flailing wondrously, almost calling to him. 

Scrap piles of rope collected in a scattered pattern underneath the tree. Its base was beginning to rot. The branches reached out just over Edward’s head as he stood in awe and reached for a leaf. He rubbed its surface between his index finger and thumb, carefully caressing it back and forth. 

The leaf was a crispy leather, rough like tree bark, and in some spots as smooth as a green leaf trading his touch with an oily substance sticking to his fingers. Various shades of leaves covered the branches of the tree. Some were light brown, dark brown, and multiple shades of tan. The leaves were tied to the tips of the branches secured by small ties of rope. The leaves danced with the force of the wind, singing in harmony with the crunch of death surrounding it. 

He placed the ladder close enough to reach one particular leaf. He extended his arm for the thicker and heavier one that was causing the tip of the branch to sag. A dark red liquid formed a droplet at the bottom edge. Edward pressed his trembling fingers on the leaf, instantly pulling them back. He studied the liquid. 

Stepping down the ladder, he wiped his hand on the cool forest floor. A distinct rust smell rushed up his nose. The wind continued to cut through the dead tree limbs, branches, and leaves, heaving them into a chiming whirlwind. Edward forced himself closer. One of the leaves had a design on it done in faded black ink. It was stretched and distorted. A tribal design, one you’d pick off the wall at a tattoo parlor. 

The wind died as Edward quickly backed down the ladder and turned around to make his way out of the forest. A thick tree stood straight ahead off the trail, hosting an entanglement of vines twirling themselves up and around its thick trunk. Edward came to a full stop.

A face peeked out from behind it.

It was missing an eye. It’s good one stared at him for a second. Its half-smile crept from behind its half-sewn mouth fastened with thick black string. Its long, white, greasy hair fell down like wet dangling seaweed. The face was neither male nor female. It was pale and eel-like, missing pigments of color riddled with gray splotches.  A fishbone of an arm emerged from behind the tree. It gripped a long scalpel.

Edward’s heart rate soared. The sun hovered high above the forest, warming the back of his head, pushing down on his chest. The face behind the thick tree swiveled like a snakehead towards the trail. The fishbone arms fully emerged pulling the rest of the thin-wiry frame along with it. A hiss spit from behind its sewn-shut lips. 

The thin cable-like limbs and pointed extremities unfolded from the body like a Swiss army knife, each yielding a different shape and jagged edge. The face smiled harder, ripping some of the stitches as a drool of blood crawled down the chin. 

“It bleeds,” The thing said, whispering, smiling, twisting, and turning. It moved like a glitch. Its head seemed to misbehave pulling in the opposite direction of its sharp and pointed body. 

The pale rail-thin figure of a human now stood still. Its motionless arms pulsed and flexed bright blue veins. The half-smile sagged to a frown. A drop of blood flowed from its missing eye.

The creature blinked and lifted his frown to a slight half-smile again. The thin slits on each side of its head pulsated. Its mouth peeled open releasing a mist of exploding energy. 

“Skin,” the thing said. Overweight and beyond petrified, Edward grasped at his meaty chest and released a shriek of pain. The thing studied him, scanning his body for the best cuts, the most robust slabs, the finest decorations for his next tree. Edward collapsed face-first on the dirt path. 

Years of food abuse and cigarettes mixed with sheer terror left him drooling and disordered on the forest floor. 

The thing glitched wildly over to his body, its legs striking the path like wild bolts of lightning. Edward silently endured the sting and pressure that came down on him. First, his forearms, and next his thighs. Then he could feel the agonizing pressure in his back. The thing flipped him over, tearing his shirt open with the razor-sharp scalpel. His stomach ballooned, pushing out and up at the thing. It was smooth and plump. After a few concentrated cuts and drags, the thing had what it wanted. It took only a few minutes for Edward to drop the weight his doctor had pressured him to lose for so long. 

He was now well over his goal. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

R.L. Roberts II lives with his wife and two kids in Southern Maryland. He enjoys life in general! Mondays are better than Fridays and thinking outside the box is the key to happiness. Accept what is and keep moving forward. https://www.instagram.com/rl_roberts2/

Book Review: Midnight in the Chapel of Love by Matthew R. Davis

Reviewed by Emerian Rich

For: Readers who enjoy real-life mysteries, music, and self-discovery. This is a slow-burn read with an amazing payoff.

Content warning: sexual content, drug use, some murder-spree description.

Jonny Trotter has spent the last fifteen years running from tragic memories of the country town where he grew up but the black envelopes pushed under his door won’t let him forget, and now that his father has died, he can run no more. Before he can move on to a future with his girlfriend, Jonny must first face the terrible truth of his past and if he can’t bring it out into the light at last, it might just pull him and everything he loves down into the dark, forever.

Midnight in the Chapel of Love is a slow-burn novel with an interesting payoff in the end. I wouldn’t call this a horror novel per se. It’s more of a mystery with horrifyingly dark paths. During a series of reveals, the reader will try to piece together all the strands of an intricate puzzle. Some lead to dangerous truths and others lead down broken routes with no way out.

Beginning with a glimpse into the past with a Natural Born Killers sort of murder spree, the story quickly switches focus to Jonno, an Aussie man going back to his hometown to attend his father’s funeral. Like most, he’s dealing with ghosts of his past in a town with enemies, friends, and lovers. But as the story weaves on, the reader gets a feeling maybe his secrets are a bit more dangerous than the average homecoming. Through his return home and a series of flashbacks to his youth, the love story between Jonno and his high school girlfriend, Jessica, unfolds as well as a possibly magical cave, the legend of a toxic love affair, envelopes from the grave, and haunted visions.

The love story between Jonno and Jessica is intoxicating. I’ll be honest, I am not a fan of the Natural Born Killers trope, so the first part could have killed it for me right there (no pun intended). I’m glad I stuck with this book long enough to get to Jonno and allow his story to grab me. There is a lot more to Jonno’s story than the love affair, but it’s integral and wild and really pulled me into the story.

Although the story centers on Jonno, it also unwinds a mystery town folk have been wondering about for years. Where is the Chapel? Does it really exist? Does it really test true love?  Has anyone lived to tell the truth about it? Or is it a death trap waiting to part lovers forever?

Is Jonno broken because of the strange occurrence that caused him to flee in the first place? Or did it start younger, with the death of his mom? What do his visions of a bloodthirsty Bonnie and Clyde have to do with his truth and will going home complete him or rip him to shreds?

While I enjoyed the book and found the ending quite something I wasn’t expecting, it is a slow burn and may not appeal to everyone. Be prepared for the long haul, as it unfolds in such a way that you’ll be in a quandary for much of the read. But if you like snapshots in time (late 90s) and alternative/new wave music (there’s a soundtrack in the back that’s to die for) you will enjoy living vicariously through the out-of-control, and uninhabited mind of Jessica. And if you like Jonno (or just like watching someone’s life implode) you’ll become invested pretty quickly.

Free Fiction : Hallowed Cliff By Dylan Thomas Lewis

The archway stood firm under the shroud of night, its heart spelled in dripping letters: Hallowed Cliff Cemetery. He could still discern the entrance atop the sodden hill despite the starless sky, through the rain and sweeping winds. The image had been blistered into his unconscious. He marched on through the marshy soil as if he could rid himself of it by way of physical exertion, or perhaps cleanse his spirit with heaven’s baptismal waters. He dared not stop for fear of sinking through the earth and residing himself to an unceremonious yet eternal tomb. Though the world would not make it easy. Several times he lost his footing and slid upon the mud before slamming the shovel head into the ground and forcing himself up, carrying on with stubborn consternation. 

He wiped the muck on his pants as he passed under the arch and trudged forward among the aisles. Over the fresh and dying roses, the pink and purple larkspurs. Past endless processions of graves. Stones of granite. Stones of marble. Sandstone and slate. Some brandishing themselves to the eye, almost arrogant in their novelty. Others having been neglected for centuries, their texts gone as if washed away by Mother Nature for some unutterable slight against her. He eyed the years as he went, capricious, interchangeable; like philosophical tauntings from beyond, calling to him, demanding he decipher their unanswerable ponderings. 

The shovel struck into the ground as he removed a pewter flask from the inside of his shirt, then took a swig and stepped to the grave before him. He looked upon the head with bloodshot eyes, compelled to take in the marking over and over again by the light of Zeus and Selene; inconstant; uncertain. 

Eva Meridian Mara

February 21st, 1981 — July 8th, 2021

A Mother 

A Friend

A Person

Rest in Peace

Could’ve thought of better. 

He drank, then replaced the flask and stepped to the grave opposite. He unbuckled his belt and pissed into the sloshy soil. 

“Apologies, miss — errr — mister.”

He flicked his member clean and redid the front of his jeans, then took the shovel in hand and returned to the opposite grave. With a last look at the stone, he stabbed the shovelhead into the mud and lifted a mound of green and black muck from the earth, tossing it to the side and splattering little balls on the opposing marker. Shovelful after shovelful. Foot after foot. He spent an hour laboring deeper and deeper into the earth, stopping at several points to pour water from his shoes. Finally, he was done, breath unsteady, a salty sweat amongst the rain on his brow. 

A great hole sat before him, four by eight in dimension with a depth of six feet, the lid of a dark red casket peeking out the bottom. He lowered himself in and dug along the side until he found the latch. A light hiss escaped as he undid it, like a snake warning him from its burrow. It drew his thoughts toward the darkness within. Toward the all-knowing nothing entrapping the poor soul inside. It struck him with what he felt was an unnatural reverence. A connection and understanding unique to him and him alone. 

He’d always found an allure to such things. A morbid, yet uncompromising curiousness for the shadows — of both sight and mind. For the implications they presented. The universal and contradictory lessons that fed him without frame left him frozen in place, unable to comprehend what lay before him, regardless of what his conscious mind would admit. The horror. The humor. The eternal void just below the surface of all. 

He lifted the lid by a foot and shined his phone inside. He saw an arm veiled by a wispy white dress, stiff and pale like a cheap manikin. Spitting onto the earth wall opposite, he slid his phone in and let the lid drop, removing the flask and downing what remained. He washed what mud he could from his hands, limbs, and torso, then rubbed his hands across his face and put his head back to run them through his hair. With a final breath, he gave a glance toward the waning moon in the east and crawled inside.

He set the still shining phone on the cadaver’s stomach and burrowed his way next to it, snuggling close with his arm under the neck. His hands grasped the rigor, the penetrating cold. His eyes traced up and down the ghostly vessel. He imagined her origins, physical and ethereal. Tried to unweave the mysteries and intricacies of her being as well as those who’ve come before and will come long after. The marks of his existence and what it all amounted to. The incalculable sum rendered indistinguishable from its antecedents. 

Rubbing his fingers across her cheek, he stared at the unflinching eyelids, decorated with red and black eyeshadow. At the plush raven hair, the light reflecting off it like stars in the vacuum of space, ever-expanding, shifting further and further away. His body began to shake. He smashed his eyes shut and swallowed the snot creeping down the back of his throat. Tears of regret leaked onto his cheeks. A great breath entered his lungs and returned as if unsure of the vitality of its own purpose. 

He reopened his gaze to the eyelids. He reached with trembling hands and placed them directly under. He moved to lift the lids from their perch, but shot back upon touch, reeling as if scorched by some invisible spark. His head hung, he cried harder than he’d ever done. His eyes, half drowned in tears, stared past the light into the darkness and beyond. It stared back. He clutched the body close, burying his head into the bosom as his weeps filled the tomb, echoing back into his shattered sense of self. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Dylan Thomas Lewis was born in Kirksville, Missouri. He graduated from Central Methodist University after serving as co-editor of Inscape magazine for two years. He writes short stories, screenplays, and music; and is the guitarist for the Electronic Rock band Secular Era.

Free Fiction : Everything Moved Two Inches by HeavyRadio

The discovery was first made on June 2nd, 2015 by a man named Jaylen Walker, a man plagued with severe OCD. According to him, he noticed the change when the steps to get from his house to the nearby gas station were slightly less than the usual 1,374. Alarmed by this since Jaylen always made sure to retrace his steps. He did so twenty more times until he was positive that it now took 1,373 steps. After police were called into the gas station to perform a wellness check on the man, Jaylen insisted that the city check their census records and that once they did they would see he was correct. One week later, after receiving a hundred calls reporting similar circumstances in their neighborhoods, the city planner Rachel Hennley decided to look into the rumors in order to put the public’s mind at ease. However once doing so, Mrs. Hennely was floored to find that the city did indeed move two inches south since 2012.

Thinking that this could be a result of a major water line rupturing, a small crew was tasked to investigate the source of the movement. Led by Mrs. Hennely, it would take nearly a week for the crews to find anything out of the ordinary. Then on June 16th, one of the contractors named Jackson Lee found a small fissure roughly 2 inches in size roughly a half mile from the initial sighting. It is reported that once Mr.Lee had found the fissure, he had shined his flashlight down the fissure. We do not know this for sure, as shortly after finding the source, Mr.Lee would become inconsolable. After several days, he finally was able to say a single sentence.

“Close… the… gap…”

Unfortunately, Mr.Lee would go on to commit suicide after being released from the hospital. 

Curious as to what had made Mr.Lee so distraught, Rachel Hennely and local geology professor Dr.Neil Gallaghar decided to investigate the fissure further. Once down there, they discovered that the fissure had separated by over a foot since Mr. Lee’s report. Wanting to investigate further, Rachel decided to repel down into the fissure while reporting everything she saw to Dr. Gallagher. As she descended, she noted that the fissure seemed to go down almost indefinitely and would become incredibly spacious. After she reached the end of her rope, Rachel reported that she could no longer see the walls of the fissure and that she was above a massive open space. After pulling out her camera and taking several photos, a scream could be heard echoing from the chasm. Quickly looking at his computer, Dr.Gallagher’s eyes widened. It was a massive, perfectly symmetrical face. He scrolled to the next photo, but before he could look at it, his walkie-talkie exploded with sound.

“IT JUST BLINKED”

He looked back at his computer and screamed. The face was now staring directly at him, and to his horror began to smile. 

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HeavyRadio is a horror writer out of Boston. Currently, in a Master’s program,

I write all my stories in my free time.

I am most inspired by Clive Barker, H.P Lovecraft, and Stephen King.

Free Fiction : Death Job Cover Letter by Bob Gielow

 

November 19, 2021

Lord Hades, God of Death

4 Everlasting Ave

Camden NJ  08104

Dear Lord Hades,

Please accept this cover letter and accompanying resume as my application to become Intern for the Assistant to Death, North America – Region 14.  I learned of this position from a posting I found online at HellJobs.com.  

In addition to being dead myself (obviously), I have significant experience caring for and supporting those who are dying.  After earning a Master’s Degree in gerontological nursing, I spent 18 years offering palliative and hospice care to dying patients at three different homes for the elderly.  At Visiting Angels Senior Home Care in Las Vegas, I was selected “Caring Nurse of the Month,” by staff and families, eight times.  At Elder Care of Bemidji, Minnesota, I was selected to train and lead a group of between 15 and 22 hospice volunteers who spent countless hours with our patients and their families.  At Compassionate Care Senior Services in Conway, South Carolina, I was asked by the Director to inform families whenever their loved one died because I “had such a good rapport with families and always knew the right thing to say that would bring them comfort.”  

Although the job description for this Intern position said very little about the qualities for which you are looking, I believe the work in which you are engaged requires a calm demeanor (to help avoid any hysteria from the pre-dead), a facility with language (to clearly explain what is happening), a confident decision-maker (to act, when necessary, without having to always check in with a supervisor), and an ability to look “death in the eye” (if you don’t mind my using this phrase).  I believe that I possess all of the qualities listed above .  

Although it may or may not be smart for me to admit this, I feel I should acknowledge that I also have experience moving the death process along more quickly than would have been the case otherwise.  As you may know if you can access my life records, I was occasionally suspected but never charged by law enforcement for helping terminally ill patients “slip away” more quickly than they might have otherwise.  Over many years of practice, I became adept at applying a combination of increased pain medication (usually Darvon or Demerol) and/or holding my hands/fingers over the person’s mouth and nose to kill folks who were more than ready for their suffering to end.  If an Intern for the Assistant to Death, North America – Region 14 needs to periodically expedite the death process for a human, which I assume will occur for a variety of reasons, then I am your gal.  

Lastly, I think I am qualified for this work because of my recent death experience.  When I tested positive for COVID-19, at home last week, I was told by my doctor to not come into their offices or visit the Emergency Room unless I “was having difficulty breathing.”  I was breathing OK at the time, but respiratory symptoms escalated very quickly overnight.  I woke before dawn the next morning coughing and sputtering, and remembered that my phone was charging downstairs.  I had given up a phone landline several years ago and was trying to not look at my phone screen right before bed or right when I woke up.  Those decisions became fatal when I started coughing halfway down the stairs and fell down so hard I was knocked out.  I must have broken several bones because when I awoke, I could not move my body enough to reach my cell phone.  At one point, my cat Skittles just looked at me lying there and walked away.  I eventually died in pain, not being able to breathe properly, and feeling very alone.  If I am able to, as Intern for the Assistant to Death, I’d like to bring some amount of comfort to those who are experiencing death without any support from a living human.  

Thank you for considering my candidacy for this position.  I look forward to hearing back from you and the hiring committee.  

 

Claire Mortja

claire.mortja@hellmail.com 

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A college administrator by day, Bob Gielow (he/him) spins tales in formats we all use when communicating with each other: text messages, emails, fictional Wikipedia posts, and diary entries all allow him to be clinical and thorough in describing his characters, their thinking and actions … without diminishing his ability to explore the resulting human emotions. Bob utilizes these epistolary styles, and others, to tell tales that frequently explore the most common of human experiences, death.  https://twitter.com/bob_gielow

Author Interview with Nick Roberts

What is your name and what are you known for? 

My name is Nick Roberts, and I’m known for my novels, The Exorcist’s House and Anathema. I’ve also had several short stories featured in anthologies from Sinister Smile Press, J. Ellington Ashton Press, and Dead Sea Press and literary publications such as The Fiction Pool, The Blue Mountain Review, Falling Star Magazine, Stonecrop Magazine, and Haunted MTL.

Tell us about one of your works and why we should read it.

My novel, The Exorcist’s House, was released by Crystal Lake Publishing in May 2022 and is available now in paperback, hardback, Kindle/KU, and Audible. It has since become Crystal Lake Publishing’s best-selling novel to date. Here is the official synopsis: 

“In the summer of 1994, psychologist Daniel Hill buys a rustic farmhouse nestled in the rolling hills of West Virginia.

“Along with his wife and teenage daughter, the family uproots their lives in Ohio and moves south. They are initially seduced by the natural beauty of the country setting. That soon changes when they discover a hidden room in the basement with a well, boarded shut and adorned with crucifixes.

“Local legends about the previous owner being an exorcist come to light, but by then, all Hell has broken loose.

“This 1990s horror novel is perfect for fans of family thriller books, stories of demonic possession, exorcism fiction, the occult, or thrillers like The Exorcist, A Head Full of Ghosts, and The Amityville Horror.”

What places or things inspire your writing?

Both of my novels take place in West Virginia, and many of my short stories do as well. It’s the perfect setting for a spooky situation. The terrain is so versatile; there are cities, suburbs, rolling hills, woodland areas, and much more. I prefer my horror to be remote, so I veer toward the rural countryside. 

What music do you listen to while creating?

I live with my wife, two young kids, and a bunch of animals. Noise-canceling AirPods are essential. Any music with lyrics distracts me, so I tend to listen to classical music, instrumentals, and movie scores. I’m currently listening to the soundtrack to Requiem for a Dream if that gives you any indication about the tone of my next novel. 

What is your favorite horror aesthetic? 

I love creepy chamber pieces. Give me a cabin in the woods or an abandoned mental institution or a haunted hotel room. As far as films go, I love what Jason Blum and James Wan are doing. Movies like The Conjuring, Sinister, Paranormal Activity, Insidious, and Saw are all brilliantly inventive in their minimalism. Both of my novels have one major setting for the most part. I love to settle into one location and get cozy. 

Who is your favorite horror icon?

Leatherface. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is a perfect film and has the most shocking introduction to the big baddie. When Leatherface jerks open that sliding metal door and thwacks a dude on the head with the mallet sending him into violent spasms gets me every time. The icing on the violent cake is when he drags the body in, slams the door, and that GONNNNG sound effect kicks in. I love his different ideations throughout the years, but the central concept of a human face for a mask and a chainsaw is the definition of iconic. 

What was the scariest thing you’ve witnessed?

When I was around twelve years old, I watched The Exorcist for the first time. It traumatized me, of course, but the real horror happened a few nights later. 

I have twin sisters who had seizures when they were younger. One night, I woke up to use the restroom. I was creeping down the hallway when I heard a bed shaking. I looked into my sisters’ bedroom and they were each in their beds violently spasming in unison. It was Regan MacNeil times two, and I’ve never fully recovered from it. 

If invited to dinner with your favorite (living or dead) horror creator, who would it be and what would you bring?

Jordan Peele. Not only is he a brilliant director, but he’s a horror fanboy. It would be fantastic to discuss his films, and geek out over classic horror movies. I would bring Cuban cigars. I have no idea if he likes them but puffing on a stogie and going on deep dives into obscure horror subgenres is my fantasy.

What’s a horror gem you think most horror addicts don’t know about? (book, movie, musician?)

The Telltale Lilac Bush and Other West Virginia Ghost Tales by Ruth Ann Musick is a childhood favorite of mine. It’s packed full of spooky stories that not only showcase the ghostly side of West Virginia, but it also contains some haunting illustrations. 

Have you ever been haunted or seen a ghost?

I’ve never witnessed anything paranormal. I’m a skeptic, but I want to believe. 

What are some books that you feel should be in the library of every horror addict?

The following books should be in the library of every horror addict:

The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

The Shining by Stephen King

The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe by Edgar Allan Poe

Books of Blood by Clive Barker

What are you working on now? 

I’m currently working on my third novel. It has nothing to do with the previous two, but it is similar in tone and structure. Although I can’t reveal much about the plot at this point, I will say that it is supernatural horror that I know will make readers lock their doors at night.

Where can readers find your work? (URL #1 place for them to go.)

You can follow my future exploits and purchase signed copies of my books at www.nickrobertsauthor.com.

I’m also on the following social media platforms: Facebook @spookywv, Twitter @nroberts9859, Instagram @spookywv, and TikTok @spookywv.

Free Halloween Fiction : Circle of Trust By Ravyn Storm

“Jamie…Jamie, if you are present, please, give us a sign…we miss you so much!” My best friend, Becca said, circling the Planchette around the Quiji board.

“Yes, girl, we miss you, queen. Show us a sign!!!” My other BFF, Robert chimed in, eyes closed.

I grinned. I was there. It was Saturday night and Halloween. The one night a spirit or entity could choose to walk and be “among the living”. This being my first Halloween on the other side, I was only recently deceased…I was murdered in June. However, the actual ruling on my death was “accidental overdose”.

My friends Becca (cellist, salutatorian), Robert (drum major, top-ten of our class, and “totally gay”), were joined by Demarcus (my once boyfriend, football captain) and Heather (track teammate of mine, fellow cheerleader, honor student, and current girlfriend to Demarcus). In life, I bridged the social gap between Jamie and Robert, and Heather and Demarcus. We were all in the same honor courses at our prestigious high school. Other than that, our group was a two-by-two sandwich with me in the middle.

My “Jamie Sandwich” posse’ was gathered in Heather’s luxurious bedroom. Honestly, her room was similar to a studio apartment. Her parents were wealthy and owned multiple properties in Texas, Florida, and New York. Heather’s room featured a walk-in closet large to house her expansive wardrobe full of everything from Lululemon to Gucci, as well as a small refrigerator (where she hid vodka in water bottles), and a bottle caddy cradling a few bottles of red wine. She had a perfectly made queen sized bed with Vera Wang bedding, a 50inch flat screen smart TV (complete with every streaming service available to mankind), and a small, round table with four cushioned high-back chairs around it.

My friends each occupied a seat at the candle-lit table with their glasses of wine. Each had a hand on the Planchette of the Quiji board. However, Becca would be the voice in charge of asking the questions. Robert was to Becca’s left, Demarcus on her right, with Heather directly in front of Becca. Perfect set-up.

Invisible, I stood between Becca and Demarcus. I began to move the Planchette.

                 H. I. G. U. Y. S.

Robert’s eyes widened as he wrote down the letters. “Hi, guys!” he exclaimed to our friends.

Following proper procedure like always, Becca asked, “Is this you, Jamie???”

I moved the Planchette, “Yes”.

“Stop moving the thing, Robert!” Heather demanded.

“Child, that is NOT me. I do not mess with spirits,” Robert defended, peeking his eyes in her direction.

Heather cut her eyes over to “her boyfriend” Demarcus.

“Babe, don’t even look at me. You know where my hands like to go,” Demarcus said as his non-Planchette hand rubbed Staci’s thigh under the table headed ever so slightly north.

I rolled my eyes. I bit my lip, resisting the urge to grab Demarcus’s “tool” and twist until it came off. I had to be patient. This was making my plan anxiously all the easier.

“Shhhh…” Becca scolded, her eyes remained closed, but she was clearly annoyed by Demarcus’s comment. “Jamie, if this is you, what is the name of your dog?”

“Toby.” I spelled.

“Ooohhhh…” Robert said excitedly, realizing it was me. Robert had a tendency to be dramatic and emotional, I adored him for it. He wore his heart on his sleeve and always spoke his mind.

“Jamie, were you unhappy?” Becca asked with a crack in her voice. I knew where her anxiety originated. There was speculation my “overdose” was a suicide. Deeply empathetic, Becca would never forgive herself if she missed the warning signs.

“No.” I pointed the Planchette. I wanted to reveal myself to her. Give her a hug. She was struggling more than the others without me. But, I had to wait. Wait for the right moment to exact my revenge.

“Why would you overdose, Jamie? It was so scary to watch you die and I will never get over it,” Heather said with fake sadness. She had no idea. I was going to make sure she would never “get over it”.

I started to spell, “F. U. C. K. Y. O. U.”

Robert, writing down the letters, stopped. “Why would she say that to you, Heather?” He asked slowly, staring at the paper, lifting his glaze to her.

Demarcus was now staring at Heather with morbid curiosity. This was playing out perfectly.

“I-I-I don’t know. I loved you, Jamie!” Heather stated, with a wide-eyed look. By now, all eyes were on Heather, just as she preferred. She was always an attention whore.

“We were best friends, since Ms. Gold’s third-grade class. I held your hand as you died! I was there…I was there!” Heather exclaimed with fake tears. She always was such a great actress. Too bad, she’d never get to use her talents after tonight.

“Tell them.” I spelled out. I was angry. Still cloaked in chosen invisibility, I threw Robert’s glass of red wine onto the carpet. Oh well. This was going down. And I was going to enjoy it.

Robert gasped as the glass flew past him, Demarcus’s eyes widened.

“Tell us what, Heather?” Becca demanded, tears in her eyes.

“This isn’t funny!” Heather screamed.

“Did you do something, Heather?” Demarcus withdrew his non-Planchette hand away from her.

“Bitch,” I spelled, moving the Planchette fast with scary speed. I was burning with anger. I could feel my anger translating into the unworldly strength of the undead. It was almost time.

They would find Fentanyl in Heather’s room. She used it to drug me. Slipped it in my vodka soda during our “girl’s night” after summer cheer practice that fateful night. She would later tell authorities I was depressed and dealing with too much stress, but “had no idea I was taking drugs”.  Heather was full of shit.

Heather had been there when I passed out. There, when I could not be revived. There when I died. She called 911 only after she was positive I was dead. She wanted me out of her way. With me gone, she could have cheer captain, track captain, an easy-made route to any college since her “bestie” died (and her parents could afford any school), but most of all, she wanted Demarcus.

That’s it, it was time to reveal myself. Since the Quiji board was actually unnecessary on Halloween to conjure spirits, I started by violently flipping the board and Planchette off the circle table. It all landed with a deafening thud on the hardwood floor. Next, I wanted a more dramatic entrance. I had the candles shoot their flames up to the extended ceiling of Heather’s massive room. As the flames disappeared, and the candles were once again lit in a more normal manner, I appeared.

“Hi, guys,” I said. Then, turning to Heather, my eyes filled with malice, “Hey, bitch”, I said with stone-cold hatred for my murderer, arching my left eyebrow, I said, “I know.” I gave a slight nod toward her accompanied by a little smirking giggle.

Everyone gasped. Becca grabbed Robert’s hand as tears streamed down her face. I felt bad for the next part, but I did what I had to do. With all the invisible force of the undead, I shoved Jamie and Robert back into Heather’s expansive closet slamming the French double doors behind them. I telepathically threw one of the table’s large chairs at the door, locking them inside. They tried in vain to open the doors.

I turned my attention to a now petrified and crying Demarcus and Heather.

“Jamie, baby, what are you doing?” Demarcus stammered. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because she took my life…and now I am taking it back,” I said, with a strange calmness to my tone.

As if on cue, Demarcus started to fall to his knees. His breathing was heavy as he fought to stay upright and awake. And then, just as I had, he succumbed to the lethal amount of Fentanyl placed in his drink.

Heather knelt down beside his body, screaming his name. Demarcus and I would be reunited in death. I grinned a small, evil grin of satisfaction.

We could hear Robert talking to a 911 operator on his cell phone while locked in the closet. Excellent, I thought.

“Familiar sight, huh, Heather?” I calmly inquired.

“Go to hell!” Heather screamed.

“Awe, where do you think I’ve been?” I chuckled, then continued, “By the way, the cops will find your stash of drugs. You might want to get your story straight. I don’t think they’ll believe you twice.”

“So? I’ll tell them-“ Heather started.

“Tell them what, Heather?! Tell them your dead friend came from beyond the grave and murdered your boyfriend while you happen to have massive amounts of Fentanyl in your bedroom? While Robert and Becca will both testify that you murdered us both? Try it.” I invited her.

“Fuck you!” Heather cried in a scream.

I laughed at her. We could hear the sounds of sirens coming closer. I retreated back to my deadly world, out of sight.

A year later, Becca and Robert along with their Quiji board were in Robert’s room sitting on the floor.

Becca, circling the board with the Planchette, began, “Are there any spirits in this room?”

Demarcus and I chuckled as we held hands. With my free hand, I moved the Planchette to “Yes”.

Robert sucked in air and slowly let it out. He said, “Jamie, girl, you know I’ve been in therapy twice a week over your dead ass…but damn, I hope this is you.”

Becca, her eyes closed, giggled.

“LOL. Hi, guys,” I spelled.

We had a good time, the four of us. Before the end of the night, I had another visit to make.

I found myself in Heather’s new, much smaller room. She was now a permanent resident in the Psych Ward of the State Penitentiary. Even daddy’s money could not save her. You know her as “The Fentanyl Killer”. I simply refer to her as “My Bitch”.

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Ravyn Storm is a lifelong reader and avid horror fan, however, growing up in a small town in the piney woods of East Texas, she found herself feeling strange, unusual, and never fit in with the locals. After attending college, Ravyn became a schoolteacher. In 2017, she left teaching to pursue a career in personal training and competed as a national-level bodybuilder. However, her love of the horror genre never changed. Ravyn resides in Dallas, Texas with her husband and two fur babies, Oscar and Louis.

IG Account- Ravyn_Storm

A Halloween Listicle: SINISTER STORIES FOR THE SPOOKY SEASON

 by Renata Pavrey

The days leading up to Halloween are filled with costumes to prepare, décor to get ready, and treats to bake. The final week of October is a culmination of all the spooky excitement building up throughout the month. Yes! We love our horror movies, can’t have enough of eerie podcasts, and then there are books that thrill and chill. Sometimes it’s just so much to take in, with all that’s happening in a horror fan’s favorite time of the year. Here’s a list of Halloween-themed short story collections, so you can dip in your toes when time runs short on Hallows Eve.

~Halloween Horrors by Alan Ryan – A vintage collection for a night of evil. 13 sinister stories of madness and mayhem that show us a side of Halloween far removed from pumpkin lanterns and hot spiced drinks.

~Ghosts, Goblins, Murder and Madness by Rebecca Rowland – 20 tales of Halloween that showcase the wide expanse of the holiday season – dressing up in costume, playing practical jokes, haunted houses, cursed artifacts, the thin line between the earth and spirit worlds.

~Season of the Witch by RJ Roles and Jason Myers – Witches are not just about brooms and pointy hats; cackling as they fly over the moon on Halloween. This anthology from Crimson Pinnacle Press brings together 19 tales about witches and autumn, providing fresh perspectives to cliches and stereotypes associated with the season.

~Literally Dead by Gaby Triana – Hauntings that go beyond ghosts, spirits who want to help the living, festive greetings that travel through time and space, candy that refuses to be digested – an old school anthology from Alienhead Press that presents common Halloween tropes in spooky new avatars by some of the most terrifying names in contemporary horror.

~Halloween Frights by Brandi Hicks and Shelly Jarvis – If short stories take up too much of your reading time, why not sink your teeth into bite-sized drabbles? Spooky ghost kids, zombie trick-or-treaters, suspicious treats, and decorations coming alive – let’s turn to face the darker side of this autumn holiday.

~Forest of Fear (Books 1, 2 and 3) by Zoey Xolton – There are 3 books in the Fright Night Fiction series from Blood Song Books, that present a delectable collection of Halloween horror drabbles.

~Nom Nom by Ben Thomas and D. Kershaw – Another drabble collection that treats us to a smorgasbord of vampires, djinns, werewolves, jack-o-lanterns, clowns, candies, and everything the festival has to offer in 100-word bits of gore from Black Hare Press.

Free Fiction : Eternally by Michael Tennant

He sat calmly, peacefully, on the tree branch. It seemed quite sturdy. It would have to be; it was about to experience a heck of a force. Over a thousand pounds, if his memory wasn’t mistaken. He couldn’t recall which page he’d seen that number on. Maybe it was the rope that would be subjected to that strain. Whatever the case, he was confident that both the branch and the rope were up to the task.

He looked at the knot securing the rope to the branch and hoped he’d tied it well enough. He didn’t subscribe to a belief in a higher power, so he wasn’t worried about an afterlife. Likewise, he gave no credence to the metaphysical, and was thus unconcerned about being cursed to haunt the living with any sort of unfinished business – not that he could imagine what business that might be. He’d prepared a will, had his signature witnessed and notarized, listed his life insurance information, and made sure his passwords and PINs were documented. It wasn’t stories about after death that gave him pause; it was dread for the idea that he might screw this up, as he’d been so good at screwing up in life. Being a statistic, he could handle, as long as that statistic didn’t include the word “attempted.” Failing at life was par for the course; failing at death would be the final push to drive him fully mad.

He checked the knot one last time and felt reassured that it would hold. He slipped the loop over his head, positioned the hangman’s knot beneath the left side of his jaw, and snugged the noose against his throat. The apprehension he’d felt for so long slipped away, and he felt relief, knowing that the end he’d craved for decades was finally upon him. He took a deep breath, let it out, and slid forward off the branch.

Almost too quickly to notice, he’d fallen the five feet and six inches that he’d measured out for the drop. As the knot was pulled violently upward beneath his chin, it snapped his head up, back, and slightly to the right. There was an imperceptibly brief flash of pain as vertebrae separated and his spine was crushed and severed, and then he felt no more, but simply hung there, open eyes turned to the sky. He didn’t feel his lungs expel their last breath, nor did he take notice of his heart’s final beat. He simply watched a dew drop grow fat as it neared the point at which it would drip from a leaf just above him, as he awaited the unconsciousness that should overtake him. But the blissful sleep did not come for him, and the dew didn’t drip.

There was no blackness to envelop him, no light for him to go toward. A hundred, a thousand, a million ideas humans had about what happens after death, but none of them had prepared him for the horror of staring up at that dew drop hanging from the tip of that leaf, eternally.

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Michael Tenant I was an enthusiastic fiction writer and poet in high school, and utterly failed to pursue it in any fashion. I’m now trying to rediscover my imagination and creativity, 30 years later.

Book Review: “Netherkind” by Greg Chapman

Hello Addicts,

In the horror genre, the consumption of human flesh and blood is a fairly regular thing. There are plenty of stories about cannibals and flesh-eating zombies, so it is refreshing to see a story that handles things differently. Greg Chapman offers a flesh-eating tale that falls somewhere between the extremes of the living and the dead in his novel “Netherkind”.

Thomas leads a solitary life of torment. He has no memories of life before waking in the apartment he calls home, but that isn’t the most disturbing thing in his life. He has a condition where his body decays painfully if he doesn’t eat human flesh every day. It is an uncontrollable need he fights daily, but never wins. He doesn’t know how it started or whether there are others out there with his same condition. That all changes the day he meets his new neighbor, Stephanie

Stephanie is just moving into the apartment building Thomas lives in and does her best to spend time with him. After spending one night together, he learns some horrifying truths about her. She is like him, a consumer of human flesh. When he awakes, he finds the doors to all the apartments on their floor bashed in and the occupants stripped clean to the bone. His new neighbor, who he just had sex with, reveals that she is like Thomas and that there are more like them hiding in the world. She’d been stalking him for weeks, watching him live and kill, just for the chance to meet and get impregnated by him. With those tasks accomplished, she wounds him and leaves him to die.

Rather than succumb to his injuries, Thomas survives and begins hunting for Stephanie. His travels bring him close frequently, but never close enough. Eventually, he discovers another of their kind, referred to collectively as Fleshers. The Flesher,  named Nero and leads Thomas to their kingdom under the city. He discovers they are one of five tribes, each different in their mindset, physical conditions, and abilities.

Thomas’ clan refers to themselves as Phagun. Another group is called Lepers, whose skin is sickly looking and sloughing off, but whose touch is acidic. A third tribe is the spiritual Stygma, followers of a god named Okin. The fourth group of Fleshers are shapeshifters named Skiift, with humans making up the last group. The Skiift, the Stygma, and the Phagun have waged a centuries-long religious war between, partially fueled by the Phagun’s desire to treat humans as food.

There are a lot of twists and turns in the story, which develops into a chosen one tale. What is Thomas’ history and how does it fit into what needs to be done? How does Stephanie fit into the entire picture? The book answers these questions and more.

I liked the story, but found it a little confusing at certain points, particularly when following who was speaking. That aside, I thought Greg Chapman did a good job with this story, particularly with the sensory descriptions. I recommend this book for anyone needing a rainy day or late-night read. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or through your local bookstore.

Until next time, Addicts.

D.J.

Free Fiction : Till Death Do Us Part – by C M Lucas

A posh café bathed in the dwindling sunlight as blue skies gave way to brilliant orange and red. La Fin du Soleil: an outlier in this small rural and very American town, was not only a tourist destination but a bit of a local hot spot. This quaint little café was a spot where potential lovers gazed into each other’s eyes, waxed poetically, and fell head over heels for the stranger sitting directly in front of them. Strangers like Linda and James. 

One Year Ago 

Linda Muller loved La Fin Soleil. A talented artist and self-described creative spirit, Linda would often find herself sipping a café Late while dreaming up her latest piece. Typically, while sipping her late, Linda would glance at the café’s patrons, often making quick sketches of them while they enjoyed their coffee. On one fateful Tuesday, Linda happened to meet the gaze of a ruggedly handsome, down-on-his-luck somber soul. Ordinarily, James wouldn’t give the French café a second look, however, on that Tuesday, James felt almost obliged to enter La Fin Soleil. Upon entering the small café, James ordered a regular dark roast with double cream and took a seat at the far end of the café beside a large window. Linda glanced at James as he continuously stirred his coffee while peering out the window. Linda observed as James’ pale blue eyes seemed to express sadness. Shaking her head softly before running her fingers through her hair, Linda got up from her chair and, with coffee in hand, made her way over to the somber man. 

“Penny for your thoughts,” Linda whispered. James glanced up at the petite woman. The sunlight bathed Lina from behind; her auburn hair looked as if it were ablaze as a large smirk formed on her face.

“I’m sorry?” James said, squinting. 

“Look, I know that’s cliché, but I, you know, I’ve never seen you in here before. You kind of stand out; you don’t look like the type of guy to stop in here, you know,” Linda explained, “and… I don’t know, you look… Is everything alright?” James continued to glance at Linda, furrowing his brow. 

“Am I alright? Uh, I… Yea, I guess. I’m sorry, what is this?” James asked. “I don’t know, you just have this sadness about, you know? I just thought that if I don’t come over and save this guy from whatever-” James shook his head before meeting Linda’s gaze. “Uh, ok, I gotta say, this is a little weird. I mean, I’ve never had anyone come up to me and ask me if I was ok,” James explained, “I mean, what are you, like the nicest woman on the planet?” 

“Yes, but only during the day. At night, I fight crime. They call me The Auburn Altruist,” Linda said with a smirk. James furrowed his brow before chuckling and shaking his head. “That was really corny. I can’t believe I laughed at that,” James said. 

“I can,” Linda said before the pair busted out laughing. 

“Thank you. I, uh, I needed that,” James admitted. 

“I know. I’m Linda,” Linda said, extending her hand. 

“James,” James said as the pair shook hands. 

“Care to sit?” 

The Present. 

Inside Las Fin Soleil, the dusty, undisturbed tables and chairs sat quietly as a small beam of sunlight shone through a crack in the plywood nailed to the window. In the far corner, sat James. Sitting almost motionless, James glanced out the tiny crack between the boards across the

window as the sun shined against his pale blue eyes. A rhythmic sequence of knocking at the boarded-up front door snapped James out of his daze before he headed toward the door. James grabbed a hammer from the floor before removing the boards from the door. James opened the door with a quivering smirk. 

“A regular knock would’ve been fine,” James said before Linda stuck out her tongue. Linda and James embraced before the pair boarded the front door. They made their way over to the far end table as James retrieved two coffee cups and placed them on the table. Linda smiled as she took a seat. James scurried over behind the counter and pulled out two candles. Lighting the candles as he made his way over, James placed the candles in a makeshift holder. “Care to sit?” Linda asked. 

One Year Ago. 

Inside La Fin Soleil, James and Linda laughed and smiled, while drinking their coffee. Minutes turned to hours as the pair continued to delight one another with conversation. “No, I’m serious. She actually said, ‘hit the bricks.’ It’s funny now, but at the time, it didn’t register, I guess. But, yea. ‘Hit the bricks.’And just like that, I was fired after, what? Nine years?” James explained as the pair continued to laugh. 

“Well, It’s great to see you laugh at the situation. I don’t know, It’s like they say, ‘If you don’t laugh, you cry,’ right?” Linda asked. James smiled before shaking his head. “You’re a walking book of clichés, aren’t you,” James asked while smirking. Linda nodded before finishing her late. James and Linda shared a moment of silence while gazing into each other’s eyes. 

“Can I buy you another coffee?” James asked.

“I’d like that,” Linda answered with a smile. As James attempts to get the waitresses’ attention, both James and Linda notice most of the café patrons are distracted by the events on the TV. 

“What the hell?” 

The Present. 

Within the La Fin Soleil, Linda and James both run their hands along the boards fixed to the café’s loan window. 

“Ready?” Linda asked. James nodded before beads of sweat began to form on his brow. The pair pried at the boards with hammers before the boards gave way, crashing to the dusty tiled floor. The dwindling sunlight burst into the café, illuminating everything. 

“Alright, Ms. Muller. After you,” James said before Linda once again took a seat. James smiled before passing in front of the window. Where once one could view the town’s quaint brilliance, rows of charred, dilapidated shops and houses now stand. The partially devoured bodies of the townsfolk lie scattered and still, as bodily fluids filled the streets. One Year Ago. 

“Everybody, quiet,” the waitress shouted before turning the volume up on the TV. Linda, James, and the rest of the patrons watched in horror as the live news broadcast displayed hordes of the undead filling the streets. The reporter began to run for his life before being consumed by the horde. The patrons within La Fin Soleil frantically began to rush toward the exit. Linda 

grasped James’ hand tight as the pair sat still with shock. 

The Present.

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw the light hit your hair. It looked like your head was on fire, but in an angelic way,” James mused. Linda smiled before taking James’ hands into hers. The pair gazed out the window as the last rays of sunlight peaked from behind the clouds. 

“Here’s to the end. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else,” Linda said with a quivering smirk. James lowered his head as a deep sadness washed over his face. Linda peered over at the saddened James. 

“Hey, come on. It’s… Look, I… I don’t know, I’m a fool sometimes. But, you love me for it,” Linda said, winking. James continued to hang his head before Linda gently touched his dimpled chin, lifting his head to meet her gaze. A tear began to stream down James’ cheeks. Linda tried in vain to keep her emotions hidden, but as she glanced into James’ eyes, her golden amber eyes began to well up with tears. 

“They’ll be coming,” James said. 

“… I know,” Linda answered. James gazed deeply into Linda’s eyes, grasping her hands tight. 

“I love you, Ms. Muller,” James said, weeping. 

“I-I-I know. H-How could you not?” Linda said before weeping. 

The pair tightly embraced. James ran his hands along Linda’s back, caressing and softly touching every inch. Linda closed her eyes tightly as tears streamed down her cheeks. Intense pounding on the entrance door echoed through the small café, as Linda and James continued to embrace. The boards began to give way before the café door flew open. 

Linda began to loosen her grip before grasping James with an intense grip. James closed his eyes as Linda began to twitch and flail. Linda’s eyes became vacant and bloodshot as all the colour began to drain from her face.

“Shoot it!” 

Linda lifted her head as frothy mucus spewed from her mouth. James closed his eyes before pressing a small revolver to Linda’s temple. As he fired the revolver, Linda fell to the ground. Linda’s lifeless body lay at the feet of the surviving townsfolk. Each member of the mob stood silent, brandishing weapons and assorted body parts displayed in trophy fashion. James stood trembling in front of Linda. His tears continued to stream down his face as he made his way toward Linda’s lifeless body. Retrieving a wilted daisy from his pant pocket, James reached down and placed the daisy beside Linda’s arm. A wilted peddle fell along a large bite mark that ran along the length of her arm before falling to the floor. James rose from the floor before pushing his way through the mob. 

One Year Ago. 

“What’s her problem? Damn waitress just lost her tip-” James abruptly stopped upon peering over at Lindaas he noticed her attention was elsewhere. 

“Wow. First the waitress and now the very woman who rid me of the blues?” James joked. 

“Huh? Oh, I’m sorry. Do you see those?” Linda asked. 

“The Daisies?” James asked. 

“Yes, I… I don’t know, I have a thing for daisies. They always bring me to a special place, you know? I, uh, yeah, I love them,” Linda said, a slight smile forming on her face before the waitress began to alert the patrons of La Fin Soleil.