The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lee Mitchell @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 26, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Fade to Gray 
by Lee Mitchell  

I am the last among us in this dried up, barren field. All that I’ve witnessed, all that I’ve survived, will soon die with me. My memories are all I have left.

I remember the many green springs, some now long past, with their orange and yellow butterflies, buzzing bees, families of rabbits, and singing birds. I remember the wildfire that nearly reached us a decade ago, and the frantic cries of our sisters and brothers farther down the mycelium line.

I remember the man who dragged his dead wife here just last year, to bury her beneath my boughs. The side of her face was caved in, one of her eyes hanging out of its socket, her hair and dress red with blood. The dead, dangling eye rested on the corpse’s cheek while the man cried and cursed and dug his hole; the pale, lifeless thing seemed to stare past me, watching a world just beyond my perception with still awareness. There were secrets in that milky stare, sacred knowledge that fell into the earth with those cold remains, buried forever within the tangle of my roots.

I remember the stifling spray carried over in the wind from the next field over, the agony of watching the life slowly and painfully drain from everyone I loved while my roots, too, strained to carry on. I felt my leaves fall for the last time as my family fell, one by one, leaving nothing but dry, gray, silent shells. I remember the moment I realized I was alone, gasping and starving, understanding that I would soon be joining all those I’d lost.

As I watch the sun set for what will likely be the last time, through the sepia sky and the withered, yellow wasteland that surrounds me for as far as I can perceive, my final thoughts revolve around one simple question: What kinds of gods or monsters could have been capable of such destruction?

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Fiction © Copyright Lee Mitchell.
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More from Author Lee Mitchell:

Alisha Brown led a mundane life until the day monsters started trying to kill her and random strangers began to shy away from her in awe.

All hell broke loose, quite literally, after Randy Thomas turned right on Main for Honey’s instead of making a left for home and then murdered his beloved wife in an unusually gruesome way. Escaping police and stopping traffic in New York City with a gas-spewing tentacle erupting from his mouth, his fears are confirmed: That one small backslide would serve as the final tipping point for all mankind, inviting in a timeless destructive force that would lead him to the frontlines of the war to end all wars.

A growing population has succumbed to their worst fears, some transforming into dreaded fictional monsters—leaving the streets flooded with vampires, werewolves, spontaneously combusting humans, and other horrors—while others have become angels and demons determined to fight in the holy war they believe is upon them.

Questions soon arise as Randy’s and Alisha’s roles in this bizarre apocalypse become uncertain. One is a professed sinner, the other an asexual virgin. Each has been touched by the hand of fate, and each believes they are humanity’s last hope. But belief can be a funny thing…

The Divine Darkness is the first installment of The Divine Darkness apocalyptic horror trilogy.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kathleen McCluskey @KathleenMcClus4 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 26, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Chains Below
by Kathleen McCluskey

   The old maps called them the “Hanging Woods.”

   No one remembered why.

  The name survived long after the meaning had rotted away, passed from one generation to the next like a word spoken in a foreign language that nobody understood anymore. Hunters avoided the place after dark. Loggers refused to cut its oldest trees. Even the wind seemed reluctant to cross the ridge once the sun sat.

   Gideon Whitlock never believed any of it.

   Folklore was simply fear preserved long enough to become tradition.

   So when the Harvest Moon rose full over the Hanging Woods, he climbed the ridge alone. 

   The forest stood silent under the soft, white glow of the mist. Massive oaks twisted towards the heavens. Their black limbs wove across the moonlight until they seemed caught in a web of branches. The air smelled of wet bark and old stone. Not a single cricket sang.

   Silence pressed against his ears until he became aware of another sound.

   A soft groaning. It came from the trees.

   The trunks trembled almost imperceptively. Bark cracked in long, dry sighs as though every tree in the forest exhaled together.

   Another groan followed. Longer this time. Older.

   Gideon placed his hand against the nearest trunk.

   The bark was warm.

   He jerked his hand back instinctively before forcing himself to touch it again. The rough grooves pressed into his palm, but beneath them he felt something impossible. The tree wasn’t simply warm from the heat of the day. It pulsed.

   A slow, rhythmic vibration passed through the wood, so faint he almost convinced himself he imagined it. Then it came again. Not the steady beat of a heart but the drawn out strain of something under tremendous tension.

   He pressed his ear against the tree. The sound wasn’t coming from the tree, it was traveling through it.

   A deep metallic groan echoed through the wood, followed by a dull vibration that climbed the trunk and disappeared in the branches. Another answered somewhere deeper in the forest. Then another. Within minutes the entire mountain seemed alive with the same mournful resonance, as if every ancient oak shared a single burden.

   Gideon stepped back, sweeping his flashlight across the nearest trees.

   Every trunk bore the same scars. Long, spiraling ridges climbed from the roots to the highest branches, crossing over one another with impossible precision. They weren’t random patterns left by age or weather. They twisted together in thick bands  that reminded him of braided steel cables.

   A sharp crack split the silence somewhere deep in the forest. Gideon instinctively looked toward the sound, expecting to see the broken silhouette of an ancient limb crashing through the canopy. Nothing moved. The moon still hung behind the web of branches, washing the ridge in pale silver but the forest had become unnaturally still. Even the vibration beneath his hand ceased.

   He stepped away from the trunk and swept his flashlight through the darkness. The beam found nothing except rows of old oaks disappearing into the night, each one scarred by the same spiral ridges that twisted from root to crown. Every trunk leaned ever so slightly inward, toward the center of the mountain as though the entire forest had spent centuries reaching a single unseen point.

   Another crack echoed through the woods, louder this time. Followed by a deep shudder under Gideon’s boots. Dead leaves danced across the ground. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable. It hadn’t come from above.

   It had come from below.

   A memory surfaced from somewhere deep in his childhood.

   His grandfather had once taken him into these very woods after a storm. They had come across an oak so enormous that Gideon couldn’t imagine a wind strong enough to uproot it. The old man had stared at the exposed root ball before quietly covering it with a canvas tarp.

   The roots hadn’t spread outward through the soil the way every schoolbook had said they would. They had descended almost perfectly straight, twisting together into a thick column that disappeared into the darkness below like the cables of an immense elevator vanishing into a bottomless shaft.

   When Gideon had asked his grandfather why they grew that way the old man had mumbled under his breath, “they aren’t searching for water.”

   At the time the words had made no sense. Gideon thought the old man was telling more tall tales. Standing there beneath the moon, suddenly his words came into focus.

   The ground trembled again.

   This time a thin crack opened in the soil only a few feet from where he stood. It was no wider than a pencil, yet a current of warm air drifted from it carrying the smell of damp stone and something far older. It wasn’t the stench of decay. It was the stale breath of a place that had been sealed away for an age beyond memory.

   The vibration returned with startling force. Every tree around him groaned.

   It wasn’t the sound of wood rubbing against wood. It was deeper than that, resonating through the forest. Gideon realized he wasn’t hearing millions of trees, he was hearing millions of roots tightening at once.

   He looked across the ridge and saw it happen. One of the oldest trees slowly tilted. Not from wind but from their roots giving way. The ancient prison was cracking.

Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More from Kathleen McCluskey:

The Long Fall: Book 1: The Inception of Horror

Lucifer always cunning and intelligent challenges father to a battle of wits. Being the angel of light he casts a judgemental eye upon mankind. He begins a war with his fellow archangels and God. Michael, along with his siblings defend their home and mankind from their deranged brother. Broad swords and hand to hand combat drench heaven in blood. The four apocalyptic steeds are released, each having their own destructive power. Betrayal and lust are at biblical levels. Understand the very creation of evil and the consequenses that transpire in the first of THE LONG FALL series.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kendra Smart @DevourAllWords @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 25, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Whatever Happened to Olivia?  
by Kendra Smart  

Porthos was a small countryside city that had led the world in a new take on how to deal with criminal activities. Debates had been had for years about the studies into the Death Penalty and whether those truly mad, not psychotic, were unfit for the punishment befitting the crime committed. 

But, if Death was unfair, what was the answer? Some cried support in a hospitalized setting while others lauded that answer to be too cushy a life for one able to commit such travesties. Regardless of how or why something happened…it still held the same end result for those left to mourn.

But in Porthos the question was could a living punishment meet the crime? 

So their best minds came to an assembly and began to piece their proposal together. A way to make those who were deemed accepted by polite society to face punishment but not competent enough to face death, to be held accountable. 

A program had been tailored and trialed, secretly but it in fact yielded results. The kind of results that brought attention. 

Porthos became the hub of innovation and with that came scrutiny. 

But Olivia didn’t care about any of the politics. She was running late. By over fifteen minutes at this point. The loss of time had gotten far worse.

Lunch bag packed with the best intentions, abandoned in the fridge. Hair was an absolute mess but nothing a good, reliable hair tie couldn’t fix. At the very least her clothes were clean. There were worse things that could be wrong. She grabbed her keys and badge as she raced out the door, only pausing to lock the door behind her. 

She had worked a lifetime it seemed in the medical world, at one time she had thought it to be akin to home. A career devoted to helping people who needed it most. That had been the sugarplum coated fantasy, the last line, hook, and sinker she had planned on swallowing down. She had tried many aspects of the medical world, thinking maybe a change of pace or scenery would help, but Long Term Care was no longer the life they showcased on their flyers and Assisted Living held the same cracked egg that eventually ran down her face. 

But then she found a job where indifference was the name of the game, you were expected to come in…do your job, and leave. No interactions unless you wished for it.  So working overnights for the Porthos Prison was where Olivia had made her home. They paid her well, she made in two nights what it took two weeks to make anywhere else she could have worked. 

So Olivia had made the obvious and logical choice. She chased the money. 

Porthos was indeed smaller than some cities, but the citizens carried the same ignorance and fear that anyone else would have. There had to be motivation for knowledge it seemed and no one wanted to be motivated by something that would cause them to care. To show concern. Far easier to just let others handle it, those more suited to deal with the issues. Who wore clear or shaded colored lenses rather than rose colored. 

“I could never do what you do, your spirit is so strong and your heart so big.” 

It disgusted Olivia hearing these things, just say what you meant. You could do the job, but you don’t want to. There was the choice not to. Olivia had the same choice, but that would mean multiple jobs just to make ends meet. She wanted more than just to survive. 

She had always found it odd the reverence people spoke of the Prison with. It was as though the prison housed all the evil and barred it behind the steel, stone, and souls tasked with walking and guarding its halls. Those who it was believed held the same fortitude to handle the jobs. 

Olivia has learned quickly in her time that not everyone had the strength to stay. The money was bait, but it didn’t mean every fish hooked was caught. 

The sky was overcast as she pulled into the parking lot. The clouds were beautiful though, fluffy cotton ball puffs. She should have been paying better attention as she exited her vehicle. 

They grabbed her as her door shut. 

Her last sight before the black hood fell over her head and her eyes could find nothing to pinpoint on but darkness and her breath immediately became like a moist swamp against the rough fabric.  

Olivia felt her hands restrained from the moment her brian had finally kicked in and reacted to resist. 

Strong hands held her on each side and she heard the doors open as Olivia found her body being maneuvered into a vehicle. She found herself seated between two men in an enclosed moving vehicle before she could catch her breath. 

From the front of the car came a low and clipped male voice dripping with authority. 

“Olivia Leeanne Mills, you have been found guilty of breaking the law set forth by the City of Porthos in 2035. As of 2035 citizens of Porthos have been required to not only go through screenings of Mental Wellbeing but are also to report any defect on their screenings. You have failed to submit these screenings.”

Olivia felt her mouth go dry, she had been waiting on replies from the Prison therapist to advise of what the next steps after testing were. She had been told to think of the test as a game. But it is a hard gauge on winning or losing a game when you don’t know the stakes. Olivia had always been taught to be honest. That had sealed her tomb. 

The program that Porthos had started was coined “The Removed.”, and that was exactly what they delivered. The housing for this program was underground, each ward able to hold twenty five “rooms” complete with the bare necessities. A bed, sink, toilet, and four solid concrete walls with no windows. Circulating air came by a small round vent and built into one wall was a tube system like that of a bank or pharmacy to aid in delivery to customers. 

But here, the purpose was to provide sustenance. No human contact once the prisoner was introduced to their room. 

Olivia thought of that final sky view. 

“Welcome Prisoner 4791.”

Fiction © Copyright Kendra Smart
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More from author Kendra Smart:

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Just Emotions:
A Gothic Bite Magazine Anthology

A collection of poetry.

‘Just Emotions‘ is exactly as it states, a group of writers who had feelings they wanted to express in poem form. Inside, there are a range of emotions to explore. Each writer has given a bit of themselves to you, each in their own way.

We hope that you enjoy these writings and that among the poems you may find some thing you can identify with or relate to. Thank you for giving us this chance to open the catacombs and share with you.

Available on Amazon!  

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheikha A. @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 25, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Rasha
by Sheikha A.

Beneath an occult moon, my mother shaped me from a raven’s feather. My skin was a rivulet of curses — scarred abyss of past life debts. Human forms were complicated to emulate — reptilian seals and symbols — systemic tides under no one’s control. So, I was continually formed on a series of moonless nights since a time that could no longer be read on the stars. And, my task was one — kiss of destiny — to stop failing at capturing him. I aligned magically that night, as if the black hole itself had purged the galaxies alive to when they shone a lustful vibrancy. The band of Milky Way criss-crossed dormant waves in a pattern meant for me to decode. From the sea’s goth of silence, his ship came sailing right into my stealth, perturbing the reflected stars imprinting for the both of us on velvet waters. He had landed earth once again 

siren’s breath

dabbed on a sailor 

blood-rose spell

I knew the sea better than the glimmer of every century’s garnet sunset; louder than the sparkle of loneliness, and deeper than darkness that followed me like I was theirs. But, the trickery of stars kept making me believe — spells of the seas — the beauty of our union; like sun and moon in their impossibility; metallic scent of hulled twilights; sea’s linings coated with bruised moonlight; defenceless horizon pooling in its own gash; like streaking a wrath both endless and beatific. My mother stitched a raven’s song to mine — seamen’s allure — this time he wouldn’t resist. She told me we would be atrophy to life, and a breath of blessing to death. His ship was in my reach; a glimpse of my face was all it would take. I knew he must come in search of me. The sky was betraying with a sliver of light. I had to grab him before the moon fought loose —

For eternal night to prevail, I would love him. 

And destroy him. 

faint crescent 

coughing up 

fluffs of raven 

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Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More from author Sheikha A.:

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Nyctophiliac Confessions:
Poems by Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee

“The night is cold enough to inspire poetry,” says Sheikha A. in her poem, “Reading My Bones.” This is the basis of Nyctophiliac Confessions – poems that are introspective and luminal, poems that require a certain amount of silence and space to be fully formed and appreciated. Reading these poems, I imagined that they were the kind of poems that assert themselves unbidden during a bout of insomnia. (A nyctophiliac being someone who loves the night or loves darkness).

Nyctophiliac Confessions is the 17th installment of Praxis’ chapbook series and contains twenty-six poems written by two poets, Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee, interspersed with abstract paintings by Robert Rhodes.

Available Here!

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Naching T. Kassa @NachingKassa @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 24, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Minato and the Hungry Ghost
by Naching T. Kassa

“She’s dead,” the old man said, tears spilling down his ash-covered face. “My daughter…my Himari is dead!”

Himari’s mother burst into tears as the old man pulled her into his arms. Her sisters wailed. Behind the old man, near the open door, Himari’s brother remained mute in sorrow. I alone rose to my feet. I alone made for the door.

“Where are you going, Minato?” Himari’s mother cried. “You were to marry our daughter. Will you not stay and grieve with us?”

“I am sorry,” I said softly. “I cannot grieve Himari.”

The old woman’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“Because Himari is not dead,” I replied. Only the echo of my words remained as I hurried out the door.

The sun was sinking behind the bare, scorched trees as I hurried along. They stood by the road like sentinels, reaching toward the sky. The fire had marred their bark, and they appeared to grin at me with sharpened teeth. I paid little heed to them, and even less to the shadow that followed me.

The road led me up a hill. Though the smoke had gone, the earth still carried the heat of the fire. I kept to the road, avoiding the spots which glowed in the gathering darkness. I could hear the source of the shadow now, soft footsteps whispered like dry and fallen leaves. I knew if I turned, I would see nothing, and so I continued on my way.

On the other side of the hill, I found a graveyard, untouched by the unquenchable blaze. When I entered, I found a sea of stones, each one cool beneath my touch. Not even the fire had ventured here.

The shadow continued its pursuit. It was close now, so close I could feel the stirring of the air around it. I could not allow it to go further and so I turned, my Kitana drawn.

“She lives?” the shadow asked. I could see only the glow of its eyes in the darkness near the entrance. The stench of the grave nearly overwhelmed me. “The fire took all that I had. If she lives, if she has survived the fire, I must taste her flesh.”

“Himari is dead,” I said.

“You said she lived.”

“Would I tell a hungry ghost the truth? I saw you enter behind the old man. You would have eaten them all and it would not have sated you. How did you know the old man was not her true father? How did you know she was the daughter of a holy man?”

The hungry ghost stepped forward. In the half-light, I saw the face of Himari’s brother. He smiled at me and tapped his temple.

“This vessel told me. When I ate him, I gained his memories. I will learn the truth of what you say when I eat you.”

He lunged toward me and I held up my arm, ready for his attack. He sank his teeth into it and as the blood flowed, he drew back as though scalded.

“You lied!” the ghost cried. “Himari lives!”

“And I would die for her,” I replied. “Take me in her stead.”

The hungry ghost fell back, clasping a hand to his lips. “But how can this be? This vessel…he thinks you want only her dowry. He is sure of it. But you…you love her?”

“I will always love her.”

The hungry ghost fell to his knees. Tears streamed from his eyes. “What is happening to me? I have always been hungry. For centuries, I have stalked the earth, feeding always feeding. Yet…your blood…I have tasted it…and I’m not hungry anymore. I thought only her flesh could sate me.”

He seemed surprised by the peace. I watched him slip from the world, and like the fire, he became embers on the wind.

When he had gone, I hurried deeper into the graveyard. Near the stone of the holy man, I found Himari resting. Her face and kimono were covered in soot, but her skin remained unblemished by the fire. When she woke, she threw her arms about me.

“Minato! Oh Minato! The blaze forced me into the graveyard. It robbed me of my voice, and I couldn’t answer when Father called my name. I think he feared me dead. How did you find me?”

“I knew you were not dead. So, I came looking.”

She stared at me, her beautiful eyes wide. “How did you know?”

“We share the same heart. And yours is still beating.”

I helped her to her feet.

“Will it always be so, Minato?” she asked. She didn’t look up.

I waited until she did, until she could see the truth in my eyes.

“It will always be so, Himari. Always.”

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
 
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More from Naching T. Kassa:

NachingTKassa_SherlockHolmesAndTheArcanaOfMadness

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!

 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kathryn Ptacek @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 24, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Moonlight Sonata 
by Kathryn Ptacek

  The moon dipped down through the black sky and followed me home.

    Every time I paused and glanced back over my shoulder, I saw the moon, so low, so close, bathing me in its white light. Watching me. 

    I felt a coldness even though it was a warm night. My skin prickled where the light caressed it. I started to walk faster, then began running.

    Finally, I reached my cottage, and I rushed in and slammed the door shut.  No moonlight crept in under the door, but I could see it wending its way through the gap in the curtains in the nearby window. 

    Cautiously, I moved across to the window and tried to close the gap. The light coming in settled on my skin, and I felt a cold burning sensation. I jerked my hand back and finished closing the drapes all the way.

    I realized my heart was pounding, and I took a few deep breaths. I had to calm down. Somehow. 

    I checked the other windows, and all the drapes were firmly closed, which reassured me. By then, I had calmed down a bit, and I could start to prepare my dinner. It didn’t take long before I could settle down at the table and eat the leftover casserole from the night before. My mind kept going back to the moon … it had seemed so malevolent tonight, and I didn’t know why. It had never been like that before.I had been out plenty of times at night and come home with only the moonlight to guide me. But not tonight … Something had changed … somehow.

    I remember in the past waking up at night, and I’d be in bed, all awash with the white light from the moon. And I had relished it. The moon had been my friend then, my companion. Long ago.

    I washed my dishes and swept the kitchen, then readied myself for bed. I checked the bedroom, and the drapes were tightly shut there. Good. I crawled into bed and read for a while, then eventually turned off the light. The room was totally dark. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not long after that I fell asleep.

    Sometime later, I awoke. I had heard something. Something outside.

    An animal, I told myself. I lived in the middle of the woods, so it wasn’t unexpected to get various critters poking around outside. I made sure to leave no food scraps out there, but even so, some of the woodland creatures were ever hopeful.

    But this sound seemed different … I didn’t know why. It was more persistent … and not low to the ground like the sound a raccoon or possum might make. The scritching continued. I told myself to go back to sleep. The doors were secure, as were the windows. Nothing to worry about.

    I slept fitfully after that, and every time I woke, I could hear the sound outside. No animal would continue for so long. Was it some human lost in the woods? Or come to break in? No, I thought, because they wouldn’t have kept up for so long. Besides, a robber would just break a window, right?

    I shivered.

    I stood up and walked into the front room. I paused and listened to the scratching at the door.  It went from the threshold all the way up to the top of the door and then back in.  Over and over. It never stopped.

    I peeked quickly out the window but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I couldn’t see if anyone or anything stood in front of the door. Not from that angle, that is.

    I put my hands over my ears, but I could still hear the noise, and I thought at that point, the scratching seemed almost frantic. I couldn’t block the sound out, no matter what.

    Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I unlocked the door and flung it wide open … and there was nothing there.  No human, no animal. Just the white light of the bright moon, so close, so intent … and as the light crept across the ground to my feet, I could feel the burning again. Slowly the light inched up me, and I watched as my nightgown burst into cold flames, and by then I couldn’t move, and it was too late, as the moonlight took me in.

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Fiction © Copyright Kathryn Ptacek
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Rie Sheridan Rose @RieSheridanRose @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 23, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

It’s Almost Peaceful… 
by Rie Sheridan Rose

It’s almost peaceful sitting here under this tree in the clearing outside my house. It’s easy to forget the house is a smoldering pile of ash behind me. Down to embers now, but all that’s left of my entire life.

            It’s kinda funny. I never expected to be around for the end of the world. I thought I’d be heading to grad school in the fall. I was going to marry Peter at Christmas. Everything was perfect. Working out just the way I’d planned since I was six.

            Then everything fell apart. Peter drove off the road into a tree the night it happened. The sheriff had arrived to tell me about Peter. As I stood there in shock, a tremendous crash echoed through the forest. The sheriff dashed off to investigate, and I never saw him again.

            One by one, the people I’ve known all my life disappeared. No one ever told me what had caused the crash…but I had my suspicions. As loud as the crash had been, it had to have been something huge—either a plane of some sort…or something extraterrestrial.

            I know, I know. There’s no such thing as aliens. That we’ve seen yet.

            But I saw it a couple of weeks ago. It rose above the trees like a giant. Its footsteps shook the earth. The head swiveled back and forth, as if it searched for something. It had almost reached the house when it froze, head cocked, as if it had heard something behind it. Then it turned and plodded away.

            I knew it would be back, though. So, I burned down the house. I wasn’t about to let it touch my things.

            And now, it’s coming back.

            The sun’s been down for an hour, but all at once, the clouds are lit from behind as if by a huge lantern. And I hear its giant footsteps coming closer. I don’t know where it came from, but I don’t care anymore. I’ve lost everything that was important to me.

            Now, I’m just sitting here in the clearing, waiting. It’s almost peaceful…

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

519RiHK+1wL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author A.F. Stewart @scribe77 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 23, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Mercy of the Moon
by A.F. Stewart

She ascends, creature of the forest,

transcendent within the moonlight

and the warm vermillion rain

As the forever cold graveyard wind

howls its vexation against the trees

.

All shall be forgiven under the moon

.

She bestows redemption of a kind,

perpetually shrouded in your sin,

her eternal mark your absolution

Primality of flesh transformation,

rejected conformity, mortality

.

All shall be forgiven under the moon

.

Deliverance is bitter, imperfect, grievous

So wail your fiendish curse to the cosmos,

as your bones rupture and claws forge,

as you endure, bathed in her illumination,

and scream beneath the warm vermillion rain 

.

All shall be forgiven under the moon of the wolf 

.

 
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More from A.F. Stewart:

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Visions and Nightmares

Tragedy spares no one… and takes no prisoners.
In the twilight shadows, secrets are revealed past the whispers of madness.

Wander into the realm of the old gods with Elenora, where humanity and marriage are a prison.
Step through a looking glass of dark horrors with an Alice you never knew.
Join with Zenna to seek the truth as her death by magic grows closer.
Journey with Olivia as she crosses paths with a monster of the forest and runs for her life.
Watch Isobel summon the faerie to solve her problem of an unwanted husband.
Shiver as Doctor Killbride experiments with corpses to create life from death.
All that and more await within the pages.

Ten stories. Ten women.
Who will survive? Who will fall? And who will succumb to their inner evil?
Find out in Visions and Nightmares.

Warning: This book contains disturbing scenes that may be upsetting to some readers.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Elizabeth H. Smith @bethsmithwrites @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 22, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Closure
by Elizabeth H. Smith

It’s been three years since the incident. I refer to it as that because I can’t bring myself to see the truth, to speak the words—that would make it too real. It’s still a vague concept, a dream-like idea that maybe I imagined. He can’t really be gone, can’t really be dead.

But the yellowed newspapers from those days confirm it. I know this, the family knows this. Just because I refuse to believe doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

He loved to walk in the park at night. He enjoyed the quiet dark, the soft moonlight, seeing stars sprinkle the sky above. It never made me worry. We didn’t live in a dangerous neighborhood, and it was only two blocks from the house. He’d kiss me before he left, every time. Looking back, it seemed like he did it just in case, as if he knew the worst was possible.

Unfortunately, he’d been right.

It was July, nice weather for night walks. He said he might take a longer walk than usual, which for him wasn’t unusual. He did that every so often. I suppose it helped him clear his head, work out his problems, so that he’d never bring them home. He always came back so relaxed, always with a slight smile and content eyes.

I avoided that park since it happened. I refused to go anywhere near it. I even made sure never to take that street when driving; I always came from the other side of the block. The killer had never been found, justice never served, and so I never got closure. Not for his murder, not for myself. Three years without rest takes a toll. This was the night I finally decided to get it.

My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob, but I willed myself to open it anyway. I stepped out onto the porch, down the steps, and straight toward the park. There was no one else out and the evening was perfectly peaceful. It gave me a sense of unease.

I walked the same path he walked. I knew it because I’d gone with him a few times, but soon realized he liked private time; he wanted to own those walks, have them for himself, and I saw nothing wrong with that. I stepped slow and with intention. I tried to feel him through that place, tried to connect. I was walking in his shoes, experiencing what he experienced, seeing through his eyes.

Ahead, the sodium lamps stopped, leaving a stretch of unlit path. I wondered if that was where it happened. Someone could have been waiting there in the dark for the first passerby. I was afraid to go forward, but I knew I’d never move on if I turned back. I continued through the dark and looked up at the stars. I could see how he found these times so peaceful, so enjoyable to have.

A lamp suddenly turned on to my left. Its light shone brighter than the others, I had to squint just to look in its direction. I wondered why it was so bright. Maybe the glass was broken, or the bulb inside was crooked, causing it to shine to the side instead of straight down.

Then it moved.

The light itself hovered over the grass, illuminating everything around it in a halo of yellow-orange. I froze in place. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. It grew in size and brightness as it got closer to me. I felt its warmth on my face. My heart raced, my legs trembled.

It moved right up to me and sat at eye-level. Then I really saw it, peered deep into it. Not just with my eyes, but with my heart. It seemed to pull me in, to want me to know it. I could feel the life within, sense it with every bit of myself.

It was him. His memory, his essence, his soul. It waited there all that time, for me. For me to get my closure, and for him to have his.

.

Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
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More About Elizabeth H. Smith:
Elizabeth H. Smith is a storyteller who writes while trying to keep her cat, Luna off the keyboard. The musical group, Rasputina is her muse. She was born in the state of New York and would never feel at home anywhere else.

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Marge Simon @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 22, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge! 

Full Moon in Mater’s Shed
by Marge Simon 

Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Bright light sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …

Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose 
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More from Marge Simon:

MargeSimon_CastFromDarkness

Cast from Darkness
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

Cast from Darkness is another triumphant collaboration between award-winning Speculative poets, Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo.

The poetry includes themes running the spectrum of the speculative genres and forms ranging from the haiku through many nuances of vere libre to the prose poem.

Available on Amazon!

 

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments