Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Amanda Worthington @AmandaW58679588 @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 21, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

I Am the Tea That Will Bring You Back to Life
by Amanda Worthington

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I am the tea that will bring you back to life

.

I watched as he slit your throats

Before he slit mine

Speaking my secret prayer

As the blood flowed

And whoever it is that lies behind humanity’s antics

They answered me

Granted me this one elixir

And I’m not sure if I can pour it into you both

But I’ll try

.

Believe or not, at one time he was kind

I had no inkling of what he would become

Husk or teacup?

I think sometimes that all corpses

Are receptacles

Do you feel the warmth of my intention?

The hot tea of my promise?

Will you not rise to avenge me?

.

Twin vessels. Patient. Abiding.

As my liquid settles to your bottoms

And invites you to awake

.

Break him where he stands

Making other things shatter

Nothing matters but this

His obliteration

.

So as the steam rises from you

Promise me that you will not stop

Until he is dust

That might be mistaken for leaves

And made into a brew

.

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Elaine Pascale @DocLaney @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on July 21, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Wet Woman
by Elaine Pascale

“This was the day your father lost his mind,” Rose’s mother said as she pulled the photo from the box. They had been going through memories, discarding duplicates and pausing on the ones that elicited gut punches of emotions.

This comment made no sense. The picture in question was of Rose’s father as a young boy, maybe eight or nine, posing with his father while visiting the Everglades. Her grandfather’s face was obscured by a large sun hat; her father squinted at the camera, posing in front of thick fronds. How could he have lost his mind then, when he was just recently diagnosed with dementia?

Rose asked her mother that exact question.

“Both things are true, Rose Marie,” her mother chided. “He lost his mind then as a boy, and he is losing his mind now as an old man.” Rose’s mother frowned at the photo. “Let’s discard it.”

“Wait.” Rose snatched the picture from her mother. “I might want it.”

Rose’s mother clicked her tongue. “You want a reminder of nonsense? That’s when he thought he saw ‘The Wet Woman.’”

It was Rose’s turn to scold. “The Wet Woman? Dad just made her up to scare us kids. Keep us from getting too close to the water.”

Her mother shook her head sadly. “I wish.” She pointed to the room where Rose’s father was resting. “He’s always believed she was real. Very real.” Her mother smiled sardonically. “She’s almost ‘the other woman’ in our marriage.”

Rose was beginning to worry that her mother was disassociating from reality, too, and that she would have to take care of them both.

“He loses more and more every day.” Her mother said. “I just hope…”

“He doesn’t forget us?”

The older woman nodded.

Rose did not need any more of an impetus to spend time with her father. She wanted to talk to him while she still could. Mostly, she wanted to listen.

Her father sat on his recliner in her parent’s bedroom and looked to the window. He didn’t turn when Rose entered; she assumed he didn’t hear her. He became animated when she put the photo in his sights.

He nodded before saying, “That was it…that was the trip. We were there with my Uncle Ron.”

Rose couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I didn’t know you had an Uncle. Grandpa had a brother?”

He nodded sadly. “We were never to discuss him. While we were taking that picture, Uncle Ron was starting a fire for our dinner. He was moving around in the fronds when…he saw her.”

“The Wet Woman?”

He met Rose’s eyes; he looked both perplexed and relieved that someone was hearing what he was saying. “She was sitting in the water, half of her beneath the surface. The part that was showing…that was all woman. The part below…lord only knows.”

Rose nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“She was struggling with something, we couldn’t see what, but she was pleading for help. Uncle Ron, he went over and put a hand on her shoulder…” The old man paused, shuddering. “He stuck to her.”

“His hand was stuck?” Rose asked.

“Like glue. He couldn’t free himself and she dragged him into the water with her. She pulled him beneath the surface.”

“Then what, dad? What did you do?”

He shrugged. “I did nothing. I was just a kid, but your grandpa tried to find him. The water was dark, murky. He couldn’t…he couldn’t find him. Uncle Ron was gone. We reported it, of course, but no one would listen.” His voice trembled in a way that verified the story.

“My grandparents blamed my dad. They didn’t believe the story either, but they felt he had something to do with Uncle Ron’s disappearance. Dad never got over it.” He shut his eyes for a moment before saying, “No one ever believed us.”

Her father’s frustration and sorrow were finally apparent to Rose. She regretted that she and her siblings had made fun of the Wet Woman, turning her into some slumber party game. “I’m sorry that no one took you seriously.”

He shrugged again. “It’s the hand I was dealt. I’ll go to my grave with it.” He gave a doleful chuckle. “That’ll happen sooner rather than later, now.”

Rose took the photo from him and examined it closely. She could make out something dark in the fronds, a shadow. When she looked back at him, she saw a clarity in his eyes that had been missing lately.

“I want to keep this,” she told him, “I want to remember that this happened to you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “And I believe you.”

.

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com
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More from Elaine Pascale:

TheKitchenWitches_ElainePascale

The Kitchen Witches

The women of Cape Cod have a story that is dying to be told. If only they could live long enough to tell it.

When Fiona Walker is contracted to write about a party attended by her social circle, her friends begin dying. She captures the competition and misery of the women around her through three different stories.

In Wishes, Melanie Voss discovers a Time Between Time where nothing that happens counts. Initially, Time Between Time is a welcome escape from a life spent watching the clock while doing chores for her family. But something sinister is in the Time Between Time and it is headed straight for Melanie.

Death and Taxes tells the story of Nashville DeCota, the Cape Capo. Nash swears that she is not the Island Impaler, nor the Tooth Snatcher, but she has just as many skeletons in her closet. When her husband, Derrick, is kidnapped, she has to come clean about her crimes if she ever wants to see him again.

Fiona tells her own story in Hazing, where she finds that the real source of evil behind the deaths of her friends is worse than she could have ever imagined.

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Archivist’s Curse   
by Kathleen McCluskey

The storm had driven him into the ruins. Water dripped from his sleeves as Edwin Langley, archivist and historian of ancient texts, stumbled through the rotted doors of Sorrowmoor Monastery. Moss crept up the stone walls and the air was thick with the scent of decay and forgotten prayers. He shook the rain from his coat, eyes falling on a bundle half buried in dust on the altar.

A scroll, wrapped tight in cracked leather and bound with a seal older than language lay among the filth. Beside it a journal lay open, brittle soaked pages whispering secrets in faded ink. A name was scrawled across the top, Brother Caldus.

Edwin’s hands trembled as he unrolled the scroll.

It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t Greek or ancient Sumarian. He squinted his eyes and looked closer, not Aramaic, it seemed to be something far more primitive, almost wrong. A long, slow shiver ran through his body. His fingers, driven by a hunger he didn’t recognize, pulled his pen from his satchel.

He began to copy. One name, then another and another. They flowed like water through his pen. As he wrote, the wind howled louder. Drops of rain began to drum against the parchment but the ceiling above hadn’t a single hole. By the tenth name, the ink had changed.  No longer black but red. As if the scroll was bleeding through his pen. He paused.

And then he heard it.

A breath, too close. A footstep, behind him. When he turned, there was nothing. Only the ruined chapel and the dark forest beyond its shattered windows.

The journal beside him flipped on its own, revealing a final, desperate entry: They are not names to remember. They are names to forget. Each one is a door. Each one is a lock, until you speak them aloud.

Edwin’s pen clattered to the floor.

He had read every name. Silently, but had mouthed them, shaping each cursed syllable with his lips. The rain intensified.

A cold hand touched the back of his neck. He spun, flashlight flickering wildly. Shapes moved just beyond the edges of the beam. Too thin. Too long. Their forms shifted, slithering between the raindrops. Dozens of eyes blinked open in the darkness, each watching, each waiting.

He ran. Out into the storm, scroll tucked under his arm, the journal soaked and forgotten behind him. The names burned into his mind, tattooed across his thoughts like brands.

He made it back to his flat in Cambridge by dawn. Locked every door. Lit every light but the shadows moved and the names, they wouldn’t stop whispering, in every drip of water. In every creak of the floorboards. He tried to write them backward, to cancel them out. But it only summoned more.

On the seventh day, Edwin vanished. His apartment was found in disarray. His journal laid open on the desk, the pages torn and nailed to the walls like warnings or protections. Each one with the same desperate message scrawled across them: DO NOT READ THE NAMES. DO NOT SPEAK THEM.

But someone always does, especially when the rain begins to fall.

Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 
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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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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Wynelda Ann Deaver @darc_nina #LoH

Posted on July 20, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Chains of Fate
by Wynelda Ann Deaver

It is soothing, the hook going and out, consuming the fiber, twisting it. Transforming it. A simple chain. Some long, some small.

I rock in the chair they’ve provided. Someone plays a violin in another part of the building. It’s strings are wailing today.

The notes agitate me. My chains are short. Blue. Green. The color does not matter. I’m only allowed to work on the chain until I slip. Then it gets taken off, placed in a small wicker basket. At some point another will pick up the basket and walk to the window. She will raise each chain to the sun and blow gently.

It dissipates, leaving a brief shimmer behind.

I wish they’d allow me to crochet a blanket. A scarf. Anything except for chains. Some too short. On good days, I can get a long one snaking down towards the floor. Mistress always tries to snip it before it can touch the floor.

She walks past me now, her heels clicking on the floor. The finger holes of her scissors look like cranes.

I reach into my yarn box and pull out the next color. It’s golden. I tie off and start. Mistress is across the room talking to another girl. She’s running a spindle. Another in the corner has a loom. So many types of fiber, so many threads cut short.

Maybe I can make it this time. It would be better, stronger if I could make a scarf. A family of chains all working together. But I won’t try this time.

This time I just want to make it as long as possible. My fingers cramp. Mistress’ heels are crossing the floor again. I look up and see another girl stop her. She has a basket in her hands, showing the lack of length perhaps? Or critical of the colors used on those chains? It’s of no matter. Those of us who create have no control of the materials.

Mistress makes her way around her as my golden chain brushes the floor. One link more. Two.

Snip.

It falls to the floor.

I reach down and place it in the basket. The girl comes and takes it to the window. Mistresses breath pinches as if her dress is too small.

What did I do? It is of no matter. We don’t know the significance, although we all have an inkling. A theory. My hand reaches into the yarn box, pulling out another length of yarn. This one is midnight blue.

Time to begin again.

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More about Wynelda Ann Deaver:

Wynelda Ann Deaver writes in the world of dark and twisty fantasy. She is in her own words a ‘girly girl’ who loves scrapbooking. Wynelda is extremely family oriented – her father is her best friend, and her son is the light of her life. If you’d like to read more about Wynelda, please visit her online at Wynword’s Weblog.

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

Posted on June 29, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Four Pieces
by Elizabeth H. Smith

Gregor fashioned many trinkets over the years. His hands had become tools themselves. All kinds of people came to his little shop. They often always asked for very specific things. Sometimes, peculiar things. But he needed the coin, and so he crafted whatever they wanted.

One dreary Sunday, a hooded man entered the shop and asked for something that didn’t seem strange at first, but Gregor thought it odd the way he wanted it produced. The stranger requested a simple object, a four piece wooden puzzle in the shape of a heart. But he wanted each piece to be made on its own specific month, separate from one another over time, rather than receive the finished product all together.

He asked to have the first piece in April, the second in May, the third in June, and the final one in August. He paid extra for this arrangement. Gregor had no issue with eccentric requests, and it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

When the month of April came, Gregor had the first piece ready and waiting for this particular client. And he came on the first of the month to retrieve it. Gregor handed the man the first piece of the puzzle, he paid, and left without a word.

The next month he did the same. And then again in June.

It wasn’t until July, when there was no piece to be made, that Gregor thought of the man. He wouldn’t be back until August, and he wondered why there was one skipped in the four month period. Why skip July?

He didn’t think much of it.

When August came the man returned to purchase the final piece. He seemed eager to have it, his hands shaking as he pulled the money from his pockets. “Thank you,” he said to Gregor. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome,” Gregor said.

The man laughed. “One for April, one for May, one for June, and one for August,” he said before he walked out the door. Before it closed behind him, he stopped for a moment, turned his head, and winked at Gregor.

***

As the chill of November came, Gregor put on a warm sweater to sit and watch TV. While he flipped through the channels a news story caught his attention.

The anchorwoman on screen had a flat, emotionless expression. “Today, four missing women have been found. Their bodies were recovered from Mirror Lake just this morning. The women have been reported missing over the past several months, but until now the disappearances hadn’t been linked. Local authorities think there may be a connection. Their identities have been confirmed as April McCarthy, May Walton, June Withers, and August Rivera. The police ask that if anyone has any information, please come forward.”

Gregor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes to wait for the weather forecast. What his clients wanted, was none of his business, and it wasn’t his job to ask questions.

.

Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay
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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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Through Clouded Eyes: A Zombie’s Point of View

Through Clouded Eyes: A Zombie’s Point of View: a collection of twelve stories told from the Zombie’s perspective.

They’re shambling toward you, feet dragging on the broken roadway. Arms outstretched, faces slack, they move as if they’re tracking your scent on the wind. You want to run, but you know there’s nowhere to hide.

Aware of their insatiable hunger, fear paralyzes you. These things were once human, people someone loved. Is there anything left inside them – some sliver of humanity that may save you from this nightmare? Your mind doesn’t want to accept the inevitable, a single thought consumes you: what are they thinking?

With your chance of escape dwindling, you snap out of it and run like hell knowing there is little to no hope; fate is coming for you. Soon you will see what they see Through Clouded Eyes…

Featuring stories from Maynard Blackoak, Calvin Demmer, Paul M. Feeney, Stacy Fileccia, Trevor Firetog, DH Hanni, Shannon Lawrence, Josh MacLeod, Zachary O’Shea, Neal Privett, Mark Steinwachs, and Alex Woolf

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author K.R. Morrison @KRMorrison2 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on June 28, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Marble Castle
by K.R. Morrison

Jackie looked up at the marquee and rolled her eyes. She glanced at her friends in disgust.

“I thought we were going to go to a casino,” she whined. This is so NOT a casino.”

“It’ll be fun!” said her friend Danae. “Besides, we’re miles away from a real casino.”

The name of the place was The Marble Castle, which sounded interesting, but not what Jackie had had in mind.

“Well, let’s go in then,” she grumbled, and pushed the door open.

The sound of the marble machines caught her interest. They sounded way more fun than slot machines. The pinging of marbles and the chirp of the wins mesmerized her.

Danae and the others were moving away toward the buffet. “We’re going to eat first, Jackie. Are you coming along?”

No answer.

Without turning around, Danae knew that her friend was already hooked.

Yes indeed. Jackie was now sitting between two other people—a couple of old duffers who had their minds and eyes drilled to the motion of the balls as they scooted around just under the glass of their machines.

She inserted a few bills of the currency they used here, and out popped ten marbles to start the game. Soon she was totally consumed by the whir and flash of her own Castle Player.

Her friends came back after their meal and tried to get her attention, but it was impossible to get her away.

“She’ll come back when they close the joint,” Danae said to her companions. “Or when she runs out of money.”

The latter happened first. And it would be the last.

Jackie’s eyes were sore and dry by the time she inserted her last bill. She was given only four marbles to use this time. She shook her head—this was not enough.

She needed two more.

A thought insinuated itself into her head. At first it nauseated her, but once it had taken root, she didn’t see the harm. After all, she could always win them back. They were the right size and shape…

The janitor found her slumped over the machine and called for an ambulance. But there was no hope—her eye sockets had bled profusely and there was no possibility of reviving her.

Jackie’s eyes watched from the other side of the glass. She could not do anything as they took her body away. The other marbles watched too—all of them waiting for the day when they would be released from their castle prison.

.
 
Fiction © Copyright K.R. Morrison
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from K.R. Morrison:

Enoch’s Return: Pride’s Downfall Book 4

All hell broke loose, as demon fought saint, and undead fought mortal. Fangs and swords, fire and light, mingled in a cacophony of noise that would have awakened the dead — if they hadn’t already been in the pitch of battle.

Toby was looking forward to celebrating his 21st birthday with family and friends. However, the day is shattered by the arrival of his sister, Erica, fresh out of the juvenile detention center, where she has lived in isolation most of her life. There is something very wrong with her still; witness her biting the ear of her taxi driver and licking the blood from her lips, and the way she antagonizes everyone around her. The other thing that is very off-putting about the day is a gift he receives – a musty tent and a few iron spikes that have been lying in the ground for years. Toby faints at the sight of the “treasure,” while Erica reacts violently and runs off to who-knows-where.
While he is unconscious, Toby learns who he truly is, and of his mission.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Alyson Faye @AlysonFaye2 @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on June 28, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!



Momma’s Boy
by Alyson Faye 

“Here’s a little piece of my heart,” he said, as he laid out his lady love upon the red velvet throw on the four poster bed. He tucked in the skirt of the hand-made red satin dress, nice and tidy, as he always did.

Once his mama had worn a dress just like this one.

Red was his favourite colour. His Mama had always painted her nails, and lips blood red, then put on her best red dress before going out ‘to party’ (as she told her son), often for several days and nights.

When the police and social workers found out, and then found him, in the basement, shivering, they’d said his Mama was ‘neglectful’ and ‘not a fit parent’. He’d cried his little heart out.

He’d never seen his Mama again. It was as if the city and its bright lights had swallowed her up, in one ravenous gulp.

But he got himself educated, grew up, got a job. Life went on. He was good with his hands, liked working with wood, metals, and fabric. He relished carving the wooden jigsaw pieces. He’d sit in the basement at his workbench, spending hours cutting, planing, sanding, ensuring the four pieces, two by two, fitted snugly, each into the other. Seamless.

Each one of his lady loves – Lois, Iris, Jill, Libby and now Lilly, had been gifted their own wooden heart.

He knelt at Lilly’s bare feet, painting her nails with the same vermilion polish he always used. Lilly lay passive, as though asleep. He stroked her hands, painted her fingernails and then, as a final flourish, layered Pillar Box Rouge lipstick onto her cool lips.

Just like Mama, he thought, sighing contentedly.

He’d waited so long for Mama to come back, years and years, and when she never did, well, then he took steps to replace her. But he was a grown man now, so he’d pretended to date these Mama substitutes, became the perfect boyfriend.

Their final date was always dinner at his house. He was an excellent cook. He wanted their last meal to be memorable.

Dear sweet, trusting Lilly.

“You were my favourite, Lilly,” he whispered. “You came the closest to my memory of Mama.’’

He stroked Lilly’s hair, and cheek, chill under his fingertips, and placed the wooden heart into her palm.

“Keep tight hold of that, Lilly.”

His eyes filled with tears, for he was easily moved at moments like these.

He had read the headlines, seen the online forums about the missing women. A part of him knew the world called him ‘killer’ and ‘sick’ or worse.

But the other part, hidden deep inside, the lost little Mama’s boy, just couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself.

Sleep tight, Lilly. See you in the morning. Missing you already.

Fiction © Copyright Alyson Faye
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Alyson Faye:

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The Lost Girl & Spindleshanks

The Lost Girl
A nailed-up door. An inheritance which comes with a ghost. A missing girl. A fifty-year-old mystery. Parapsychologist Berkley Osgood is hired to investigate. What he uncovers reveals secrets the living want to hide and the dead will never forgive.

Spindleshanks
Adam is having nightmares about a skeletal shadow figure, who he calls Spindleshanks. Soon his whole class are sharing the same nightmare. Adam’s dad, Rob, knows that Spindleshanks can’t be real. But is he? One terrible night Rob has to face his son’s nightmare creature and fight for his son’s life. What would you sacrifice to have your child back safe?

“A decent two-for-one. Alyson Faye brings the engaging and eerie in equal measure.” CC Adams – horror / dark fiction author

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on June 27, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Tonight You’re Mine, Completely  
by Kendra Smart  

The air was gone from her lungs, she could feel her body screaming at her to give it a damn break. Her breath was too loud, she couldn’t hear anything over it. The woods were dark and the fog made it impossible to discern where she was and just what was around her.  There in the distance was a light, warm. Possibly help?  Could she chance it? 

Morgan Logan was not a runner and surely was no track star. Her friends were already dead. Their blood was all over her, at this point landmarks of her friends perishing could be pinpointed. What had started as a summer vacation at a lake before college had become something far more gruesome and it was very clear that none of them would be present for their first day of classes. 

Ja’Quisha, Jackie, Lorrie, and Ryan had all been caught. She was all that was left and this waiting and wondering she feared was what would get her killed. This horrific “Choose Your Own Fate” choice had her paralyzed and sickened. It was hard to compartmentalize and see the safe path when nothing was safe. 

The trees all looked the same on this mountain side and the thought that this cabin offered more safety than the woods was hard to decipher. What if it was a trap? What if this is where he had been steering her the whole horrid night? Why was he doing this? What had they done?  Her heart was hurting more ways than one as her mind divided in rapid succession, analyzing the paths available.

You have to make a choice, Morgan. Live or Die, right? Just like the movie marathon they had watched the night prior.  The night prior hadn’t had her friends’ entrails strung like Christmas lights. Hearts had still been in bodies and beating. 

She looked behind her and held her breath, straining to hear anything other than the nightlife that was around her, the nocturnal creatures both beast and man. Other than that no tell tale signs that someone was coming…*SNAP!*

Morgan ran. 

Her heart raced as the adrenaline once again hit. She stumbled her way towards the cabin crying out as she reached the door only to find it locked. She pounded on the wood, begging someone to let her in.  

“Please, please, please…Hello?”

The door cracked open and Morgan let out a small squawk as she was yanked inside and the door bolted again. 

“Ry…Ryan?” 

The person before her was wearing his clothes but his face was being held together badly by duck tape, the blood was pooling around the edges of the tape, looking almost black in the fire’s light. She had thought the ax had killed him but here he was before her, breathing heavily and looking ashen but alive… for now. 

He held his finger up to his lips telling her not to talk, his attention on the noises still outside. It wasn’t long before he pushed towards the corner of the room out of line of sight of the windows. His efforts were so soft, not much strength there. Morgan knew a fight was going to be up to her. 

As they crouched by the fireplace, Morgan saw at the base of the brick a corner of paper. She tugged at it gently and discovered a letter had been wedged under the brick. It had obviously been there a few years because the paper was stiff and felt very brittle in her hands, it smelled musty and also of smoke. But as she unfolded it and began to read, a gasp escaped her mouth. 

“To you who are reading this letter,

Get out. Now. It isn’t safe. 

Those words could have helped you, if said before entering this cabin. But the second you crossed the threshold, ink dry on the Welcome book…well, you belonged to me. But since I don’t really want you to leave and these musings will really just be for myself, I guess intent really does matter, doesn’t it. 

It hasn’t been easy hiding this beast inside, the one fueled by blood and screams. Never clean. It isn’t worth it if it isn’t messy. But to be messy you need room. Space to breathe. Rolling echoes of space to compress the screams. 

One theory of thought is that you should stifle the sound to snuff it out. Silence it. Hide it away. 

I feel these intentions are shameful. For what am I to be ashamed of doing? “

As Morgan read, things became much clearer. There would never be a why.  She felt Ryan shudder beside and knew their time was running out. She looked up at the window and saw what had caused the shiver. There was a shadow walking past the window. 

She had a fire poker, her only choice it seemed as her eyes scanned what she could easily get to as a useful weapon. Her hands were almost around the wrought iron when she heard movement…on the roof?

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

She gulped as ash and soot hit the fire from above, a scream erupted as one by one her friends’ heads were lobbed down the chimney to land askew on the floor. Their beautiful faces forever marred with grotesque death masks of terror and pain. Morgan felt rivers of tears streaming down her face as her own fight or flight was tested.

She wasn’t even prepared in her terror induced state for the window behind her breaking and the arms grabbing her as both prey and predator went down.  The wind went out of her as she felt just how much heavier he was then her and just how hopeless this might be. The poker had stayed in her hand and she brought it back into whatever soft give would take the metal point.  

But instead of a cry of pain she heard a horrible and cruel laugh.

Morgan had gotten nothing but air, while this man had gotten his breath and a fist full of her hair.  

She felt the first burning hot stabs of pain as he jutted his knife into her side and stomach. But all she felt after was warmth. The warmth of the pool under her, the warmth of the blood, just warmth as she choked and gurgled on fluid. 

She could hear the odd song he hummed as he watched her eyes and wiped his knife.

“Happy 50th to me.”  

Fiction © Copyright Kendra Smart
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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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 Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on June 27, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Nesting 
by Kim Richards 

Nydia stood before her grandmother’s antique lindenwood credenza. She gazed at a set of nesting dolls arranged in a circle atop a crochet string doily. Each doll was increasingly larger than the next until the smallest of the six sat beside the largest. The smallest represented an infant. Each successive doll increased in apparent age as it did in size. She knew they fit inside one another which is why Grandma Audeen called them nesting dolls.

     Nydia longed to reach out and touch their glossy surfaces, take them in her hands, give them voices and movement. Alas, that was forbidden. She could only stand before them and memorize all the details.

     There were many. The largest doll could easily be a grandmother she supposed. Lines traced around the mouth, eyes, and across its forehead. Its grey painted hair looked plain with only a part in the center. A dress with little pink flowers covered its round body. Atop which an apron, lined with painted lace, adorned the front. The doll’s lips were pink to match the dress.

     What interested Nydia most was the figure the grandma doll held in one hand. At first she thought it was a peculiar mouse. Then one day, when Grandma Audeen shuffled to the kitchen for tea, Nydia dared lean in close. That’s when she realized the tip of mouse’s tail ended with a shape like a barbed arrowhead. What she previously thought were pointed ears were indeed horns.

     Nydia leaned in, nearly touching the doll with her nose to better examine the figure’s red eyes. When they blinked, she almost knocked over the entire doll set when she jumped back with arms flailing.

     That was two weeks ago. Today Audeen nestled in her worn-out recliner. Silent and brooding, she twisted her ragged lap blanket in her gnarled hands. She pursed her lips, watching her grandaughter stare at the dolls.

     After letting out a big sigh, she said, “You know, there are supposed to be eight of those.”

     Nydia straightened and turned to face her grandmother. “What happed to the other two?”

     “They got used up.”

     “Used up how?”

     Audeen held out her hands. “Help me up and I’ll show you.”

     Ever obedient, Nydia did so. She struggled to assist the older woman to stand but eventually managed to get her on her slippered feet. Together they slowly walked over to the credenza.

     Motioning toward the dolls, Audeen instructed, “Pick up the largest doll and one of the others.”

     “Does it matter which one?”

     Audeen shook her head.

     When Nydia closed her fingers around the grandmother doll, a tingling sensation traveled through her fingertips, across her palm and up her arm. She wanted to put it down but one look at her grandmother’s dour expression told her to continue.

     Her hand hovered over the other dolls. “Hmmm. I can’t decide.”

     “Well, I can’t stand here all day. Not with these aching knees. Just pick one.”

     “I have an idea. Since this one…” She held up the large doll in her hand. “…reminds me of a grandmother. That means she’s you. So, I’ll pick the one that looks like me.”

     Audeen’s mouth twitched into a wicked grin as Nydia chose the one with a dress the same color as hers.

     “Now, nest that one inside the larger one.”

     Nydia turned the dolls on their sides and placed the head of the smaller one inside the opening at the bottom of the other. The tinging in her arm spread across her entire body. With a wet sucking sound, the small doll swiftly left Nydia’s fingers and disappeared inside the other doll.

     Suddenly weak, she fell to her knees. “What’s happening?” The dolls fell from her fingers, bouncing on the floor.

     “It’s the nesting.”  Audeen lifted her skirts.

     With the same sucking sound, Nydia disappeared beneath the cloth, head first. Her scream muffled and then silenced.

     The air around Audeen shimmered. She stood taller, the wrinkles of her skin smoothed away, and she smiled a now youthful smile. Humming, she returned the large doll to its place on the credenza.

 
Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Rie Sheridan Rose @RieSheridanRose @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on June 26, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Encircled 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

Sometimes, it feels like

the world is closing in—

Everyone you know looking

at you in judgement…

.

Standing in a circle around you,

but keeping their distance.

As if it is dangerous

to get too close.

.

At times like those,

I feel like a glass marble…

Totally transparent—

all my dreams exposed.

.

And everyone around me

is opaque in my sight…

unreadable, inscrutable,

terrifying in their disapproval.

.

I stand in the middle

of the growing circle…

and have the overwhelming

desire to explode.

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

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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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