Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Angela Yuriko Smith @AngelaYSmith @Sotet_Angyal #LoH

Posted on September 30, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Guardian Fairy
by Angela Yuriko Smith

All grandma left me when she died was a tacky figurine of an angel and horse. She always called it her tooth fairy. Someone handed it to me after the funeral, murmuring words about her being a fine woman with an invite to cry on their shoulder. I looked at the shabby, porcelain face of the figurine and remembered.
“Grandma, it’s an angel,” I’d say.
“No, is a fairy for collecting teeth,” she’d insist. “Angels stay locked in Heaven. Fairies do us favors.” Until the end she insisted it was a tooth fairy.
Now I was stuck with it, but who knows? Maybe it did work. Kids went missing every year from our town, in spite of everyone knowing everyone. The sheriff was convinced it was out-of-towner drifting through and was hard on strangers. Too hard. Hitchikers vanished too, but that wasn’t important. We all knew the sheriff acted with good intentions, even if it never helped. My friends all vanished just the same. Only I was never touched.
I went back to the house alone. Our congregation had already come in and boxed a bunch of things up for me. They assumed I wouldn’t want to live here alone. That’s one of the bad things about a small town—everyone knew everyone and thought they knew everyone’s business.
I set the figurine on a stack of boxes, and then tripped over an empty tape roll left on the floor. The box tower toppled and the angel and horse crashed to the floor. Good, I thought. Now I have an excuse to be rid of the ugly thing.
I grabbed the broom and pushed boxes aside to clean up. Among the shards of statuary were tiny, rolled up bits of paper. I leaned the broom against the wall, knelt down and picked one up. Something was inside. I unrolled the yellowed paper and a milk tooth popped out. My grandmother’s spidery scrawl ran the length of the paper.
Joseph Madden, for pushing my girl off the swing.
I remembered that day. Joe and I had played tag all afternoon. The winner of the last game got first dibs on the tire swing and the loser had to push. I won the swing but we argued when I wouldn’t give Joe a turn. He had finally pushed me off. He made me cry, then he disappeared.
Shaking, I unrolled more scraps of paper. Teeth littered the floor among the broken glass.
Anabelle Smith for making fun of my girl’s pants.
Darwin Keene for not bringing a birthday gift.
Robbie Baxter for breaking my girl’s heart.
All my friends. I didn’t want to understand what I was looking at, but I did. So many things made sense now. Grandma’s rubbish dump—a deep pit in the middle of our field where she burned garbage. I was never allowed to come with her.
“My pretty girl shouldn’t be around burning trash,” she’d say. “The stink will taint you.”
I stopped unwrapping the tiny teeth. I knew who they all were. I couldn’t read any more because my eyes were blind with tears. The front door swung open and I looked up to see the sheriff entering the house hesitantly.
“I was just checking to make sure you’re okay here by your lonesome,” he said.
Surrounded by all that remained of every friend I’d ever had, I felt the most lonesome I’d ever been. I looked up at the sheriff, tears streaming down my face and scooped up a handful of teeth for him to see.
“I’m not okay,” I told him. “I may never be okay again.”
He let me drop my handful of frenemies into his palm. He read some of the papers, looked at the teeth and nodded. Bending over, he helped me up, dusting away the shattered past that clung to me.
“I’m sorry to say, it makes sense. And I’m sorry I never could see it until now,” he said. “She was just such a sweet old girl. And I just thought it had to be an out-of-towner…” I was shaking like a leaf. Memories raced through my mind—every petty argument, every jealousy I ever had was a death. I collapsed.
The sheriff didn’t say another word. He scooped me up in his arms like a child and carried me out of the house. He closed the door behind him. For once, I was glad everyone thought they knew my business. This time they were right.
I wouldn’t want to live here alone… now.
Fiction © Copyright Angela Yuriko Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

The Bitter Suites

Book a stay at the Bitter Suites, a hotel that specializes in renewable death experiences. Whether you schedule your demise as therapy, to bond with a loved one or for pure recreation, your death is sure to give you a new lease on life. Renewable death is always beneficial… at least to someone.

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on September 30, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Sept_LOH_Image1
One Last Rose
by Rie Sheridan Rose

She sat on the edge of the bed. Egyptian cotton sheets under a silk duvet. Made with precision corners and perfect pillows. Everything about the room was perfect. It was his trademark. The perfect room, the perfect bed, the perfect wife.
But she wasn’t perfect. She was messy at heart, and a bit of a lay-a-bout. She’d learned early that those traits must be sublimated at all costs. So everything had a place, and lived only in it. Everything…except her.
She no longer felt like she had a place. This room was a prison, and she knew she would never break free of it. He was too rich, too powerful. He’d never agree to a divorce—it would make him look less than perfect.
She stared at the clock on the mantle. Three o’clock. He’d be home at five, and expect perfection—in the dinner, in the conversation, in the bed. But she wasn’t perfect. And now, there would be no hiding that soon. Had it been absentmindedness or self-sabotage that had her skip the pills? She wouldn’t give him another hostage to fate.
Rising to her feet, she walked to the mantle-piece. She pulled a single rose from the vase sitting there. The stem was covered in sharp thorns. Good. Sharp was good.
In the bathroom, she filled the tub with warm water and stepped inside—making sure her robe was perfectly folded on the chair at the vanity. Sinking down into the comforting warmth, she pulled a thorn through the soft flesh of her inner wrist.
This would take awhile, but she’d be sure to do it perfectly.
Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Skellyman

“I have always preferred the supernatural in tales of horror, the knot between life and death. Rie Sheridan Rose’s Skellyman is cool and creepy. Her first horror novel is a chilling read.” — Charlee Jacob – Stoker winner, Best novel, “Dread in the Beast”

Brenda Barnett is trying to cope with raising her four-year-old daughter all alone after an accident tore her family in half. As she and Daisy go for a much-needed treat, the little girl spots a Skellyman on the corner.

This pivotal encounter leads to a wave of mounting terror as Brenda’s life begins to come undone around her. Who is the Skellyman? Why does he keep appearing? Can the sympathetic policeman Brenda turns to stop the madness before it is too late?

And why does Daisy insist that her dead brother is trying to tell them something important?

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 Andie Lee Eames @RavenLilysHot @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Family Books
Andie Lee Eames

My family has been heavily involved in the occult since before I was born. Personally, I think they’re all mad. There’s been a rumor circulating around the brood that there are a set of books that grant whatever the owner wishes. They’ve been searching for these books for centuries but haven’t found them. The legend goes as follows: The books were made from the bodies of six family members chosen by a lottery. The unlucky ones had their bodies torn to pieces during an arcane ritual to put their combined lives, knowledge and power into it.
Their blood was used as ink mixed with the contents of their spilled bowels. The paper had been made using their flayed flesh then cured so it could be written on. Their bones were used for the spines, some of their faces were used to construct the front of the book while their hair was used on the back. The reason I know of this lore is because one of them got away and took the books with him when the sorcerer fell into a deep slumber drained from performing the task of making such books. In the wrong hands this book can unleash untold evil into the world which is why I have to find it first and destroy them.
I took a job as an archeologist assistant who traveled the world with this peculiar man with a fedora and Cuban cigars. He didn’t look like a professor at all but looks are deceptive; it’s how I’ve survived so long in my family. We were on a dig in Egypt when we came across them after searching for months. He was looking for old relics while I searched and found the books. They were even more gruesome than I had imagined or prepared for. There are eyes – blinking eyes – on the corners of each book to alert the creator of the book but she’s been dead for age, my great-great grandfather was said to have slit their throats as soon as the books were made while they slept.
Just holding them I felt the surge of power held within the air pulsated and the cave system we were in was starting to collapse in on us. So, we made haste and got the hell out as fast as we could. A few of the excavators died during the crash when their bodies were uncovered their faces were contorted in dread. I knew the book had taken it’s first strike to protect itself.
It couldn’t or wouldn’t harm me for some reason and I didn’t trust it. I had to get it back to my home where I had everything, I needed to destroy it. I hadn’t deluded myself that this would be easy or that I couldn’t end up dead these books will do whatever it takes to survive. They are alive make no mistake about it. It seemed to take forever to get back to the States but once home I began.
This ritual required life’s blood in other words period blood because it was the most powerful next to that of an innocent which I would never use because it would defeat the purpose of me getting the book in the first place. There was a secret room behind the books in my library, that’s where I would put an end to this and free myself from the madness of this family.
I made sure to protect myself by writing symbols in my blood and reciting incantations. The temperature of the room dropped significantly as I recited the words. A foul smell took my breath as the pages flipped wildly. The voices and screams of those who made these books were deafening they shot through my head like invisible bullets. I reeled grabbing the sides of my head with my hands making sure it wasn’t about to fall off, that’s how severe the pain was.
I saw shadows crowding the walls and closing in on me with maniacal laughter and shrieking as they closed in on me. I broke out in a cold sweat as the battle between me and those books intensified. Invisible scratches appeared all over my body they felt like being cut with razor blades. There was a sonic boom then bright light flooded the room standing in front of me was the original creator of these books—my great- great -great grandmother Rose. All I knew about her was the family feared her and an old portrait of her.
Her voice broke the atmosphere. “It appears no one told you not to search for these books. Now that you’ve found them you think that I’ll allow you to destroy my life’s work and sacrifice?” Before I could breathe my next breath, she used her boney hand to rip my soul out of my body. I stood there watching her hold my flesh in her hands before she devoured it all in one gulp.
“You were the final piece to my puzzle and now you will ignite this book and I will finally get what I deserve. With that she shoved my soul into the final book no one knew about now that her collection was completed, she placed them into a satchel and vanished. I was now trapped with those taken before me…there’s no hope for me!
Fiction © Copyright Andie Lee Eames
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
 

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More from Author Andie Lee Eames:

abstractmurderalpeckAbstract Murder

Abstract Murder is a disturbing psychological suspense tale told from the view points of various characters. The characters speak directly to the reader taking them into the dark recesses of dangerous minds while calling into question the validity of good and evil. If you liked “Pulp Fiction & Silence of the Lambs” then you’ll love Abstract Murder which is told in flash forwards, backs, and present time. A high concept thriller not for the faint of heart and one hell of an emotional rollercoaster ride. There are three different killers and you’ll get to see what made them that way.

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 Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 29, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Sept_LOH_Image3Found Him
by Kim Richards

Joan shivered when she stepped inside the square room. The cold was sharper than she expected in a windowless room with stone walls and floor. It’s chill started in the center of her chest and quickly traversed along her bones as if they were roads leading away from the middle point. Her flannel shirt and down jacket did nothing to prevent it.
She did her best to ignore her chattering teeth and moved towards the center of the room. There, covered in silvery cobwebs, sat a wood and iron chest and backpack.
Joan recognized the backpack. It belonged to her father, who disappeared ten years ago. Her search for him brought her to this place. She followed his itinerary from back then, spoke to people who remembered him, and followed any clue of deviation from his planned trip. He was prone to meandering, particularly when something peaked his interest. It took her to many destinations—some exotic, others dangerous, all of them interesting to her as well.
She sat on the dustless floor next to the backpack and brushed away the cobwebs. It’s red surface was marred from years of abuse. She mused how that backpack travelled more miles than most adventurous people do in their lifetimes. It saw abandoned temples, rebellions in the streets, and underground smuggling. Now it was here. Why isn’t Dad? she wondered Joan caressed the dry leather and then unlatched the two straps on the front. Then she flipped open the top flap. There was something round inside. She reached inside and wrinkled her nose as her fingers touched something light and stringy. Ugh. More cobwebs!
Not wishing spiders to crawl up her arms, she withdrew her hands and wiped them on her jeans. She climbed to her feet, picked up the backpack and upended it. She recognized the round thing the second it dropped to the floor and rolled to one side. It was a head. The spider webs inside must’ve been the long gray hair. It was tied in a top braid into a handle shape but stray strands fell down along the sides and back. Oh, geez. What would he want with a shrunken head?
Joan saw many of these in museums, particularly in an exhibit of mummies from around the world. Curious, she grasped the hair loop and lifted it to eye level. The skin was shriveled and brown. She noticed some tattooing on the cheeks and forehead. They were odd symbols she didn’t recognize. Yellow beads were sewn onto the lips and eyebrows.
A soft swishing sound from behind her caused her to turn. She saw her father. His bloodshot eyes were wild with wide pupils. His hair was matted and groin clothed in thin leather. He held his machete to one side in mid-swing.
Joan managed to cry out, “Dad!” before the blade severed her neck. Her head tumbled to the floor, followed moments later by her body. The last thing she heard was his crazed laughter.
Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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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 Lydia Prime @LydiaPrime @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Sept_LOH_Image2

In the Mind of a Monster
by Lydia Prime

I’ve walked the mortal realm for so long that I’d often forgotten where I came from. As I tiptoed through the nightmares of every living being, somehow I couldn’t shake the feeling that something awful was chasing me. I’d danced across the sandman’s dust and through the souls of the truly wicked, but even still, the foreboding sense that I was not the only intruder there who lingered.
Once more, I managed to dodge the light and darted into a corner shrouded by shadows. The constant need to look over my shoulder was driving me mad, but the night, the cover of darkness always kept me safe. Finally calm, I lay in wait for another’s slumber.
The time came at long last and a cool breeze hit my back as I started toward my next venture. I moved across the creaky floor boards and another chill ran up my spine – this night seemed different.
Close enough, my claws slid into their mind. Grinning, I devoured all the happiness and began to creep into its dreams. My descent was abruptly halted as I felt someone behind me. I spun around to catch the watcher only to find a tiny figure sitting on the windowsill. That wasn’t there before…
A bright white beacon smiling a coldly into the bleak night. I stood frozen, certain it would move. In that second, I could only think back to the monster stories I’d heard growing up. I never thought they were real until her sparkling eyes shifted from side to side then settled upon me. My hearts were in my throat, time stood still for what seemed like eons. She opened her mouth and a blinding light emitted from her, engulfing me. Before it ended I heard her say, “Good riddance.”
Fiction © Copyright Lydia Prime
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Lydia Prime:

Lydia is that friendly monster under your bed just waiting for you to stick your limbs out from beneath the covers. She tends to frequent the nightmares others dare not tread. When she’s not trying to shred scraps of humanity from the unsuspecting, she writes stories and poems of the horror and dark fiction variety. She’s often found behind dreaded 800 numbers collecting souls.

Please visit Lydia on Facebook for more info. 

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Scarlett R. Algee @ScarlettRAlgee @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 28, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Sept_LOH_Image1Half Past
by Scarlett R. Algee

Three minutes after midnight Nassa thrashes in the bed and wakes herself coughing, painfully pushing her thin frame upright to fumble at the rusty sludge oozing from the corner of her mouth, and Phenia knows it’s time.
On her way to the kitchen she plucks the tiny ornate clock from the mantel. It had been Nassa’s gift to her for their wedding fifty years ago: crafted across the sea, the dark strange-grained wood ornamented with scrollwork and carved roses. Priceless, precious, unfailingly accurate even now.
Phenia puts the kettle on to boil and holds the little clock between her hands, watching the second hand tick round, whispering over the gurgle of roiling water the words of the enchantment she’d laid on it at sunrise, hoping it will be enough.
When the kettle shrills, she tucks the clock into a pocket of her skirt and reaches far back into the cupboard, drawing out the jar of black powder she’s so carefully hidden from Nassa, even though her wife hasn’t left her bed in days. Hasn’t done anything but cough and sleep and twist fitfully as the cancer eats away at her.
They have not discussed this plan, because Phenia has been terrified that Nassa would say no.
Phenia empties the jar into a large cup and adds the boiling water, stirring carefully and wincing as the odor of sweet rot reaches her nostrils. The ingredients had been surprisingly easy to obtain: gravedust; henbane; powdered bone. Two petals from the bouquet of never-die roses she’d given Nassa on their first anniversary, still as vibrantly pink and glossy as they’d been five decades earlier. Only the corpse-tongue had proven difficult—not the small black flower that clusters around new graves, but the literal object, and that less than three days old—but last night a dose of laudanum had made Nassa sleep soundly enough for Phenia to have a midnight prowl and find a drunken vagrant, and that, thanks to a particularly sharp boning knife, had been that.
This sleep will be more profound, though what happens after is less certain. Nassa coughs again, and Phenia lifts the cup and starts up the stairs.
***
There is blood on the coverlet. Nassa has fallen back on her pillows, dull-eyed and panting, but she still scrabbles fruitlessly at the stain.
“It’s all right.” Phenia sets the steaming cup on the bedside table and sits on the edge of the bed, catching her wife’s hand in both of her own and gently squeezing the thin, hard-edged fingers. Nassa had been a scribe when they’d married, and she’d had such beautiful hands. “Do you think you can sit up again? I brewed something for your cough.”
“Try.” Nassa’s voice is all but gone, but with a huge effort and Phenia’s arm around her shoulders, she gets upright. “So tired.”
“I know, love.” Phenia takes the cup and guides it to Nassa’s lips. “Drink this and you can sleep again.”
After the first mouthful, throat eased by heat and moisture, Nassa draws back in reproach. “Everything you brew is unaccountably vile.”
“I know.” Phenia dips her head in apology; the little clock is still a weight in her pocket, its ticks palpable against her thigh. “But it works.”
“Vain thing.” Nassa laughs hoarsely and drinks again, drinks until she’s breathless. She lies back, breathing hard. “Enough.”
Phenia draws the cup away and inspects the contents. Enough indeed, she agrees silently, and sets it down, running her fingers through the patchy remnants of her wife’s iron-grey hair until Nassa’s breathing deepens and slows. Then a hitch, a final cough, and it ceases altogether.
For a long moment, in what feels like solidarity, Phenia holds her breath. Touches Nassa’s mouth and nostrils and throat, assures the presence of neither breath nor pulse. Then she pulls the miniature clock free and sets it on the table.
Half past midnight. The hands have gone still.
But, as Phenia watches, wondering if the enchantment took, wondering if there’s space within the teeth of the nesting gears for her spouse and lover’s soul, the ivory numbers inset in the dial begin to glow, one by one: green, like Nassa’s eyes. The golden hands jerk forward once, then backward, and the entire device wobbles uneasily; then it stills, and the hands tick forward again, and time goes on.
Phenia lets out her breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, speaking not to her wife’s still, pallid face, but to the clock’s dial. “I’m sorry. I know you’re probably angry right now, but you would have said no if I’d asked, and I can’t be without you. Not yet. Not after so long. So I didn’t ask.”
She stops, staring at the numbers, which are still luminescent. The tick-tock has gone hollow.
“I didn’t ask,” she repeats, and reaches for the cup. Perhaps it will be enough. Perhaps where there’s room for one soul, there will be room for two, ground together in the mechanism, tick by tick.
Phenia drains the cup and watches the clock.
Fiction © Copyright Scarlett R. Algee
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Scarlett R. Algee:

The Lift: Nine Stories of Transformation, Volume One

The hall is dark and the overhead light flickers. Sounds echo, and there’s a creaking and clanging that gets louder as you stand in the semi-dark. The elevator opens and you’re offered a ride. Step inside and ride it to the story chosen for your transformation. Don’t be afraid, for Victoria, the mysterious girl who operates The Lift, waits to guide you. Set in the same world as the award nominated audio drama, The Lift’s first written anthology features nine all new stories by fan favorite writers and special bonus content by creators Daniel Foytik and Cynthia Lowman. The collection is brought to life with beautiful illustrations by Jeanette Andromeda for each story.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

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

Posted on September 27, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Chosen
by Naching T. Kassa

“Death is coming, Delphine,” the old man said. “Listen to me or he will claim your life.”
Delphine paused. The white pill lay on her left palm. The glass of water filled her right.
“What is it?” she asked, handing the man the pill and water. “How do you know, Mr. Slade?”
Slade set both aside and tapped his temple with one ancient finger. “I sense it. When you have lived as long as I, you will know when death is near. Mine will come tonight. You may be saved from it…if you listen to me. Do you remember the grimoire I showed you?”
“You’ve shown it to me every day for the last seven years. How can I forget?”
“When the time comes, and you will know when, you must go to the library and fetch it. It is the only thing which can save you.”
“Mr. Slade, I—”
“Shh. Ever since you came to work for me, I knew you were the one. You are more than a caregiver. That is why I chose you as my successor. In a few moments, you will understand that. Now, go to the door and whatever you do, stay away from the window.”
“Why?”
“I have long admired your curious mind and your questions. But, now is not the time. Humor an old man.”
Delphine crossed the room and headed for the door. Perhaps, she should inform Ezra of this. The butler had known the old warlock far longer than she.
When she touched the doorknob, the window shattered behind her. She turned.
Slade made no sound as he rose from the bed. He faced the beast which squatted on the sill, one hand raised in the air.
Delphine’s scream died in her throat as she looked upon the creature. The large, grey, eyeless thing was covered in tiny tooth-filled mouths. It leapt upon the old man and bore him to the floor.
“Go!” was the only word he spoke as the creature tore into him.
Delphine froze in mute horror. Too late, she turned back to the door and grasped the knob.
The creature caught her with one huge hand and something razor-sharp bit into her arm. When it pulled its hand away, the tiny mouth in its palm growled.
Delphine would’ve shared the same fate as Slade, had Ezra not flung the door open at that moment. Unmindful of her wound, he dragged her from the room.
“Hide!” he shouted.
She ran and his screams followed. They haunted her as she fled the west wing and made for the library.
Minutes later, she entered the east wing hall. Swords hung high above her, glinting in the moonglow. She entered the library and flipped the thumb lock, then hurried to the foreign section of Slade’s private collection. Like most warlocks, the old man had been fluent in several of the romantic languages, and French was his favorite.
A chorus of distant and inhuman shrieks sounded from the west wing and Delphine shivered.
Her arm ached and blood dripped from her pale fingers. She tore a strip of cloth from her skirt and tied it around the wound. No time for anything else.
She scanned the shelves, searching for her salvation.
Another chorus of screeches rang out. Heavy footsteps thundered on the floor below. The creature had left the west wing and found its way to her side of the house. Soon, it would be upstairs.
She intensified her search.
At last, she found the battered tome with the torn spine. She opened it.
All the pages were blank.
Delphine flipped through the book. Every spell, every word had vanished. The only marks within it were the smears of blood from her fingertips.
Below, the monster mounted the stairs.
Delphine froze, then peered around the shelf.
Outside the door, the footsteps paused.
Anxious seconds passed.
Then, the footsteps continued on. They receded into the depths of the house.
Delphine waited. She didn’t understand what had happened to the spells. Where had they gone? If only she’d paid more attention.
Her heart grew heavy as she thought of the old man.
“I don’t know why you chose me, Mr. Slade,” she said softly. “I’ve always been afraid. Always needed help. Just like I need your help now.”
The book suddenly grew hot in her hand. She looked down and realized something new had appeared on the pristine page. She read the spell in the moonlight, then spoke it aloud.
The hand holding the book vanished before her eyes.
In her new and invisible body, she moved toward the door. She put an ear against it.
Nothing.
Delphine opened the door and stepped into the hall. She crept toward the stairway.
Behind her, something breathed. Cold flesh brushed her wounded arm before she reached the stairs and she halted. The creature also stopped.
She could feel the warm breath from its many mouths on her skin. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to shake.
The monster moved on. It descended the stairs. Soon, the weird cries grew distant.
Delphine stood on the landing, her heart lightening within her chest. She descended and hurried toward the door. Crossing the threshold, she stepped into a world of silver and shadow, a contrast to the world of death she’d left behind. Crickets sang beneath the stars. Somewhere, far off in the trees, an owl hooted.
Her car stood just a few feet away, a gleaming beacon of freedom in the drive. And, yet, she found she couldn’t move from the doorstep. She couldn’t leave the house with work unfinished.
A moment later, she was back inside and climbing the stairs. In the hall, she found a chair. She used it to reach for the sword.
She held it before her as she moved throughout the house. At last, she found the monster. It had returned to the room of slaughter.
It didn’t hear her, as she tiptoed toward it. Didn’t see her as she raised the sword. The creature must’ve felt it though. For every mouth screamed when she plunged the blade into its body.
And as the black blood flowed, she knew why Slade had chosen her.
Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
 

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More from Naching T. Kassa:

image (10)Kill Switch

As technology takes over more of our lives, what will it mean to be human, and will we fear what we’ve created? What horrors will our technological hubris bring us in the future? Join us as we walk the line between progressive convenience and the nightmares these advancements can breed. From faulty medical nanos and AI gone berserk to ghost-attracting audio-tech and one very ambitious Mow-Bot, we bring you tech horror that will keep you up at night. Will you reach the Kill Switch in time? Edited by Dan Shaurette and Emerian Rich, with authors Chantal Boudreau, Garth von Buchholz, Bill Davidson, Jerry J. Davis, Dana Hammer, Laurel Anne Hill, Naching T. Kassa, Tim O’Neal, H.E. Roulo, Garrett Rowlan, Phillip T. Stephens, and Daphne Strasert.

Available on Amazon!

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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 Suzanne Madron @suzannemadron @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 27, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Claimed Baggage
by Suzanne Madron

The world streaked by in droplets of rain across the windows of the traincar. The hum of steel wheels on steel rails created a lulling backdrop to the occasional percussive clatter as the train bumped over switches and sidings and the train car rocked from side to side like a cradle gone out of control.
The faraway sound of a handle clicking against a lock filtered through the ambiance of the train noise and he turned in his seat, shifting his gaze from the windows to the door of his compartment. He had drawn the curtains of his tiny sleeper car roomette when he had boarded and in the narrow gap where the old velcro seal had peeled or failed to velcro the fabric completely closed, he could see a dark shape lurking just outside his door.
Cold dread enveloped him as the figure stooped to look through the gap in the curtain. He dropped silently to the floor to avoid the peering eyes he knew would be the color of chrome and held his breath.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and waited. A voice answered the conductor, but it didn’t sound human.
“My apologies. I thought this was my room.”
There was a pause then a rustle of paper. At last the conductor spoke again.
“Ah, your room is this way. Follow me, please.”
He only ventured off the floor after he heard the door to the vestibule open and close. He spent the subsequent two hours watching the shadows of feet pass beneath his door. The next station stop was still over three hours away.
At dinnertime, the conductor stopped by his room to collect his dinner reservation. He smiled apologetically at the man through the glass of the door.
“Would it be possible to take dinner in my room? I don’t feel well and I don’t want to spread it to the rest of the passengers and crew.”
The conductor smiled politely. “Of course, sir. I’ll bring the menu for you.”
He breathed a sigh of relief and settled into his seat. When the knock came, he opened the door for the conductor.
Instead, the thing with the chrome eyes filled the doorway. Or rather, its black wings filled the doorway as well as the corridor. Its pale face was smooth as porcelain and it would have looked oddly human in its black dress slacks and white button-down shirt.
At his cry of terror the angel sighed. It stepped into his roomette and closed the door behind it, leaving it unlocked.
The black wings folded and disappeared beneath the white dress shirt and the angel sat on the seat across from him. It regarded him for a moment before shaking its head.
“You have eluded me for a long time,” it said at last.
“Leave me alone. I don’t want to die.”
“No one truly dies.”
“I have not yet lived.”
“Be that as it may,” the angel said with a sigh, “Your time on this world is done.”
The angel touched his hand and the angel’s skin was smooth and cold as stone. As they left the train speeding away behind them, the angel smiled at him with some sadness.
“Of all the souls I have collected, I enjoyed our chase the most.”
Fiction © Copyright Suzanne Madron
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Suzanne Madron:

For Sale or Rent

The house across the street seems to go on the market every few months, but this time nothing about the sale is normal, including the new owners. No sooner has the for sale sign come down and the neighborhood is thrown into a Lovecraftian nightmare and the only way to find out is to attend the house warming party.

 

Available on Amazon!

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

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi @ErinAlMehairi @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on September 26, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Flea Market Wishes
by Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi

“How much for the figurine?” said Cassie.
“How bout a deal of $5 for you, dear,” said the pot-bellied man at the flea market. “It’s worth more, having special magic as it does, but you look like you could use a break.”
“It’s so beautiful,” said Cassie. “I would love to buy it. My life has been pretty messed up lately, so you’re right, I could use a little joy. What do you mean special magic?”
“Well, see here,” he said, picking up the piece and looking at it. “From what I understand, from the little old woman lives down the street there… the one does the tarot readings? She said it can grant you… changes.”
“Yes, I know of her,” Cassie said. “But changes? You mean, life changes?”
“I reckon,” said the fat man.
“Ok, I’ll just take it,” said Cassie, and pulled out a wad of one-dollar bills from her pocket, counting out five and handing to him. The guy handed it over to her and she delicately took it in both hands. His stubby fingers brushed over her hand and she looked up at his toothless grin and backed away quickly.
Cassie walked out of the flea market parking lot and down the street, turning in the alley to walk the back-way home to her apartment. She looked over the figurine; it was almost mesmerizing. She wasn’t sure how to get any magic out of it. Shake it? Rub her hand over it? Maybe she should just talk to it or ask for what she needed? She began to tell the woman in the statue about her life. Her wish to finally be over this trauma and fear. To hopefully be able to live with someone again and for them to treat her right. For a family that cared about and supported her. Maybe even for kids one day in the future. She didn’t have a great job either, having so much emotional baggage to heal from, but it was okay, so she’d settle for love to happen first with partner, with family, with friends. For her heart to mend and her life to begin.
When she got home, she walked around to the back and let herself in her door. Her apartment was a one bedroom in the back of the home. Currently the rest of the home, a three-bedroom apartment, was unoccupied. She hoped if anyone moved in it would be a family with kids.
She set her figurine on her bedroom dresser next to the photo of her late cat, Tiger. She stared at it for a minute, but she already felt better. Maybe this would help her after all.
***
The cops pulled up with their lights twirling to the two-apartment house. The landlord met them in the driveway. “I needed to get in touch with her about a maintenance issue. I kept knocking on the door and calling her phone with no answer,” he said. “I didn’t just want to let myself in, but something seemed wrong so I called you all.”
The cops asked the landlord to open the door with his key. Once they all went in, they were floored by the smell. With their arms up over their nose, they made their way to the bedroom. They found Cassie, dead from blunt force trauma to the head, on her pink carpet—blood in a dried pool from where it had seeped around her head. One of the cops noted a statue, a woman in a white dress with long flowing hair standing with a white horse, laying near the body. It was stained with blood.
***
The flea market was bustling. The fat man smiled and enticed the younger women thrifting at the sales with statues and wishes. His white tank top, dirty and showing off too much arm and chest hair, was also tinged with blood on the side. But no one was noticing. They were entranced by the offer of better lives. Tokens to wish upon. Figurines to die upon.
Fiction © Copyright Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi
Fiction Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi:

Breath. Breath. 

It’s the one-year anniversary of the publishing of my debut dark poetry and short story collection, Breathe. Breathe. Much of it tells my life’s pains and haunts and fears poured, sometimes savagely, onto the page. However, there is also legend, folklore, and fantasy as well. 

Breathe. Breathe. is a collection of dark poetry and short fiction exploring the surreal depths of humanity. It’s a representation of how life breaks us apart and words put us back together. Purged onto the pages, dark emotions flow, urging readers into murky seas and grim forests, to the fine line between breathing and death.In Act One, readers are presented with a serial killer in Victorian London, a lighthouse keeper with an eerie legacy, a murderous spouse that seems to have walked right out of a mystery novel, and a treacherous Japanese lady who wants to stay immortal. The heightened fears in the twilight of your minds will seep into the blackest of your nights, where you have to breathe in rhythm to stay alive.
In Act Two, the poetry turns more internal and pierces through the wall of denial and pain, bringing visceral emotions to the surface unleashing traumas such as domestic abuse, violence, and illness.
In the short stories, you’ll meet residents of Valhalla Lane whose lives are on a violent parallel track to collision, a man who is driven mad by the sound of a woodpecker, a teenage girl who wakes up on the beach and can’t find another soul in sight, a woman caught in a time shift pitting her against the Egyptian goddess Anuket, and a little girl whose whole world changes when her favorite dandelion yellow crayon is discontinued.
Amid these pages the haunting themes of oppression, isolation, revenge, and madness unfold through folklore, nightmares, and often times, raw, impulsive passion crafted to sear from the inside out.
With a touching foreword by the Bram Stoker nominated author Brian Kirk, Breathe. Breathe. will at times unsettle you, and at times embrace you. Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi, a veteran writer and editor of the written word, offers up a mixed set of pieces, identifying her as a strong, new voice in dark fiction that will tear the heart from your chest, all the while reminding you to breathe.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Mary Ann Peden-Coviello @MAPedenCoviello @Sotet_Angyal #LoH

Posted on September 26, 2019 by Nina D'Arcangela

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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One for the Road
by Mary Ann Peden-Coviello

“It’s a quarter to twelve. There’s nothin’ on the shelf but my fancy phone.” I sang new words to the old tune. Not well, of course, but I hadn’t been chosen for my singing voice. Only two candles illuminated the room, casting a warm light onto the settee and allowing velvet shadows to pool in the corners.
“Oh, Marcus, you’re such an amusing, dear man. How is it no one’s snatched you up?” The pretty, though rather generically blonde, model I’d picked up at The Emerald Pussy Cat smiled at me, her blue eyes heavy with a welcome bit of lust and bleary with wine.
What was her name again? Julie? Jennifer? Josephine? Joanne? Something with a J. “I possess hidden depths, um, J—” I dragged out the J sound.
“Joyce.” The drunken little minx over-pronounced her name.
“Ah, yes.” I checked the time again and refilled Joyce’s wine glass. She’d asked me to make her a martini, but I’d claimed not to have any vermouth. Untrue, of course, but wine produced a cleaner effect on the blood.
Joyce – it was Joyce, right? – oh, well, whatever her name, she leaned back against the oversized pillows on the settee and tilted her face toward the ceiling. The arch of her neck was truly lovely. Shame about the utter lack of intellect.
“Marcus, why don’t you come sit beside me? You’re w-a-a-a-a-y over there by the fireplace. So very far.” Her eyelashes fluttered in what I can only surmise she intended to be a seductive gesture. She looked rather as though she were undergoing a seizure of some description.
A darker shadow breathed within the gloom surrounding the doorway. A sidewise glance at the clock on the mantle confirmed that midnight had arrived. I slid onto the seat next to Joyce (yes, that was the name) and took her carefully into my arms, turning her head just so.
Veronique – my mistress, the vampire queen of my life, the one who held my soul in her delicate hands – swooped onto the creamy throat and fed while I gripped the thrashing body. The fight lasted but a few moments. Veronique lifted her bloody mouth to mine, my reward for a job well done.
“Oh, my lady,” I murmured, “soon you’ll be well again and able to hunt for yourself once more. Will you still love me then?”
Those cool, blood-red lips curved ever-so-slightly. “My Marcus, how could you doubt it?” Her eyelids lowered. “But I’m still hungry. Can you find me another?”
I kissed her fingers and sang, “One more for my vampire. One more for the road.”
Fiction © Copyright Mary Ann Peden-Coviello
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Mary Ann Peden-Coviello:

maryannpedencoviello_frightmareFright Mare-Women Write Horror
Short Story: One Hour Before the Dark

Women write horror and have written it since before Mary Shelley wrote FRANKENSTEIN. This anthology is to highlight the fact women write great horror and to kill the fallacy that they aren’t in some way up to standard. They are. Read here stories by Elizabeth Massie, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lucy Taylor, and a plethora of other great writers as they work on your nerves, get inside your head, and bang out some of the scariest tales written today. I’m proud to present these women for your consideration, as Rod Serling might say, as I ask you to step into FRIGHT MARE. Lock the door and windows, put on a light, and remember, it’s not real. It’s not real. Midnight awaits, monsters scheme to take you away, the strange and weird wait in the shadows, but it’s not real. Is it?

Edited by Billie Sue Mosiman, the author who brought you the SINISTER-TALES OF DREAD collections and her latest suspense novel, THE GREY MATTER.

Available on Amazon!

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