Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lori R. Lopez @LoriRLopez @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction #poem #poetry

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Wallpaper
by Lori R. Lopez

It all started with an awful flit —
The pattern shifting just a whit.
She thought it changed a little bit
And then went back to normal . . .
Unsettling nerves the slightest tad,
She almost glimpsed her old granddad,
Then feared she must be going mad!
The design looked stiff and formal.
This motif could not be any duller;
She wanted something with more color:
A country scene, a fancied muller
That would stir the imagination . . .
But she didn’t wish to go insane
Over shadows, a morbid fleeting stain,
A flash that she could not explain
From a candle’s illumination.
There it was again, the gilded specter!
Did it strive to haunt — a ghastly hector
With the visage of a soul collector?
The taunter grinned its skullish most . . .
A young Lady sat and brushed fine hair,
Pretending the ghoulie wasn’t there,
Yet nothing may pry her from that chair,
So frightened it might be a ghost!
The wallpaper held a malevolent sheen.
Was it moonlight or taper that lent such mien?
The Lady felt as if caught between
Her mortal coil and the other side . . .
This time the phantom chose to linger,
Crooking a spindly gruesome finger,
And invited the maiden to malinger —
Joining Gramps beyond the divide.
A revenant offered his bony hand . . .
“You can always return from the Netherland
Should the under-realm appear too bland.”
His grandchild shivered, a chill of dread.
The skeletal visitor cackled hoarsely.
His voice unpleasant, he added coarsely,
“Come with me now ere it be perforcely!”
Two digits snapped and she lay dead.
A Grandfather Clock chimed its fatal hour
The dainty lass wilted like a flower.
Luce’s wallpaper settled plain and dour . . .
No decorative strokes remained to glower.
Fiction © Copyright Lori R. Lopez
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Lori R. Lopez:

Cornstalker

Trouble with a capital C! The tale begins when a car stops and a body is tossed into the Corn. But this is not just any crop. It is the battleground of a legendary creature who haunts fields along desolate highways, only when stalks are tall and the blood of brothers has been spilled in the soil — rising above the Corn like a burly Scarecrow.

A novelette of betrayal and retribution, “Cornstalker” pits a female truckdriver and a man with blood on his hands against a mythical beast summoned by a band of men wearing feathers and paint.

Jane is searching for her younger brother, who disappeared along a highway bordered by many ears. The last message on a sputtering cellphone had been something about a monster. So she took over his rig, coincidentally called “The Monster”, a heavy-duty black beast with a long snout, double chrome stacks and a reinforced grill. Anxiously prowling the roads of The Cornbelt, she picks up a stranger who could be dangerous. Our heroine may need to unleash her own demons to emerge from the Corn once she goes in.

First appearing in the 2014 anthology DEAD HARVEST, “Cornstalker” is part of Lori’s SPOOKTACULAR TALES collection.

Available on Amazon!

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

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

No More Sleep Tonight
by Melissa R. Mendelson

Most towns have ghost stories.  There are those purely fiction, and there are others only spoken in whispers.  The town, Hallow was no different, but it only had one ghost story.  That story was for young girls, who were about to turn ten-years-old.  On the day before their birthday, if they had some kind of fall, even a trip over their shoelaces, then they were marked by something, something worse than a ghost, and they were not supposed to go to sleep that night.  They had to stay awake until the next day because if they went to sleep, then they would disappear.  Unfortunately for me, my mother did not believe in ghost stories.
I had tripped over my laces the day before my tenth birthday.  I thought nothing of it, but I was the new kid in town.  When the other girls in my school heard me talking about tripping over my laces, they freaked out.  I thought they were pulling a prank on me until one girl showed me a picture of her best friend.  Her friend had falling off her bicycle the day before her tenth birthday, and the next morning, she was gone.  She was never found, but my mother did not believe me.
The night before my birthday was on a school night.  Bedtime was usually at ten, but tonight, my mother allowed me to stay awake until eleven.  Then, I had to change into pajamas, brush my teeth and get into bed.  I crawled into my bed, but I stayed awake.  I guess that’s when my mother realized that I really did believe the ghost story, so shortly before one in the morning, she came into my room to sit with me.  And she handed me a glass of warm milk.
I only closed my eyes for a moment.  I felt really tired like sleep had just taking hold of me, but then I jolted awake.  I couldn’t feel my bed.  I couldn’t touch the ground.  My head felt funny like something was protruding out of it, and something was, connecting me to the wooden rafters above me.  Then, I realized that I wasn’t alone.  I spun around to see other young girls behind me, but they weren’t girls.  They were dolls, and I was one of them.  Then, I was pulled forward, coming face to face with another doll.  But she wasn’t a doll.  Her face was stained with blood, and she flashed a smile made up of razor sharp teeth.  And she said, “How, sweet.  Another birthday treat.”
Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Melissa R. Mendelson:

Lizardian 

The ghosts of the past will slither and crawl their way into the present, unleash a quiet rage upon a small town and take up residence in the darkest places that you dare not look, but one will find that deep below the surface lies a monster, who will tear its way through those standing in its path. All the bodies to fall is because she lied.

Available Here!

 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Bailey Hunter @DarkRecesses @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Daywatcher
by Bailey Hunter

She comes to me as the first rays of dawn cascade down her shoulders and swirl at her feet with each purposeful stride. Soon she will cloy her way deep under the lush earth to rest beneath the bones of all those who dare to threaten her on my watch.
Eons before, I rode with my Mistress down from the mountains in the sky to this land of soft yet crunchy creatures.  We wandered fertile lands, Her terrifying beauty commanding all those who laid eyes upon her. My purpose has always been to keep them at a distance worthy of my Goddess.
Back in the beginning millennia, it was simple. Her mere presence sent even the most brazen cowering in awe. But with each new civilization, they grew more desirous of Her.  They erected monuments to Her, worshiped Her, sacrificed for Her, and sent their assassins to try to claim Her power as their own. Even in those moments though, the reverence was still there.
Then something happened and our time on this mortal plane changed.  The soft and crunchy creatures stopped believing. Those that did believe hunted my Mistress down, not for power, but because they thought us monsters.
We were forced to hide, gone too long from our home upon the mountain to return, we were stuck here.  Through their fear and hate they turned us into the very things they fear.
She still wanders among them at night, learning their ever-changing ways, and I remain on watch through the days as she slumbers beneath their bones. She leaves them there as a warning, and a snack for me. With billions swarming about in this tiny realm, I don’t worry about running out of soft and crunchy snacks any time soon.
Fiction © Copyright Bailey Hunter
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More about Bailey Hunter:
Bailey is a publisher with Dark Recesses Press.


Dark Recesses Press is a publishing house dedicated to providing high quality dark fiction in its many forms to the reader. Our end goal is to impress and entertain, no matter what dark recesses we dare shine our light on.

DarkRecessesPress.com

 
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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lydia Prime @LydiaPrime @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Biblichor
by Lydia Prime

Studying the wisdom of men who’d come before, he sat alone in the archives. A cup of tea to soothe the soul and his ticking metronome keeping pace helped to quell a busy mind in such silence. Reading unorthodox materials was advised against, however he was certain – he’d begged for the chance. Seconds turned to minutes, the minutes to hours while pages quickly passed and books were finished; each stacked haphazardly in front of him so he could admire how far he’d come.
As the previous leather bound was laid atop its mates, a much more aged text was opened. The sweet, musty aroma filled his nostrils and he sighed loudly, the first noise he’d made in almost a day. Gliding his finger down the side of the page there was a sudden sharp pain followed by carmine droplets, muddying its words and staining the image. He pulled his hand away and shook it out when a low rumbling came from a far corner of the library.
He sipped his tea and placed it back upon its saucer then returned to his reading. Moments passed before he realized the ticking had stopped. A few taps on the watch did nothing to start it again, the rumbling was growing louder. Eyelids heavy and breathing deep, the musty scent from his book was becoming overwhelming – his head cloudy, that smell...
The clinking of his porcelain teacup and plate pulled him from whatever sickness he’d been feeling and he noticed the rippling of the liquid. What have I done? Panic surged through his body, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As he stumbled from his chair to the bookcase, he was greeted by an inhuman creature. Please, God, no…
“God,” a voice most foul growled, “almost.” Laughing, a clawed hand extended and squeezed his throat. “Thanks for the wake up, it’s been a while,” Biblichor licked its lips before showing off a mouth of yellow razor-like teeth. The creature slowly peeled away his flesh starting at the barely bleeding paper cut and slurped each slice down as he screamed.
Fiction © Copyright Lydia Prime
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Lydia Prime:

Lydia grew up in a small, ‘Mayberry,’ sort of town, in New Jersey. She thoroughly enjoys gummy bears and laughing through the darkest depths of life. More often than not, she writes about demons and monsters, however, being a recovering addict tends to turn inner demons into fearsome foes to be fought beyond the constraints of the mind. ‘Sometimes,’ she states, ‘what’s inside, is scarier than anything reality throws at you.’

Please visit Lydia on Facebook for more info. 

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Stacey Turner @Spot_Speaks @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Message
by Stacey Turner

Petra lit a candle and pulled the ancient silver hand mirror from the trunk under her bed.  She breathed in and out slowly, mumbling the words she’d memorized centuries ago. She peered into the mirror, scrying for answers. At first there was only white mist, but she stared until her eyes burned, blinking quickly lest she miss something. Finally the fog lifted. What she saw stole her breath. Icy fingers of fear raced along her spine, diving inside to grip her heart. Marcelle was near.
She saw the demon clearly in the hand mirror: his dark cloak, hood pulled down to hide his face, long broadsword, ever present wolf, and those damn crows. She observed him confront a hunter in the woods, and though she couldn’t hear what he said, it mattered not. He’d found her. Her mind raced in circles, voices in her head screaming at her to flee. She needed a plan. The demon was smart; he’d expect her to flee, and he’d be ready for her. There had to be a way out of this.
A banging on her door startled her, and she quickly slid the mirror back into the trunk. The banging came again. She opened the door to find the hunter standing there, sword sheathed, and his hat in his hand. He dipped his head in greeting.
“I’ve been given a message to pass along to you.”
“Aye, I know. Let’s have it then.”
The hunter glanced at her quickly, trying not to meet her eyes. The fear rolled from him in waves, buffeting her. “I met a m-m-man in the woods…”
Petra snorted. “T’was no man.”
The hunter lifted his head and held her gaze this time. “No. It wasn’t. He said to tell you Marcelle is near.” He dropped his head again. She sensed there was more.
“What else?”
“He said you would not be happy.”
She rolled her eyes. “You spoke to a demon, yet I’m the one you are afraid of? Be gone, you fool.” She began to close the door, but then a thought struck her. “I’m not happy, but neither am I mad at the mere messenger. You have an ailing wife, yes?”
“Yes,” the hunter replied. “She has suffered all winter with an ague.”
“And yet, no one in your family has come to me for a cure,” Petra said.
“No, our Gods do not allow us to deal with witches.”
Petra resisted the urge to roll her eyes again, instead adding sweetness to her voice. “I am no witch, only a simple herbal healer. I use nature to help the sick. How can that be unholy?”
He continued looking down as he answered. “I don’t know.”
“Send your oldest daughter to me at sunrise tomorrow. I will make a tonic for your wife, and a blessing amulet for your house. You have been in contact with a demon. You don’t want to take any of his dark residue home, do you?”
The hunter trembled. Obviously this thought had not crossed his peasant brain. Petra held her sigh and continued smiling at him.
“No,” he answered after a moment.
“Then send your daughter, yes?”
“Thank you, Vědma. You are most kind.” Nodding, he scurried away.
Petra closed the door and rested against it for a moment. She had a plan, and much to do before her new body arrived at sunrise. Her laughter drifted through the forest.
Fiction © Copyright Stacey Turner
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Stacey Turner:

Morbid Metamorphosis: Terrifying Tales of Transformation

Metamorphosis occurs every day as caterpillars become sweet fluttering butterflies, tadpoles become gorgeous frog princes and chameleons become one with the beauty of nature – but you won’t find any of that here.

The transformations you’re about to witness are unnatural, sometimes gruesome and deeply psychological. They will make you question reality and take your mind places it was never meant to go.

Terrifying Tales of Transformation from Greg Chapman * Roy C. Booth & R. Thomas Riley * Terri DelCampo * Dave Gammon * Nancy Kilpatrick * Rod Marsden * Jo-Anne Russell * M.J. Preston * Stacey Turner * Tina Piney * Suzanne Robb * Franklin E. Wales * Donna Marie West * Suzie Lockhart * Cameron Trost * Daniel I. Russell * Simon Dewar * Amanda J. Spedding * Ken MacGregor * Erin Shaw * Gregory L. Norris * Nickolas Furr

Available on Amazon!

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Suzanne Madron @suzannemadron @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Toys in the Attic
by Suzanne Madron

The For Sale sign swayed in the breeze, knocking gently against the side of his sedan. It was hot, too hot to show a house, really, and especially too hot to show this house. The old Victorian was straight out of the pages of a horror novel. It had been in disrepair for decades, each generation of the family letting it fall further into ruin. The porch railings were warped and showed chew marks from squirrels and families of wildlife called the space beneath the soggy porch floor home. Pieces of the old gingerbread woodwork around the roofline and windows had rotted and fallen into the overgrown yard, now lost forever in the bramble. The real estate agent sighed at the general neglect of the place, but knew it was inevitable once the family members had moved away to the cities.
The current owners inherited the property from some newly deceased relative and had never seen the place. The agent had urged the siblings to visit the property to see if it might be something one of them might want to keep. Reluctantly, they had agreed to meet with him.
And now they were late. Tardiness seemed to run in the family, he thought sulkily. He checked his watch again and noted the delay of ten minutes had stretched into twenty. He turned the air conditioning up in his car and checked his phone. No messages.
As he was about to give up at the thirty minute mark, a rental SUV bounced along the dusty and overgrown driveway toward him. The agent smiled with relief when he saw two faces, a man and a woman, beneath the glare of sunlight off the SUV’s windshield.
The vehicle pulled up alongside him and the driver side window slid down. The man leaned out with an uneasy smile.
“Are you L’etranger?” he asked.
The real estate agent gave the man a tight smile. “Yes. And you are the Bonhommes – Cheryl and Bernard, yes?”
The couple nodded simultaneously.
“I’m so glad you could come. This place could use some TLC, but I think you’ll find it’s got a truly lovely garden and great bones.”
The man and woman stared up at the dark windows, then gave each other a meaningful glance. He knew by that simple look that they would want to sell the place to the first person who would put in an offer.
“Shall we take a look inside?”
“I think we’ve seen all we need to,” the man said. “We’ll sign whatever paperwork needs to be signed so you can get it on the market.”
He gave them a pained expression. “There are some items left in the house.I really would feel better about putting the sign up after you’ve both had a chance to take a look and make sure you don’t want anything that was left behind.”
“Fine,” the woman said from the passenger seat. “The sooner the better.”
She opened the door and her tennis shoes crunched over the gravel driveway as she walked toward the house. Her brother turned off the SUV and followed her, and the real estate agent did the same.
L’etranger motioned them around a hole in the porch floor and opened the door. The siblings paused.
“Don’t you keep the place locked when no one’s around?” the brother Bonhomme asked.
The real estate agent laughed uncomfortably. “There’s no real need,” he explained. “This place… well. It has a reputation.”
“A reputation?” this question from the sister.
L’etranger leaned in close to them and whispered, “Everyone thinks it’s haunted.” At the twin nervous expressions on their faces, he laughed. “It’s not really but I don’t go out of my way to inform the town. Fear keeps any curious would-be ‘explorers’ out.”
The Bonhommes relaxed slightly and followed him into the house. The tour was a quick one. Most of the items left behind weren’t worth anything. Old furniture with rodent nests crowded the rooms, and a layer of dust so thick it was almost like looking at layers of sedimentary rock covered every available surface. The further up into the house they went, the hotter it became, and the siblings were visibly sweating when the trio reached the stairs to the attic.
The stairs creaked as they climbed and when they came eye-level with the floor it was evident there was more than just squirrels living in the old house’s top floor. Cheryl Bonhomme wrinkled her nose at the scent and turned to leave when she saw the mummified remains of various creatures littering the floor. She turned back at her brother’s exclamation.
“What the hell are these?” Bernard pointed to a series of hand-made dolls hanging from the rafters.
“Ahhh, you’ve met the family!” L’etranger grinned. “There’s one for every one of your family members, dating back many, many years.”
Cheryl ran for the stairs without waiting for an explanation and L’etranger drew a doll from his jacket pocket. He wound a piece of her hair around it, then stabbed it through the heart with a long pin. With a cry, she clutched at her chest and fell down the attic stairs. There was an audible crunch as her neck snapped and her brother screamed.
“What have you done?” Bernard raced to the bottom of the stairs and cradled his sister’s lolling head. Her eyes stared upward, empty.
L’etranger hung Cheryl Bonhomme’s doll from the rafters next to the others then took out a second doll. “I am punishing the sins of the fathers. When you’re gone, I can rest at last.”
After L’etranger had finished hanging Bernard’s doll and burying the bodies in the garden, he shoved the old For Sale sign back into the ground knowing no one would ever see it.
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 , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Nina D’Arcangela @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Crapace
by Nina D’Arcangela

The hunger overwhelms. Captured in this carapace, I cannot roam, explore, hunt; it is a death without the privilege of dying to be enslaved deep in the croan’s woods. I wandered here what seems eons ago. A creature of flight, I fought for those today’s man would only credit as legend.  A mighty warrior? Perhaps not, but a worthy one without doubt. She ensnared me with a simple goat tethered to a tree. It seems too easy, I know, but the hunger was upon me then as it is now. I serve her will; a shackled mutt in this glade. The hunger grows stronger by the day, her cruelty more cunning with each visit. I am forbidden her flesh by ancient law scribed upon parchment long scattered to the winds, though I believe I may accept punishment willingly for the pleasure of sinking my teeth into her flesh. The crack of a branch, I smell rot; she comes.
Fiction © Copyright Nina D’Arcangela
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Mental Ward: EXPERIMENTS

A dank basement, shadow filled hallways, the deep echo of a metal latch being thrown while faint screams are heard… These are the things you might experience in a place where the unspeakable happens, where conscientious action and moral turpitude turn a blind eye in the interest of advancing one’s own personal pursuits in the most deranged and unjustifiable manner. The type of place where power corrupts, and depravity runs rampant among those imbued with it. A place where the unfortunate are abandoned to the devices of those who convince themselves their actions are in the best interest of science.

Mental Ward: Experiments is a collection of ten short stories that demonstrate the worst of humanity’s ambition in the interest of ‘civilized’ advancement. Step into a world where sanity is left behind, and horror is what the doctor ordered!

Available on Amazon!

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