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

Posted on December 26, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

he Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Borrowed Body   
by Kathleen McCluskey

Evelyn entered the cathedral with the cautious silence of somebody intruding on a place that remembered pain. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and burned out incense, carrying a heaviness that settled in her lungs as she moved between the collapsed pews. Her lantern cast a trembling amber glow that failed to warm the chill pressed into the walls. The gargoyle above the altar caught the light like something caught mid-resurrection. Its wings were warped into a shape that suggested torment rather than flight. It crouched as if bracing for a blow, its massive form straining in a posture too tight. Too intimate to have been carved by an indifferent hand.

She approached with a restorer’s fascination but fascination felt too light for the weight that gathered in her chest. The creature appeared to be male beneath its monstrous veneer, the muscles captured with an unsettling fidelity. Its ribs seemed to be carved from a study of a person whose body once heaved with breath. Its face, oh God its face, was frozen in an expression of grief so personal it felt intrusive to look at it. As if she had stumbled upon a confession carved into marble.

Her fingers twitched at her side before lifting them. She was drawn to this statue despite her own instincts screaming warnings. When she laid her palm against the pedestal, the cold beneath her skin swallowed thought. Darkness surged through her as if the cathedral exhaled. She found herself inside of a tunnel that pulsed like a throat swallowing her whole. A man crawled ahead, his body gaunt and shaking, his hands were raw from scraping on the stone floor. His panic bled into her, a tide she could not fend off, leaving her breathless with a terror she did not understand.

She ripped her hand back with a cry that seemed too loud in the cavernous hall. Her lantern sputtered violently then steadied into a meek flicker.

She tried to compose herself, studying the gargoyle even closer. She could see the carvings along its ribcage more clearly. They were not decorative carvings. They resembled fractures that had been mended, broken again, reforging themselves in a cycle of suffering. The stone looked as if it had tried to recoil from the sculptress’s hand.

Evelyn reached out before she could reconsider, her fingertips grazing one of the fractures. The surface was warm, wrongly warm, like flesh trying to cool after a strenuous exertion. Something inside the stone throbbed under her touch, a sluggish, laboring heartbeat. The gargoyle’s chest hitched beneath her fingers, its exhale dampening her wrist with fevered breath.

She stumbled back, but the statue’s shadow clung to her boots as if to anchor her in place. A fissure along its ribs split wider with a brutal snap, shedding a ribbon of stone that floated on the air. Dust swarmed her eyes and mouth. She coughed, clawing at her face but the particles burrowed into the corners of her vision, dimming the world into a gritty smear.

The gargoyle’s lips peeled apart with a wet, cracking sound. Inside was no hollow carved mouth but rows of warped, human-like teeth stretched into a demented sneer. A rasping voice seeped out, scraping at the air as it formed her name. The sound lashed across her chest in a way that felt like possession.

She tried to run but the dust had hardened around her ankles like wet cement. The gargoyle’s eyes dragged open, lids tearing like rancid scabs. Human eyes stared out. Recognizing. Wanting. Starving.

Its wings tore free from the wall in a shower of mortar. It stepped off the pedestal with a heavy thud that shook the cathedral. Its hands, stone no longer, closed around her arms like a lover’s tender embrace turned to cruelty.

Its breath crawled across her face as it whispered that the sculptress had not carved him from stone at all.

She had buried him alive in it.

And he needed someone to take his place.

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

Posted on December 25, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Reclamation of Jacob Marley
by Naching T. Kassa

Jacob Marley stood at river’s edge, staring into the icy, rushing water. Since his death in 1836, he’d learned the meaning of the word patience.

Ebeneezer had been the first soul he’d saved. His old friend had repented and changed his ways. Countless others followed. He envied their salvation and the mistake he’d made so long ago.

The night his own ghost had visited had been bitterly cold. His uncle, twenty years dead, had tried to warn him of the fate which awaited. Of the chains he would one day bear. But he had been of stronger stuff than even Scrooge and refused his salvation. He received no visit from the ghosts of Past, Present and Future.

When he awoke from his death, he discovered the true meaning of hell. It was not a fiery inferno of pain and punishment. No, it was something far worse. Too late, he had learned what he had lost.

Like Scrooge, Marley had once loved. Her name had been Gwendolyn, a sweet girl but frail. He still remembered the morning of their wedding day, how he had paused on the steps of the Church of St. Anthony, and then fled. It was not gold which kept him away, but cowardice. Gwendolyn suffered from consumption, and he feared her death. He did not know what had become of her.

Not until his own death.

Like a magnet, his ghost had been drawn to her side. She lay upon her deathbed, an old woman, but just as beautiful as she’d been so long ago.

A young woman sat in a chair beside the bed. She held Gwendolyn’s hand in her own.

“My dear daughter. My Elizabeth,” the old woman said. “I cannot die with a secret.”

The woman leaned forward. “What is it, mother?”

Gwendolyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Alfred Micklewhite, though a dear man, was not your father.”

The girl stared at the old woman, eyes wide.

“Alfred allowed me to take his name before he went to sea,” Gwendolyn continued. “He knew I did not—could not—love him. But he loved me, and he supported the two of us until he died. Your true father…he died last week.”

“But…who?” the woman asked.

“His name was Jacob Marley.”

“Marley? Of Scrooge and Marley?”

“The same. I loved him long ago. I still do.”

Her daughter asked questions, how could she not, but Gwendolyn had begun to fade and would say no more. Marley hoped to hear those answers. He waited as the life ebbed from her body. When Gwendolyn rose from her mortal flesh, and his daughter wept below, Marley rushed forward.

He never reached her. Something rose between them, cleaving him from her, and she departed in a blinding flash of white light. He was thrust into the gloom of a dark street in London.

For seven years, he searched, first for Gwendolyn and then for his daughter. He never found either, but he did find his uncle. And Michael told him how he might atone, how he might find them again. He had gone to Scrooge after that. Now, he stood upon the riverbank, waiting for the arrival of the next soul he would save.

The woman arrived a few moments later. Had the world not aged beneath Marley’s watchful eye, he might have thought her strangely dressed. Clad in denim trousers and tennis shoes, earbuds tucked into her ears, she trudged down the path, her eyes upon the snowy trail. She would not notice him until it was too late.

Marley loosened the kerchief which held his jaw. He didn’t know her name, nor what she had done. The knowledge would come once he tasted her fear.

Usually, Marley would appear to his victim several times before making his appearance, but things had changed over the years. This new generation seemed oblivious to the world. They stared at their screens and little else. Marley, unlike the ghosts of later years, still possessed the ability to clutch a living being. He found appearing suddenly and grasping hold of his target garnered the most attention.

The woman drew nearer, stepping along the riverbank, approaching the spot where he stood. He prepared to leap out at her and would have if she hadn’t tripped. She screamed.

Marley reached out and grasped hold of her arm before she could tumble into the water. He pulled her back.

“Oh! Thank you, good sir!” the woman gasped. She clutched hold of his arm. If she had seen his terrifying visage, she gave no sign.

“Think nothing of it,” Marley replied. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You deserve a reward for your kindness,” the woman replied.

Marley frowned. The woman spoke rather strangely for one of this age. Her speech seemed much like his own, a trifle archaic.

“No, there is no need to reward me,” he said. “I am not here on my own behalf.”

“Then…you are in the habit of saving others?”

“I am accustomed to saving souls. I must admit, this is the first time I’ve saved a life in such a way.”

“And I must admit, I wondered if you’d do it.”

“You saw me?”

“No. You were quite invisible.”

“Then how did…”

“I know? I have come for the sake of your salvation, Jacob Marley.”

His eyes grew wide. “My salvation?”

The woman smiled. Her face changed before his eyes, becoming that of the one he still loved best.

“It’s time to go home, Jacob. Home for good and all.”

Marley glanced down and saw that his bony, ghostly fingers had gained flesh. Gwendolyn took him by his newly formed hand, and in the next instant, he stood in an apartment overlooking Hyde Park. A little boy lay sleeping at the foot of a Christmas tree.

“Who is he?” Jacob asked.

“He is ours,” Gwendolyn said. “A child of a child of a child. Our only remaining footprint on this earth.”

“Oh, Gwendolyn,” Marley said. “I am sorry. Bitterly sorry. I could have…should have shared that life with you.”

“You still can,” she replied.

The world swirled about him and, quite suddenly, he found himself outside the church of St. Anthony, once again a young man. A chill nipped his cheeks.

When he pulled the door open, he received a wooden sliver for his trouble. He stared at the small drop of blood and then glanced up the aisle, where Gwendolyn waited. He had never seen her on their wedding day. Her smile was radiant.

Jacob Marley did not hesitate. He rushed inside, and the church door slammed behind him.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
 
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More from Naching T. Kassa:

NachingTKassa_SherlockHolmesAndTheArcanaOfMadness

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

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

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

Available on Amazon!

 

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

Posted on December 25, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Cursed Savior
by Elizabeth H. Smith

She discovered me frigid and pale as the gray sky. The cold had taken my strength, the bite of winter gnawed away my will until I no longer knew hope. I’d accepted death and the forever it gifted. I looked up at her, a wounded animal begging for its end, wishing away the suffering with the cure of finality.

As she looked down at my frail body, her gaze bled darkness, a void that swallowed my entire being. Nothing else existed when I was embraced by her eyes, as if the world faded away and was no more—only her and I remained.

She spoke not a word, only nodded in what I deemed understanding. I was unsure whether she was going to grant my morbid wish of desperation, or offer her hand to save me. She seemed capable of either. And at that moment, either would have been fine.

What I could not see was that she offered both.

I was not gone from this world, but my body had long since decayed. My thoughts were still free, but I could only roam where she tread. At least I wasn’t alone, like I’d been that day in the forest. There were many others in that place, the vast space behind her eyes. She collected our poor souls, both freeing us of our earthly bodies, and imprisoning us within her mind. We all existed there, we could all see the theater of acts she committed, as if we were attendees at a picture show. We could feel the world, but never control our way. We were only watchers behind her dark sight, unwilling participants in acts of combined mercy and cruelty. And that’s where we’d remain as long as she walked the earth.

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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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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Christina Sng @ChristinaSng @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 24, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Storm Child 
by Christina Sng 

Icicles formed on the foliage.
In days, the blizzard arrived.


.


She was now safe.
Even monsters feared the storm.


.


But she did not.
She was the storm.


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Shrouded in white,
She vanished into the night


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Hunting the monsters
Who desecrated her last spring.


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Their houses were not hard to find.
She had the addresses memorized.


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While they snored in their beds,
She injected them with a paralytic


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And watched as they watched her,
In absolute terror this time.


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She cut off their appendages
And stuffed them into their mouths.


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Sliced open their necks
Before she tore off their heads


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Kicking them down the stairs
And out into the snow.


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Afterwards, she stood in the storm,
Arms outstretched to the skies.


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She let the snow wash away
The blood and the grief


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And the crushing loss
Of her babies from what they did.


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Finally, she felt cleansed,
Her revenge cathartic.


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This was the only justice
She could ever have, so she took it.


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Then, the storm ended.
Snowflakes drifted onto her face


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Gently caressing it
Like her children once did.


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She smiled and looked up
Into the night sky.


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There, she saw their sweet faces
Through the parting clouds.


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Soon, she told her babies.
Soon, Mama will be with you again.

 
Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
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More from Christina Sng:

A Collection of Nightmares

Hold your screams and enter a world of seasonal creatures, dreams of bones, and confessions modeled from open eyes and endless insomnia. Christina Sng’s A Collection of Nightmares is a poetic feast of sleeplessness and shadows, an exquisite exhibition of fear and things better left unsaid. Here are ramblings at the end of the world and a path that leads to a thousand paper cuts at the hands of a skin carver. There are crawlspace whispers, and fresh sheets gently washed with sacrifice and poison, and if you’re careful in this ghost month, these poems will call upon the succubus to tend to your flesh wounds and scars.
These nightmares are sweeping fantasies that electrocute the senses as much as they dull the ache of loneliness by showing you what’s hiding under your bed, in the back of your closet, and inside your head. Sng’s poems dissect and flower, her autopsies are delicate blooms dressed with blood and syntax. Her words are charcoal and cotton, safe yet dressed in an executioner’s garb.
Dream carefully.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on December 24, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

There is Doom and Gloom, While Things Go Boom 
by Kendra Smart  

There was a continuous low bellowing noise outside her window that woke Kendra from the warmth of her sage green quilted bedding. Her grey eyes fluttered open as the guttural sounds grew closer and by proxy, louder. Over her last six months on this assignment, she had grown used to the sounds of various creations and creatures. However the shrill screams and desperate cries for help were new and she was instantly awake. 

Her lilac and azure ombre’d hair was a true nest of bed head but as she peeked out the picture window, bed head was the least of her worries. 

Outside, the world was on fire. 

Five years ago, Trident Research Inc. had been on top of the world with their technologic advancements.  There had been many who had entered the world of replication technology, but TRI had taken the world by storm with their machine that could pluck whatever you could imagine, directly from your head. For a cost. 

“When the possibilities are endless on what YOU can create, why should there be a reason to wait?”

Kendra was positive their PR was eating those words when just inside a day the first incident happened, the machine malfunctioned, and a pulse was sent out. Powerful enough to spread to unknown distances. But imaginations all over the world were hit and ravaged for their treasures. TRI was like the Jin of old, with all of the consequences, to this day still not all of them known. Everything was now possible, if it came from the world of the imagined and could come to life it did. Media Consumers had begged for thrills and chills, beautiful dreams and horrific nightscapes. 

But what came into being was not brainless, unless you counted Zombie Nation. Nor was it lacking will, exceptions including the Magic Zone. 

Once the initial bloodshed had happened, several waves later, adaptation began to happen. 

Fighting or taming the creations became new job markets. Kendra had long held more compassion and empathy than those around her could stand.  More than she knew what to do with at times, and that notion had been what had made her different. It had made the difference for her team time and again. 

Sure, there was fear. 

But stronger was her need for understanding and learning. 

These things were what had made her one of the Lead Caretakers. TRI had had their PR team shift blame into grace as they set up new “calming” stations around the world. Each with specialized teams to help assist those who were able to obtain and bring their creations back. 

What a joke that was, morbidly so in some cases. 

Few survived the initial and follow up pulses, the sudden appearance of a fifty-fifty angelic or cuddly creature versus hellish and dismembering. Let alone funding or facilitating a transport team. As there had been variety in what came forth from The Nothing, so too were there ranges of size. 

Kendra had wanted to be a part of the ground team going after the Kaiju for relocation years back but sadly, the team had been filled. But just like they used to say with college selection, if you didn’t get into your first choice, have a backup and boy did she have one. Kendra did get her second choice. 

Dinosaurs. 

To be fair, she herself had contributed to the Dinosaur domain when hit with the pulse. Though, to be fair, her brain held a very specific and technical creation. One that had given Kendra what she always imagined for herself. 

Dexter the Dilphosauraus had been extracted from her mind exactly as she had envisioned him to be. He appeared at an imposing two feet seven inches tall. Grey and green scaled skin with a beautiful frill of orange marrying yellow and red but never mixing.  Kendra had felt her whole being melt when he came to life and Dexter must have felt the same for her because he rushed her and circled her legs chirping and chittering. It had been a match. 

Dexter was loyal, fiercely so to her. But could be a total terror when she was out of the picture. 

He chirped now against her hand, softly. The warm, dry scaled skin was a comfort. His frill was down but it didn’t take a scientist to know she was on edge. The glow of the world outside lit up her face. 

A fire meant two things, something or things had gotten loose, and death. 

There were still screams that were emitting from downstairs. In the glow of the flames she could see some of the carnage. She made out three grey forms in the sky. Gargoyles. 

What they sought was unknown. They may not have even had a purpose. Like moths they may have just been attracted by the lights. Or sounds. 

“Well, sadly we aren’t leaving the light on for you, this ain’t a motel.” 

Kendra began to gear up. She had been given tools to defend herself during times such as these. Sadly the definition and application of safety came down to the moment, and since the pulses, there was never a guarantee. 

At least this time it wasn’t the hobo clowns or the myriad of bugs. Ugh. Shivers ran down her back. She still had nightmares where the cackling sounded out like fog horns. The clowns had been a rough gig. 

She had her hands up in her hair, getting it up in a bun, when the world shook. 

She heard the whistle of the rocket and saw as one of the Gargoyles was impacted, but not by the rocket. The rocket had landed square on the hand that had swatted the Gargoyle as though nothing but a gnat. 

Dexter had been calm before but now bristled next to her. His whole body shaking as he too used his senses to gain awareness of the situation around him. Outside the window many things happened all at once.  An immense sound emitted from what felt like stories above them, and easily heard even miles away. The blast let out a huge burst of light which lit the sky long enough to see the true scene against the night veil.

Bodies, both human and created, strewn about lying broken and splayed like toys cast aside once interest waned. A hand thrown here. Leg pulled from the socket with fresh juices dripping off the joint bone. A flattened head disjointly attached to a plump body. The dinosaur shadows against the flames. 

The breeze coming in the window tasted like copper pennies. 

Somehow a Kaiju had come to the land of Dinosaurs. 

Kendra looked at Dexter as she turned her back to the scene at the windows and made her way to the door to get to her team, what was left of it. He burst through their door and alost seemed to pose as he waited for her. 

“Roll back the rock.”  

Kendra sang, she and Dexter had work to do. 

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 Elaine Pascale @DocLaney @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 23, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Jenny Greenteeth 
by Elaine Pascale

They called her Jenny Greenteeth.

Her teeth were not her fault. She had been jaundiced as a baby and her bilirubin levels took many months to rectify. By the time her teeth had come in, it had been too late; they were shockingly discolored. Jennifer tried explaining this to the teenagers who were holding her down, but spray from the falls kept slipping into her mouth, drowning her words.

They had brought Jennifer to Crone’s Cascade. The teenagers would gather at Crone’s to do things that Jennifer didn’t truly understand. She knew they did bad things, but she hadn’t imagined that including dragging a small girl out into the cold and filling her pockets with rocks.

“Her teeth are the color of seaweed,” the red-haired boy said. His teeth were metallic, covered with braces, yet he was able to make fun of Jennifer’s.

“I wonder if they’ll turn blue once she’s in the cold water,” a girl in a purple puffy jacket mused.

Another girl said something, but Jennifer couldn’t hear her above the sound of the falling water.

“Jenny Greenteeth, Jenny Greenteeth,” they chanted, their voices growing louder as they pulled Jennifer to the water’s edge.

Just as they were about to toss Jennifer into the freezing water, something burst through the falls, rubbing its eyes as if waking from a deep slumber.

It was a woman, with long green hair and green rotting skin that seemed to sprout water plants. She had a pointed chin and nose and very large eyes. She also had razor-sharp, dark green teeth.

The teenagers screamed, yet were frozen in place, now holding Jennifer in front of them like a shield.

The green woman scowled and said grumpily, “The audacity of you…punks to call to me, to call my name. Haven’t you heard what I do to children?”

She reached for the teenagers with her long fingers, hooking them with sharp nails that resembled fishhooks. She had the strength to pull the entire group into the water at the same time. They begged for Jennifer to help them, but she lay on the frozen ground, frantically trying to empty her rock-filled pockets so that she could run.

As Jennifer was staggering to her feet, she turned to see the green woman’s head emerging from the water. The other kids were gone, vanished beneath the frigid surface. As Jennifer ran, the green woman called after her, “You have such a pretty smile.”

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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 Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on December 23, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Trauma Queen
by Melissa R. Mendelson

Winter had arrived early, and I was not happy about it. The world was dying before I could even enjoy it, and now, there was hardly anything left. At least, for me.

I lit the black candle in the living room window and ran my scarred hand over the flame. One single tear raced down my face. This was the way to call her, the Trauma Queen, and once she was called, you had to answer. Or her vengeance would be a thousand times worse than the scars you carry or fear to carry.

She came just as the night snow began. Her presence seemed warm despite the chill, and her hands were placed in the middle of her chest almost as if in mourning. Her face was covered in a beautiful, intricate, decorated mask. No one had ever seen her face, or so the legend goes. And I realized that her feet were bare.

“May I come in?” Her voice was clear as day, and her black robe reminded me of death. But I had died a long time ago. “Yes?”

“Please.” I opened the door for her. “Won’t you come in?”

Her feet touched down on the poor excuse for a mat, snow kissing her pale flesh. She didn’t seem to notice, or maybe it was all the pain that she carried. Legend had it that she carried the pain of the lost and the survivors. Did she carry my pain? “Yes,” and her hazel eyes met mine. “I know your pain very well. Is that why you called me here? Tonight? This night?”

I knew what she was referring to. “Yes,” I said and closed the door behind her.

She made her way into the living room as if she already belonged here. She kissed the flame, and for a moment, it settled on her lips before turning into smoke.

“Do I need to give the reason why?”

She shook her head as she sat on the couch, looking like a porcelain doll. “I know the why, but are you sure? Once you do this, you can never return. Unless another such as yourself were to call you.”

“How long has it been since you returned?” I sat on the loveseat nearby.

“Thirty years.” It was hard to tell what emotion was there, but something was there. “I don’t regret my choice, but you have to understand. The pain is great, and it is only getting worse.” She locked her hazel eyes with mine. “Yes,” she said. “The world is dying.”

“So, would you rather stay away and exist as you are?”

“That is a question that you must ask yourself.” She never blinked. “I am waiting.” She slowly nodded. “But you already decided before you lit the candle.”

“Yes,” I said. “I have decided.”

“Is this the mark that you want to leave on the world?”

I thought about that, but I haven’t felt my heart in a long time. It surprised me to feel a twitch now. “Yes,” I said.

“But the world will not know you or ever know you.”

“Yes,” and my heart twitched again. “Let me do this. Let me do this for you. You’ve been in the void for far too long.”

“What if I don’t want to return?” Her words surprised me. “It’s so much worse now, and I fear that the end might be coming for all of us.”

“It can’t end this way,” I said.

“Can’t it?”

“No, I refuse to believe that. There has to be some, if not a few that will hold onto how things should’ve been, how people should’ve been, and not the primality that exists within us.”

“But we are animals,” she said.

“Not all of us,” I replied.

She nodded, and a silence fell around the room. It was almost like sitting with a close friend as she contemplated the weight of the world that broke her shoulders.

“Are you ready?”

I stood up and approached her. “Tell me what needs to be done,” I said.

“Come closer.” She rose softly like a gentle wind and placed her pale hands over her beautiful, intricate, decorated mask. “No one must ever, ever see your face. Until the day that you are called. Do you understand?” She took the mask off and handed it over to me, but she refused to show me her face. “Put the mask on,” she said.

“That’s it? What happens when I do?”

“You will see.” She still kept her face turned away from me.

I realized that the mask was heavier than it looked. As it moved closer to my face, I heard their screams, felt their pain. So much pain, and their screams were deafening. I hesitated, but no, I wanted this. I put the mask on my face.

She turned toward me, and her face was mine with deep scars running over each cheek. Her eyes were brown, and mine were hazel. She was dressed as I was, and I was dressed as she was.

“What do I do now?” I asked.

“You go outside and stay with the snow.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” She smiled softly. “I will live your life.” She walked me to the door, touching me on the arm, and her touch reminded me of my mother. “Even if you think that you are alone, you are not.”

“I know.” I was surprised that my emotions were gone, drowned out by those that I felt, but they needed me to feel this, feel them. After all, I was the Trauma Queen.

 

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Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
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About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a horror, science-fiction and dystopian author and poet.  She has two publications with Wild Ink Publishing.  One is a prose poetry collection, This Will Remain With Us, and the other is a short story collection, Stories Written On Covid Walls.  She also self-published a sci-fi novella, Waken and a small short story collection, Name’s Keeper.

If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here: www.MelissaMendelson.com

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

Posted on December 22, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

When Hell Freezes
by A.F. Stewart

The colour drained from the world the day that Hell opened upon the Earth.

A wave of grey and white, dull silver and black, submerged what we knew, a deluge wiping away vibrance. Millions died in the first hour, the brightest souls burning with dreams and imagination, wearing vivid hues as a second skin. Colour leached from flesh and clothes, pouring down immobile bodies into the ground and streets, puddling, vanishing into a muddy drab. Caught in the initial surge, their voices silenced as they transformed into blank slates, these people crumbled into cold ash blown away on the winds…

Winter blanketed the world the day that Hell opened upon the Earth.

There was no fire or brimstone, no demons. Only bleak cold, and bitter gales. As the hollow storms of Hell swept in, everything turned to snow and frost, and more dead followed, the ones with hope clinging to their edges. Their bodies froze, caught in perpetual screams, flesh turning to ice that shattered into slivers, then glacial dust. Their remains blew on chill gusts, coating the cities, the trees, we few that remained alive…

Death stalked the world after Hell opened upon the Earth.

We were the privileged, the forlorn, that witnessed the end. The fatalities, the creeping ice, the never-ending layers of winter. We were the expiring, the tortured ones, taken slowly, life stolen bit by bit from the cold, from starvation. At night we heard the echo of the screams, and the laughter of Hell.

One by one we died, bodies entombed in ice where we fell.
Yet, I survived. Outlived them all.
I will be the last to die in Hell.

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More from A.F. Stewart:

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Visions and Nightmares

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

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

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

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

Available on Amazon!

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

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

Posted on December 22, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Mercy
by Mary Ann Peden-Coviello

The hunger awakened him. Not the small hunger that sent him to the alleys and the refuse bins, seeking the small lives – the rats and the occasional cat or dog – to satisfy the insignificant pangs till the time of the big hunger. Yes, this was that hunger, the one that came on him and all his kin only once in a decade, the urge that turned him toward the two-legged prey he needed to fulfill his deepest needs.

Slowly, he flexed his wings and stretched his stiff muscles. Ah, that felt good. He launched himself into the night sky, a moonless sky, dark as velvet. The nightbirds fell silent as he passed, huddling in feathery mounds of terror. He grinned in the light cast by the streetlamps, fangs gleaming, as he soared above the park. He settled in the sturdy branches of an old oak to wait for likely prey.

He watched as she left a shop, a straggler amongst other two-legged females. A little chatter rose to his perked ears. A few laughs. None of it made much sense to the gargoyle sitting in the oak tree, but he listened. He always listened. He’d been listening for hundreds of years, in a multitude of different countries, atop any number of stone edifices.

The elderly female set off alone into the park. The gargoyle turned his head to follow her as she passed underneath his oak. Yes, she’d suffice. He leapt into the air and glided silently after her, talons outstretched.

He grasped the woman by the shoulders and dug his knife-sharp claws into her. Ugh! She twisted out of his grip, ripping free of her coat, which now dangled from his grip.

“Oh, no, you don’t! Take that!” And she stabbed him. Him! In the side of his neck! With a long, pointy metallic object she grabbed out of her bag. Then she hit him in the face with the heavy bag. How insulting. He staggered backwards.

“You’re not supposed to fight. You’re supposed to cower in fear.” His voice was like a half ton of gravel tumbling down a rusty metal chute.

“Well, I am gonna fight you. And kick and scream. And make you pay before you kill me, you big ugly son of a bitch.”

He didn’t know why, but that made him laugh. She was a feisty thing. He could smell the illness in her, though, and the fragility. Gingerly, he handed her back her torn coat. He pulled the knitting needle out of his neck and returned it to her as well. She stashed it back in her bag. “But why? You’re old and sick. Why would you fight me so hard? Is your life worth the struggle?” He gestured toward a park bench. They sat. The bench creaked under the gargoyle’s weight.


“Yeah, well, the docs say I’ve got only a few months to live. My kidneys are crap, and my heart’s giving out on me. And they say the end is gonna be a hard one.” Her face twisted, and she clutched her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. “I dunno why I fought you like that. My friends are all passed on or living on the other side of the country. My husband passed two years ago. Heck, even my dog died last week. Nobody’s gonna miss me.” They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, a silence broken only by the old woman’s difficult breathing.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible, even to the gargoyle’s sensitive ears. “Can you make it quick? Could you do me that mercy?” She unwrapped the scarf from around her neck.

With a gentleness that surprised even him, the gargoyle stretched out a clawed hand and patted her arm. “Yes.”

He granted her the only mercy he could.

Much later, hunger satiated, he flew back to his post. He carried with him the scarf he’d taken from around the old woman’s neck. He wrapped it around his own. It smelled of her, of old woman and lavender. But not of fear and not of pain.

She would not go unremembered.

 
Fiction © Copyright Mary Ann Peden-Coviello
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 
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More from Mary Ann Peden-Coviello:

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Fright 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 , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

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

Posted on December 21, 2025 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Hunger in the Creek 
by Kathleen McCluskey

The thaw came late enough that the woods felt suspended between seasons, the air sharp as bone dust while the creek muttered beneath its lid of ice. Mara followed her brother’s tracks through the snow, noticing how they wavered and dragged. It was as if he was pulled along instead of walking on his own will. The trail stopped at the creek’s edge where slabs of ice jutted up like broken vertebrae. She stepped closer and saw the waterfall struggling to move. Its sheets of water folded over itself in sluggish layers that reminded her of peeled skin. Caught at the base was her brother’s parka, swaying on the current as though somebody beneath the surface pulled at it.

She crouched and reached for the sleeve and the ice cracked under her weight with a sharp, brittle snap. The world plunged into icy darkness before she could scream. Water flooded her ears, muffling everything except the violent thrashing of something enormous beneath her. Long, skeletal fingers scraped up her calves, hooking behind her knees and dragging her deeper with a strength that defied their thinness. She kicked wildly, her foot connecting with something that felt like a jaw unhinged too wide. Its teeth raked her boot, tearing at the rubber like it was soft bread. Another set of fingers dug into her thigh and pulled so hard she felt a wet pop in her hip.

By sheer instinct she clawed upward, smashing her knuckles against the underside of the ice until they split open. The blood clouded around her, warm and shockingly bright. She forced her way through the gap, dragging herself onto the rocks. Beneath the hole, the water heaved as something enormous surged upward. She scrambled back just as a mottled, cadaverous hand slammed onto the ice. Followed by another that dragged the creature the size of a moose out of the water and onto the rocks beside her.

Its skeleton was stretched beyond human proportions, long enough to scrape on the stones even while standing. Chunks of rotted flesh clung to its frame like wet bandages and its skull had been lengthened into a grotesque muzzle lined with jagged teeth. What made Mara recoil backward wasn’t its size or the stench but that the creature wore what was left of her brother’s upper body like a trophy. His arms dangled uselessly from its shoulders. His torso opened down the center as though the creature had peeled him apart and draped him over itself. His head lolled to one side. The muscles of his neck twitched, not from life but because something inside the Wendigo, kept pulling the nerves like puppet strings.

The creature’s jaw cracked open with a sound like splitting wood, revealing a second row of teeth from deeper inside. Each one was translucent and dripping. As it leaned toward her, her brother’s head jerked upward. His ruined mouth opened wide enough to split the corners. A choking, gurgling sound escaped, her name, distorted through blood, death and broken cartilage. Inside the Wendigo’s true throat pulsed with eager, predatory hunger.

Mara ran. She could hear the creature behind her. Its footsteps shattered the frozen ground. Its breath came in rattled bursts as her brother’s arms slapped against its chest. It was gaining on her. The creature was carried forward by a hunger older than winter itself.

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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