The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Mad Hat by Rie Sheridan Rose
I don’t remember where I came from. I do know my materials are top of the line. Butter-soft Corinthian leather stitched with silk; band braided from leather sourced from Spain and dyed with precious saffron. I am elegance personified as far as hats go.
The first owner I remember was an old wise man…I believe they called him a “wizard” as we traveled through the world. I was always at his side—well, on his head. But then we led our companions into a horrible, abandoned mine, and fell from a great height to the depths of horror. When I came to my senses, my master no longer wore his gray robes…he was resplendent in white. I no longer belonged. With regret, he said goodbye, gifting me to a friend of his.
That gentleman loved to throw tea parties. I sat upon his head for decades. I lost track of the times he fished that silly mouse out of his tea. It made me a little crazy, to be honest. I was a bit relieved when he decided a top hat fit his persona better. I was passed along again…but I didn’t mind. I had learned much from my eccentric owner. Like how to speak.
My current state is my favorite yet. I hope to stay here until my leather cracks and my band turns to dust. Do you have a child who has a bit of talent in the magical arts? From my first master, I learned what makes magic work. From the second, the ability to tell it. Now, I make children happy. I start them on their path to their future. You might say, I sort them out.
Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…
…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Stillness by Kathleen McCluskey
The world ended without thunder or flame. It ended in silence, the kind that seeps into your bones and fills every hollow space. No one could say when the sound began to fade. First the distant hum of traffic dulled, then the birds grew mute until finally even the wind forgot how to move. The silence became a living thing. Heavy. Almost breathing.
Maria and her family lived inside it. They had found a house two days after fleeing the city, an old farmhouse crouched beneath the weight of ivy and dust. The windows were boarded, the air smelled of wood rot and the curtains hung like flayed skin. Still, it offered shelter from whatever waited outside in the silence. In the center of the front room stood a couch, worn and sagging, as though it had been expecting them. It was the only place in the house that didn’t creak beneath their feet.
“We;ll stay here,” her father whispered and set down his pack. “Just until we hear something again.”
But no one heard anything again. At first, the stillness felt merciful. They slept without sirens and without the chaos of the city. Yet, the silence grew denser, pressing in on their eardrums. It felt like they were being buried alive in cotton. Maria thought she could hear a slight murmur underneath it, a slight vibration. When she asked her mother if she heard it too, her mother only shook her head and told her not to talk about it. Words, they said, might attract attention.
The first to disappear was her brother Eli. He had been sitting on the couch, his small frame half-swallowed by the cushions, staring toward the curtains, but there was nothing there except dust.
After that they spoke less and less. Days and nights blended into a single stretch of time, measured only by the dwindling supplies of canned foods. They tiptoed through the house, afraid of making noise, afraid of being noticed. Sometimes Maria thought she saw the curtains move, their folds trembled as if something behind them had exhaled.
Her mother vanished next. Maria woke in the night to see her sitting upright on the couch, eyes fixed on the curtains. The fabric stirred, a slow exhalation and her mother rose as if being pulled forward. She reached for the drapes, pressing her hand into them, then stepped through. There was no struggle, no screams, just the fabric falling back into place.
Her father changed after that. He sat in the armchair facing the couch, staring at the curtains barely blinking. The whites of his eyes turned dry and dull but he never looked away. Maria stopped trying to whisper to him. There was nothing left in his face that resembled thought or will, only the hollow, unbending patience of somebody waiting their turn.
One night she woke to see him standing in front of the curtains. His body swayed slightly like he was listening to music only he could hear. When she whispered his name, breaking the silence, her voice sounded like a sledgehammer. He turned slightly; a faint, cracked smile crept across his face. He reached out and pressed his palm against the fabric and it seemed to draw him in. The material rippled and his body followed. First his hand, then his arm and then everything else. He didn’t resist. The curtain fell silent again and Maria was alone.
She stayed that way for what seemed like forever. Days blurred together in a pale haze, broken only by the golden light that shone through the cracks in the boards. She sat on the couch where Eli had been, where her mother had slept and where her father had watched the curtains. Sometimes when the light hit just right, she thought she could see figures behind the fabric. A child’s small outline, a woman’s hair drifting upward, the broad shoulders of her father. They swayed gently, as if under water.
When the silence grew unbearable she whispered, “Who’s there?” Her voice cracked in the thick air. The curtain quivered. From behind it something began to take shape. A figure stepped forward, not solid but not smoke either. Just a distortion in the air that looked human. It had her height, her build. When she raised her hand, so did it. It moved when she moved, mirroring her in perfect silence.
Maria rose from the couch and stepped closer. The stillness deepened, every shadow leaning in. She touched the fabric. It was cold and damp, like a mouth; the moment she touched it something on the other side pulled her through. It was not violent, just inevitable.
The curtains fell silent again, the house seemed to exhale. Outside the world remained hushed and silent, waiting, as if nothing had happened.
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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Patient Zero by Kendra Smart
The screampark was alive as haunt by haunt the lights were flickering with pops and buzzes. The outdoor haunts had thuds and clanks as the relay were activating and bringing the mechanisms to life. All of the string lights over the path lit the ways to fear, and the Main Stage. Little pumpkins littered along the path were carved handsomely and LED lights were placed inside to help guide the way.
The colors of the sky were transitioning fast as the sun was fast retreating from the sky. Vivid pinks and oranges were giving way to a dusty blue that only enhanced the glow of the lights the deeper it became.
Sounds of chills and EDM filled the air as the park became its own entity, so many noises bubbling to the surface. A chorus of clown laughter joined harmonies with the shrieks from the various rides, or unexpected shouts and shrill screams as scare actors made their presence known. Only too happy to do their jobs.
Jen Jacobi was not happy to be at the Carne Villa Screampark. In fact, it was the last place she would have picked for herself. The last because it would never have been her choice. But it hadn’t been her idea. Her boyfriend Roger, was a Psychologist and made it a mission to help her “break out of her box.”
“You need to stand up for yourself Jenny Benny. That coworker that has been pranking you won’t be able to scare you if you just face your fears! This place has six different attractions that are themed, surely that can do the trick.”
It was something that had crossed her mind more than once, sticking to her like the feeling of webs long since walked through but the sensation still tickling along the hairs of her arms. But Jen had often wondered just how much of Roger was saying was support and how much was him trying to exert control.
She would have been fine to try other methods, scary movies even. There were so many other things and places she would have rather been than here. In this forced social situation with literally everyone on the payroll overjoyed at the prospect of scaring her.
Not just Katarina.
But it wasn’t so different, one scare for another. At least in this case she knew where the scares would be coming from and for the most part could predict what to expect. So Roger’s line of thinking hadn’t been too off kilter. Maybe this would break the three year streak of her no good sleep habits.
Every Halloween season.
Jenny would make jokes through her discomfort, but each year like clockwork the feelings crept in. When nothing and nowhere was safe.
Unavoidable. Inevitable.
Katarina would scare the bejeezus out of her.
There in the center stage a gong sounded and the EDM faded to soft, low noise. Attention was being commanded. The haunts were sending their ambassadors out on parade. Each haunt sent their best to join the fellowship of diverse spirits rallying to start the thrills and chills off right. To give a glimpse of just what to expect once you entered their domain.
The first to hobble out stiltedly was heard well before seen. Unearthly moans emitted from the darkness before the ashen skinned terror limped into the lights enough for Jen’s eyes to connect with her ears and tell her brain just what she was seeing.
Clumps of matted, long hair hung partially over the grey, sickly green face that looked festering and putrid. Between rips in the fabric, Jen could see skin that was torn, sheared and sloughing off. If it was makeup, the pus oozing into the fabric was exquisitely done. Especially against scrubs.
The parade went on, and each member surely was a master of their craft but, even when distracted by a new Court Jester to the Damned or Doctor to the Demented, her eyes went back to the Zombie Medical Professional. But each time she found her gaze matched with the same amount of unyielding need to find one another’s gaze.
It had taken time for her mind to process the pieces but there she was. Patient Zero.
Jen could feel her heart racing, her hands going clammy. The smell wafting on the air smelled sweet and sour, and Jen was not about to taste like chicken. Something was off. It was wrong, the movements were too fluid. Too organic to be learned or tempered by dedication and practice.
If her heart could, it would have already separated from her body. Left and abandoned her like the fragile traitor it had been all her life. To be fair though her heart wasn’t alone, the air rushing out of her lungs was actively leaving her as the scent grew stronger.
No longer settling for her eyes, the creature lurched closer. With true horror reaching her eyes Jen saw that yes, that really was an ankle being dragged with flesh barely holding it to the proper place. Muscles, nerves…even spots of bone could be seen.
She had time to clock the name on the identification badge before things went from fear to pain. That damn name.
‘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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Willa Wisp by Mary Ann Peden-Coviello
We was drunk. No excuse, yeah, but we was. Got thrown outta the bar ’cause Jimmo made some kinda crack about the barmaid’s backside. Well, she shoulda been able t’take a friggin’ joke, shouldn’t she?
Was it our fault the half-witted lumberjack tendin’ bar with her was her brother? Was we supposed to know that? Even the weird broad in the shadowy corner was givin’ us the stink eye.
Yeah, maybe we shoulda. Ever’one else did. Pssssh.
So we headed out toward our deer camp. Jimmo swore he knew the way, but it’d got foggy while we was puttin’ away the Buds and the Busch’s. Jimmo claimed he’d just got turned around, but Bobby said we was goin’ in circles ’cause we’d just passed the same bloomin’ tree three times. He knew ’cause of some mark or another he saw on the trunk. Jimmo took some exception to this and whaled on Bobby a right smart while.
Good thing they was both drunk as skunks, so no real damage was done ’cept to their prides. They both fell to cussin’ each other out. Dumb asses.
Then Mikey seen a light up ahead. “Hey, guys, look.” He pointed down the trail.
Half-hidden by the fog, a woman was walkin’ up ahead – the weird broad from the bar, I thought – goin’ away from us, a dim lantern or somethin’ in one hand.
“Yo! Lady! Can you help us? We’s kinda lost,” Mikey called.
The weird broad stopped and glanced back over her shoulder at us. I shuddered. In the dark and the fog, she looked even weirder than she had in that shadowy corner of the bar. My fingers twitched. I wished real bad I had my .30-.30 with me, but I’d left it back at the deer camp.
Jimmo said, real quiet-like, “I heard some of the locals back in the bar say she was bad luck. Called her Willa Wisp or somethin’ like that. She only had the one drink all night, too. Gimme the creeps. Don’t think she’ll help us. Don’t trust her.”
But Mikey had already started down the trail after her. Bobby called him, but Mikey wasn’t listening. It was like that Willa Wisp, or whatever her name was, had cast some kinda spell on him.
Next thing I knew, my feet was traipsin’ after Mikey, Jimmo and Bobby right behind me. My mind was gettin’ as foggy and dark as the woods around us. All I saw was the flicker of the lamp in Willa Wisp’s hand. Then, after a bit, I ain’t saw nothin’.
In the Will o’ the Wisp bar the next afternoon, no one talked about the four deer hunters who’d abandoned their camp, their weapons, and two perfectly good pickups to vanish into the woods without leaving a single trace of their going.
(Will o’ the wisp = mysterious lights or pixie-like creatures who lead lost travelers astray.)
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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Gentleman Jim by Naching T. Kassa
“Over here,” the Reaper said. She motioned toward a trail, lit by jack-o’-lanterns. Gentleman Jim Ford, freshly dead, followed the robed figure through the trees.
“Would you mind if I asked a question?” Gentleman Jim asked.
“I would not,” the Reaper replied, her voice soulless and hollow.
“How did I die? I can’t remember what happened after the match.”
“You fell off the top rope and didn’t get up.”
“And I’ve come here, to Purgatory?”
The Reaper shrugged. “I suppose you could call it that. I’m sorry I can’t say more. We’re late as it is.”
“Late for what?”
Before the Reaper could answer, they arrived at their destination, a large clearing in the middle of the wood. At its center, surrounded by spectators, stood a wrestling ring.
“I’ll be in your corner,” the Reaper explained.
“I have a match? Here? Now?”
Entrance music blared. His music. The Reaper pushed him toward the ramp.
Shadowy faces awaited him as he descended the ramp leading to the ring. They gnashed their teeth and booed. Jim tried not to stare at their lack of limbs, skin and eyes. Instead, he strutted toward the ring. When he reached it, he turned and flipped everyone off. The crowd booed louder.
Jim climbed into the ring. The announcer, a tentacled creature resembling the great god, Cthulhu, spoke to the audience in a strange language. The only words Jim recognized were his name. This garnered even louder boos. Jim grinned.
“Psst! Jim!” someone called from his corner. He turned to find the Reaper waiting. He crossed to her. She leaned in close, the scent of the grave radiating from her.
“This is a special circumstance,” she said. “If you win this match, you’ll live again.”
“And if I lose?”
“Well…you weren’t very good when you were alive, Jim. You’re slated for Hell.”
“I guess I’d better win then.”
Fresh music filled the air, and the crowd cheered. The babyface had arrived.
Jim turned toward the ramp. A young man, clad in white wrestling tights, trudged toward the ring. He climbed in and, once again, the incomprehensible announcer shouted his introduction. The only thing Jim understood was the name White Knight.
“Hey! I was fighting him when I died,” Jim said. “What’s he doing here?”
“He killed you,” the Reaper replied.
The bell rang.
Jim rushed forward. He punched White Knight in the face. The young man staggered back and fell against the ropes. Jim fell on him, fists raining down. The White Knight covered his face with his arms.
“Fight back!” Jim growled through gritted teeth. “Come on, you bastard. Fight.”
The young man continued to hide behind his arms. The crowd booed.
Jim rose to his feet. He grasped the White Knight’s arms, pulled him up, and flipped him over his head. The fellow landed hard on the mat, so hard blood sprayed.
“Boooo!” the crowd roared.
Jim lifted the White Knight. He had lowered his arms, revealing a crooked and bloodied nose.
“Look me in the eye, murderer,” Jim said.
The young man glanced up and then away. Jim kicked him hard in the nuts. He fell and squirmed on the mat.
Jim strutted around the ring, grinning at the angry crowd as the referee, a crimson-skinned demon, shook a finger at him. When Jim reached the corner where the Reaper waited, he said. “I’m going for the coup d’ gras next. Looks like I’ll be blowing this popsicle stand.”
The Reaper shrugged. “For now.”
“And the White Knight is headed for Hell. I can’t think of anything more fitting for the man who murdered me. How’d he die anyway? I hope it was painful.”
“It was. He hung himself.”
“Hung himself? Why?”
“There was a kendo stick in the ring. He tripped over it and fell into you. You hit your head on the steel steps.”
Jim lowered his arms. “But…that’s not murder. It was an accident.” “He didn’t think so. He couldn’t live with what he did.”
White Knight had pulled himself into the corner. He sat there, eyes lowered to the mat.
“What happens to him if I win?” Jim asked.
“He goes to Hell.”
Jim glanced up into the darkness of the Reaper’s cowl. “But he had a wife…a family.”
“I don’t make the rules, Jim. Just put the poor guy out of his misery so we can go.”
“That’s just what I’m going to do,” Jim said. He crossed the ring, grasped White Night by the front of his blood-stained white shirt and said, “Time’s up.”
Haunted eyes looked up into his own. “I’m sorry,” the young man said.
“Damn you,” Jim replied. He grasped hold of White Knight and tried to flip him to the side. Unfortunately, he lost his balance and fell backward. Together they fell, the young man landing on top of him, pinning him to the mat.
The referee rushed over. 1…2…3!
The crowd erupted, cheering as White Knight rose to his feet. The ref lifted his arm into the air.
“Your winner,” the now comprehensible announcer shouted. “White Knight!”
The Reaper slid into the ring beside Jim.
“Must’ve tripped,” he said to her.
“Really?”
“Have you ever heard of a heel who cheats to lose? Of course, I tripped. I suppose the kid will have to go back to earth. Will he know it was an accident?”
“Yes.”
Jim nodded. He rose to his feet. The wrestling ring and everything around him had vanished. Flames licked the darkness to his right. Blue ambiance glowed on his left. He turned toward the fire, but the Reaper held him back.
“This way,” she said.
“But…that isn’t the right way. I lost.”
“And now…you’re found.” She removed her cowl, revealing a lovely face. One Jim hadn’t seen in many years. She took him by the hand and led him into the light.
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.
Alex Grehy(she/her) enjoys writing quirky, thought-provoking horror and is a regular contributor to The Sirens Call and Ladies of Horror Flash Project. Her fiction and essays on being a lady of horror have featured in a range of publications, including Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora. Alex’s first poetry collection, Last Species Standing, which explores mankind’s relationship with nature and technology, is available on Amazon.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Surviving Reprisal by Elizabeth H. Smith
The morning sun burned her eyes. She’d been in darkness too long, shrouded in rags, planted without a marker by a man she’d never forget. The scent of his blood remained with her, a memento of the claw marks she left. The heaviness in her heart and soul preserved her despite the worms crawling in and out of her flesh. She was no longer among the living, but not quite dead—she lied somewhere in between, not yet at rest.
She couldn’t rest; not after what happened.
Her soul refused to leave her body, just as her fury wouldn’t cool. Its flame burned hot enough to pump foul blood through collapsed veins. She dug with her fingertips until they were nothing but bone, and with those hard nubs she moved earth until she reached the surface.
She sniffed the air as soon as she was able. It was crisp, sharp as a knife. The cool moisture felt good against her dried-out shell of leathery skin. She looked down at her bony, decayed hands, confident they would serve their final purpose, just as soon as she found the man she searched for.
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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
No Place Like Home by K.R. Morrison
“There’s no place like home!”
I had uttered those words when I’d first woken up/gotten back/whatever. Everyone was so relieved to see me come back to life.
But now that line didn’t seem to work anymore. Maybe it was because the cops had brought me home in the wee hours more than a couple of times this past month. Seems you can take the girl out of Ozzland, but not the reverse.
I had enjoyed my time there. I was the reigning monarch of all I surveyed. But now here I was, back in Doldrums-land again. Of course I was going to be restless—who wouldn’t be?
Auntie wiped her hands on a dishtowel and turned to me.
“That may be so, Dottie, but no matter. We are sending you to a boarding school in Topeka.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow.”
So, even though I whined, pleaded, threatened, and cajoled, I was shipped off to this ugly old bunch of buildings in the heart of the city. Usually that would have been great for night-prowling, but…
There was a curfew. Locks on the doors.
And—I had to wear a UNIFORM! Ghastly!
It was after my last attempt to make my garb more colorful that I was stuck in my room with no chance of redemption for at least a week. So what’s wrong with making a necklace out of squirrel heads? It’s not like we were going to run out of the little buggers any time soon.
I paced the room, drew nasty things on the walls with my own blood, ate a few pieces of wood out of the flooring. This kept me busy until boredom finally took over. Two days and I was done with this prison.
When I went to rearrange the furniture (by throwing it all out the window, I hoped), this waswhere a new adventure began.
On the wall was scratched a few words in some language I didn’t understand. What the hell?
So I recited them, just to see what would happen. I expected nothing, but I was pleasantly surprised.
The wall fell away, and I ventured through the gap. And into a dark forest, lit only by the moon up above.
“Well, here we go again,” I said, and started walking.
Turns out this forest was just on the edge of a huge plain, and as I walked into direct moonlight, I spied a familiar building.
My childhood home. Auntie and Unc were probably sound asleep.
“There truly is no place like home,” I chortled happily.
I started running, just wanting to get back into my bed and forget the last few weeks.
But there, gleaming in the moonlight like a beacon, was the ax we used to chop up firewood. It called to me, and I answered.
I pulled it out of the woodpile, and stared at the house with a new mission.
Vengeance.
Lizzie Borden didn’t have a patch on what I could do…
All hell broke loose, as demon fought saint, and undead fought mortal. Fangs and swords, fire and light, mingled in a cacophony of noise that would have awakened the dead — if they hadn’t already been in the pitch of battle.
Toby was looking forward to celebrating his 21st birthday with family and friends. However, the day is shattered by the arrival of his sister, Erica, fresh out of the juvenile detention center, where she has lived in isolation most of her life. There is something very wrong with her still; witness her biting the ear of her taxi driver and licking the blood from her lips, and the way she antagonizes everyone around her. The other thing that is very off-putting about the day is a gift he receives – a musty tent and a few iron spikes that have been lying in the ground for years. Toby faints at the sight of the “treasure,” while Erica reacts violently and runs off to who-knows-where. While he is unconscious, Toby learns who he truly is, and of his mission.
Nina D’Arcangela is a quirky horror writer who likes to spin soul rending snippets of despair. She reads anything from splatter matter to dark matter. She's an UrbEx adventurer who suffers from unquenchable wanderlust. She loves to photograph abandoned places, bits of decay and old graveyards.
Nina is co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, co-founder of the horror writer's group 'Pen of the Damned', and if that isn't enough, put a check mark in the box next to owner and resident nut-job of Dark Angel Photography.
Spreading the Writer's Word 