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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Only Utopia We Will Ever Know Is… Star Trek
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

I was surprised that the television set still played, picking up a random transmission, maybe from a satellite still in space.  The transmission was an old, old tv show.  I recognized his voice, but his face was static.  I hugged the television set as if somehow, I could warp myself back into the past before…. Before it all went wrong.

He was a leader, a man truthful and dedicated.  Those were the leaders that we needed then, but we never had them.  Instead, we had entertainers, corrupters and lunatics.  No wonder the world went to hell the way that it did, and we just marched to their tune.  Now, I don’t remember the sun as it once was.  The sky endlessly blanketed with thick, gray clouds, and it’s not the rain I fear.  It’s the ash, the debris, the dead.

If only I could live in their world.  Instead, this broken, wooden structure was my home with a makeshift door and the windows broken or blackened in.  Anything still living out there was hunting for their next meal, and I’m barely clinging to my skin, bones jutting outward, food pockets of water and grass.  No, not that kind of grass, but the pieces of green still trying to make the dirt their home.

I don’t want to look out at my world.  Right outside was the last grave that I would ever dig, the last loved one that I had, a stranger once, but that was a long time ago.  No one would come to bury me.  Only this structure would remain, and the elements will wash what it can away.  But it will never remove the stain.

We wanted a utopian world.  We wanted our freedom.  We needed to hear what we were told.  Empty words.  Broken promises.  Lies and Lies and more Lies.  Until it was too late.  It’s just too damn late, and the signal is fading.  Soon, I would be alone again, counting down the days to hopefully my last because I can’t take this anymore.

“Beam me up, Scotty.”

“Yes, Scotty,” I said.  “Beam me up, and take me far away to where you live in your utopian world.”

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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 the author of the Sci-Fi Novella, Waken, and the poetry collection, This Will Remain With Us.  She also has two self-published short story collections, Better Off Here and Stories Written Along COVID Walls.  All the books can be found on Amazon/Amazon Kindle.

If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here: https://linktr.ee/melissarmendelson

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Fae Trap 
by Elaine Pascale 

.On the morning following the full moon, “Jane” brought an offering to the Fae. She had assembled snapdragons, hydrangea, bluebells, and candytufts. This would be her last attempt. She wouldn’t have the strength to pedal her bicycle after this.

An earlier bicycle trip to the woods had been the catalyst for Jane’s terminal status. She had fallen prey to a Fae trap. They had appeared fragile and luminous and endearing. There was no warning in their incandescence. Enchanted, she had given them her real name in exchange for a floral cake with icing so sweet her heart fluttered. The flowers were made of colored chocolates that were transcendent. The succulent confectionery buds trickled with sticky caramel. Fresh berries nestled between the layers, and the baked batter was so fluffy that she feared it would float away before she could cram it into her mouth.

Both the cake and the name had been traps. The name transferred ownership, she no longer had autonomy, but the cake was worse.

Who knew that cake could cause such punishment?

She craved the otherworldly sweetness to the point that she could no longer eat human food.

At first, she had thought she was sick, like a flu. Then, as days passed and she was unable to keep even her favorite foods down, she knew it was more of a love sickness, of a deadly variety.

The sickness permeated her until her existence became one of constant nausea and pain.

If the flowers she brought were not received, and she was not permitted a taste of the mystical cake, she would burn their tree to the ground, hoping their revenge would be quicker than starving to death.

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com

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More from Elaine Pascale:

The Blood Lights

They victimize all…

Jezzie Mitchell is in anguish; with her brother’s murder still on her mind, she’s noticed strange behavior among the girls in the residential treatment center where she works. Is there a connection between the contagion on Cape Cod and the deadly Bahamas vacation that changed her life?

Jezzie reaches out to former lover Lou Collins, a scholar who has chased proof of the lights for decades. Will he be able to solve the mystery of the lights in time?

Intensely competitive, reporter Bridgette Collins knows the lights are a way to secure fame in her career. And while it’ll put the final nail into the coffin of her ex-husband’s career, she vows to know the secrets of the lights. Even if it means unleashing a world-wide epidemic…

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Weeping Streets
by Kim Richards 

Overwhelming, hot pain made it difficult for Nell to open her eyes. Overhead the grey sky wept while the wind waved tree branches like frantic arms. The air smelled of old, wet tar and mud.

Lying on her stomach, her head rested on a wet pavement near a double yellow line running the length of it and off beyond her line of sight. For a moment she thought it originated from beneath her body. Heavy raindrops splattered in the red puddle of her blood all around her, splashing its lukewarm touch on her face. She shivered and tried to move her arms.

She cried out as more pain, intense and overwhelming swept over her limbs. The rain patter drowned out her weak voice. Her head pounded so she dared not lift it to see around herself. However, she could move her eyes so scanned the road ahead and to her left side. There were bits of glass littered among the raindrops.

Where’s my car? she wondered. She couldn’t see it but heard a sick grinding roar (better word) off to her far right. Could be an engine? She wasn’t sure.

Through her fuzzy thoughts, she recalled the sound of squealing tires and the screech of metal twisting. Oh, shit, she thought as she remembered saying those very words aloud when she realized the crash was unavoidable. The semi carrying a bed piled with enormous pine tree trunks barreled down upon her. It was no match for her little yellow Accord and its wet brakes.

Metal screeched against metal; tires squealed; glass shattered and rained down on Nell. The hard, swift jolt slammed her forehead on her right window frame before her air bag deployed with a horrid breathing sound. The force of it banged her head a second time on the window frame. Her brain registered white both searing pain and the plastic surface of the air bag.

With a soft “Oh” passing her lips, her vision went dark.

How did I get from the car and onto the street? she wondered now she was awake.

With extraordinary care, she slowly rolled her head to see to her right side. Twisted yellow painted metal stuck out from beneath the huge logs, now scattered on the road.

The rain and blood running into her eyes mixed with her tears. Her vision blurred. Still, she recognized a pair of hiking boots and Levi covered legs standing near her. She opened her mouth but the mewling sound she made was drowned out by the pounding rain and a man’s voice shouting curses.

“Dammit! Come on. Connect you bastard,” he screamed at his phone.

His pale face came into Nells view as he knelt beside her.

“Lady. Lady. I got no cell service. I have to drive back but the nearest town is an hour and a half away. You’re pinned beneath a log and I can’t lift them without help. I’ll drive like a demon and get someone. I’ll keep trying the phone too.”

He reached out and gingerly touched her arm. “I’m sorry.”

Nell heard the sound of his truck door slam shut and its engine roar over the rain. Suddenly the man appeared next to her again. He opened an umbrella and situated it where it at least kept the rain off her head. She blinked and tried to give him a grimaced smile.

After he drove off, she closed her eyes and never saw him return.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Marge Simon @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Sound of Music 
by Marge Simon 

On a sandy Sahara shore skirting the Mediterranean, a mother is suspended just above her shadow. Her children rise from her shadow. They know forever, for they have come and gone times over. Listen, say the children, there’s music everywhere.  Her babies are new, but already they know their mother needs sustenance. They scatter to find what they hear and return bringing the music where they find it: the thrumming of drums deep in the jungle, the squawk of brightly colored birds; butterfly wings beating in a field, the gentle notes of goldfish in a pond, the drone of bees, the beating of human hearts. Her children go out and return many times to feed her, until all African lifeforms are sucked dead of sound. Continuing their mission, the children spread to all corners of the earth until all the music has been gathered and sounds of life have ceased. When their mother’s needs are satisfied, they disperse into the stars to begin their cycle on other worlds of blue and green.

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Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

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Victims
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

The title of this collection sets you up for the surprise of lyrical stories of victimizations with unexpected endings for the villains. Be ready to have your heart opened and cheer for perceived victims, human (made and unmade) and other life forms, victorious in the hands of these two award-winning poets. —Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.

Across histories and cultures and from Auschwitz to Babylon this book leaves you questioning who are the victims, and regardless of your conclusion you’re likely to get throat-punched. This is horror where everyone has a knife, and is ready to deliver this message: “Remember, you are always guilty. —Herb Kauderer, author of Fragments from the Book of the After-Dead.

Simon and Turzillo have only gone and startled me again. What a collection! Brutal. Beautiful. This quiver of poems strikes with the unflinching truth of persecution and oppression as seen through the lens of feminism. Prepare to come away bruised and yet strangely bolstered by Victims, a symphony of sadness orchestrated by two masters of dark poetry. —Lee Murray, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Award-winner.

This is one of the braver dark poetry collections I’ve seen in a while. Horror poets generally employ victims in their work, but the focus is generally on the Evil. Turning the camera the other way is unusual, unsettling, emotionally risky, and surprisingly effective. From their stark opening take on Pygmalion, to the ending poem about the wasted life of Stateira of Persia, this powerful collection teases apart an impressive number of the threads of victimhood. Some are the usual cases, but quite a few are surprises, or reversals, or cases with unexpected layers. There is nothing repetitive about this collection. —Timons Esaias, winner of the Asimov’s Readers’ Award and the Winter Anthology Contest

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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If You Find His Grave, Leave Him Be
by Naching T. Kassa 

Leon crouched among the tombstones and trembled.

The old mining town, abandoned long ago, rose from the tall grass before him. Grey clouds gathered in the sky, blotting out the sun and casting a pall over the graveyard. The air grew cold, much too cold for a sunny August day.

The tombstone he sheltered behind seemed to thrum with energy. For the third time, he read the inscription on it.

Here lies Bear-Strangler McGee

If you find his grave, leave him be.

Don’t knock over the stone near the Sycamore tree,

If you do, he’ll carve up the first man he sees.

The Sycamore was nothing more than a broken stump now, but it was still there. It stood to the left of the tombstone, its dead roots but inches away. Leon rose to his feet, took a deep breath and kicked the tombstone over as hard as he could. The marker upended and fell back into the grass. He backed away.

A figure coalesced above the marker, a swirling creature, more shadow than man. Cruel eyes appeared, followed by an unforgiving frown. The ghost howled, a thin, bloodcurdling sound.

Leon ran.

He rushed out of the graveyard, his booted feet pounding the ground. He’d only gone a few yards when he heard the shots. A woman screamed.

“Ma!” he cried, and hurried on, mindful of the rocky trail and the pitfalls it held. If he fell it might mean a broken arm or neck. The thought of lying there, at the mercy of the ghost, was more than he could bear.

Darkness seemed to follow him down the trail and he could feel the frigid air at his back. Leon glanced over his shoulder and almost stumbled. The ghost was close, flying straight at him. It would catch him soon and no man, nor boy, could outrun a ghost.

His mother screamed again, closer now, and Leon poured on what speed he had left.

When he reached the bottom of the trail, a pair of strong arms caught him. And even though he scrambled to escape them, they held him tight.

“Where you been, you little shit,” the man snarled. His breath stank of whisky and rot. Leon glimpsed his mother, sobbing over the body of his grandfather, the sleeve of her gingham dress soaked with blood.

Leon stared into the hateful eyes of his stepfather.

And grinned.

The ghost rushed down upon them and Leon managed to tear himself from his stepfather’s grip. He fell into the hard dirt and rolled away as the ghost unleashed its cold fury upon the man. His mother encircled him with her arms, drawing him to her.

Leon covered his ears until the shrieking had ceased.

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

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More from Naching T. Kassa:

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Arterial Bloom

Lush. Brutal.

Beautiful. Visceral.

Crystal Lake Publishing proudly presents Arterial Bloom, an artful juxtaposition of the magnificence and macabre that exist within mankind. Each tale in this collection is resplendent with beauty, teeth, and heart.

Edited by the Bram Stoker Award-winning writer Mercedes M. Yardley, Arterial Bloom is a literary experience featuring sixteen stories from some of the most compelling dark authors writing today.

With a foreword by HWA Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient Linda D. Addison, you are invited to step inside and let the grim flowers wind themselves comfortably around your bones.

Available on Amazon!

 

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Flowers  
by Kathleen McCluskey 

Rachel pedaled along the deserted country road; wildflowers lined the dusty gravel pathway. She smiled into the sunshine as her red hooded cape flapped playfully behind her. The basket on her bicycle was filled with the day’s finds. She had stopped several times along her route to acquire the beautiful posies. She could see bushes up on a hill with large, white bouquets. She wanted the puffy beauties for her collection. Her grandmother always loved when she brought her flowers. She stopped and pushed her bike up the hill.

As she selected the most abundant bunches she heard a rustling coming from within the shrub. She bolted upright and tilted her head to the side. She called out, “Hello?” She paused and glared into the greenery. “Hello?” She said again, louder this time. Still nothing but the slight summer breeze rustling the surrounding forest. Rachel shrugged her shoulders and began her selection again. Her large gardening sheers glinted off of the sunlight. She could hear someone or something approaching. She stood and turned around to see a woodsman coming out of the forest. His large ax was slung over his shoulder and he was smoking a cigarette. Rachel lifted a hand in salutation, he returned the greeting. She lifted the hood on her cloak as they began to walk towards each other.

Rachel put out her hand, “Hello, I’m Rachel. I’m on my way to my grandmother’s house.”

The woodsman’s hands were rough and hard working, “Hi, I know your grandmother. I am out here getting some firewood for her. I need to get back. Be safe out here, little one, there have been sightings of wolves in the area.”

Rachel nodded her head, “Thanks, I’ll be careful.”  She watched as he walked down the hill; the muscles in his arms, shiny with sweat, rippled as he moved his ax from one shoulder to the other. Rachel smiled.

She was cutting the last few treasures when she heard the rustling sound again. “I know you are there, just come out and make it easy for both of us.” She sniffed the air deeply and released a massive hiss in the direction of the bush. A deep, menacing growl answered her from within. Rachel’s fingers grew longer and bonier. Her fingernails became thick claws. She circled the bush with her hands out to her side. Her large fangs, now fully emerged, hung past her chin. Spittle dangled off the tip of one. The wolf vaulted himself out of the bramble and onto Rachel’s chest, knocking her to the ground. The beast lifted its head back and howled. She rammed her shears into the creature’s neck. It’s howl abruptly stopped and a high pitched whine came from the being. Rachel pushed the dying wolf off of her. “You fucking wolves think all of the Red family are easy prey. Not all of us are pureblood vampires, but I am. I have been systematically eradicating your pack from this area. You animals killed my sister and tried to take out my grandmother.” She spat on his corpse and transformed back into the demure Rachel Red on her way to her grandma’s house.

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Promises
by Angela Yuriko Smith

The road calls—

an asphalt River of Styx.

The lives it claims are legion.

Human, animal, insect…

Death is death. The flat expanse promises

new vistas, horizons, progress.

It delivers on all promises.

Sometimes the new horizon

is in the afterlife.

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More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

Angela Yuriko Smith is an American poet, author and co-publisher of Space and Time magazine, a publication that has been printing speculative fiction, art and poetry since 1966. Together we build a poem as a community each month. Visit “Exquisite Corpse” at SpaceandTime.net to submit.

Catch up with Angela here!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


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Lianne’s Eyeball
by Alyson Faye 

Sophie sighed, and put down her iPhone, its charge was rapidly dying – like everyone else in this damn cave, she thought. No reception anyways.

Her best friend Lianne’s right eyeball stared at her, and Sophie couldn’t help but feel guilty.

“It was your idea to come caving for your freakin’ Hen do,” she muttered.

Lianne’s eyeball, encased inside its alien casing – blinked once in reply.

“I saved what I could of you, girlfriend . . . but . . .” Sophie swallowed, remembering the bloodbath of bone, flesh, torn off tendons, gristle and muscle that had splattered the cave walls when it arrived.

Sophie had no name or noun for it. However she had a few adjectives:- f***in’ fast, savage, hungry and horrific.

There had been five of their Girl Gang just twenty-four hours earlier, but it had whittled them down, one by one, isolating them, luring them away into dead-ends – literally.

Now only Soph and Lianne’s eyeball were all that was left of their bullshitting, rock and rolling crew of Happy Hens.

Soph shivered, and chowed down on a Powerbar, which tasted like cardboard. She heard the familiar purring noise echoing from one of the limestone tunnels which burrowed into the bowels of the cave system.

She turned to face the eyeball. “You know, Lianne, I might as well ‘fess up. I didn’t wanta come on this crappy Hen Do. I only did it to keep you chill and now, look at yourself!”

The eyeball blinked furiously, as though trying to semaphore a message. In the dark heart of Lianne’s pupil Sophs glimpsed movement; a glowing shimmer approaching.

Shit, it’s back!

Sophie backed herself into a hole in the wall, holding up the only weapon she had – a fruit knife.

Yeah, like I’m gonna peel you to death.

The stink of ammonia filled the cave, sparks leapt from the rocks, tentacles blazing with golden veins inched towards her – Sophie shut her eyes, fear furring her insides, turning them liquid – moments passed but nothing happened.

She was still breathing, sweating and sobbing snot trails. She opened an eye and peeked.

Lianne’s eyeball was glowing, a fiery golden orb of pulsing light, which streamed out towards it – building a bridge, a connection, a transcendent moment?

Sophs knew this was her chance to run, whilst her best mate, well, her eyeball, held the entity’s focus.

Up, up, choose a tunnel going up.

Sophie made her choice, and scrambled away. Behind her the trilling and purring noises reached a crescendo.

                                                                        * * *

Left behind in the rock shelf miles underground Lianne’s eyeball communed in spirit and energy with the entity, pulsating and glowing, travelling myriad light years to its planet.

One golden tear dropped from her eye – as the last human cell within – extinguished.

Fiction © Copyright Alyson Faye
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Alyson Faye:

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The Lost Girl & Spindleshanks

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

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

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

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Last Stop Junction
by A.F. Stewart

Faded colour beneath the dark rain

flailing paint off the weathered wood

with the thrashing noise 

of a drumbeat, heartbeat

that pulsing throb whipping 

the cold bite downpour 

along the force of the forsaken wind

I should be far away from here

Cracked graves and bones, scattered

into the scent of musty grass and old rust

carved into abandoned ground

leaking ghosts, leaking secrets

on screaming voices

brooding and bloody

as the stains mingling in the earth

I should be far away from here

Standing fast within the numbing rain

memories cascaded over me, purifying

the lingering taint growing roots

pinning me to eternity 

uncoupling me from sanity

far away from my once reality

as I drifted with the other forgotten ghosts

I’ll never be far away from here

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Beyond the Hiding Meadow
by Amanda Worthington

I leave flowers at the point where she vanishes

In Miller’s Meadow

Named for some dead man, I assume

They never name anything for the women

But exotic blooms and new sins

They imagine us committing

We don’t call it that though

For us, it is only the Hiding Meadow

A place we go

To evade detection

When our souls are full-up

With insurrection

We are fruit not allowed to grow before it is plucked

And used for decoration

We all die slowly sitting under the harsh fluorescents

But I am different, I say

Because I leave her flowers under the true sun

But I am not different

Because I fail to ask who they are

And what life they lived before

I only want to adore her

Not envision her fate

When she went

Her eyes were full of fear

But also resolution

And the world is empty now

A vast sea in a transient state

Now that the last echo of her laughter

Has faded.

She told me not to come after her

And I obeyed

Her bike remains

Toppled

I right it and move it

So that the prairie grasses

Caress it whenever the wind blows

She was beautiful whether she knew it or not

Like the assortment of blossoms the basket of her bicycle now holds

Cold but determined

A woman whose worth can never be assessed

Or argued or sold

I loved her in anger

And though my rage divided us

I always hoped she knew

That this ferocity is impossible without love

That I would die for her

That she was perennial for me

I prayed for her emergence In March

And April and May and June

And lived to worship her

I pick a flower from the bouquet

Absently snap its head

Watch the petals drift to the earth

And wonder not where she went

But why

And what drove her to leave me behind.

I might kill her if I saw her again

Or kiss her – I’m not sure which

I’ve tried mounting the bike since

Dozens of times

Riding into the prairie

Begging the magic that stole her away to take me

But it denies me my egress

There is a rustle in the grass

That cannot be just wind

It has the weight of a man

Looking for something

Growing increasingly desperate in his search

Fury rising

I start

Sigh and turn

My story at the ready

Knowing the pain that comes

Will never match what is in my heart.

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Wicked Deeds: Witches, Warlocks, Demons and Other Evil Doer’s

Sometimes wicked people do wicked things simply because they can… The twelve stories in Wicked Deeds tell tales of witches and warlocks with ill intent, devilish demons bent on destruction, and other doers of evil who make the world a terrifying place. What is a mother to do when her daughter is gifted but lives under the thumb of her fanatical preacher husband who will brook no talk of the supernatural? What of a demon so desperate to free himself of a trap that he will force another to repeat his atrocities and condemn a young boy to his demonic fate? Or maybe the story of a crotchety old witch with a score to settle against the town she lives in is more to your liking – what evil will the seemingly harmless town-crazy call upon when faced with an ultimatum? If you’re looking for wicked people with supernatural abilities doing wicked things, this is the collection for you!

Available on Amazon!

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