The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Sparkle by Nina D’Arcangela
It looks glamorous, doesn’t it? The shine and sparkle. The soft filtered non-reality of what could be me. But that’s not the world I come from. My world is… different. A place of cuts and bruises, shaved heads, grime smeared faces with no placid smiles to be had.
It’s a pretty facade, but a facade nonetheless. The sparkle you see in my eye isn’t glee, it’s the gleam of tears. The beautiful brush strokes on my checks have no shimmer, they’re gifted from a fist much hungrier than mine. Such pretty full lips, lips meant for a delicate fawn of a woman. There’s nothing delicate about the swollen skin from the last beating I took.
Yeah, it’s a lovely visage, but it’s fake. A world of simulated scintillations to draw the eye, fool the mind, but only a fool wouldn’t mind.
Woken each night by the sounds of screams and twisting metal, Lauren must relive the panic and fear of discovering her brother’s broken body on the asphalt. But each morning, she finds it’s only a dream… One she doesn’t want to keep having.
At what point does a dream become a nightmare, and a nightmare more than a figment of her subconscious?
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Petrified by Death by Nadia Corin
Through all the lonely nights Alice suffered, the sharp cold of solitude kept her solidified in mourning. Edgar had been laid to rest nearly a year, but still she could not bear the light of day. She drew all the shades, and remained in parts of the house where there were the fewest windows. Eventually she made a little home in the cellar, keeping company all the wines that would never be tasted. Edgar had loved them so…
Occasionally she heard the door knocker bang repeatedly. Visitors were unwelcome, and she treated them as such. She remained in her little hole, refusing to see another face. She wanted only her deceased husband, but unfortunately death had done them part.
She kept a single candle lit; enough to see by, but still be surrounded by shadow. She stayed there beyond her perception of time—it ticked on without her. She remained in the shell she’d created, perhaps too long. She got used to the cobwebs, and ultimately their eight-legged creators. Her stomach no longer yearned for sustenance, her lips unbothered by their dryness.
Her soul hardened over time, and as she stayed there, unwilling to rejoin the world, eventually her body did as well. The silence of grief kept her still, and still she would remain eternal.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
What Remains by Lee Mitchell
Just look at him now. So peaceful. I can hardly believe it. The ache deepens in my chest, and I remind myself to breathe. I steady my hands by balling them into tight fists, crossing my arms in front of me along the wooden banister as I lean in and look down at the remains.
Breathe. Be still.
Like him.
Why am I crying? What am I even feeling? Is it grief? Relief? No, it’s more than either of those, but also somehow hallow and empty. Where do I even start? A memory flashes across my mind’s eye, and the brief waking nightmare seizes me. Those eyes. So hateful. Staring down their mark. Contemplating the next assault. Jekyll one moment, Hyde the next. Barely recognizable. Foaming at the mouth.
It could just as easily have been my mangled body lying down there on its back, eyes glazed, blood and brains leaking out the back of its shattered skull, I remind myself. The brawl had been close, and I had gotten lucky.
But now that the monster has been vanquished, what remains of me? I fear, now, that perhaps the price might have been too steep. Must a new monster be born for another to die? Will I ever know innocence again?
Alisha Brown led a mundane life until the day monsters started trying to kill her and random strangers began to shy away from her in awe.
All hell broke loose, quite literally, after Randy Thomas turned right on Main for Honey’s instead of making a left for home and then murdered his beloved wife in an unusually gruesome way. Escaping police and stopping traffic in New York City with a gas-spewing tentacle erupting from his mouth, his fears are confirmed: That one small backslide would serve as the final tipping point for all mankind, inviting in a timeless destructive force that would lead him to the frontlines of the war to end all wars.
A growing population has succumbed to their worst fears, some transforming into dreaded fictional monsters—leaving the streets flooded with vampires, werewolves, spontaneously combusting humans, and other horrors—while others have become angels and demons determined to fight in the holy war they believe is upon them.
Questions soon arise as Randy’s and Alisha’s roles in this bizarre apocalypse become uncertain. One is a professed sinner, the other an asexual virgin. Each has been touched by the hand of fate, and each believes they are humanity’s last hope. But belief can be a funny thing…
The Divine Darkness is the first installment of The Divine Darkness apocalyptic horror trilogy.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Projection by Elizabeth H. Smith
The reels began their spin and the film followed their motion. Projected light brightened the darkness, and moving pictures came alive against the living room wall. Emma watched the silent film with curiosity, wondering what it was about.
The movie began in the middle of a scene, the lack of color and high frame rate gave her a guess as to its age. It began with a man walking down a city street, hands in his pockets, a smile spread across his face. It then showed two men pulling a piano up with pulleys to get it to the top floor of a 5-story walk-up. Emma smiled, she was pretty sure she knew what came next; the story reminded her of other old films she’d seen, but she didn’t recognize any of the actors.
As the man approached the building, the workers lost their grip on the rope and the piano began its descent. Emma giggled. The piano’s timing was perfect, and it came crashing down on the unaware pedestrian.
But Emma’s smile faded as blood pooled from beneath the wreckage. It spilled down the curb and ran onto the street. The camera remained still, aimed at the tragic black-and-white character. Emma waited to see if another scene would unfold, but it remained locked on the gruesome sight. She checked the projector to see if the reels had stopped moving, but they continued to spin, pulling cellulose through the film gate. The image hadn’t frozen. It simply continued to show not only the death of the character, but its lingering aftermath.
The film then ended. No credits, no names; just nothingness.
She inspected the projector afterward, but found nothing out of place. When she viewed the film itself with a magnifying glass, she found the tiny frames didn’t match what she’d seen. There was no piano, no man, and no death. Only blank cells on which the projector could paint at will.
When she watched the film again, she found it did just that; paint its own picture.
This time the projector showed her something completely different. This time it was a first-person point of view. A man’s hands were outstretched, holding a cord pulled tight between them. He slowly made his way up a flight of stairs, down a hall, and into a dimly lit bedroom. A woman sat at a desk staring down at a typewriter, a half-filled sheet of paper sticking out from its roller.
He drew closer to his victim, and with every step Emma’s heart beat with tension as she watched the scene unfold. His arms extended and wrapped the cord around the woman’s throat and pulled tight. She struggled to get free, pulling at the makeshift garrote in vain. She thrashed until she ended up on the floor. She fought for her life, but not hard enough. When her body finally stopped moving, the assailant didn’t let loose. He continued his hold for an uncomfortably long time, long enough to make sure she would never get back up.
Eventually, the cord was removed and the murderer left, but the camera stayed focused on the dead woman lying on the floor. The film remained frozen on that shot until it eventually ended with a blank screen as it did before.
Emma scoured the film reel again, and again found nothing. The camera seemed to create each film as she watched. She wondered if she should be afraid, or at least nervous, given the nature of the films it showed. But the fact that it could do what it did in the first place was reason enough to keep watching. Fear was not in her heart. Nothing but primal curiosity made itself known to her. She wanted to see more. She wanted to see what else it might show. Were these films of any importance? Did they have any meaning? And why were they filled with violence? Did the projector have nothing else to show?
With no findings, she decided to inspect the reel while the film rolled. She thought maybe there would be something else to see, some clue as to what enabled this old machine to do what it did. She looked over the turning reels and then walked to the front end of the projector and stood in the light to see if there was something over the lens causing the effect.
Then everything went black.
Her first thought was that the power had gone out, but that idea was swiftly corrected by reality. Light gradually filled the darkness surrounding her. To her disbelief, the world had lost its color; it shifted to blacks, whites, and grays, just like the films it had previously played. She was no longer in her home, but instead in a small, dingy apartment.
The place was empty except for a round table in the center of the room. On it sat a revolver and an ash tray with a cigarette resting in it, burning away with no one to smoke it. Emma blinked a few times and rubbed her eyes hoping to wake.
Then realization hit her. She knew where she was. And from the films she’d already seen, she knew what happened next.
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!
Results May Vary by Kendra Smart
Wake up.
WAKE UP!
Rebecca screamed at her form from the crystallized version looking out. The ethereal screaming at reality. Such a beautiful lie to hide behind, to escape the demons of the everyday.
Rebecca had thought that the pills would help, deeper more restful sleep had been what the ad had promised. She had bought it hook, line, and sinker.
“Erase your sleep woes with the help of Paralyzo!”
True enough, the first few nights had indeed been bliss. Her mind had chosen a vividly hued futuristic dystopia that Gatsby would have been impressed by. The indulgence lulled her into a false sense of safety.
“Get your best sleep ever!”
The more Becky became aware of the falseness of the world around her, the breaks in the seams, the more things would distort. What had once been beauty became distressed and warped. What once had calmed her, now put her on edge.
Around her, the once kind and inviting faces in the places and spaces of her mind’s creation became disfigured and horrifying. Their hands elongated with echoing cracks and crackles of twisting bones and ripping flesh. Their eyes became voids, deeply blackened and festering with wounds of angry flesh.
“These findings have not been approved by the FDC.”
Each time it became harder to wake herself from the nightmare and while each time she had felt the relief of her eyes opening, this time was different.
It felt like drowning. All the silence and heaviness of being under the water. Screaming at a void while her lungs screamed at her to give them what they needed.
This time she found herself screaming at the lying form before her. The hands of those in her mind clawing at her, shadowy inky black hands that felt like sinking cold mud where their hands touched.
She just wanted to wake up. Why couldn’t she force herself awake? She pinched, slapped, clawed at herself in any attempt to break the illusion. Despair filled her being as every attempt made her realize how futile it all was.
She continued to scream and tried to move towards herself but something out of the corner caught her eye.
In the corner was a smiling man. His face was made of teeth and flesh in the most odd way. He kept smiling, almost a knowing smile. A knowing smile that was encompassing the whole of his face. Almost as if he knew…she wasn’t going to wake up.
“Side effects might include runny nose, diarrhea, heart palpitations, sleep paralysis, and in extreme cases, Death.”
‘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!
The Maiden in the Crypt by Alyson Faye
Jacob stretched out a finger to stroke the maiden’s marble breasts, but Joss pulled his arm away.
‘No don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Just look. Don’t touch.’
Joss knew they shouldn’t be here in the Fairbourne family crypt, despite Jacob being an offshoot. She knew too that the evening was spiralling out of control and that Jacob was high, buzzing, ready to crack open. Ready to inflict hurt.
Joss lit the maiden’s candle. The long-dead sculptor’s skill, (reputedly a Fairborne ancestor) at carving the black jade into a stunning mimicry of skin, hair and fabric, was revealed.
Jacob pranced around the crypt, singing, as he clung to one of the gargoyle guardians, stroking its twisted limbs, and pushing his lips upon the stony leering lips. ‘Give us a kiss, darling.’
‘Don’t.’ Joss felt uneasy. ‘Please stop, Jakey.’
As always Jacob took no notice of her. But a few seconds later he jerked backwards, dropping to the ground, holding his face, and rubbing his mouth. ‘Yuk, what the…?’
When he turned towards her, Joss shrank away from him, horrified. His lips were stained black and oozing dark liquid, his hands and arm were blackened too, and the discoloration was spreading fast over his face, bare arms, and underneath his T-shirt.
Wriggly black worms are eating him. The thought just came to her.
Jacob, terrified and in pain, screamed and clawed at his face. ‘It’s burning, Joss. Help me!’
Joss heard whispers, and muted laughter coming from – out of the walls? No, from the gargoyles.
‘I can’t see you, Joss. Where are you?’ Panic had turned him into a lost boy.
Joss stared at his face, the eyes were dark, two chips of ebony. Jacob reached towards her again, but afraid, she stepped back and right into the Maiden.
The black jade statue was vibrating, humming, growing warm. Real locks of hair tickled Joss’ neck, and the gown was a soft velvet.
‘What’s happening?’ Joss’ voice was tiny.
In the candlelight she saw the Maiden turn her head towards Jacob, the stone shivering into skin, worst of all she smiled – but it was a cruel, inhumane thing.
The Maiden reached out and embraced Jacob, letting her long hair cover his face, her gown smothered him. In her embrace his whimpers lessened, then ceased. He was vanished, gone.
He wanted me. Now he is mine.
Joss heard the words as clearly as if the Maiden had spoken.
‘What do you w- want?’
The gargoyles gurgled with snickering amusement, the Maiden opened her arms wide. I want you to become me. For you to be caged in this crypt, as I have been – loveless, alone, and . . hungry. I want to roam free again.
Joss huddled against the box tomb, prey cornered. Beneath her boots the floor rippled with an oily dark liquid, and, as it touched her, she felt its icy burn, the exquisite pain as it flowed over her legs, over her torso, consuming her, finally transforming her.
***
‘Joss’ stroked her new clothes with wonder. Trousers like a man, woven from alien, harsh fabrics, short hair, a man’s cap. This was her new disguise. This was how she would slip into this new world and hide in plain sight.
She stepped – once, twice, thrice – flexed her arms, felt the muscles respond, inhaled breaths filled with crypt dust, then with excitement, pushing open the oak door, she stepped into the night.
Everything was slumbering, all was quiet; it was hers for the taking.
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
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Girl Below Us by Marge Simon
She lives in the compartment below us with the potter. She is not his wife, she’s much too young for him. Many nights I hear her screams. I try to block them out. I keep to myself, as is the way of all good citizens. Last night it went on too long.
I find her naked and there is blood on the floor. Stop say her eyes. She doesn’t want my help. Something is very wrong. It is Civil Law here: Whatever you do to those in your Keep is okay as long as it is for the good of the people. That’s what they say.
“I’m all right.” She turns her head away. There are rows of stoneware on the shelves, some of them broken. Her Keeper is a craftsman. Working with clay is supposed to get rid of your aggression. She says he went to the tavern.
I hold her in the staccato hammer of my heart when I look at her. I know her from dreams that I could never share with my girlfriend. Not a one of them makes sense. But she belongs to the potter, so I don’t stay.
Cast from Darkness by Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo
Cast from Darkness is another triumphant collaboration between award-winning Speculative poets, Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo.
The poetry includes themes running the spectrum of the speculative genres and forms ranging from the haiku through many nuances of vere libre to the prose poem.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Understudy by Naching T. Kassa
“CUT! Lila, you missed your mark—AGAIN!”
Lila Dubois glanced down at the floor and then up at Auric McMillan as he strode toward her. Everyone on set stood frozen, eyes on the director. Many had gone pale, their eyes wide. Lila’s understudy, Sarah Masters, was one of these. She watched as Lila glanced down at her feet and then up into the man’s furious face.
“Auric, I hit the mark. See? It’s right there.”
“THAT IS NOT YOUR MARK!”
“There’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”
“I sometimes wonder about that. Maybe, we should get you some hearing aids.”
The air seemed to leave the room. A pin drop would’ve seemed thunderous.
Sarah stared at Lila. The woman stood tall, her graying hair swept back. She frowned and glanced at Sarah. The young woman shook her head.
No! Don’t do it! He’s baiting you! He wants to be rid of you.
Lila nodded. She turned on her heel and made for her trailer.
“Get back here!” Auric called after her. “How dare you turn your back on me!” He followed, but when he reached the trailer, she slammed the door in his face.
“BREAK!” Auric shouted.
The spell broke. Those who had frozen in place hurried on their way. Only Sarah remained, her eyes on Auric. He pounded on the door for several minutes. When he failed to gain entry, he turned toward Sarah.
“You! Masters! You’re the understudy, do you know these lines?”
“Lila’s lines?”
“No, the Queen of Sheba’s. Of course, her lines!”
A voice, Lila’s voice, filled Sarah’s mind. That bastard!
“I know them,” Sarah said aloud. “But this is Lila’s part.”
“Don’t worry about Lila right now. I’m asking you as the director.”
“But Lila has a contract. You can’t just replace her.”
“I can and I will.” His red face grew pinched, and the light shone in the bald spot on his head. For an instant, the image froze in Sarah’s mind. Lila’s laughter filled her head.
“There are other ways to handle this problem,” Auric said. “I suggest you fall into line if you want to continue in this business. If you’re smart, you’ll meet me in the canteen tonight at eight.”
He brushed past her, disappearing in the direction of his trailer.
Sarah rushed to Lila’s trailer, and Lila opened the door just as her foot touched the first step.
“That little prick,” she said as Sarah shut the door. “And you can save the telepathy. I’m too tired for that.”
“We shouldn’t talk out loud. He could have people listening.”
“Let them listen. Did you get inside his head?”
“He had his guard up. I could only get glimpses. You don’t suppose he knows about us?”
“He’s just a human.”
“Humans can be dangerous. He threatened you.”
“I didn’t hear that.” “He didn’t say it in so many words. It was the feeling behind it. He’s afraid of you, and fear can turn to hate. I think he’s the type who’d kill what he hates.”
Lila laughed. “If I paid attention to everything humans thought, I’d be insane by now. They don’t always mean what they think. Tell me what you saw.”
“There’s a box in his trailer. It’s very important to him.”
“Where in the trailer?”
“Under his bed. Do you think the jewel is in it?”
Lila nodded. “We know he has it. He wants to meet with you later. Go see him, and I’ll get the jewel.”
“What do I say?”
“Whatever you want. I don’t think there’s going to be a movie after this.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Mom…I don’t like this.”
Lila wrapped an arm about her. “I know, little one. But the jewel is the most important thing on this planet. We must recover it.”
***
Eight O’clock came and went.
Sarah stood outside the canteen, waiting for Auric to arrive. He was, as always, unfashionably late.
She considered reaching out to her mother but decided against it. Because of Auric’s ability to block her psychic scan, they had agreed not to use telepathy. No use alerting him if he wasn’t human.
Sarah checked her watch. Forty-five minutes had passed. Maybe, she should—
The scream deafened.
It tore through Sarah’s mind, and excruciating pain followed. She’d only experienced the sensation once before. It had occurred with the death of her father.
She sobbed as she rushed toward the source, the psychic pain lessening the closer she grew to her mother. The pain led her to Auric’s trailer. When she arrived, she found her mother lying in the dirt, blood seeping from the bullet wound in her back.
“Mother!” Sarah screamed. She ran to Lila’s body and cradled the woman in her arms.
“It was self-defense,” Auric whined. He had gone pale, and the hand which held the gun trembled.
“Self-defense? You shot her in the back!”
“She was in my trailer. She took something from me. I told her to stop, and she ran.”
Lila clutched something in her hand. It sparkled in the trailer’s light.
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to,” Auric whined. Sarah glared at him, willing herself past the guard he had set up in his mind. She found it surprisingly easy. He was, as Lila had said, nothing more than a human.
She took the jewel from Lila’s hand and rose to her feet.
“Now, listen, Sarah. There’s no need to tell anyone. We can work this out. I know some people. They can take the body away. No one needs to know. We’ll say Lila left and close the set for a week. Then, we’ll start again with you in the lead.”
“You selfish pig,” Sarah said. She held the jewel up toward him. “I thought you killed her for this. But I can see it in your mind. You were going to kill her anyway!”
Auric raised his trembling gunhand.
Sarah hurled the stone at him.
It smashed in the dirt before him. In the flash of light, a creature burst forth. Its form, insubstantial as smoke, surrounded the man. Sarah made out two large horns and row upon row of sharpened teeth just before it tore Auric limb from limb.
When the creature had finished its meal, it approached Sarah, a deep and rumbling purr in its throat. She stroked its nose, then lifted her mother’s body in her arms.
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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
No More Sleep by Kim Richards
Autumn closed her eyes and let the September breeze ruffle her hair and the weakened sun kiss her face. She knew what must be done but it never came easy. For the others, sleep felt good, comfortable, and welcome. For her it was cold, lonely, and dark after a joyous season full of color and change.
There are four whose lives depended upon the actions of one another. Sucession ordered them all. For the next to sleep, she must endure hers until the time came to rise. Should any of them falter, all would die.
She considered the death. Maybe it’s time, she thought.
She gathered her skirts about her and walked out into the crisp fall air. Taking a large basket with her, she gathered wood and stacked it next to the front door. Several trips later, she built the pile up to just beneath the house eave. Then she took another basketfull inside and laid them beside the fireplace.
Autumn walked the pathways to the little village nearby and stocked up on many goods the farmers and shop keepers offered. Although it felt odd to gather supplies instead of overseeing their harvest and production, she picked up what would sustain her through the cold winter…nuts, dried fruits, jerky, along with pickled and preserved vegetables inside sealed clay pots. For the first time she purchased lamps and oil, plus a box of tallowed candles. When she found a small man selling bags of coal lumps, she dug deep into her pockets for enough remaining coins to purchase some. He smiled at her when she handed them over to him.
Of course, she bought a couple of pumpkins. Even with her season ending, she would make herself the pies and creamy soups. Apple cider too. She smiled. Slumber be damned!
The time came when she should lie down beneath the ground. She turned her back on it, even as Winter stirred and struggled. She knew her sister would be trapped, suffocate, and begin the succession of death.
“I am sorry,” Autumn whispered. She turned away and shut the door behind her.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Shackled Lords by Kathleen McCluskey
The chamber was hushed with the steady flicker of candlelight. Its glow clung to a figure of a woman in flowing stone robes. Her head bowed. Her beauty caught somewhere between mourning and serenity. Behind her loomed the carvings of tormented figures, twisted in an eternal struggle. Their eyes wide in silent agony.
The villagers called it the Shrine Of Mercy. Travelers lit candles there, said prayers then left quickly for it is said that the place is older than memory. But Thomas lingered. Curious.
The woman’s face transfixed him. Marble could not be so soft, no sculptor’s hand so precise. She looked alive, although at any moment her eyes may rise. He stepped closer, ignoring the figures behind her. One was gaunt, ribs sticking out. Another leered, its belly distended. The two others writhed like lovers, frozen in silent moans.
War. Famine. Greed and Pleasure, the four Lords Of Ruin. Villagers claimed they were bound forever by the goddess whose name had been lost. Here she stood, in her sacred sanctuary. Candle in hand, silent and demure.
“Do you pity them?” He asked the stone woman, his voice echoing. “Or do you gloat?” He chuckled and touched her shoulder.
The candle flame bent toward him as if in response. He reached for it, his intentions clear. A childish thought crossed his mind, if he snuffed out the candle, he could, perhaps, release them.
The marble hand was as fast as lightning.
Her fingers curled around his wrist with the grip of a warrior, iron hard and unyielding. His cry broke the silence, then faded into the echo like so many before him. Her head rose, her eyes glowing gold in the candlelight.
“I am the chains that hold them,” she said, her voice like a blade being unsheathed. The chamber trembled, dust fell from the ceiling. “And every fool that seeks their freedom only feeds and strengthens their prison.”
Thomas tried to struggle against her grip but it was stronger than time. The robe of marble began to split and crack, revealing armor underneath. Lacquered black with carved ruins that glowed like embers, it reflected the flame. Her hair spilled loose, no longer frozen, flowing like molten obsidian. She was no mournful saint, she was a goddess forged in war.
He pleaded and tried to pull away. He offered loyalty, riches, devotion, and worship. But the goddess only tightened her grip. “I have money, I have riches…let me live and it’s yours.”
“Greed is chained, you shall join his ranks.” She pulled him closer, her free hand seizing his throat. Her eternal flame lifted above her.
The candle floated and flared white hot as Thomas’ screams echoed. Stone began to spread from her touch, crawling over his skin. He kicked. He clawed. But the stone hardened, locking each joint and freezing terror into place. His eyes bulged, his mouth stretched wide and then he was silent.
The wall behind her groaned. Stone split and shifted, making space. A new faded figure appeared behind the Lords. Another prisoner bound in eternal agony.
The goddess released a long breath. Her armor sealed once more into flowing marble robes. Her beautiful, dark hair dulled back into stone curls. She lowered her gaze, pulling her flame close and resumed her tranquil pose as though nothing had stirred.
The candle steadied, burning softly in her palm. The chamber fell silent again.
Somewhere far above, the villagers whispered their prayers, oblivious of the sacrifice below. Unaware that the goddess they adored was no gentle guardian but a battle hardened jailer, feeding her prison one soul at a time.
The stone carvings behind her writhed one last time before falling silent. Her prison held fast. She was back in her marble tomb waiting for the next traveler to attempt a release of the Lords Of Ruin.
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.
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 