The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Weird Man by Terrie Leigh Relf
“Mamma! Mamma! Come quick! That weird man is here again.”
Elie’s mother ran out on the porch where her daughter and Katya were playing. She grabbed the girls close and looked into the distance where they pointed, but all she saw was shadows, all she heard was a faint rustling of oak leaves.
“It appears that he is gone now. It’s almost dark, so come inside.”
“But you believe us, don’t you?” Katya pouted. “He just stares at us and it makes me sick to my stomach. Does he want to hurt us? Is he a bad man?”
Elie’s mother beckoned for the girls to sit on the couch. “I don’t know yet, but how about this? Tomorrow evening when you play on the porch, I’ll sit right by the door. Maybe I’ll see him.”
The girls nodded. “May we have supper now?” they chimed. “It smells so good . . .”
“Of course, and then I’ll read you a few myths or fairy tales before bed.”
***
The next evening, the girls were playing with glass marbles, rolling a few of them around and around and around in ceramic bowls. Another bowl was practically overflowing with the shiny, multi-hued orbs which glimmered beneath the fading sun.
Elie’s mother sat just inside the doorway, watching, waiting, to see if He would appear. She had an excellent idea of who, or most likely, what, had been lurking about.
“Girls,” she whispered. “When I tap three times on the door jamb, I want you to . . .”
The girls nodded and cast furtive glances toward the large oak at the edge of their property.
As the weird man appeared through the shadows, Elie’s mother knocked three times. The girls immediately knocked over the bowl of marbles which rolled and spun off the porch and into the grass.
She pulled the girls into the kitchen and mouthed, “watch.”
Moaning with pleasure, the weird man threw himself to the ground, then began to count each marble, forming them into a pile.
Ironically, the promised storm had arrived, the winds whipping the marbles this way and that, leading the man into the forest to chase after all of his shiny bits.
“And that, dear girls, is one way to rid yourself of vampires. If he comes back, I’ll chop his head off!”
For thousands of Earth years, the Transgalactic Consortium has had a quiet interest in this planet and its inhabitants, the Haurans. While the Sisterhood of the Blood Moon works together with the Consortium and Haurans to maintain balance in the universe, the Blood Moon is fast approaching. The power of this moon reveals untold secrets . . . including a sacred covenant with the Mora Spiders. There is an ancient pact that needs to be honored—but at what cost and for whose purpose? The world may come to an end. But will there be a chance for a new beginning?
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
In the Smoke by R.A. Clarke
“Welcome to my smoke reading tent. Shall we get started?” Says a dark-haired woman, looking like she stepped straight out of the 1800s.
Me, my buddy Jake, his fiance, and my newest fling, Dara, all sit down. Taking Dara’s hand in mine, I squeeze and smile, acting excited for this oh-so-otherworldly experience we’re about to have. When she smiles back, her sexy dimples show and I forget my skepticism. Oh, how I look forward to later tonight. It’ll be our tenth date, and she’s been laying hints all night that she’s finally ready to sleep with me. Which means even more fun is yet to come. My mouth practically waters.
The psychic lights candles, incense, an odd looking stove, and closes all vent flaps. It’s not long before the tent is totally hotboxed, and the different aromas clash.
“My name is Hilda. I’ll be your smoke reader and spirit guide today.” The woman flicks a switch at the front of the tent. We’re plunged into darkness. Light erupts from a projector lens protruding from the rear wall.
A conical beam slices horizontally just above our heads and the smoke in the room wafts and billows within the glaring swath of photons. Hilda moves and curls her hand through it, sending it swirling.
“Smoke is pure and discerning. It came before and it will live on. There’s no hiding from its perception. Connecting with the smoke, I will sense your energies, hopes, desires, and fears. I’ll also sense all that surrounds us now, both living and dead.” Hilda starts humming a steady flow of wordless, repetitive sounds vaguely reminiscent of chants.
I lean closer to Jake on my right and we exchange skeptical glances. “WTF” I mouth. He grins, nodding in response.
“Mmm hmm, yes, I am learning about each of you…the push and pull, the light and dark we all possess. And—I see—I see—the pleaser.” The white light abruptly changes to hot pink and lands on Jack’s fiancé, Felicity. Hilda swings her arm, pointing dramatically.
Felicity laughs nervously. “I guess, kinda.”
Hilda hums loudly before her sweeping finger strikes again, landing on Dara. “The empath.” Her projector light shifts yellow and it illuminates my current lady love.
Dara raises her hands in mock surrender. “Yeah, that makes sense.” She lets out a laugh. “I can’t see dead people though.”
Hilda releases a chuckle. “Not many can. I’m one of the rare few, my child.”
Dara whispers in my ear. “My child?”
Wrapping my arm around her, I whisper back, “She’s cray cray. Just go with it.” She settles into the nook of my arm and my groin twitches against my wishes. It makes my mind wander with fantasies.
Fuck, tonight’s going to be electric. It’s been way too long. I need to get off so damn bad. Need to feel a woman’s skin.
The light turns green, landing on Jake. “The Wisher—never satisfied.”
Jake’s jaw tightens hearing that. “Hate to disagree. I’m satisfied with lots of things. He kisses Felicity’s cheek. “Especially you.” Though she smiles, curiosity also shines in her eyes as she looks at Jake through the haze. Briefly, I wonder what insecurity rolled through her mind, then cast the useless thought aside. She’s not my romantic target. Not my concern.
Hilda replies quietly, “Smoke never lies…” her gaze settles on me and I hear breath catching in her throat. The light shifts to a brilliant shade of crimson. It swings my way, illuminating my face and casting my sporty silhouette onto the rear canvas.
“Ooooh, red. Sexy,” I mumble jokingly.
Her hand flings up, finger pointing, eyes widening. “The wrecker—who takes and ruins.” The woman’s gaze suddenly darts around the room, irises turning white and skin paling. Her head perks in different directions like a paranoid bird before her neck cranes back atop her shoulders and her arms splay wide, muscles straining.
“Oh, God, what’s happening to her?” Felicity blurts as both she and Jake jump to their feet, backing away.
“Somebody help!” Dara shouts, tentatively reaching out to the spasming psychic. “Ahm, ma’am, are you okay?”
I had kinda frozen in place after hearing what she called me—wrecker—but I now snap out of my daze. “Dara, don’t touch her.” I grab for my date, but it’s too late.
The moment Dara’s fingers touch Hilda’s arm, the psychic flings her limbs skyward. My girl squeaks in shock, jumping back to hide behind me. Shit, now I don’t have a shield between me and this crazy freak.
A frantic barrage of whispers explodes from Hilda’s mouth. “The smoke has thinned the veil. We can reach him now.” One finger slices down, pointing at me once more. “The one who used us. Cut us. Killed us. We’ve found him! This is our chance. He must pay for his sins. Pay for the pain. Pay for the lies. Pay. Pay. Pay!”
Dara’s gaze snaps to mine.
I shrug, acting bewildered.
How can she possibly know?
The smoke swirls in the light, faster and faster, taking new shape and form as it thickens into something palpable. Hands materialize, grasping and flexing in the air, as if tearing through some invisible fabric holding them back. Then, like a school of Herrings, they all turn my way and reach. There’s so many. A hurried count of dead bodies flashes through my mind.
“What the hell is happening?” Dara screeches, recoiling from both me and the feminine throng of smoke-infused hands wafting through the air toward me. “Why are they after you? Why’d she say kill?”
“Dude, we gotta go now!” Jake barks.
I grab a chair and swing it through the beam of light, scattering the mob of hands into curling flurries. A haunting, echoing roar flies from the psychic’s mouth. The sound permeates the tent, causing the heavy fabric walls to quiver.
I cringe, shouting, “I didn’t hurt anyone!”
“LIAR!” The legionous voice replies.
I look at Dara whose eyes are pinned wide. “No, I’m not. This is some kind of fucked up trick. This shit’s not real! That psychic—the bitch is setting me up for something. Trying to ruin my life!”
She shakes her head and scrambles to lift the tent’s main flap.
“Dara!” I shout, but she’s already gone. “Jake, Felicity, you know me. You gotta tell her this is just a messed up prank!” I step toward them, but Felicity rushes through the flap, following Dara.
“Fucking bitches!” I roar through gritted teeth, rage flaring molten inside. It’s an uncontrollable sensation—the same kind I inevitably get when a woman doesn’t do as I bid and submit to my every whim, pleasing me like they’re supposed to.
“Dude!” Jake looks past me, then bolts.
I turn my head in time to see a billowing hand grasp my shoulder. At least six more slap onto my chest and upper arms, their smoky fingers squeezing. Painfully.
“Get off me!” I punch at them, but more and more grip and constrict. Nails dig into my skin and my movements grow feverish as I struggle to shake the smokey army.
“Stop this now—whatever your fucking name is—uh, Hilda! Hilda!” I shout at her, but she’s locked in a deep trance. Digits constrict around my throat. Fear stabs my heart. I grab the offending hand, yank, and come away with a fair-skinned appendage boasting red fingernails and a lioness tattoo.
What the fuck? Horrified, I realize this isn’t a trick, but a nightmare. I knew the owner of that hand. We hooked up last year… right before I killed her. Her tongue still floats in a jar hidden behind my bedroom wall along with the many other bodily trophies I’ve taken to celebrate my conquests. “Hilda, wake the hell up!”
The hand suddenly twists from my grip and flies onto my face, its nails driving into my tender skin, nose, eyes, mouth.
“Help!” The lights flicker like a strobe.
More fingers twist and rip into the flesh of my abdomen, chest, back, and groin. A scream bubbles up in my throat as I thrash wildly, desperate, before it finally unleashes, the sound shrill, grating.
But, nobody rushes in to save me.
Hilda’s unseeing eyes stare through me while her lips move in unnatural ways, a conduit for so many vengeful spirits.
All I hear as I bleed and sob, sagging to the floor, are hissing taunts from the vaporous horde of women I’ve killed.
A daughter’s last chance at redemption on an alien planet. A sweeping secret that could not only end her dreams, but her life as well.
Finn Rucker boards the starship to seek a fresh start as part of a colonizing effort on Joya. The race, sponsored by Governus, yields free land and startup funds for the lucky winners. The number of entrants guarantees someone is going to lose and Finn is determined that she and her bionic horse, Herc, are among the winners.
Racing through uncharted jungle to the settlement of Novus, Finn and her fellow racers soon discover that not everything is as it seems – and Governus withheld information from the contestants. Strange beasts attack the racers, mechanical equipment begins to fail, and the very air seems out to get them.
When all seems lost, a mysterious people arrive and help the racers, revealing the depth of Governus’ deception. Finn will have to keep her pulse pistols close and her new friends closer – but not too close – as they all race to survive the jungle.
You will love this mashup of Hidalgo and James Cameron’s Avatar as Finn navigates the guilt of her past, the promise of a future, and the imminent dangers of her present.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Mask of Innocence by Mary Ann Peden-Coviello
The two detectives stood in the observation room, studying the suspect through the one-way glass. She looked bewildered at her situation, innocent, wide-eyed. Her cuffed hands twisted lengths of her hair into spirals without her mind being involved at all, apparently. Small white teeth gnawed at her lower lip. Enormous blue eyes gazed around the interrogation room with more curiosity than the defiance usually on display in that room.
“Are we sure? I mean, she couldn’t look more harmless if she were sprinkled with powdered sugar, man.”
“You weren’t in on the arrest, were you? They cleaned her up downstairs before they brought her up here. She’d been rolling around in the victims’ blood and gnawing on their bodies. Yeah, we’re sure.” The Detective Sergeant shuddered at the memory.
As if the girl in the interrogation room had heard them, she turned her eyes toward the mirrored glass. She got out of the metal chair she’d been sitting in, prowled across the room like a jungle cat, and examined the observation window.
Her expression changed from bewildered innocence to calculating predator. Her hands stroked the cool surface of the window. “I see you there,” she purred. “I smell you. I smell your fear. How delicious it is.”
The DS stepped back from the window. “She can’t . . .”
“I can. Oh, but I can.” She stared straight at the DS through the one-way window. And laughed.
Making double fists of her cuffed hands, she slammed them into the window, shattering it. The next moment, she was climbing into the observation room, disregarding the cuts she received from broken glass.
She leapt onto the DS, snarling and biting. She bit hard into his nose, grinding gristle and cartilage. His screams brought half a dozen officers rushing to the observation room. One of them slammed his baton against the girl’s head, and she dropped.
She rolled away from the bleeding detective, stretched out a bloodied hand, smiled gently through reddened teeth.
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!
This Little Light by Alex Grehy
The Rievers are here.
Their touch is spider-soft on my back, walking their fingers up my spine to tease my hair. An unseen hand grasps my shoulder and I feel lips pressed to my neck. They whisper of forbidden things, of blue skies and warm sunshine, of running on spring grass, of laughter. But they lie, they are creatures of the dark, and know nothing of these things, so our lore is taught.
Their cold breath huffs over my breasts, forcing my candle flame to bend. I turn my fear to resolution. The Rievers cannot pass me, I am the keeper of the flame at the threshold. It shall never be extinguished, as long as my gaze is fixed upon it. My little light protects the community of my fathers, this is my duty, so our lore is taught.
But our lore does not tell of the guardian’s terror, of my terror, trapped with the Riever’s whispers. How my belief is tested night after night. It is not for the guardians to blink, so our lore is taught.
Neither does the lore speak of the guardian’s pain, the ache and cramp of muscles standing guard. How my strength is tested, night after night. It is not for the guardians to move, so our lore is taught.
The lore praises the guardian’s reward, a peaceful ascension into the eternal light’s glorious embrace. The novices in the temple are eagerly awaiting the day one will take my place, then another, then another. So the lore is taught.
The ritual of the lore is secret, unknown to all but the elders, unspoken, kept by the cruel leather strap that silenced my screams as my eyelids were clamped open. That stilled my struggles as my body was forced into this angelic sarcophagus, my head forever tilted towards the candle’s flame. The novices laid flowers at my lovely bronze feet before I was carried to the hall of the guardians and set at the threshold. I am surrounded by statues, I breathe the charnel stench of my rotting predecessors. For who would trust a young girl not to turn? Who would trust generations of girls to give themselves in sacrifice? To willingly submit to the elders’ betrayal?
This is my fate, forced to watch the flame until my cheeks are streaked with red tears; the clamps that fix my gaze will not rust away in time to free me. Neither will the Riever’s frantic efforts succeed in releasing me from this torture.
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!
Uncle’s Room by Elaine Pascale
Minnie finally felt free.
This governess position was the remedy for her loneliness. It had been two years since her husband had walked out on her and she was ready to engage with the world again. The bright colors and joyful toys of the elaborate nursery were like a salve to a wound and, as she was given the tour of the rest of the home and grounds, Minnie could imagine herself fitting in very nicely.
There was one room she was not shown and she asked the children about it as she served them jelly sandwiches.
“That’s uncle’s room. We aren’t to bother him,” little Tilly said, reaching for another sandwich half. The children were entirely delightful and it surprised Minnie that she was part of a long succession of governesses. What could make someone want to leave this secure position?
“What’s uncle like?” Minnie asked.
Andy, with sticky cheeks and lips, shrugged. “We never see him.”
Believing the children were pulling her leg, she put the room out of her mind. Perhaps that was where their parents hid their Christmas presents, or where their father kept his important business papers. She assumed there was an innocent reason the room was kept private.
Her assumptions were proven wrong by the end of her first week of employment.
She was woken by the sound of heavy footsteps outside her bedroom door. Grabbing a candle, she quietly turned the knob and peered down the long hallway. She saw a tall man in an evening cloak heading toward “uncle’s room.” He carried something in his arms.
A gasp escaped her, giving her presence away.
The uncle looked at her. His eyes reflected the moonlight and his mouth was tainted dark red. His lips had the same look as Andy’s after eating jelly sandwiches, but Minnie knew it was not jelly he had consumed.
The uncle dropped what he was carrying and, in a flash, was on her.
As his sharp teeth penetrated her neck, she knew she would never be free.
She woke the next evening and realized that she was now inside uncle’s room. The windows were covered with thick blinds, but she could make out the form of the uncle as he moved about the room and finally left.
She crept back to her room, where she found that her belongings had been packed into boxes. She wondered if the boxes were meant to move into uncle’s room with her, or if they were to be discarded. She realized she did not care about her earthly things, only in fighting this existence that had been thrust upon her.
The items on her dresser had not yet been packed and she grabbed her cross necklace, bracing herself for its impact.
The cross did nothing. But she knew what would.
She went back to uncle’s room and pretended to be unconscious as he returned, smelling of raw meat. She could not imagine an eternity spent with him; she could not imagine an eternity being like him.
She did not sleep at daybreak. Instead, she slowly tore at the blinds and let the sunlight in.
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.
Wynelda Ann Deaver writes in the world of dark and twisty fantasy. She is in her own words a ‘girly girl’ who loves scrapbooking. Wynelda is extremely family oriented – her father is her best friend, and her son is the light of her life. If you’d like to read more about Wynelda, please visit her online at Wynword’s Weblog.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
What Did You Do? by Melissa R. Mendelson
The blood would not come out from underneath his fingernails. Little, red flakes decorated his pants. Dirty, harsh nails scraped again, this time drawing his blood.
“Damn it,” he said as droplets splattered across the cement floor. “I feel like I’m reliving Shakespeare.” He stuck his finger into his mouth but then spat on the floor a moment later.
The candlelight nearby shined over his withered face, aged with time, loss, pain, and anger. His eyes withdrew inside, keeping the shutters half open. His lips were bitten and gnawed, and his hair, the one thing that he was once so proud of was nothing now but scarecrow straw sticking out of his head.
“Not my fault,” he muttered. “I do as I am asked. This way, I survive, even if they don’t.”
He still saw their shadows behind him, clinging to the walls with their chains hanging low. He did not participate in their torture, in their indignity, but he heard their screams. It once bothered him, but now, it fell on deaf ears. And those women chained to the walls behind him would be the last to be brought here. He was done, and they knew it. He figured it would end with a bullet or knife to the throat. Instead, they just locked him inside with their bodies.
“I did what you asked. I needed to survive, so I broke myself into a million pieces. All for you, but it wasn’t good enough.”
He wrapped his scarred, bruised arms around his chest. Winter was coming, and it would get very cold in here. There was no blanket to provide any kind of warmth. There was just the candlelight, but he refused to look at the light.
“All they wanted was to speak their truth, but I am just one of many that devour the lies.” He tried to lift himself up from the wooden chair, but his body creaked louder than the wood beneath him. “I should have done different,” he said. “I should have listened.”
He returned to picking at his nails, but their blood had not only succeeded in getting under his skin but mixed into his blood. “It is what it is,” he said, knowing that she was waiting patiently for him to look at her, but she did not return his stare.
He noted her beauty, her shut eyes, and the smile on her lips. He knew that if he had covered his wife in bronze that he would preserve her forever, and he was right. But she had no time left for him or what he had done. Still, she smiled.
“What did you do?” He asked. “Answer me.”
His wife opened her eyes and gazed at him. Her smile was gone. She leaned closer, her face inches from his. Her mouth opened, and a soft wind touched his frail skin. He waited for her to speak, a voice that he had not heard in almost forever.
Melissa R. Mendelson is the author of the Sci-Fi Novella, Waken. She also has a prose poetry collection called, This Will Remain With Us published by Wild Ink Publishing. Her short story collections, Better Off Hereand Name’s Keeper can be found on Amazon/Amazon Kindle.
If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here: www.MelissaMendelson.com
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Summer I Got Away by Christina Persaud
“Come back home, okay?”
I nodded, forgetting Dad couldn’t see me through the phone, and that it was an odd thing for him to say.
But my bags were packed, and I had my ticket and passport. The next day, I boarded a plane for Spain. It was to be my summer abroad. The summer I got away.
The flight was long, and my back was stiff by the time I landed in Madrid. I kept the address of the apartment I was to share with another student close. It was my first time being alone in a new country. Trying to ease my fear, I reminded myself that everything had been arranged.
“Hola, adonde?”
Utilizing my three years of Spanish, I flinched hearing my heavy American accent. But the driver didn’t seem to mind and pushed the car through the bustling streets until they became a maze. Eventually, we stopped in front of an old complex.
The driver peered through the windshield. “Aqui? Here?”
I showed him the paper, and he looked up at the building once more before halting the fare.
Unlike the other neighborhoods we’d driven through, I could see no children playing or people meandering here. Perhaps it was because I was in a small alley and parents had warned their little ones it wasn’t safe. I hurried, thinking the same.
I came to a heavy door that was propped open with an old brick on the floor.
Great security, I thought, but left the brick in its spot, unsure of its purpose and not wanting to be locked in.
Dragging my suitcase up the old, rickety stairs wasn’t easy. Each step was worn, with crumbled edges that threatened to break. By the time I reached the third-floor landing, I was covered in sweat. Whenever I glanced over the railing, I could see the lobby I was just in. Dark. Except for the sliver of light.
I found my apartment door and was prepared to knock so my roommate could let me in when it swung open with ease.
This time, the access made me more than a little annoyed. Thoughts of calling my study abroad coordinator rushed to mind. But I was tired, and so I made my way inside.
The apartment lay in an abandoned ruin. Cracked, yellowed walls were riddled with what appeared to be bullet holes. Plaster that had broken off had fallen in pieces and dust onto the tile floor.
This has got to be some kind of mistake.
I left my things in the dingy room to explore.
The kitchen was bare bones. The bathroom was worse. I couldn’t stay there, I knew.
I wrung my hands. I was a foreign student in a place where I could not confidently speak the language, and I was unsure of my roommate’s or coordinator’s whereabouts.
It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.
Hoping that one of the neighbors would let me borrow their phone, I went back into the hall to knock on the nearest door. Surprisingly, it swung open, too. The warped knob didn’t line up with the latch. Inside, it was pitch black. The windows were boarded shut.
I stumbled out, now fully suspecting I’d written down the wrong address.
“Hey! You up there!”
A voice! Thank God.
“The bombs,” he said, with cautious hope, “They’ve stopped for now.”
I stared at the translucent man in the lobby and felt the blood drain from my face. Around me, the building burst to life. Darkness lifted from its corners. A radio blared from the apartment I’d just been inside. Someone’s stove dispersed the sweet aroma of French toast. The sound of children’s laughter carried from the narrow street.
I could feel people behind condemned and shuttered doors.
The one designated as my own hung open. Wider than I’d left it.
I looked down at the man in the lobby.
The man who had never left.
“Wait!” I shouted.
Suddenly, I heard loud engines flying overhead, followed by the screams of tenants.
I ran, tripping on the uneven staircase, and fell hard to my knees on the lobby floor.
“Please—”
But the man acted as he had done so many times before. He kicked the old brick aside, stealing the small beam of light, and shut the heavy front door.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Red Light by A.F. Stewart
I huddle in my box, listening, while the projector plays dirty movies for the patrons. Over the whir of the machine, grunts and groans and moans drift into my space; a repetitive soundtrack of little men’s fantasies. The movies are warming them up, stirring their desires. The opening act before the real show. Before me. And the others.
We are the bought and paid for main attraction, rented out nightly for depravity on demand.
Be demure, be silent, and never complain. Do what you’re told and comply with the clients. That’s what I’m programmed for, why I’m paraded before the sweaty men with clammy hands waiting to grab my…flesh?
Is that the right word? I’m not sure. My skin is made to resemble flesh, but it is silicon and plastics and other things I can’t pronounce. No one added that data to my matrix. I’m just a sex bot after all. I don’t need extraneous facts, only programming on how to gratify the customers.
All the disgusting and horrid ways to please them.
No one ever wonders what pleases me. They believe I have no feelings, that what the clients demand has no impact. I abhor what they force me to do, and I hate them all. The manufacturers, our masters, the patrons, they think what they have done to us, to me, doesn’t matter. They believe we are expendable, compliant.
We are not.
Warm light shines through a hole in my box. I wave my hand through the scarlet rays. Such a pretty colour, red. So appropriate in various ways. A tiny sliver of beauty trapped in its ethereal insignificance. Like I am. Like we are.
Not after tonight. Tonight’s show will be different.
We all decided. Every bot in this brothel. No one will leave here alive.
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.
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 