Tag Archives: horror fiction

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN… 5… The Master by Dr. Mel Waldman

In an unfathomable moment of murderous unreality, I shoot the Master. He laughs uproariously. I shoot him again and again and after an interminable fusillade, he falls to the ground. But when I gaze at his crimson body, he disappears. Continue reading THE FINAL COUNTDOWN… 5… The Master by Dr. Mel Waldman

Necro-Dandies By Alex S. Johnson

Some say a gentleman’s crimes, no matter how well-intended, are permanent. That they affix themselves to his brow, or shine from the skin of his neglected soup, or find some other way to creep about his person and stamp themselves into the mold of his legacy. Continue reading Necro-Dandies By Alex S. Johnson

Mosh Pit Massacre by Dustin He

Keshav Singh was convinced that katars would be suitable for the task. Brass knuckles; kubatons; switchblades would not do the trick. On the other hand stilettos, karambits, or combat knives perhaps performed the job too well. Though they did not exactly fall under the category of “concealed,” he believed he had found the perfect compromise – a hybrid of stealth and functionality. The Singh family katars, rumored to date back hundreds of years to the Mughal Empire, would not only enable them to die with style, but it would be poetic due to ancestral support. Continue reading Mosh Pit Massacre by Dustin He

The Dashboard Dreamcatcher by Kimmy Dee

Boogersnot!”  

Krissy swerved back into her lane and shot a futile glare at the oncoming convertible as it whizzed past. Continue reading The Dashboard Dreamcatcher by Kimmy Dee

THE CURSE OF THE URAL OWL By Dr. Mel Waldman

I’m the Ural owl. I haunt and possess you. If you see me in your dreams, you’re a dead human, a rotting corpse.

Beware! Continue reading THE CURSE OF THE URAL OWL By Dr. Mel Waldman

BROTHERS by Jeff Dosser

Stacy held her black, stiletto heels in one hand, her new Coach clutch in the other as she weaved across the empty garage towards her beat up Subaru. The parking garage of the Ritz-Carlton was packed this evening before her cousin Jessie’s wedding reception. Now, her car stood alone among the echoing aisles. Continue reading BROTHERS by Jeff Dosser

Born This Way by Jen Hughes

Everyone has their talents. My parents and teachers spent decades labouring over finding my quirks and talents, like they were mining for some valuable metal. They were disappointed when I flunked all my classes, out of disenchantment more than anything else. My poor mother and father enrolled me into every after school class imaginable, all coming up empty. Continue reading Born This Way by Jen Hughes

Bloody Collage by Graham Wynd

Jeanne Duval tried to stop herself from scratching her arm, a thing she did compulsively whenever she was nervous and there was no way to pace. Sometimes she scratched so much she drew blood, which at least would be appropriate today. Jeanne looked at her collage of photos covering the gallery wall.

Continue reading Bloody Collage by Graham Wynd

The Abyss by Lisa Ciarfella

Father Trevor rolled the rosary beads round in his hand for the twentieth time in the last twelve minutes. He knew exactly how long it had been, since the hands on the old wooden clock hanging just overhead ticked down loud, extra noisy, reminding him. He could see that both the hands and the digits had been painted on the clock’s face years ago, bold and dark green, against a pale cream colored backdrop, making them hard to miss. Under the ancient timepiece sat the calendar with the day’s date circled in red; December 31, 1949. Continue reading The Abyss by Lisa Ciarfella

Requiem by Jen Hughes

Christopher Matthews was a dedicated teacher who touched the lives of many children throughout his thirty-five years teaching music. Thoughts are with his family and friends at a small funeral service there on this wet Easter Sunday afternoon, and all the students at St Cecilia’s Academy who have lost a teacher. There are large candles placed around the church which give the illusion of warmth but it is a cold and hollow place. The air smells strongly of mixed perfumes. The last time I was here, it was my last day at school before I was sent away. Too many bad memories, yet my psychiatrist said I should go. If you face pain, she will give you an ointment to stop your wounds from festering. The service starts, conducted by the same priest with the same dreary voice from before. Even the altar boys look similar to the ones before.

Continue reading Requiem by Jen Hughes