After dark, I’ll return to the crimson room at the top of the stairs, my tiny home in the seedy part of town, where the junkies and alkies O.D. on a cornucopia of poisons and feast on freaky visions. But in the early morning or afternoon, I sit in Eros Park and count the myriad objects of beauty. Some mornings, I come to the park about an hour before dawn. I wait for the light, the crepuscular insects, and a glorious, gold sunrise. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and listen to the holy rhythm that soothes me, and imagine I’m floating in a sun-baked ocean or lying in the hot iridescent sand on a pristine beach below a tropical sun. And I listen to the melodious ebb and flow of the turquoise waves. Continue reading THE CRIMSON ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS By Dr. Mel Waldman
Tag Archives: horror fiction
I FEAR THE DAWN by Dr. Mel Waldman
I fear the dawn. The night and its soothing darkness are my cocoon. They protect me from an unknown danger. But when the crepuscular insects and I rise with the savage light of dawn, my fragile heart begins to pound. Thump! Thump! Thump! The pounding gets louder and faster. Soon, my hands tremble and my shattered soul case-my mortal shell of flesh-shakes uncontrollably. I fear I will die! I pop a couple pills to calm my nerves. I black out. Continue reading I FEAR THE DAWN by Dr. Mel Waldman
Family By Mark Cowling
I could remember well the last time I had seen this place – the centuries old farmhouse with its still peeling paint and a roof that now seemed more moss than slate. I had been seventeen years old, my meagre possessions in the trunk of a long forgotten boyfriend’s car, tears and badly applied makeup running down my cheeks, and an ironclad determination to never again set eye on any member of my family. Continue reading Family By Mark Cowling
The Cabal by Graham Wynd
‘I’d kill for more reviews,’ Chris muttered, downing the dregs of his pint. In his head he calculated how much was left of the twenty he was meant to hold onto until Friday.
‘I’d sell my soul for more reviews,’ moaned Sandy. The bartender chuckled but no demon appeared in a puff of smoke at the summons. Continue reading The Cabal by Graham Wynd
The Twilit World By David Massengill
The elderly taxi driver drops me off at a chain link fence blocking the main drive of the University of Hollinsbridge. “You sure you want to do this, lad?”
The Chin By B.R. Stateham
A painted rock.
A rock about the size of a small child’s open palm. Painted an odd, curiously light reflective smoky gray hue. One side of it was curved slightly. The curve gentle, suggesting that it would fit perfectly in the palm of a small hand. Like some kind of Neolithic hand tool; maybe a tool used to scrape the flesh off an animal hide. Or maybe some kind of stone hammer.
Continue reading The Chin By B.R. Stateham
Trill by E.M. Fitch
My little sister had a music box. She kept her scraps of plastic jewelry in it, a ceramic ballerina in a tulle tutu popped every time she pulled back the lid. Then there was the noise. Scrappy, too much like metal grinding together, a classical ballad of some kind but played too fast and too shrill, a techno Beethoven. Continue reading Trill by E.M. Fitch
Spectral Warning by Sonia Kilvington
As she adjusted her white linen cap and carefully smoothed out the Continue reading Spectral Warning by Sonia Kilvington
I TALK TO MY T-SHIRT AT CAFÉ NOSTALGIA by Dr. Mel Waldman
I talk to my T-shirt at Café Nostalgia. It’s quite smart, you see.
Last year, I visited the Neo-T-shirt Corporation. A salesman sold me a customized, computerized smart T-shirt. It contains all the designs of every T-shirt I’ve worn and all the memories associated with all my old T-shirts.
Continue reading I TALK TO MY T-SHIRT AT CAFÉ NOSTALGIA by Dr. Mel Waldman
A Damned Agreement by Jason Beech
“No. I’ll not do it.” The man upstairs almost slammed the door off its hinges.
Peter made more marks on the pen he had been chewing than on the income column in his accounts. He stared at the roaring fire he’d set to welcome his guests. He thought, maybe, it was roaring for his business plan. The man upstairs had stopped playing ball, and now the ghost party tip-toed into Peter’s isolated joint. They chattered about the moonlit frost surrounding his historic inn and eyed dark corners for apparitions. The inn stood desolate on the misty Yorkshire Moors, and the camera-ready guests ooohed and aaahed at the silvery romance and the prospect of a good haunting.
PULP METAL MAGAZINE 