Category: Trembling With Fear

Unholy Trinity: Murder She (W)Rote by Nic Tusa

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 1: Honey, It’s Considered Manslaughter if It Isn’t Planned (And No One Knows I Sharpened the Knife)

 

He hadn’t hidden it well; always shit with details. 

Hell, he still thought her eyes were brown.

 

Men are more likely to be stabbed on weekends.

Because they’re home annoying their wives.

 

Veronica toed off her shoes, crossing the dark house to their bedroom.

 

Fun fact: men usually stab underhanded into the stomach, but because women are more tricep-dominant, they tend to stab downward.

 

Her fingertips ached— manicured nails extending into imperfect talons.

 

Plenty of muscle mommies out there will prove you wrong!

More like muscle monsters!

 

Ten precise four-inch substernal wounds were the fastest way to a man’s heart.

 

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 2: I’ve Got the Arsenic for That Tea (Sipping on Secrets, Choking on Confidences)

 

Trapped between the wall and his arms, Christina’s skin crawled like a thousand writhing snakes. 

 

Women kill differently from men.

I expected nothing less.

 

Her fangs had dropped during puberty. Clandestine bumps on the roof of her mouth. If she opened her mouth wide, they mobilized, sharp and deadly as a viper’s.

 

We are more subtle and patient.

Out here, dosing hubby’s morning coffee with a little poison, like “today’s the day!”

 

He leaned into her neck so she did the same, sinking her teeth into his vulnerable skin.

Two pinpricks of blood against her tongue as the venom sang.

 

 

Murder, She (W)Rote. Season 1, Episode 3: Darling, This Embrace is a Chokehold for Your Neck (And I’m Waiting For Your Final Breath)

 

A lot of women will try to make it look like an accident. 

When Shelby capsized their kayak two klicks from shore, Miranda laughed. Shelby was a strong swimmer but Miranda was the water. It would have been easier to break up.

 

So like…

Asphyxiation and strangulation.

 

Bobbing in the sea, small waves caressed her gills. Her legs had fused; scales sprouted to protect her from the cold.

 

You mean like drowning their kids in the bathtub?

Or smothering them with pillows.

That’s awful.

 

In one powerful kick, Miranda closed the distance, wrapping webbed fingers around Shelby’s ankle. 

She dove.

 

Nic Tusa

Nic Tusa spent almost a decade as a NYC paramedic and writes speculative fiction that blends the gritty chaos of reality with the strict rules of magic. She enjoys a good slice of pizza, running, and the emo music of the early aughts. Her short story An Animal Within? was recently included in BDA Publishing’s Your Body, My Rage anthology.

Trembling With Fear 4-20-25

Greetings, children of the dark. Sound the klaxons: our latest short story submission window is now closed! If you send in a short story now, it will be returned to you unread and we don’t like having to do that, so please just hold onto it until the next one opens in July. 

Some stats for those playing at home: we had more than 50 submissions in those two weeks. Remember, these windows are quarterly, which means they cover around 12 editions of Trembling With Fear, so there’s quite a bit of competition. (This is also why we moved to the quarterly windows for short story subs; we had authors waiting almost a year, sometimes more, for their stories to be published!) The team’s looking forward to diving into your creative works, but please do bear with us while we get through them. And remember, if it’s a no, we were oversubscribed by more than three times the opportunities, so it’s not you!

While we prepare ourselves for the slush pile, we’ll hand you over to this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. For our main course, we’re dipping into some urban SF-lite with David McKenna, dealing with an investigation by HQ. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:

  • Sascha Reinhard’s unlucky hand,
  • DL Ross’s hospital wallpaper, and
  • Corinne Pollard’s buyer’s remorse.

A final note: It’s been a while since I plugged one of my events, but I’ve got a good ‘un coming up very soon! Writing the Occult: Relics takes a deep dive into the things left behind by those who came before, asking what we can learn from them, and how we can take inspiration for our own creative pursuits. Sessions will look at things like archaeology and horror, shipwrecks, ossuaries and the weird things we do with bones, and Egyptology, plus we’ll have sessions from horror authors Ally Wilkes (a workshop on cursed objects!) and Steve Toase, plus an interview with V Castro about how she sexed-up Aztec relic reparation for her erotic horror Immortal Pleasures. Early bird ticket prices (£35+bf, around US$50) end tomorrow, so be quick! Get the details here: writingtheoccult.carrd.co

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

We jumped from 61% to 78% for our overdue proofing of Trembling With Fear! I’m hoping this Easter weekend doesn’t slow us down and we can get everything sorted and over to our artist to finetune the cover files asap!

Now, for the standards:

  • Thank you so much to everyone who has become a Patreon for Horror Tree. We honestly couldn’t make it without you all!

Offhand, if you’ve ordered Trembling With Fear Volume 6, we’d appreciate a review!

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree as we’re not really active on Twitter anymore, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three Scheduled for April 26, 2025

Chapter Two

                                                          

Peter rubbed his eyes, the heavy silence of the Scriptorium pressing down on him. The scent of old parchment filled his nostrils as he glanced over the pile of bound books laid out before him on the long wooden table. 

For three days, he had worked here, pouring over the treasures of the Archive. He marveled at the opportunity to touch these ancient writings, feeling closer to God among the words of the saints. The Lord had blessed him often—from his privileged youth and his acceptance into this prestigious parish to his new role as Custodian. And yet, often he felt he didn’t deserve such gifts, burdened by his flawed humanity and his irreverent sarcasm, which always seemed to slip out at the worst times.

He sighed, his father’s voice echoing in his mind: You are destined for great things, Peter—a vessel for the greater good. The thought brought little comfort as the Scribes’s sharp words still rang in his ears—words of doubt cloaked in politeness, yet sharp as a blade. 

“Your father’s generosity didn’t hurt,” one had joked over supper, and though Peter had laughed with them, the words burned in the pit of his stomach now.

I’ll prove to them that the Rector made the right decision putting his trust in me, he thought. They’ll quiet their musings once I bring them hallowed passages to translate.

He pushed the thoughts aside. The Eucharist was coming, and there was no time to dwell before the offering of the bread and wine. He needed something special that could bring enlightenment to the faithful.

He stood, scanning the murky expanse of the Archive, the flickering glow casting movement throughout. The Scriptorium stretched in every direction, a maze of towering shelves whose tops disappeared into the vaulted gloom above. 

Lord, guide me. Let me be your vessel to bring your message to the flock.

He moved toward the depths, gliding past dusty rows, each filled with the greatness of God, but none drew him. A pressure in his chest pulled him forward, almost as if an unseen hand led him. 

A low, muffled thud broke through the stillness. Peter froze, a chill creeping up his spine. The sound faded, leaving behind only the oppressive quiet. 

Just the old chamber settling, he thought, forcing a chuckle to ease the tightness in his throat. Shadows don’t bite.

He tightened his grip on the lantern’s handle, holding the light further in front of him. The quiet pressed down on him, so heavy it seemed to swallow even the faintest breath. Each step felt louder than it should, the tap of his boots echoing like a hammer striking rock. 

The sound came again—another muted thud, soft but deliberate. He paused mid-step, his pulse quickening as the noise seemed to follow his movements. Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep walking with gentle, soundless strides.

Rows of narrow aisles seemed to close in around Peter, the air thick with the strain of centuries. To his right, a black void drew his eye. It wasn’t just that he longed to move away from the noises; the hint of the alcove almost whispered to him to come find its secrets.

The opening yawned like a mouth, its edges veiled in thick spiderwebs, the darkness within defying the feeble glow. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by his cautious steps. The dim outline of a plaque caught his eye, mounted in the granite archway at eye level.

He held the light closer, brushing away a veil of spider silk with the back of his hand. The Latin inscription came into focus: Pro Fratribus Sacrae Ritus—“For the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter hesitated, the Rector’s warnings gnawing at him. The Brethren didn’t appreciate intrusions into their space—pompous guardians of rituals that they were in their cloistered order. He smirked despite himself, imagining the scandalized looks on their faces if they found him here. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting a reprimand to materialize out of the shadows.

But the dust and decay suggested no one had been here in ages, probably forgotten eons ago. 

What harm could a quick glance do? Besides, as the new Custodian, I should know the full extent of what I protect?

“None shall ever suspect,” he muttered, as if speaking aloud might absolve him. 

Steeling himself, he stepped across the threshold. The prickle of guilt lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug.

The air within felt heavier, laced with a musty scent mingled with the subtle tang of iron. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the oppressive heaviness. The narrow passage widened into a small room lined with shelves that sagged under the ancient artifacts.

Peter’s lantern revealed rows of chalices, each more elaborate than the last, their gold and silver surfaces carved with intricate designs. Cobwebs draped across them like shrouds, the dust layered so thickly it dulled their once-glorious sheen. Other relics stood among the goblets—wooden fragments carefully displayed in glass cases, labeled with faded Latin script.

Pieces of the cross, Peter realized. At least, that’s what they claimed. He suppressed a snort. Perhaps they chopped up some old beams for the theatrics.

On a far shelf, a twisted crown of thorns rested atop a blackened velvet cushion. The dried, dark flecks clinging to its tips made his stomach churn. Blood? Or just rust? Peter shook his head. 

“A needless indulgence in ceremony,” he whispered, dismissing the grim objects as one of their theatrical excesses.

At the farthest edge of the alcove, a thick cloth covered a rectangular shape. Peeking beneath it revealed a plain metal chest. He slid the material off, dust dancing in the flickering light. A ruby chalice inlaid into its lid glinted, the gems too fancy for the austere box.

Peter hesitated. This wasn’t his to open—only to guard. But would God have let him take this path if he wasn’t meant to see?

His fingers hovered over the container, his pulse quickening with the intoxicating lure of discovery. Holding his breath, Peter tugged upward on the lid. It didn’t move. 

He scanned the exterior. No visible locking mechanism marred the surface.

He frowned, studying it closer. His eyes followed the subtle grooves of the design on top. He traced the shape, feeling a slight give when he brushed across the ruby representing the wine filling the cup. 

Pressing it gently, he heard a soft click. The lid creaked open an inch, as though reluctant to reveal its secrets.

“Ah,” Peter murmured with a triumphant grin. He lifted the lid fully, only to be met with a gaping void.

Empty. Whatever treasures this had held must be now contained on the nearby shelves.

He began to turn, but something about the interior didn’t seem right. He leaned closer to peer inside. The depth seemed … off. He tapped the red velvet bottom, his ears straining for the sound it made. The knock was hollow.

Peter’s pulse quickened as he explored the edges, pressing against the smooth surface until he felt the faint give of a seam. With careful determination, he pried at the hidden latch. The false bottom slid aside, revealing a bundle of white linen cloth stained with crimson splotches that stood stark against the faded fabric.

Rust-colored flecks fell onto the floor as he unwrapped the cloth. The fabric, coarse and tattered, seemed ancient. Symbols he didn’t recognize were scrawled across its edges in faded ink. Beneath it, three scrolls nestled with reverent care.

Peter’s breath caught as he stared at the shroud, unease flickering in the edge of his consciousness. 

I shouldn’t, but this could be perfect for the communion sermon, Peter thought. The Rector won’t mind—he’ll see the value.

He set the shroud aside and turned his attention to the sacred texts. A faded red ribbon wound around the set, their surfaces cracked with age, the scrawl of Greek visible on their exposed crumbling edges. His excitement surged, overtaking the dread that lingered.

He hurried back to his reading table at the front, not worrying about the sound of his steps any longer. 

Peter’s hands hovered over the parchments, his pulse thrumming. 

He read the barely legible title, Διαθήκη τῆς Ἀναστάσεως—Testament of the Resurrection, scrawled in Greek across the dark ribbon holding them together. 

Peter exhaled sharply as the name reverberated in his head. Could this be a firsthand account? Impossible—such an important telling would be on display for the world, not hidden in a box.

He untied it, releasing the three scrolls. He lifted the first with care, marveling at its texture. The parchment, yellowed and fragile, crackled beneath his fingertips. Intricate ink markings wove across its surface, their elegance undiminished by the centuries.

A shimmer of a broken wax seal at the edge caught his eye. The fragmented imprint revealed the shape of a cross. As he pressed into it, the seal crumbled further, leaving behind flecks of red dust. The other two seals—a chalice and a ring—remained intact, making this one feel like the natural place to begin.

He swallowed hard, unrolling the parchment. His eyes darted across the opening lines, smeared beyond recognition. He scanned further until about halfway down where the symbols cleared. 

The words carried a rhythm, a solemn cadence that sent chills coursing through him. At a slow pace, he translated the ancient, hard to decipher letters, his voice barely above a whisper.

The hour grew heavy with the weight of His suffering. We trembled before the sight; the heavens veiled in darkness, the earth quaking beneath the cross. His cries rose to the Father, piercing through our souls. And yet, we could not let Him go to glory in anguish.

Peter paused. The vivid imagery gnawed at him, painting the crucifixion in a stark, visceral light. He steadied himself and read on.

Under cover of the night, when the world lay silent, and the bribed guards heavy with sleep, we crept to His side. The potion we bore was bitter but merciful, crafted to numb the flesh and ease the spirit. We poured it between His cracked lips, praying it would dull His pain. For who among us could bear the sight of our Lord in torment?

Peter blinked, the words swimming before his eyes. A potion? Under cover of night? This detail wasn’t in any scripture he had ever read. History told of only six hours of suffering. His pulse quickened, unease creeping into his veins. 

He scanned the lines that followed, but their meaning eluded him. The Greek turned archaic, the phrases disjointed, and the symbols scattered among the text felt like barriers he couldn’t yet overcome. Maybe his translation was wrong. 

Peter sat up, his thoughts whirling. He traced the ink with his finger, the gravity of the words anchoring him as he continued.

The dark bitterness lingered upon His lips, yet He drank deeply, and the earth sighed in relief. His eyes, heavy with sorrow, bore into us with a gratitude too holy to bear. We knew we had sinned, yet we could not repent. For in this act, we too bore the cross.

Peter shook his head. He leaned back, staring into the lantern’s glow, the words echoing inside: For in this act, we too bore the cross. His skin prickled as though unseen eyes were watching, judging.

He glanced at the remaining scrolls, their faded edges taunting him with secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to uncover. Yet a fire burned within him, a hunger to read more, to understand what lay within these forbidden texts. He could not stop now.

Lifting the first one again, he squinted at the intricate script scrawled at the bottom. 

By my hand, John, servant of the Messiah, these words are written for the faithful.

“John, the beloved, one of Jesus’s disciples. This … this can’t be right,” he murmured to himself. None of the text made sense.

Peter stiffened. He tore his gaze away from the script. The hour was late, and he had other duties to attend to.

He pressed his palms against the table, grounding himself in the cold wood beneath them. A sense of dread crept along his spine, but he shook it off. He rolled the parchment carefully and returned it to its bundle. He would come back to it, but for now, he needed time. Time to think, to pray, to steady himself.

But as he stepped out of the Scriptorium and into the stillness of the Parish halls, the scrawled text clung to him, heavy and insistent, like a shadow he could not escape.

Unholy Trinity: Before and After the Cazas by Paul Burgess

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

“Cazadores de Vampiros”

Crowds cheered when President Wolf announced that the last Cazas had been deported. “Cazas”, a Righteous Eagle News correspondent’s coinage, was short for “Cazadores de Vampiros”. Some sheeple insisted the name meant “vampire hunters”, but where there were vampires, there were Cazas. Case closed.

Weeks later, President Wolf tuned in to hear his favorite talking head, Righteous Eagle’s John O’Malley, report on a recent tenfold increase in vampire attacks: “See? Our President knew the storm was coming.” “I did, indeed,” Wolf said with a grin while thinking about how much easier his nightly feeding had gotten without pesky Cazas around. 

 

“A Bloody Mis-stake: Perhaps We Needed the Cazas”

The frigid fingers seized Kevin’s throat before he’d had time to deliver the atrocious B-movie pun that would’ve almost justified his death. “I hope you like your ‘stake’ bloody”. He must’ve rehearsed it a hundred times, misspelling the word in his mind each time, on his way to the Count’s estate. Count Andrei, wincing as he used his free hand to pull the stake out of his right breast, suddenly chuckled as he thought of his own pre-kill quip. “Now, I’ll bet you wish you hadn’t slept through Anatomy 101,” the Count said before sinking his teeth into Kevin’s throat.

 

 

“A Reluctant Hunter”

“We’ve been through this so many times, Son. What are you going to do if something happens to me?” Count Andrei said before sinking his teeth into their prey’s throat. “Marius, drink before it gets cold, and next time, you’ll go hungry if you don’t get over this fear of the hunt.” “I’m not afraid, Dad, but it’s just…” “I know,” Andrei whispered gently, “but we didn’t choose to be what we are. Survival can be a brutal game, but we have no choice but to play it.” Marius nodded despite his doubts that the game was worth its cost.

 

Paul Burgess

Paul Burgess, an emerging poet, is the sole proprietor of a business in Lexington, Kentucky that offers ESL classes in addition to English, Japanese, and Spanish-language translation and interpretation services. He has contributed work to Blue UnicornThe OrchardsLighten Up Online, and several other publications and has recently begun writing short fiction.

Trembling With Fear 4-13-25

Greetings, children of the dark. I don’t know things are where you are, but on our side of this dystopian nightmare I have now added seasonal allergies which is making me *very happy indeed*. There’s nothing like sore, itchy eyes and a constantly-stuffed-or-runny-nose to add to the unfolding apocalypse that is the world in 2025. I’m planning on channelling my rage into a story or two ASAP; how about you?

If you get around to your rage-story in the next 24 hours or so, remember you have ONE DAY LEFT to submit to our April/Spring window for short stories. The window will close decidedly at midnight on 14 April, so get in quick by filling in the submission form, choosing the TWF short stories option, and hitting send. Remember, we cover the dark side of all speculative fiction: sci-fi, fantasy AND horror. The team at TWF Towers looks forward to reading them.

Consider taking inspiration from the talented folks featured in this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. For our main course, we’ve got an interesting deadly stream-of-consciousness from Samuel Marlinga. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:

  • Deborah Sheldon’s troubled birdbath,
  • Geoff Holder’s apocalyptic survivor, and
  • Annette Livingstone’s demented doll.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

Trembling With Fear’s proofing has gone from 50% to 61% done. It’s so close I can taste it, and hopefully we’ll be able to get ahead on this year’s and start right as this comes to a close, so we don’t have the same problem moving forward. Fingers crossed!

For the new layout, I’m waiting for some internal feedback on a few parts, though more sections are being put together, and it’s looking great so far! I did recently realize that one of our plugins might require that I make a bit of a change to the layout, so I’ll be exploring that in the coming week. 

Now, for the standards:

  • Thank you so much to everyone who has become a Patreon for Horror Tree. We honestly couldn’t make it without you all!

Offhand, if you’ve ordered Trembling With Fear Volume 6, we’d appreciate a review!

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree as we’re not really active on Twitter anymore, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three Scheduled for April 26, 2025

Chapter One

                                                          

Brother Peter paused, the iron keyring pressing into his damp palm. The ancient wooden door hidden in the alcove blended into the rectory’s stone wall. No carvings adorned the surface, offering little hint of what lay behind. The scent of old dust lingered in the air as if it had absorbed the weight of centuries, untouched by the modern world of 1901.

“Few men pass this point, Brother Peter. It falls to me to ensure you comprehend this duty.” The Rector’s baritone voice dropped, carrying a seriousness that drew Peter’s full attention. 

The Rector’s slender frame stepped into the torchlight, shadows dancing along his olive-toned skin and smooth scalp, which bore a hint of stubble.

“As the new Custodian of the Scriptorium, the secrets below are your burden—speak of them to no one.”

Peter’s pulse quickened as the key clicked into place. The door creaked open to a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. A chill rose to meet them, laced with incense and something sour. Peter hesitated, nerves stirring beneath his growing anticipation of the secrets hidden below. He stepped forward, the cool air wrapping around him like a shroud.

The Rector’s footsteps echoed ahead, his flame casting murky shapes on the ancient stone. The elder descended with ease, his spry steps light and deliberate. He moved with the assurance of someone who had served the parish for many decades, yet his energy and composure seemed almost untouched by the burden of his years.

Peter followed down the three flights, pride for his promotion from Scribe to Custodian prickling at the edges of his thoughts—another sin for confession. That and his irritation at his fellow scribes, who hinted that his wealthy family’s donations earned him the reward, despite his education and many years of service.

At the bottom, the Rector lit torches near a heavy iron door with thick rivets and a nearly invisible small panel integrated in its base.

The words Custodia Veritas were carved in the weathered granite above the entry. 

Guarding the Truth, Peter thought, his nerves humming with the thrill of discovery as he prepared to enter the old library. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for the opportunity.

“Watch closely,” said the Rector. “Follow each step of the entry ritual exactly as I do.” 

 Brother Peter nodded he understood.

Light flickered off two polished, intricately etched swords hanging on the wall. Holding one upright with a strong grip, he traced the sign of the cross over the larger door. He crouched down and unlatched the panel embedded at the bottom, just big enough for a small animal to pass through. The opening revealed an inky void beyond.

“Shhh,” the Rector whispered, hovering the sharp tip near the opening.

Stillness pressed against Peter’s ears until even the drip of water from the slimy stones overhead felt deafening. He shifted his weight, the scrape of his sole against the granite floor unnaturally loud in the oppressive stillness.

“Proceed only if there is silence. Should the quiet break, abandon the entry and seek me at once. Your soul depends on it.” The Rector shut and refastened the latch of the small opening.

Peter recognized the Rector’s grave tone as theatrical, always warning of the sins that would send him to hell. He pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to test the rule by humming a hymn. 

The Rector slid a second key carved with a chalice into the lock. 

“Twist right, then left, and press forward,” he instructed. 

The lock chimed—a soft, melodic sequence unlike any Peter had heard before. With a quiet hiss, the key disappeared into the mechanism, and the door groaned open.

The Rector snatched the key as it glided out the opposite side, his attention fixed on the gloomy passage beyond.

He shut the door behind them and pointed to a sturdy deadbolt.

“On your way out, if you find this lock engaged, return to the Archive until the Brethren of the Sacred Rite have finished their rituals. They are the only others you will find in these tunnels.”

Peter bit back a smirk—the self-important Brethren and their special treatment by the Rector. Their ranks had remained unchanged for as long as Peter could recall, keeping their exclusivity preserved like some divine rite in itself.

“The Sword of God represents our search for truth. Keep it raised and ready until you reach the archive,” the Rector whispered.

With the tip of sharpened steel leading their way, they began slow steps, only stopping to light an occasional torch on the wall.

The twisting path passed ancient wooden doors, each marked with Latin phrases hinting at hidden relics, confirming Peter’s suspicion that the church housed many secrets.

Eventually, the claustrophobic tunnels led to a T. The Rector stepped with caution, swinging the blade in a cross pattern towards the midnight darkness to the left. From deep within the murkiness came a soft, uneven thump, followed by an almost imperceptible murmur. The Rector gave no sign of noticing. 

Perhaps only the ancient masonry settling into itself, Peter thought.

“Always to the right,” the Rector said, motioning for Peter to head in that direction.

“What’s the other way?” 

“Only communion artifacts.” The Rector gestured again for Peter to move. “A restricted area for all except the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter loved the ancient chalices and intricately etched serving trays, accompanying the monthly event. Jealousy, a sin for many of his confessions, always filled him as he watched the Sacred Rite priests lead the special rituals as the congregation purified themselves with the wafers and wine. 

With a sigh, the Rector stepped around Peter and led him to the right, the sword now hanging limply by his side.

After a few twists and turns along roughly hewn stone with no recessed doorways, they arrived at a single door. A sense of awe descended as Peter read the carved words: Verbum Dei—The Word of God.

“The Scriptorium—as Custodian, these are your charges, and yours alone. There are secrets never to be shared beyond its walls..”

The Rector opened the lockless entry. The lantern’s glow flickered over endless shelves, their wood blackened with age and sagging under the heft of ancient scrolls and bound volumes. Shadows danced along the high, vaulted ceiling, where cobwebs hung like veils of forgotten time. The thick air, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, mingled with the musk of decay.

Peter’s breath caught. The vast, cavernous space seemed alive with whispers, the gravity of history pressing in from every corner. His new role as guardian of the archive and chief scribe pressed against his chest, a mix of exhilaration and dread. He now understood why the former Custodian would disappear here for days.

“It’s time,” the Rector said, snapping Peter from his thoughts. He wanted to protest, but soon enough, he’d be back without the old man’s scrutiny.

They retraced their steps, the Rector pausing at each torch to extinguish its flame, his movements brisk. His eyes darted back into the darkness, the remaining flickers of light catching the deep lines of worry furrowing his brow.

“Don’t linger. Return with haste through these hallways.” His voice, taut and low, disappeared into the gloom.

Peter followed, suppressing a smirk at the old man’s drama and overblown sense of ceremony. His attention drifted back to the treasures of the archive, the holy texts and words of the saints that he would soon have the privilege to study. 

At the stairwell, the Rector turned abruptly, his grip on Peter’s shoulder firm enough to startle. His intense gaze sent a shiver crawling up Peter’s spine.

“Never enter the week before Communion,” he hissed. “The Brethren of the Sacred Rite tolerate no interruption.”

Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though a thread of annoyance curled in his gut. He doubted the Brethren would even notice, cloaked in their sense of grandeur. But the Rector’s wrath was another matter entirely, and not one he intended to test so soon after being appointed to his new position.

Trembling With Fear 4-6-25

Greetings, children of the dark. Keeping it short this week to throw all the attention on this one thing: Our April/Spring window for short story submissions is now open! This is your call to submit, submit, submit! And you know what? It’s spring or autumn, depending on which end of the globe you live in, so let’s make a special call for some folk horror coming our way. It’s either planting or harvest season, so lean into those pagan motifs and get your outsiders into a closed community for some shenanigans. This is my greatest wish for this window. You have until 14 April to get something to us, and then we’ll close again until the summer. 

Until then, let’s celebrate the talented folks featured in this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. For our main course, we’re following Bob Gielow’s media coverage of the apocalypse. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of a trio of regular contributors:

  • Kevin M. Folliard’s mid-air issues,
  • Robert Allen Lupton’s genetic manipulations, and
  • Weird Wilkins’s brush with the wild.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

This week was two full days of training, which kept me as busy as last. That being said, the Trembling With Fear crew is officially done with proofing half of the next installment. I’ve almost got the sizing fully sourced to put in the request to have the covers finished size-wise, and then we can push forward! Huzzah! 

Now, for the standards:

  • Thank you so much to everyone who has become a Patreon for Horror Tree. We honestly couldn’t make it without you all!

Offhand, if you’ve ordered Trembling With Fear Volume 6, we’d appreciate a review!

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree as we’re not really active on Twitter anymore, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

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Unholy Trinity: Dracula’s Castle by James Nemeth

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

 

Dracula’s Castle

 

Jim Nemeth’s Journal

31 Oct. Transylvania

The carriage dropped me at the castle at midnight. Dracula, clean shaven save for a long white mustache and clad completely in black, opened the door, bid me to enter freely and gave me a tour. 

Afterward, I presented my report. “Count, as your Airbnb rep, I have to be honest: the broken battlements, the cobwebs, remote location, lack of servants, the wolves…”

Dracula looked crestfallen. 

“Count, I think we have a real WINNER here!” I said.

The Count beamed. He approached as if to hug me, but instead bit me in the neck.

 

 

Hotep – Seth

 

The archeologist’s face turned to uncomprehending horror as he tried to stop the advance of Hotep-Seth, guardian mummy of the tomb, by thrusting and waving the blazing torch. Hotep-Seth would have laughed if he could as he lifted the defiler by the neck and repeatedly slammed his head against the stone wall. 

Hotep-Seth reached down and picked up the still blazing object that had for centuries been his greatest undoing. So many fiery deaths followed by phoenix-like resurrections. But no more. He gazed at his body, admiring the tomb priests’ work in rewrapping his form in fire-retardant gauze.

 

Nothing Under the Bed

 

Mrs. Grimes grunted as she stood erect from kneeling beside little Johnny’s bed.

“There’s nothing there, Johnny. No clawed and fanged hairy monster. Nothing. Now go to bed!”

“But mom,” Johnny started to blubber.

“No, Johnny! I’ve had it! Night after night screaming the house down! Now, come here. I want you to look.”

“Mom, no!” Johnny pleaded, tears running down his face.

“Do it, Johnny. Now. Or else.” 

Tears still streaming, Johnny kneeled down. His eyes refused to open.

“Open your eyes!” Johnny’s mother bellowed.

Johnny did and whimpered as the clawed and fanged hairy monster winked at him.

 

 

James Nemeth

I am a published author of both fiction and non-fiction. In 1993, I won 1st Prize in a national magazine’s short story writing contest for which novelists Ray Bradbury and Robert Bloch were judges. Winning held special meaning for me, as Robert Bloch remains my favorite writer and main literary influence. I have had essays, articles and reviews printed in a variety of magazines, including Filmfax, Mad About Movies, and Scary Monsters. I am the book review columnist for the revived Castle of Frankenstein magazine as well as the webmaster of the Robert Bloch Official Website (robertbloch.net). The year 2020 saw the release of my co-authored It Came From? The Stories and Novels Behind Classic Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction Films, an examination of 21 classic fantastic films, and the books/stories that inspired them.