Category: Trembling With Fear

Trembling With Fear 11-26-23

Hello, children of the dark. Over on the other side of the pond from me today, as I write this, it’s your day of gratitude. We don’t do that whole thing over here, nor where I grew up, and truth be told I’m far too awkwardly British to express emotion in that way. Still, let me take this moment to say I am thankful to Stuart for continuing to run (and fund!) this here site, to my TWF predecessor Stephanie Ellis for vouching for me taking over from her last year, and to you, dear children of the dark, for continue to show up every week to read and celebrate some of the best emerging writers in dark speculative fiction. We may not have many of the big and famous names, but we have a strong and vibrant community of writers who do this because they love it and they want to share. I love that we can provide a platform from which to emerge into the darkness, kicking and screaming and trying to make voices heard. Thank you, all of you. (And if you want to show your own thanks to Stuart, consider becoming a Patreon—it really does make a difference to us!)

Now, before I need to go and shower off all this emotion, let’s move to this week’s edition where Rodney G Hatfield is dealing with an influx of strange critters. Then we’ve got three fabulous tasty morsels:

  • Nika Anuk relives some childhood scaries, 
  • Lionel Ray Green just wants some attention, and 
  • Alan Moskowitz has ghost troubles.

Special congrats to Nika—she tells me this is the first time she’s been published in English, her second language!

And just finally (in case you missed it), here’s a quick recap on the new processes at TWF Towers:

  • Drabbles, serials, and unholy trinities are still open all the damn time, and we still have an insatiable need for them
  • Short story submissions will only be open in 2-week seasonal windows, and you can find those details on our submissions page; next one opens on 1 January
  • Special editions submissions are still open in their own seasonal windows, and again the details are on the submissions page

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

I know this mainly applies to those who live in the United States and I apologize for our audience from around the globe as I’m a bit focused here… As we embark upon the week of Thanksgiving, a time brimming with stories of gratitude and gatherings, let’s remember the unique magic we, as writers, hold in our hands—the power to craft worlds and weave futures. This isn’t a week primarily known for writing; however, Thanksgiving week can still be a significant time for writers in this genre, as it provides a unique backdrop for storytelling and may inspire themes of community, gratitude, and fantastical elements related to the season. So, try and blend one of these themes into your work this week and may your stories be as rich and fulfilling as the Thanksgiving feast. Happy writing!
 
Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is out in the world, and if you’ve picked up a copy, we’d love a review! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores would you like to purchase your books from?

ATTENTION YOUTUBE WATCHERS: We’ve had some great responses so far but are open to more ideas – What type of content would you like to see us feature? Please reach out to [email protected]! We’ll be really working on expanding the channel late this year and early into next.

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree on places that aren’t Twitter, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

If you’d like to extend your support to the site, we’d be thrilled to welcome your contributions through Ko-Fi or Patreon. Your generosity keeps us fueled and fired up to bring you the very best.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 4

  1. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 3
  4. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 4
  5. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 5 Scheduled for December 2, 2023

 

 

Parasites: Part Four

 

An e-mail pinged on Leila’s phone way too early the next morning. Although the boss had given them the previous day off, he still had a business to run. Today would be business as usual. With nothing more than her nightmares and a secret she barely believed herself as an excuse, she showed up.

Her mind wasn’t having it, though. It stuck in a whirlpool of anxiety, bounding between the insanity at the office, her disturbing dreams, and the parasites growing inside her.

The previous day had shaken her so badly, she’d forgotten about them. At least, until she’d got up for work and vomited all over the place. A pill had beaten the nausea back down. It had not stopped the strange ache in her abdomen.

She couldn’t carry eleven kids. Hell, she didn’t want one kid. Yet, thanks to the phantom feel of a knife in her innards, she couldn’t bring herself to step foot in the clinic again.

A couple of co-workers walked by Leila’s cubicle, talking in excitement.

A creak, a crack, and a yell of pain as something large and dark fell from the ceiling and on to the passersby. Blood splattered against the outside of Leila’s workspace, a few stray drops landing on her face.

Déjà vu came and stayed. A haze settled over her mind as the first-aid kit, getting low on supplies, was pulled free once more. Sirens. Gasps and screams. A gaping hole in the ceiling where a chunk of metal beam mysteriously broke free and fell, cutting a groove down a co-worker’s arm. She couldn’t even remember the password to her computer. She was beginning to think it didn’t matter.

“Leila Roberts, right?”

Leila jumped, then flushed. The EMTs had taken the victim to the hospital a while ago. Without Kat around to talk her down, she’d stayed staring at the hole above her. She hadn’t seen anyone approach. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The speaker, a heavy-set older woman dressed in attire far too formal for the office, smiled. “You’re friends with Katharine, aren’t you?”

“Katharine?” Leila struggled far more than she should have to connect the dots. “Oh… Kat. Yes, I am.”

“A good girl. She helps me with my garden sometimes.”

Leila blinked, at a loss for words. Kat had talked about helping her ‘elderly’ neighbor before, but the woman in front of her didn’t look more than middle-aged. Besides, she wasn’t sure what the lady wanted from her.

“Is she not here today?”

Ah, that was it. “No. She had a doctor’s appointment.” Leila squashed down the sudden memory of her own missed appointment as a sharp pain jolted across her torso.

“I see. A lot of those lately, isn’t there?”

“Excuse me?”

“You were there for all three accidents, weren’t you?”

Leila narrowed her eyes as she tried to discern what the woman was getting at.

“Have you been having nightmares, Ms. Roberts?”

“No.”

The words came out on reflex. Whoever this woman was, she was making her more uncomfortable by the second. All Leila wanted was for her to leave.

The woman smiled again. This time, it seemed almost predatory.

Leila’s skin crawled.

“Sometimes our actions can lead to unexpected consequences,” the lady continued, seemingly oblivious to Leila’s unease. “They let in things we don’t quite understand. Things better left alone.”

“I’d like you to leave.”

A growl entered Leila’s voice as a flushing heat turned discomfort into anger. A small part of her wondered why she was angry. That part burned away in an instant.

“Of course. But, if you need help, help you can’t get in other places, please call my friend.” 

The woman pulled a business card from her pocket and offered it to Leila over the partition. Leila moved without thinking, jumping from her seat to slap the woman’s hand away. Her mind filled with white-hot fury. Who was this woman to tell her what she needed?

The woman’s eyes flashed, her mouth dropping into a frown for a second before reversing into a strained grin. “Think about it, Ms. Roberts. I don’t think either of us wants Katharine to come to harm, now do we?” 

She turned on her heel and rushed away.

Leila’s chest seized. Did the woman know something she didn’t? Was Kat in danger? She had been near all the injured, but that had to be a coincidence, didn’t it?

Her eyes locked onto the small, gold-trimmed business card that had fluttered to the floor. Her hand shook as she picked it up. Matthew Newcomb, it read. Professional exorcist.

Leila laughed. A ridiculous looking red pentagram, little horns sticking out the top point of the star, adorned the center of the card. The woman was either a comedian with the best poker face in the world, or completely insane. Leila would be about as likely to go to her ‘friend’ as back to the clinic.

She dropped it into the wastebasket under her desk and turned back to her work, intent on losing herself in the mundane. She’d had precious little of that recently.

It worked as well as it could with the stabbing in her torso. After popping two painkillers, she even dozed.

Leila dreamed of the ceiling collapsing. A grinning, bulbous-headed creature grinned out at her from the remains. It laughed, a raspy noise which scratched along Leila’s skin, as blood seeped from under the wreckage. It scrambled away, only to drag Royce, a deep crimson hole punched in his stomach, in front of her. Then came Anne with a hole carved into the upper right side of her chest. The remains of a lung pulsated within. 

Electricity shot down Leila’s limbs as the creature laid a third body out in front of her like a cat with dead birds. Hair pulled up, clothes the same as the last time Leila had seen her. Blood seeped from her mouth, ears, and under her eyelids. 

Kat. 

Leila tried to scream as the creature giggled.

Her phone rang, jolting her out of sleep.

Leila’s hand shook as she picked up the receiver, the feeling of ice water traveling down her spine.

“Hello?”

“Leila, thank goodness you answered.”

The high-pitched voice ricocheted around Leila’s head for a moment before she placed it. Kat’s mom. She hadn’t spoken to her in years, despite only living an hour away. Not since Kat got her own place. Leila couldn’t fathom what she wanted now. “Mrs. Meyer, how are you?”

“Kat’s dying.” Her voice cracked.

The trickle of ice became a torrent, seizing Leila’s muscles and stealing her breath. “I… I talked to her last night. She was fine.”

Fine. Leila’s mind echoed. This was all just a mistake.

“The doctor says she’s bleeding internally. She collapsed during her appointment. They don’t know why or how long she’ll last….”

Mrs. Meyer’s voice rambled on, each word choked out until she sobbed. “You two are inseparable… she’ll want you nearby when….”

“Of course, Mrs. Meyer.” 

The words came out of Leila’s mouth, but she had no connection to them. They sounded cold, distant. A small part of her screamed to pay attention. Most of her wanted to hide from the truth.

She listened to the second.

“What hospital?”

Mrs. Meyer told her. The information flowed through Leila’s thoughts without sticking. The line went dead.

Leila glanced at the edge of a business card, a horned pentagram in the center, peeking out from over the top of the wastebasket.

Trembling With Fear 11-19-23

Hello, children of the dark. 

Thanks for your understanding and patience with the short story changes; this gig is mainly walking a tricky tightrope, and it’s always nice when I shout into the void and it seems like it’s been heard!

In case you missed it, here’s a quick recap on the new processes at TWF Towers:

  • Drabbles, serials, and unholy trinities are still open all the damn time, and we still have an insatiable need for them
  • Short story submissions will only be open in 2-week seasonal windows, and you can find those details on our submissions page; next one opens on 1 January
  • Special editions submissions are still open in their own seasonal windows, and again the details are on the submissions page

Any short stories submitted to us outside of these new seasonal windows will be returned unread; we will NOT be keeping them on file for you. You’ll need to resubmit, if you are still interested in doing so, when we announce that we’re reopen. Make sure you’re following Horror Tree (and me!) on social media for announcements.

As for everything in the queue, we’re working our way through them. Both Stuart and I have had the real world intrude on our available time quite massively, but we’re doing our best to get things on track. 

Personally, I am bloody exhausted—but also excited to see the UK Ghost Story Festival will be back in February! Expect announcements of guests in the next few weeks…

Now to this week’s edition and Cassandra Daucus, a regular drabbler in these pages, has expanded her world to bring us a short story set in the underground world of pesky pixies. Then we come back to street level for three delicious quick bites:

  • Nikki Stanier is climbing down, 
  • Francesco Levato needs stitches, and 
  • Dawn Colclasure discovers the dangers of reading.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Last week I had a delightful time at my cousin’s wedding. While I said I wouldn’t have much time to get stuff done, this weekend is the exact opposite! I’m ahead in school and so I have hours earmarked for finishing off my part of Shadowed Realms and reading through our backlog of TWF stories. And, fingers crossed, if I can get all of the reading done I have a million things to finish up on my To-Do list. We’ll see how it goes but I’m finally feeling like I’m catching up on life again. It’s only been a year and a half of craziness. 
 
Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is out in the world, and if you’ve picked up a copy, we’d love a review! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores would you like to purchase your books from?

ATTENTION YOUTUBE WATCHERS: We’ve had some great responses so far but are open to more ideas – What type of content would you like to see us feature? Please reach out to [email protected]! We’ll be really working on expanding the channel late this year and early into next.

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree on places that aren’t Twitter, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

If you’d like to extend your support to the site, we’d be thrilled to welcome your contributions through Ko-Fi or Patreon. Your generosity keeps us fueled and fired up to bring you the very best.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 3

  1. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 3
  4. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 4
  5. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 5 Scheduled for December 2, 2023

 

 

Parasites: Part Three

 

If Anne’s piece of lung had distracted Leila, Royce stabbing himself with a pencil de-railed her brain completely, so it was good the boss let them all go home, even if it was probably to avoid any more on-site crises. 

Leila got back to her apartment, mind on auto-pilot, and now sat on her bed, staring numbly at a wall. A knock at her door nearly made her jump out of her skin. Her phone buzzed a moment later.

Kat’s text popped up on the screen. Hey, let me in!

Leila obliged, more on routine than anything else.

Kat brushed by her, staring as Leila closed and locked the door once more.

“How are you holding up?” Kat asked.

Unsure of what to say, Leila stared back. At least she hadn’t ended up in the hospital, she supposed.

Kat sighed and motioned toward the couch. “Sit.”

When Leila didn’t respond fast enough, Kat gripped her arm and lead her to a seat, lightly pushing her down onto a cushion before settling in herself. 

“Look, I know we didn’t know Ann or Royce super well, but we’ve still worked together for years. It’s not easy seeing anyone hurt, let alone someone you sit next to. If you want to talk, or cry, or just sit in silence together, I’m here.”

Leila frowned at her friend and chewed her lip. Seeing her co-workers hurt bothered her, yet that wasn’t what bothered her the most. The blood, the flesh, the wound on Royce’s stomach. It all reminded her so much of the dream. What was wrong with her when a dream bothered her more than the wellbeing of another person?

Kat took Leila’s silence as her choice, and snuggled closer, throwing an arm over Leila’s shoulders. “Anne’s fine, by the way. I stopped by the hospital before I came. The doctors couldn’t figure out what happened, and neither could she. They’re keeping her overnight. Just in case.”

“What about Royce?” Leila asked, finally finding her voice.

“Alive. Not sure beyond that. They have him on suicide watch, and since I’m not family, I’m not allowed near him.”

“It’s so strange.”

Leila was referring to more than the office events, but Kat didn’t know the difference.

“I know, right? Royce’s like the most stable guy on the floor. Unflappable. Somehow manages to be okay with desk work day in and day out. So, why?”

Leila shrugged as a heavy fatigue descended over her, stealing what little thought she had regained. Darkness rushed in before she could respond.

#

Leather wrapped around Leila’s wrists, strapping her arms down to a cold, white table.

Four bare, sterile walls surrounded her. They stood barely far enough away to contain the table and two people in hazmat suits. One person, sitting directly at the foot of the table, towered over the second, who sat to the left.

“Just try to breathe, Ms. Roberts,” the tall one said in a raspy voice. “It will be over before you know it.” 

The rasp turned into a grinding inhale as they took a long, thin knife from somewhere unseen. The knife lowered. Realization rushed down Leila’s spine like lava.

“No!” She bucked, yet barely moved. Thick straps she could have sworn weren’t there before covered her waist and ankles, pinning her in place. A lamb to slaughter.

“Just relax, Ms. Roberts,” the short one hissed through their mask.

Agony erupted from deep within, spreading up as the knife penetrated further and further. 

Leila’s mind collapsed as liquid, hot and sticky, flooded down her legs, hitting the floor with the sound of thick rain.

A scream echoed in her ears, dulled in the searing pain.

#

“Leila. Leila! Wake up, for God’s sake.”

Leila jerked upright, feeling like she’d swallowed glass. Her skin still tingled where the straps had been. Her innards roiled and burned.

“Christ, Leila. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

Her mind whirled as Leila looked at Kat, trying to piece together what had happened. She was back on her couch, next to her best friend. No people in hazmat suits. No long, thin knives. She shivered. “What did I do?” she asked.

“What…?” Kat stared at her wide-eyed. “Screamed loud enough to wake the neighbors, is all. Wouldn’t surprise me if the cops show up soon. Everyone else in the building probably thinks you’ve been murdered.”

That explained the broken glass feeling in her throat. Leila shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry. No one around here cares what happens in someone else’s apartment.”

“If you say so. What the hell were you dreaming about?”

Leila’s thoughts skittered around the answer, already more than willing to leave the nightmare to rot in her subconscious. “I….”

Her answer stalled as the fading horror connected with a very real memory. Her chest tightened. “Kat, what time is it?”

Kat glanced at her phone. “Nearly midnight. Honestly, I’m glad you woke up, even if I wish it had been a little less harsh. You passed out on my shoulder, and I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Not like I have anywhere to be. I’m getting pretty tired myself, though, and this couch isn’t quite as comfortable for me as it is for you.”

Kat’s words passed by Leila, heard, but barely understood. The appointment. The procedure. She’d missed it. Yet, as a piece of her latest nightmare came creeping back, she found she wasn’t so bothered after all.

Unholy Trinity: The Last Note by F.P. Jones

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.

 

Rose Piano

 

Drawn by an inexplicable allure, Amelia steps into the forbidden room in the crumbling mansion. Her heart pulses to the rhythm of a haunting melody only she hears. Inside, she finds an ornate, dust-covered piano. She plays, tracing the eerie tune that called to her. The air thickens as her fingers dance across the keys. Beautiful figures materialize, circling her. They whisper, their voices both chilling and compelling, urging her to continue playing. Realizing her grave mistake, she jerks her hands away. Still, the figures remain–Amelia’s eyes betray an unnatural glint; the spirits have found a new home.

 

Lilac Souls

 

In a secluded European village, Viktor, the piano maker, crafted a grand piano from wood sourced from a cursed forest. Ignoring warnings, he embellished it with arcane symbols, seeking to harness the forest’s dark energies for unparalleled sound. When he played the first note, the piano’s timbre was surreal, almost otherworldly. But that note also served as an invitation. Spirits from beyond the veil seeped into the piano, infusing it with malevolent sentience. Viktor vanished mysteriously, but the piano was found untouched and sold. A wealthy patron of the arts purchased it–the piano awaited its next opportunity. 

 

Vintage Promise

 

We sat dormant, an elegant relic in a forgotten chamber. Then, a curious musician named Oliver arrived, intrigued by whispers of Amelia’s madness. Unlike her, he was not swayed by our haunting melody but by ambition—eager to uncover our arcane secrets for fame. When his fingers touched our keys, we felt the voracity of his intent. He played, and we unleashed not just ethereal figures but twisted reflections of his avarice. Our insatiable greed made Oliver one with us, his essence captured within our wooden form. Now, we sleep, harmonizing in sinister silence for the next curious soul.

 

 

F.P. Jones

Jones received his bachelor from the University of Arkansas and a Juris Doctor from William H. Brown School of Law. The Arkansas native currently divides his time between the state he loves and traveling for inspiration, most likely stopping frequently for a selfie. He now lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. My current projects include tales for a upcoming dark fiction anthology and a serialized dark fiction short stories.

Trembling With Fear 11-12-23

Hello, children of the dark. You know how we’re all told to do big, scary things every now and then? Well, last week I did a big, scary thing I never thought I would do ever again: I started working full time, in an office, in the Big Bad City. Before you get too worried for my sanity, I can confirm it’s a temporary arrangement while one of my freelance clients recruits for a new permanent team leader (and, heck, I needed the money). It has, however, reminded me of a few things:

  • Commuting into London is still hell, but actually this one isn’t too bad as the tube ride is relatively quick
  • Oxford Circus in the lead-up to Christmas is worse than hell, especially later in the week, and especially when there are tourists around, but at least the lights are pretty
  • I actually quite like being in an office around other people?!
  • I can do hard shit when I put my mind to it

And speaking of hard shit, a reminder of the Big Scary Decision we made/announced last week: we’ve made changes to our submissions process for short stories only. If you have submitted a short story since we reopened just a couple of months ago, rest assured we have your piece and it’s with the team for review. Please also remember that we all do this in a volunteering capacity, and we have A LOT to get through, so it will take us some time to respond. Patience, please! If you do seek publication elsewhere and your story is accepted before we get a chance to respond, please let us know so we can pull the story from consideration. We don’t take reprints. 

A recap of how to submit to TWF:

  • Drabbles, serials, and unholy trinities are still open all the damn time, and we still have an insatiable need for them
  • Short story submissions will only be open in 2-week seasonal windows, and you can find those details on our submissions page; next one opens on 1 January
  • Special editions submissions are still open in their own seasonal windows, and again the details are on the submissions page

Any short stories submitted to us outside of these new seasonal windows will be returned unread; we will NOT be keeping them on file for you. You’ll need to resubmit, if you are still interested in doing so, when we announce that we’re reopen. Make sure you’re following Horror Tree on all the socials!

As I said last week, I’m sorry we have to be such hard-asses about this, but we can only afford to publish one short story every week—and at the current rate of submissions, it will take us years to get through everything we have. I hope you understand why we are making this change. We want to protect your great work while making sure we can keep up with spotlighting the best of you.

Let’s turn away from hard-asses and towards the darkest corners, and this week’s edition has Addison Smith needs to keep quiet amidst the debris. That is followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • Sarah Elliott needs a defibrillator, 
  • LN Hunter needs a reboot, and 
  • RJ Meldrum needs a routine.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Okay. So. This weekend I can guarantee you that I’ve gotten nothing ‘productive’ done with having preparing for and taking a midterm for my current MBA class and actually getting some fun in. (The Marvels is fantastic if you’re a Marvel movie fan and have been keeping up with the TV shows. On top of that, one of my cousins got married so that was another two days of festivities.) I did get ‘some’ reading for Shadowed Realms done as we’re currently widdling away stories that we love because there are just so many good ones. Honestly, we had enough “Yes” responses initially to fill two volumes, just not the funds for it. So. We’re getting there. Slowly (painfully slowly) but surely.
 
Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is out in the world, and if you’ve picked up a copy, we’d love a review! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores would you like to purchase your books from?

ATTENTION YOUTUBE WATCHERS: We’ve had some great responses so far but are open to more ideas – What type of content would you like to see us feature? Please reach out to [email protected]! We’ll be really working on expanding the channel late this year and early into next.

For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree on places that aren’t Twitter, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.

If you’d like to extend your support to the site, we’d be thrilled to welcome your contributions through Ko-Fi or Patreon. Your generosity keeps us fueled and fired up to bring you the very best.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 2

  1. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 1
  2. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 2
  3. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 3
  4. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 4
  5. Serial Saturday: Parasites by R. Minter, Part 5 Scheduled for December 2, 2023

 

 

Parasites: Part Two

 

Leila dragged herself to work the next morning with hair unbrushed and clothes rumpled. No one batted an eye. Everyone looked half-dead on Mondays, especially before their third cup of coffee. 

Currently, Leila stood in the break room, pouring way too much sugar into her first cup of the day. The nightmare replayed in her head. She could still feel the creature’s slimy, chubby hand rubbing against her skin. The eyes, big and innocent, clashing with the mouthful of teeth and flesh. Leila shivered. It was just her subconscious freaking out. It had to be. After her evening procedure, it would all be over.

Someone bumped her on the shoulder. She jumped, splashing hot coffee all over her hands. The mug slipped from her grasp as she yelped, burning pain flushing across her fingers. It hit the marble countertop and bounced off.

“God!” Anne caught the mug, tossed it in the sink next to Leila, and turned on the faucet. She grabbed Leila’s hands and shoved them under the cool water. “Jesus, Leila. I’m so sorry.” She rubbed Leila’s hands with hers, which only made them sting more.

“It’s fine,” Leila said as she pulled her hands free.

“Fine? I just gave you third-degree burns.”

Third? No. Look.” Leila held up her red, but otherwise intact, hands. “Scalded, at best. I shouldn’t be zoning out at work.”

Anne leaned in to inspect Leila, the scowl of concentration on her face deeper than usual. “You sure you don’t want some burn cream for that? Might as well get some use out of that dusty first-aid kit.”

“I’m fine. In fact, I think I’m just going to get back to work.”

Leila turned to go. Anne reached out, more protests on her lips. The words caught. Leila’s eyes grew wide as Anne’s face turned purple.

“Anne?”

Anne’s hands flew to her throat, her mouth opening and closing in silence. 

Behind Leila, someone yelled. She watched, frozen to the spot, as quiet, reserved Dan rushed forward. He wrapped his arms around Anne and squeezed.

A thick, purple and red glob flew from Anne’s mouth. It hit the floor with a splat. The edge of the mass looked jagged, as if many tiny, sharp teeth had torn it free.

For the first time in Leila’s three years of working a boring desk job in a boring cubicle, an ambulance was called. By the time the EMTs arrived, Anne swore she was fine, and hadn’t the slightest idea how she had gotten the ‘thing’, as she put it, lodged in her throat. Of course, the boss would have none of it, so off she went for a full check-up.

Leila went back to her organized, sterile, white cubicle and attempted to work. All she did was stare at her computer screen while images of torn flesh danced through her mind.

“Messed up, huh?”

Leila stifled another yelp. She really needed to calm down.

Kat frowned at her from over the white wall dividing their identically rectangular work spaces, her frizzy hair doing a good job of escaping her ponytail. “Mark said it literally looked like Anne coughed up a piece of lung.” She grimaced. “Talk about in bad taste. I hope she’ll be all right, and she’s not contagious. Wouldn’t that be great? I can see the headlines now — ‘data monkeys ground zero for new plague!’”

Leila forced a thin smile. Mark wasn’t the only one with poor taste, but she’d known Kat long enough to realize she wasn’t trying to be insensitive to Anne. She was just trying to distract her friend. Kat always seemed to know when she felt off. “Yeah. Even with getting the day off, I think I’ll pass on coughing up chunks.”

“Oh, speaking of which,” Kat’s eyes lit up. “You don’t know how much I hurled after Saturday night.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“What about you?”

Both of them paused. 

Kat’s face scrunched up. “Not the hurling. The guy. How’d it go with that guy you were dancing with? Did you even get his name before he whisked you off for some extra fun? Actually, who cares. How was he in bed? He seemed pretty awesome on the dance floor.”

Leila’s mind stuttered, stalled. Guy? As usual, she and Kat had visited a local night club Saturday night. She remembered the loud music pulsating in her bones. The lights flashing, the acidic smell of sweat and booze. Too much booze. The details were hazy at best. Any guy she might have met melted into the faceless crowd in her memory.

“Leila?” Kat raised an eyebrow as she studied Leila.

“I… don’t remember.”

“What he was like?”

“The guy.”

“Oh.” Kat’s expression soured. “Did he drug you? Because if he did, so help me, I’ll hunt him down and cut off his junk.”

“I… no. I don’t think so. We only drink things we order each other, right? So how would he?”

“You got pretty drunk, Leila. Maybe he… you know what, it doesn’t matter. I was an idiot for letting you go off on your own.”

“I’m not your kid, Kat.”

“No, I’m your wingman, and a piss poor one at that.” She clenched her teeth. “You think—”

A loud thunk followed by a gurgling cry from the cubicle in front of Leila cut off whatever Kat was about to say. She leaned over to look. Her face blanched. “Holy hell!”

She disappeared into her own cubicle. The sound of the landline phone at her desk being pulled from its cradle echoed back.

Bile rose in the back of Leila’s throat. Her body felt leaden, her eyes glued to the divider. She started to shake as Kat’s voice filtered through the wall. “The guy in front of us, I think he’s just stabbed himself.”

Unholy Trinity: Emergence, The March & Necromancer by Martin P. Fuller

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.

 

Emergence

 

The grave is cold, devoid of light. Something urges it to lift decaying limbs, breaking the rotting coffins lid. A cascade of soil crashes through. It digs, claws, and pushes upwards.

Time is irrelevant as it tunnels higher. A fierce desire to bite and devour settles in what passes for its mind. 

A fist breaks the surface. A final lunge. Rebirth from the womb of the tomb. It is compelled to wander the world, driven by a voracious need to sate a taste for flesh, the drip of blood on dry withered lips, and the crunch of bone. 

 

It walks.

 

The March

 

The dead thing was joined by a fellow journeying cadaver. They walked abroad, stumbling occasionally, decaying legs almost crumbling beneath them. Something had changed their rotting tissue, making it harder, stronger. Muscle and tendon transformed, becoming similar to rusted iron. Regeneration, especially after the first victim’s been torn apart by sharpened teeth. Flesh invigorated and restored. Their addiction to consume human meat increases. The companionship of other reanimated corpses returns a memory of community. They are given purpose. Hunt, kill, render, and feed. Bring the living into the herd of the dead.

All travel on into a blood red future.

 

Necromancer

 

He falls to his knees, exhausted after the incantation, hands and chest smeared with the sacrificial victims blood. The cemetery trembles with a shimmer of movement as the dead arose through the cold earth. Their decomposed brains were congealed into instruments of his will, and his will was strong.

The world would fall with his army of the dead, each containing the seeds of death and re-birth in their bite and scratch. The hellish host would thus increase and march on, blood and flesh their payment for being soldiers of the grave.

The Necromancer stands, ready to own the world.

 

 

Martin P. Fuller

Martin lives in Menston in West Yorkshire. He was in previous exitances: beer salesman, pall bearer, car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34
years. He now runs a small antique shop selling haunted and cursed items to the public. He started to writing in 2013, preferring the darker genre’s. He’s been published in Horror Tree, Sirens Call and a number of anthologies.