Category: Trembling With Fear

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.

Trembling With Fear 11-5-23

Hello, children of the dark. I promised an update to you all on our short story submissions situation, so here’s the tl;dr—we are closed to short story submissions for the rest of this year, and will only be open next year in 2-week windows once every quarter.

More detail? Here we go.

At present, we have close to 70 stories working their way through our review process—and we only reopened to submissions two months ago, after having been overwhelmed around this time last year and ending up fully booked for almost an entire year. We really don’t want that to happen again, so we tried being much more selective and hard-lined about what we choose to accept… But it hasn’t been enough. 

So after much thought and discussion, we’ve decided to change the way we handle our submissions processes. Pay attention, now: this is important.

>>We will still be open year-round for drabbles, serials, and unholy trinities.

HOWEVER

>>Short story submissions will be open in 2-week seasonal windows as follows:

  • Winter: 1-15 January
  • Spring: 1-15 April
  • Summer: 1-15 July
  • Fall: 1-15 October

Any short stories submitted to us outside of those windows will be returned unread, with a note to resubmit during the next window. This also makes it doubly important that you mark any submissions to our special editions (Valentines, Summer, Halloween, Christmas) as being for the appropriate edition, otherwise your story won’t be read. 

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.

Right. Hard hat off, let’s get to the matter at hand: Hilary Ayshford sees some echoes of the past in this week’s TWF main menu. It’s followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • KL Bexon is gripped by grief,
  • Cassandra Daucus is perplexed by a new room feature, and 
  • Nicolette Ward gets her dancing shoes on.

Finally, to those on my side of the pond: remember, remember, the 5th of November. May your bonfire night be bright and merry. 

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Holley and I are super busy trying to get Shadowed Realms done, we’re down to our final round of cuts though it is involving a lot of re-reading as we truly have enough for two books (Well, quality story-wise that is, not budget-wise.) I’m also in my final class for my MBA program. To say things are hectic is a bit of an understatement! Still, progress is being made my friend and I apologize it is taking so long.
 
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 1

  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

 

 

Parasites: Part One

 

Eleven sacs. Eleven tiny crescents with eleven tiny heartbeats. A staccato rhythm beat in Leila’s chest, nearly as frantic as the pulses coming from the ultrasound machine.

This couldn’t be happening. She was still in bed, still asleep, dreaming the impossible. She had to be.

The technician, a short, stout woman with dirty blonde hair, shot her a sideways glance. “Um… give me just a moment, Ms. Roberts.” The picture on the ultrasound screen shifted to a hazy gray cone as she withdrew the probe and rushed out the door.

Leila’s stomach clenched. Sweat broke out across her body, bringing with it an almost unbearable itch and desperate need to vomit.

She shot up, burying her face in the barf bag clenched in her hands. Bitter liquid flowed out, leaving in its wake a burning in her throat and nose. She spit, grimaced, gulped air. None of it made sense. She’d only come to the clinic because of the stupid idea she’d woken up with. The pregnancy test had to be wrong, the ultrasound… definitely wrong, on more than one level.

A sharp knock at the door heralded the return of the technician, this time flanked by a taller woman. 

“Hello Ms. Roberts. I’m Dr. Stetson,” the tall doctor said.

Leila frowned. She was getting sick of hearing her last name this morning. “Hello.”

Dr. Stetson sat down on the stool near Leila’s feet and put a hand on her arm. Leila fought the urge to pull away.

“I’m going to take a look, if you don’t mind.”

She minded. Leila had come to the clinic on paranoia, waited nearly an hour to strip and lay out on an ice cold exam table so a strange woman could prod her and tell her the impossible. At the same time, she needed someone to tell her this all had been a huge mistake. User error. Sorry your technician is new and can’t read ultrasounds or count. If getting that answer meant another stranger prodding her, so be it.

Leila forced a half-smile, which felt about as natural as walking upside down. “Sure, go ahead.”

Dr. Stetson gave her a final pat, then scooted toward Leila’s feet. A few uncomfortable moments later, the ultrasound screen lit up with dark ovals.

The doctor, unlike the technician, counted silently. Her eyes narrowed. Her other hand came up, moving across the screen as she counted again.

A twist of the probe made Leila want to kick her, and one oval grew larger, revealing the gray crescent within. More twists, more shapes. Leila gritted her teeth as her stomach turned again.

The probe retreated just in time. 

The technician, who had until this point been wringing her hands by the door, jumped as Leila vomited. “I’ll go get you another bag.”

Dr. Stetson watched the technician leave, then turned to Leila.

Finally, she’d get the truth, and she could go back to her life.

“Ms. Roberts, there’s no easy way to say this. Not only are you about seven weeks pregnant, you have eleven implanted embryos.”

Dr. Stetson continued, saying something about never seeing so many before, but the words barely registered. Ice solidified in Leila’s veins, clashing with the inferno on her skin. Her pulse pounded in her ears, faster and faster. The room spun.

She couldn’t be pregnant with one baby, let alone eleven. She was careful. This didn’t happen if you were careful.

#

Leila stared at the piece of paper in her hand the entire bus ride home. Dozens of bodies pressed in. Sardines in a can, not unlike what was happening in her uterus. Nausea settled in at the thought. The medicine the doctor gave her kept her from spewing all over the three businessmen, one businesswoman, and two teens in cut-off jeans packed in front of her. Just barely. Leila’s face flushed as the room tilted.

She focused harder on the paper, on the hand-written scribble at the bottom of the page.

Room available at 4pm tomorrow. Emergency d&c.

Leila had never wanted kids. She took great lengths to keep it that way, yet the thought of doctors digging around her innards made her skin prickle almost as much as the parasites busy sucking her dry.

The bus screeched to a halt in front of an apartment building. Leila stood, moved toward the door, and half the bus occupants moved with her. People closed in, rubbed against her exposed arms, legs, back. Electricity shot from her head to her toes. Bodies crushing in, constricting her lungs until she couldn’t breathe.

“Please….”

Her voice came out weak, drowned in the racket of dozens of people trying to be the first off the bus.

“Move….”

She pushed the person in front of her. They shifted slightly, not even bothering to look. Leila changed targets, elbowing the guy beside her in the ribs and wedging herself into the little space he made as he reeled back with a glare. 

Crimson ran down his face. He yelped, his hand shooting to his nose where blood ran like a faucet. Leila’s eyes went wide, but she didn’t wait to apologize. 

The sides of the bus squeezed in until she swore she heard her bones pop. She fought her way to the front as the shuffling of feet turned to yells of anger and surprise, not stopping until the smell of urine in the stairwell gave way to the smell of black roses blooming on her balcony. The smell of cinnamon pot-pourri joined the flowers as she opened her apartment door. It nearly knocked her off her feet, but the familiarity of it washed some of the heat in her skin away. 

Leila slammed the door behind her as she spun, throwing the bolt in case anyone from the bus decided to complain in person. She lay her head against the cool wood, her arms trembling at her sides. 

She was so tired.

Her grasp on wakefulness fled with the last bits of adrenaline. She stumbled to her bed, welcoming the oblivion of sleep.

#

Feeble cries surrounded her. Babies. Her babies. Leila searched for them through inky-black. She walked, ran, until her lungs ached and her legs gave way. As she hit the ground, infantile wails turned to rumbling growls. Low at first, then louder and louder. Something skittered in the darkness.

Leila strained to see it as a hiss echoed. A lunge from her left followed by the copper scent of blood. The black flashed to red. A small creature crouched. Under it, another lay, with bare, thin arms splayed out.

A sickening crunch, and a squeal. The top creature looked back at Leila. Wet flesh hung from jagged teeth, out of place on its babyish face. Large rheumy eyes sat in its bald head. It smiled.

A shudder passed through Leila. She looked away, toward the creature still splayed underneath the other. Her stomach dropped. A gaping hole replaced where its chest should have been, hazy eyes staring blankly up. A gray heart sat still in a pool of flesh and blood.

Leila tried to run, scream. Her body refused to respond. The victor gurgled, leaning its head back to allow the piece of flesh in its mouth to slide down its gullet with a slurp.

The growls returned, ricocheting from all around.

From the red rose bulbous shapes, stretching, straining against a thin membrane which covered the floor.

A part of the membrane tore, then another, and another. Nine more razor-teethed creatures crawled from the holes, hunched over with limbs askew. Nine gazes locked onto Leila. A hiss from a creature to her left as it lunged for the one next to it.

Chaos erupted. The creatures tore into each other. Screams, screeches, ripping, crunching. Blood splattered until it dripped down Leila’s skin, filling her nose with acrid, bitter tones.

She clenched her eyes shut, the only part of her body still under her control. She focused on the sound of her breath, ragged and rapid. Anything to block out the noises.

Silence. A skitter.

Leila kept her eyes shut.

A coo. A touch on her leg which reverberated up like an electric shock, forcing her eyes open.

A single creature stood at her feet, surrounded by the flesh of the others. Blue, black, brown, pink, red. An obscene rainbow settling on a never-ending background.

The lone survivor cooed once more, a sound which should have brought the desire to protect, yet only brought revulsion. It rubbed its blood-slicked hand across her calf and grinned.

Unholy Trinity: Monstrous Reflection by Hannah Foster

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.

 

I.

 

The glass windows of the office reflected a hideous stranger.

Steven leaned back in his chair. His breath stuttered from his open mouth. Lukewarm coffee spilled across a manila folder as the porcelain mug clinked against his desk.

Behind the reflection, lights from the city twinkled in the darkness. 

“Steve, you good? You should be celebrating.” Someone—he couldn’t remember the name—poked his head in as he unfastened his tie.

“I’m fine,” Steven muttered, staring at the stranger in the window.

The monster stared back for a moment, then slowly pointed an emaciated finger at the man facing him.

 

II.

 

The last mirror. 

Erik’s gaze traced his features, the mottled, inhuman skin and protruding horns. Hideous

“Erik?” His sister. She was peeking around the cellar door above him. “Come back. It’s freezing down here.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he mumbled, staring at himself. That reflection. 

Her hand touched his spined back. Her reflection joined his, a pale, delicate figure standing stalwart next to him.

With a roar, he slammed his horns into the glass. It splintered, sending shards everywhere. His sister shrieked and cringed away, blood smeared across her cheek.

The last mirror, and the last of his humanity, gone.

 

III.

 

The guard lay motionless in a pool of sunlight, veins branching dark across his cheeks and forehead.

I killed him.

The truth uncoiled in the princess’s mind.

My venom. My fangs. My fault. 

Footsteps, three sharp raps on the door; she swayed in the middle of the room.

Please go away. I could hurt you.

But the transformation had begun, a twisting agony that started in her feet and took hold of her body.

Go away…I’m dangerous…I will kill you.

She saw herself reflected as she changed, fangs slick and inhuman eyes slitted with malice: those of a giant serpent.

 

Hannah Foster

Hannah Foster is a writer and artist based in northern Nevada. Fed on a steady diet of fantasy and Gothic literature, her imagination provides an endless supply of quirky stories, mainly in the form of flash fiction. She lives with her husband and a fluffy Aussiedoodle doggo named Mabel.

Trembling With Fear – Halloween 2023 Edition

It’s one of my favorite times of year! Halloween is upon us, and if you have been unable to enjoy all the fun of this holiday, you’ll get a chance to catch up with the stories in this special edition.

This has been an especially fun edition for me because our writers have a plethora of topics and ideas to choose from. This holiday is associated with so many things from ghosts to vampires; haunting people to tricks and treats. This is a time where our writers get to stretch their creative muscles and run wild. While we had a lot of submissions this year, we’ve selected a few of our favorites. Happy Halloween!

 

Happy Reading!

Shalini

Shalini Bethala

Editor, Trembling With Fear

As the veil between worlds thins and the shadows grow bolder, we find ourselves standing on the threshold of Halloween—a day rich with history, mystique, and a touch of the macabre. It’s Stu here, one of your curators of curiosities and teller of tales, ready to embark on a journey through the fantastical and the frightening with this special edition of ‘Trembling With Fear.’

I’ve always believed that Halloween is more than just a day on the calendar; it’s a portal to the parts of our imagination that lie dormant, waiting for permission to come alive. The stories we’ve gathered for you this year are a testament to the power of this hallowed holiday. They weave a tapestry of terror and wonder, inviting you to suspend disbelief and embrace the unknown.

Did you know that Halloween has its roots in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, a time when the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead was believed to be at its thinnest? It’s a tradition that speaks to our deepest yearnings to connect with something greater than ourselves, and it’s the perfect backdrop for our literary adventure.

So, dear reader, I invite you to join me in celebrating the allure of All Hallows’ Eve. Let’s revel in the magic and mystery of the stories that await, and perhaps, just perhaps, we’ll discover that the line between fiction and reality is not as clear-cut as it seems.

Welcome to the Halloween special of ‘Trembling With Fear.’ The shadows are waiting, and the tales are ready to be told. Are you?

Lauren McMenemy

Editor-in-Chief, Trembling With Fear

(more…)

Trembling With Fear 10-29-23

Hello, children of the dark. Quickly, because I’m still prepping for my vampire extravaganza and I’m already running late with this week’s edition (sorry, boss!).

I know I promised last week that Stuart and I would revisit the short stories submission windows, but truth is we just haven’t had a chance. (Well, I haven’t yet poked him – see previous paragraph about time.) Will try to sort out our approach before the next issue. 

And before we jump to this week’s TWF menu, it would be remiss of a dark fiction zine to not wish you all a happy Halloween, blessed Samhain, and all other celebrations of the dark. May the veil part as much as you desire on Tuesday night. 

Now, to the matter at hand: Emma Burnett brings us one helluva dark futuristic speculative tale. Honestly, this one is magnificent, and it’s followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • Victoria Savage tackles a take on a TikTok trend,
  • Amanda Brimley needs to find a recluse, and 
  • Leigh-Anne Burley likes broken things.

PS the TWF Halloween special is ready to go; keep an eye on these pages in two days’ time!

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Here we are, standing at the edge of October, teetering on the brink of the extraordinary. The leaves have donned their most vibrant hues, and the air is alive with whispers of the coming Halloween. I’m brimming with anticipation and excitement, ready to share with you a collection of tales that embody the spirit of this captivating season.

October is a month of transformation, a time when the world around us shifts into a tapestry of color and shadows. Did you know that October was once the eighth month of the Roman calendar, and its name is derived from ‘octo,’ meaning eight? It’s a month that, historically, has been a bridge between the harvest’s abundance and winter’s quietude, and it’s the perfect backdrop for the stories we’ve curated for you in this week’s ‘Trembling With Fear.’

The stories are ready, the shadows are deepening, and the stage is set for a journey into the heart of the season. Are you ready to step into the dark?

 
Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is ready to order! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores do 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…)

Unholy Trinity: Deathbed, Probe & Postmortem by Paul Lonardo

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.

 

Deathbed

 

On his deathbed, the retired NASA Administrator David McCaffrey told his son Carl never to tamper with the box under the stairs. A month after the man passed, while cleaning out the house, Carl discovered a seamless, metallic box. The imaginative young man wondered what extraterrestrial secrets it contained. Using a sledgehammer, he smashed the mysterious object, which was part of a global protection grid against alien invasion. Now compromised, sparks sizzled from tiny cracks and an alarm chirped while directly overhead the skies glowed with brilliant points of light and the contrails of interstellar missiles descending at hypersonic speed.

 

Probe

 

The alien set the anal probes on the counter, taking all that was left on the shelf. “I also need one of those large, gray-headed masks with the big black eyes?”

The attendant reached beneath the counter and pulled up the mask. “You must be going to Earth,” he said, scanning the items. “Tell me, why does everyone who visits Earth bring these masks?”

“Humans freak out if we probe them without the mask on.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re physically identical in every way. Amazing, that of all the different lifeforms out there, humans happen to look just like us.”

 

Postmortem

 

Lying naked on the table, the cold metal pressed against Vincent’s back, butt, and calves. When the white sheet over his face was pulled down, there was an explosion of intense light. He saw a blurry figure holding a scalpel and tried to move but he could not. As the blade cut through the frigid flesh of his chest, it made a soft crackling sound. The Y-incision across his shoulders extended down his stomach, but he felt no pain. When the skin was pulled back, it was red inside, though blood did not flow. He screamed but made no sound.

 

 

Paul Lonardo

Paul Lonardo is a freelance writer and author with numerous titles of both fiction and nonfiction books. He’s placed short stories and nonfiction articles in various genre magazines and ezines. In June 2023, he released Penny Dreadfuls, a collection of haiku horror poems, and in October, Small Dark Things, his latest anthology of all new dark fantasy stories was published. Paul is a contributing writer for Tales from the Moonlit Path and an active HWA member. You find him on Instagram @PaulLonardo13, on X @PaulLondardo and on his website: www.thegoblinpitcher.com.

Trembling With Fear 10-22-23

Hello, children of the dark. I don’t know about you, but I am bloody exhausted. And I know I say that pretty much every week, but it’s super bad this week. However, I have wisdom to impart—aka I must give you some updates on our submission guidelines—so bear with me as I muddle through this week’s issue. I’ll be fancy and put in some sub-heads to make this easier on your eyes.

Submissions for special editions

If you’ve subbed to one of our special editions, or sent over a serial or unholy trinity, you no doubt have met our wonderful Special Editions Editor, Shalini. We’re so lucky to have her. (I won’t mention that she took a postcard for my vampire event to see Anne Rice’s grave this week, because that would be in poor taste.)

Anyways, Shalini has been absolutely inundated with submissions for the upcoming Halloween special, so please be patient as she makes her way through them. Which leads me onto this little note…

Technically, our special editions have tight submission windows. We tend to wave things through if, say, a Christmas story is subbed in July; we’ll just file it away to review closer to the time. But given Halloween and Christmas come so close together, I just wanted to remind you that submissions to special editions will only be looked at a few weeks out from publication, regardless of when you submit it. This is because Shalini needs to look at the special edition as a whole to make sure there’s not, for example, three stories about pumpkins and none about witches for Halloween. So feel free to submit your special editions outside of the window if you want to, but please know that you won’t hear anything until about a week out from its relevant publication time. Patience, my children. Patience.

The avalanche of short story submissions

Which brings me to another submissions dilemma we’re having at the moment. About this time last year, we had to close to short story submissions because we were scheduled for many, many, many months and it wouldn’t be fair to accept any further stories at that point. Regular readers will know we reopened those submissions at the beginning of September – just six weeks ago. Dear children, you have been very, very busy submitting again—and we’re inundated. So much so, that Stuart and I are having serious discussions about perhaps making our short story openings happen in windows rather than perennially. Stay tuned for more news on that in future editions, but please be patient (again!) if you’ve subbed a short story to us in the last month. We are but a tiny team of volunteers, and we’re doing our best to get through a vast amount of stories. 

Now, to the reason you’re here…

To the matter at hand: Kenny Togunloju tells us a ghost story as our main menu item this week. This is then followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • Vincent O’Neill tries to get a refund,
  • Nikki Stanier can be found in an old chatroom, and 
  • Ron Capshaw faces his demons.

And my final word: Fangs. I promise, this is the last time you’ll hear from me in these pages about vampires! My next event, Writing the Occult: Vampires, happens next Saturday, 28 October 2023. We’ve timed it so fangbangers across the Northern Hemisphere have a chance of attending at least some of it live (sorry, ‘Straya and NZ), and we’re also recording all sessions so you can catch up on what you miss. Recordings are only for ticketholders, though, and won’t be shared anywhere else, so if you haven’t joined the nest yet and want to, act fast! Tickets are over on Eventbrite, or full speaker details and bios are on this website. You can also follow @societyofinkslingers on Instagram for deep dives on the sessions.

Now it’s over to an (I think?) MBA finals-finished Stuart!

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

The first and second rounds of rejections for Shadowed Realms have gone out! We’re 4/5th cleared-out stories and still have a bit over twice as many that we can fit into the anthology left to re-read, re-analyze, and nitpick. Honestly, we’re down to nitpicking because you’ve all sent in such AMAZING stories!
 
Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is ready to order! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores do 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…)