Category: Trembling With Fear

Trembling With Fear

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Serial Saturday: Willingworth Farm, Letter One by Mark Colbourne

  1. Serial Saturday: Willingworth Farm, Letter One by Mark Colbourne
  2. Serial Saturday: Willingworth Farm, Letter Two by Mark Colbourne
  3. Serial Saturday: Willingworth Farm, Letter Three by Mark Colbourne
  4. Serial Saturday: Willingworth Farm, Letter Five by Mark Colbourne Scheduled for June 3, 2023

 

 

Willingworth Farm: Letter One

 

A Welcome to Willingworth Farm’s Blog

June 30th

 

Recently, and after much searching of the soul, I decided to open the doors here at Willingworth Farm to the paying public. Employing the convenience of a popular holiday rental platform, I began to engage with prospective guests via the medium of the World Wide Web. My home was announced as a retreat amongst the splendour of the Norfolk countryside. A sanctuary where the weary would be welcomed, where the fatigued could recuperate in both body and soul. Without wishing to boast, it came as no surprise when the venture proved itself an immediate success! Visitors would arrive, practically crushed beneath the weight of the daily grind, only to find themselves a few days later floating in a serene stupor. Some of my guests – God bless their souls! – even found a return to the real world a daunting impossibility.

It has been, to say the least, an eye-opening endeavour. The carousel of life which would appear, bag in hand, on my doorstep has never failed to surprise, stimulate or delight. It was an equally novel undertaking to ingratiate myself with the peculiar etiquette of the internet. Initially, I was somewhat bemused and a trifle affronted by the rental service’s imposing demand that the guests should pen reviews of yours truly whilst, concurrently, I jotted down my own critique of them. The ratings, the feedback, the recommendations, the likes and the references… Those odd and time-consuming waters into which we are all forced to digitally wade.

However, it was not long before this element of the process became something that I began to cherish. Not, I assure you, because of the opportunity to whinge or complain, nor even praise and flatter. Rather, it was the facility to build a record of those who had stayed with me that stirred my appreciation. An electronic log; an online book of remembrance. Sadly, the limitations of character and space enforced by the website review system were a trifle restrictive for my tastes. Therefore, I decided to grasp the nettle. With a leap of faith and any number of stumbling technological false starts, here we find ourselves at the beginning of my very own blog! And so, I welcome you, oh dear and gentle reader, to my modest little corner of the information highway; to my own brief and commemorative record of those who came to stay at Willingworth Farm.

 

Yours

Peter Edingly

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Whispers, Signs and Signals by Kevin M. Folliard

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.

 

Whispers

 

“After midnight, Grandpa can speak, but only in whispers,” Grandma explained. “I can’t stay awake so late at my age, but he’ll adore prattling on with you, dear.”

That night, Ella whispered to her grandfather who had died long before she was born.

“Are you there, Grandpa?”

A hushed word, little more than a breath, sliced the darkness: “Yes.”

“Are you proud of me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“Are you happy being dead?”

“Almost.”

“What would make you happy?”

“Grandma’s heart medicine.”

The orange bottle sat on the counter.

“Empty the pills down the drain, so Grandma can keep me company.”

 

Signs

 

Father Coughlin turned off the hall light, and the apparition reappeared, the color of moonbeams, the form of his inquisitive former charge. Forever fourteen. Scarred by bullying peers and a thoughtless father who’d shipped him to boarding school.

They’d found Henry, slack limbs swaying, face swollen blue, belt scrunching the beam in his dormitory. Father Coughlin preached that Henry had been condemned to hell for his act.

Yet each night, his ghost smiled and gave the “OK” sign, as if to say, You’re wrong. I’m fine.

And each night, Father locked his office, sipped brandy, and worried about his wrongness.

 

Signals

 

Jace waited hours, while Mom explored a forgotten truck stop. “Could be canned goods,” she’d said. “Could be biters. Probably both. If it’s safe, I’ll signal.”

The sun set, and still no flare.

Against Mom’s orders, he followed.

Three decayed attackers lay defeated at her boots. Blood spurted from her neck wound. She lurched forward. Soulless eyes locked with Jace’s, triggering a spark of recognition. Mom uncapped the flare and brushed it against the fireworks display from that doomed summer.

Brilliant flashes of color erupted behind her.

Jace’s scream drowned in thunderous cracks that signaled undead hordes from every direction.

 

 

Kevin M. Folliard

Kevin M. Folliard is a Chicagoland writer whose fiction has been collected by The Horror Tree, The Dread Machine, Demain Publishing, Dark Owl Publishing, and more. His recent publications include his horror anthology The Misery King?s Closet, his YA fantasy adventure novel Grayson North: Frost-Keeper of the Windy City, and his 2022 dinosaur adventure novel Carnivore Keepers. Kevin currently resides in the western suburbs of Chicago, IL, where he enjoys his day job in academia and membership in the La Grange Writers Group.

 

You can follow him on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Amazon, Goodreads or on his website.

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Unholy Trinity: Burn In…, Fire, and The Real Evil by Kellee Kranendonk

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.

 

Burn in…

 

Tied to a post. Flames ignited in straw beneath me. Placid faces in the crowd. Some jeer, throw obscene gestures at me. They believe I deserve to be roasted alive.

Fire licks up my legs, sears my flesh. My thin cotton dress catches. The blaze encases me, eating skin and meat off my bones. A fiery face appears, looks me in the eye. A leering grin appears. He beckons me as the crowd cheers. I will not go to Hell, I try to scream. But my soul has left my body and I realize that’s not where he’s taking me.

 

Fire

 

Her charred body lies there, still smoking, totally ignored. I cannot mourn for if I do they will kill me too. But if I do not… will she be angry?

The last one to remain, I walk quickly away. Before I reach home, scorching hands wrap themselves around my head, cover my eyes, burn away eyelids. I know it’s her. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, even a dead one.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

It’s not enough. Licks of fire jump into being, destroying the home we worked so hard for. I cannot close my eyes against it.

 

The Real Evil

 

They’re lined up on the bridge, thirteen of them, each vile woman as guilty as a whore. Evil lives within their blackened souls, corrupted by Satan himself. They’re gagged and bound as they deserve. Shoved in the water, they will drown only if they are innocent. None will. The power that resides in me will not allow it. They are all impure. I wait, pleased that I myself discovered these ones. They will rise to the surface and come to shore soon, I’m certain of it. They don’t. But I cannot be wrong. No regrets. Satan has claimed his own.

 

 

Kellee Kranendonk

Kellee Kranendonk has spent a lifetime writing. According to her late grandfather she was born with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. She’s certain that these days he would have claimed she was born clutching a laptop.

She’s had over a hundred published stories, poems and non-fiction pieces. Her work has received honourable mentions, been shortlisted; she’s been a spotlight author and some of her pieces were to appear in a school book project, though that didn’t pan out. Kellee has been an editor, has managed online writing groups, and one of her stories appeared in a best selling anthology. She lives in a brand-new merged municipality in New Brunswick, Canada with her family and a variety of animals. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

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Trembling With Fear 4-28-23

Hello, children of the dark. We’re back with this rare fifth instalment of Trembling With Fear in a single month. Gotta love it when the calendar does those weird things. Tomorrow it shall be May – May! Already! (I’m becoming a broken record, I know) – and for those in the Celtic world, tomorrow (1 May) is in fact Beltane, the Gaelic May Day Festival. It’s also the midpoint between the spring equinox and the summer solstice in the northern hemisphere, and a time of celebration for many pagans. This is the time for folk horror stories, too, when the land is blooming and getting ready to reveal its fruits. What story seeds does that conjure for you?

And as we’re speaking of conjuring from seeds, my cold, dead heart has been full of joy this last week or so. I know it’s unseemingly to toot our own trumpets, especially in public, but I’ve enjoyed seeing so many people who’ve attended my drabble workshops around the place then go on to submit to us here at TWF towers. I hadn’t realised how many were out there, actually taking my ramblings as a jumping off point, and bearing such dark and delicious fruit. We have one such drabble this week, actually, and there were quite a few in the backlog of submissions we had after the gremlin had a field day in our back office systems. It really does make me happy to know that you’re all out there, creating, drawing life from the world and beyond, and letting that flow through your fingers to make all sorts of menace for these pages. Keep it up, children of the dark. I always want more.

(And, hey, in the spirit of trumpet-tooting, hit me up on the socials if you want to know more about forthcoming workshops and suchlike.)

For now, though, let’s stroll through this week’s menu, which features a real variety of tales for your delectation. Our short story sees Ceferino Ruiz gets to know his neighbour better – or does he? This is followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • Mike Rader has a fungus problem,
  • K.L. Bexon channels a hopeless vampire, and
  • Kellee Kranendonk undergoes the surgical experience no one wants.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Finishing my current MBA class, working on sorting out getting into a course this summer, a ton of meetings, and a Take Your Kid to Work Day has had me slammed. Sorry, nothing fun to say this week!

We’ve added a link to our Shadowed Realms: The 2022 Indie Dark Fiction Anthology under ‘Trembling With Fear’ in our menu above. For those unfamiliar with the anthology, in it, we’re looking for the best 1,000-9,000 word dark fiction published in semipro and token-paying markets in 2022! This reprint anthology will be paying 1 cent per word, and we’re very excited to start taking a look at your work!

For those looking to support the site, we’re always open Ko-Fi donations and always have our Patreon going.

As always, I hope you had a great weekend.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

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Trembling With Fear 4-23-23

Hello, children of the dark. How are these days treating you? How’s your creative impulse? 

I ask for a reason: did you know there’s more than these weekly editions under the TWF banner? They did take a small sabbatical in the second half of last year (for reasons of me not understanding my remit properly; sorry!), but they are back in a big way and we’re looking for more.

I am, of course, talking about the Unholy Trinity and the Serial sections of our humble publication. Permit me to give you a brief lowdown (and you can also find details here on our submissions page).

The Unholy Trinity is three drabbles that work as stand-alone stories, but can also be tied together to tell something larger. This tie could be theme, it could be plot, it could be character – but the three stories must work both alone and together. 

Then we have the Serials, which are longer stories that can be broken up and published over the course of several weeks. For the Serials, your tales can go up to 15,000 words – but they must be able to logically break into 4-10 instalments of 1000-1500 words in length. And if serialising was good enough for Dickens’ work… 

Anyways, those two sections are led by the wonderful Shalini Bethala, who would love to see the Horror Tree inbox flooded with new works to keep her Brooklyn nights busy. What have you got? How’s that creative impulse now?

In the meantime, we’re still working our way through those previously-trapped drabbles, so bear with us and enjoy this week’s offerings as you wait.

In this week’s menu, Greta T Bates is here to break your heart. This is followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • Christopher Blinn goes to battle,
  • Stéphane G Perahim is keeping an eye on her fitness, and
  • Ron Capshaw has a hunting warning for us all.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

This is the last full week of my current MBA class so hopefully, next week I’ll be able to get a few things done if my brain doesn’t take a break on me.

And while we had progress last week on the new layout, there is nothing to report this week. *twitches*

Moving on. We’re catching up on TWF and the anthology and getting ever closer to this year’s release. No ETA quite yet.

Just as a reminder, we’re taking submissions to a new Horror Tree anthology titled Shadowed Realms: The 2022 Indie Dark Fiction Anthology. In it, we’re looking for the best 1,000-9,000 word dark fiction published in semipro and token-paying markets in 2022! This reprint anthology will be paying 1 cent per word, and we’re very excited to start taking a look at your work!

For those looking to support the site, we’re always open Ko-Fi donations and always have our Patreon going.

As always, I hope you had a great weekend.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: The Dunwich Romance by Shawn M. Klimek

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.

 

The Dunwich Heartthrob

 

The stranger lurked outside the clubhouse door wearing a hooded cloak, exposing only his hairy, goatish, albino, face. Eventually, he pushed open the door with a clammy hand, then lumbered through the gap. Conversations froze as those within, mostly women, connected his grotesquery to the source of a tormenting stench. 

Before he could speak, he was interrupted by a lumpish woman with sloped eyes and a drooling, beaver-toothed pucker. 

Pointing an accusing claw, she croaked, “Dunny, aintcha?”

“Yessum.”

“Wicked pissah! We need more men,” she said. “I’m Ingrid Clout.”

“Wilbur Whatley.”

“Welcome to the Dunwich Village Lonely Hearts Club, Willy!”

 

The Dunwich Passion

 

Ingrid reached both arms around the misshapen boy’s naked torso, his bony rib cage heaving with each grunting exertion. Digging her fingernails into his scaly back, she groaned in ecstasy. 

“Oh, Wilbur,” she cried, staring passionately up into the sweaty, chinless face above her. “Whatever you’re doing to me down south, it’s driving me crazy!”

“Say again?”

Momentarily too preoccupied by his own appetites to make out her words, Wilber Whatley paused manoeuvring the lamprey-like tentacles extruding from his furry waist, only to trigger her protests.

“No, don’t stop!” she pleaded.

“Oh, okay,” he said, then resumed suckling her blood.

 

The Dunwich Dinner

 

“I hope your mother likes me,” Ingrid Clout whispered as they arrived at the Whatley home.

“Dinner was her idea,” Wilbur reassured her.

The front door opened to reveal a woman shrouded in black.

Ingrid recoiled. “Has someone died?”

“No. The sun hurts her skin,” Wilbur explained. “We all suffer. Especially my brother. He never leaves the basement.”

“Poor thing.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll dine downstairs. This way,” said Lavinia.

Ingrid followed. “Nice place. A bit dark.”

“We’re here. Watch your stop,” said Lavinia, giving her a shove.

Her screams faded quickly.

“Mother!” Wilbur was inconsolable. “You know Yog doesn’t share!”

 

End

 

 

Shawn M. Klimek

Shawn M. Klimek is the multi-genre author of more than 240 stories and poems in more than 80 anthologies and e-zines, including previous Unholy Trinities in Horror Tree. He is also the solo author of Hungry Thing an illustrated fantasy saga told in poems.

Trembling With Fear

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Trembling With Fear 4-16-23

Hello children of the dark. We’ve had a real-world horror story unfolding in our home this week… yes, we’ve got mice. Somewhere. In the walls, maybe. Though there is evidence of them elsewhere. Tiny bite marks. Tiny specks of poo.

So we spent our long weekend (we get a four-day weekend for Easter on this side of the pond) clearing *stuff*. The other half thankfully did all the mucky jobs; it brought him face-to-face with some of our tiny furry friends, who have been ethically caught and released in the local woodland. Maybe we’ve got them all; we’re not sure. I might’ve just heard a squeak behind me. 

But it also meant I had to – god forbid – clear out my piles of books. I don’t like getting rid of stuff at the best of times, but my books are precious. I’ve tried to do e-readers but I just need the paper in my hands for the full experience, y’know? At least our local charity store has been gifted a stack of mid-2000s Lonely Planet guides and all of those books I got when I was trying to be literary but realised I would always be a spooky girl at heart.

It’ll probably do me good. If nothing else, there’s more space for new stories now! (Sorry, mum.)

In the meantime, we’ve still got all those trapped drabbles to review, so bear with us and enjoy this week’s offerings as you wait.

In this week’s menu, Austin Mooney waxes lyrical with a very gross bit of body horror. This is followed by three delicious quick bites:

  • C.D. Kester has some family troubles,
  • Lauren Carter shows great devotion, and
  • Mike Rader takes faith to new heights.

Finally, if you had a dark speculative story published in a semi-pro or token paying market in 2022 then submit it to Horror Tree‘s new indie dark fiction anthology! Because why should the “best of” anthology fun be confined to the pros? Get the details here.

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Some exciting news on the new website front. We’re making progress once more! As of the time of writing this post, I was able to give the new layout a quick demo that works fantastic speed-wise on my desktop, laptop, and mobile. Now, we’re going through our first round of actual edits and after that I’m going to be getting some feedback from some of our team. Fingers crossed this means that we’ll have a real update for you soon! 

Just as a reminder, we’re taking submissions to a new Horror Tree anthology titled Shadowed Realms: The 2022 Indie Dark Fiction Anthology. In it, we’re looking for the best 1,000-9,000 word dark fiction published in semipro and token-paying markets in 2022! This reprint anthology will be paying 1 cent per word, and we’re very excited to start taking a look at your work!

For those looking to support the site, we’re always open Ko-Fi donations and always have our Patreon going.

As always, I hope you had a great weekend.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Trilogy of Light by Christina Nordlander

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.

 

Sparkle

 

My hand and arm had several opaque, shining facets, without pores. I thought they were attractive, like crystal scales. I preferred them to my first constellations of liver spots.

I didn’t go to the doctor. I wanted to see whether they would make me sparkle.

During that time, I never thought about what was underneath. There are tree galls that push out shoots once the larvae inside are mature.

One morning, one of the facets slid out, a slim-lined ice obelisk. It pierced my watch-strap, I had to tear it free.

I stumbled to the mirror, feeling others pushing through.

 

Reflections of the Sparkling Vampire

 

The sparkle is his immortality surfacing. He can still move, but within decades his joints will seize up and his fibrous lungs will stop expanding. He already has diamond skin and ruby organs.

After each hibernation he wakes with more of the crystal facets. Sometimes one clogged pore flips, like a tiny manhole cover, revealing its shining underside.

He drinks the blood of maidens and youths: messily, uncleanly, to show himself that he loathes it. He doesn’t know whether it slows the process, but he wants to have something alive inside him, regardless of origin, sloshing between the crystallised walls.

 

The Shining Plague

 

The crowds in the streets slowed. Hair grew more burnished, then longer, as if it poured from their scalps. It turned jewelled colours; it grew out in curls and ringlets. Skin turned clearer, more mineral. Ears and fingers grew more slender, eyes huge and fragile.

Bodies attenuated, as if the violent growth of hair had sucked out their juices. They shot to such height that they started tottering, then snapping. Fingers twisted longer, tears – and now blood – sparkled, and still whirlpools of hair flowed through alleys, meeting and intertwining.

From a high enough vantage point, it would have been beautiful.

 

The End

 

 

Christina Nordlander

Christina Nordlander was born 1982 in Sweden. She now lives outside Birmingham, UK, with her husband, and works for a car leasing company. She has published over 20 stories and other pieces, most of them on the speculative fiction spectrum. She also dabbles in visual art and game development. Her most recent publication is the drabble “The Factory Grounds” in Trembling with Fear. She also holds a PhD in Classics and Ancient History from the University of Manchester. Follow her on Facebook or Patreon.