Tagged: HV Patterson

Unholy Trinity: A Juvenile’s Tales by Haji M.

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.


Bump In The Night


I used to be a brave lad, not afraid of the dark at all. In fact, I’d often challenge myself, wandering alone downstairs in our basement, groping in the pitch darkness, before my courage failed, and I’d scamper up the stairs. 

But ever since that fateful night, when I overheard my Mam whispering to her best friend, I felt my spirit leeching away, never to return.

Of a monster that creeps into people’s basements, grunting as it rummaged for food. What terrified me most was the description of its grotesque visage: half man, half hog. 

The dark scares me now.


Sleep Paralysis


I awoke in the middle of the night, feeling terribly wrong. I couldn’t move a muscle, no matter how hard I wriggled my body, my mouth clamped shut. 

My breath came in short gasps, my lungs burnt fiercely. Something heavy was sitting on my chest. I could feel cold slime and sharp claws digging into my flesh, icy numbness creeping up my neck and jaw. 

I screamed silently in horror, as a creature the size of a large cat crawled into my mouth, plunging down my throat. 

Deeper it burrowed, homing in towards my fat liver, devouring it from within.


The Chaser


“That road that goes by the old museum? Never travel there by night. If you must, don’t look in the rear-view mirror, ‘cos you’d be sorry.”

Midnight. Eyes glued to the road; I floored the accelerator. Something flashed by, even as my stomach clenched tight in fear. Why did I go this way?

I whimpered at a loud thump on the roof, my car swerving precariously. A shriek erupted by my ear, as a pale withered face peeked in from the side window. 

At least its outside, I thought, until a taloned finger tickled the back of my neck.


Haji M.

Throughout my younger years, I’d heard more than my fair share of spine-tingling stories, tales that still resonate with me decades later. Here are three of such stories, interconnected by my own vivid memories of them, entitled: A Juvenile’s Tales.

I am a new writer based in Dublin, Ireland. I had a couple of flash fiction stories published previously, in Books Ireland Magazine, and Every Day Fiction Magazine.


Unholy Trinity: Monster Friends and Lost Girls by H.V. Patterson

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.


Missing Animals


The stars were out, and Marie’s stomach grumbled. She’d been trapped in the pit for hours when the monster returned.

It was shadow without form or substance. But it was real, not a figment of Marie’s imagination. 

“Want to be friends?” the monster asked. 

Marie’s eyes shifted to the piles of blood-matted fur around her: remnants of unlucky animals. Instead of fear, she felt excitement. 

“Yes,” she said.

Insubstantial fingers inked across her palm: a covenant.

“Marie!” yelled her friends. A flashlight blinked across her face. 

Hours later, rescued and safely in her dorm room, Marie dreamed of toothed shadows.


Missing Coeds


“What the hell Marie?!” Kat screamed from the bottom of the pit. “This isn’t funny!” 

“Say ‘thank you,’” Marie said.

Thank you, gurgled the monster. 

Tendrils of shadow oozed over Kat, muffling her screams. 

Marie watched Kat’s body deflate. She listened as the monster ate Kat’s insides. When it was over, she threw down the rope. The monster climbed out, wearing Kat’s skin. 

“I like this one,” it said, wiggling Kat’s manicured hands.

“Don’t wear it out,” Marie warned. “I’m running really low on friends.” 

The monster laughed. It linked Kat’s pinkie with Marie’s: a promise. 

“You’ll always have me.”

Missing Skin


The first time Marie sloughed off her skin was an accident. 

She’d dreamed of blood and shadows, and when she awoke, she was hovering above her deflated self. Free and filled with hunger, she and the monster prowled through the night, twin shadows.

After a year of slipping away, Marie couldn’t return. Her loose, desiccated skin wouldn’t stay on.

“What happens now?” Marie asked. She was cold and so very, very hungry.

Shadow fingers entwined with shadow fingers. The monster leaned close: breath a funeral sigh. 

“Wherever you want,” it said. 

Two ravenous monsters rose like smoke from the pit.


H.V. Patterson

H.V. Patterson (she/her) lives in Oklahoma and writes speculative fiction and poetry. She has work published or upcoming in Etherea Magazine, Siren’s Call, and Wyldblood and anthologies from Sliced Up Press, Eerie River, Creature Publishing, Flame Tree Press, and Black Spot Books. Her poem, “Mother; Microbes,” was recently selected for the inaugural volume of Brave New Weird from Tenebrous Press. She promotes women in horror through Dreadfulesque (@Dreadfulesque on Twitter and Instagram), and you can follow her on Twitter @ScaryShelley and on Instagram @hvpattersonwriter