Tagged: Trembling With Fear

Trembling With Fear 5-4-25

Greetings, children of the dark. As this goes to digital print, I’ll be somewhere along the Amalfi Coast having an extended weekend with my mum, who’s visiting Europe from the land Down Under. And so we are short and sweet with the intro this week, just looking at a few reminders:

  • We are now closed to short story submissions, and will next crank open that window at the beginning of July. Anything submitted while we’re closed will be returned unread.
  • We are, though, always looking for your dark and spooky drabbles! Get those teeny terrors of exactly 100 words over to us, please.
  • We’re also always open to Unholy Trinities (3 connected drabbles) and Serials (fiction of up to 15,000 words that can be serialised over several weeks, just like Dickens used to do).
  • The Summer Special is fast looming, so get those thinking caps on for your summer horrors – campsite terrors, blooming folk horror, wild swimming encounters, and all that fun stuff. 

For now, let’s head over to this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. Our main course is a quick bite from the nightmares of Maya Dodsworth. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:

  • Steven Patchett’s local tourism,
  • Autumn Bettinger’s Lovecraftian fable, and
  • Weird Wilkins’s final moments.

Quick reminder: the next edition of my Writing the Occult online event series is fast approaching. We’ll be talking relics on 10 May, which is next weekend! It’s focused on all those cursed things dug up from the ground, found under the water, buried deep in the hope they would never again see the light of day. We’ll be chatting about the weird things we do with human remains, about Egyptology, about archaeology and shipwrecks and museums and more. There will even be a workshop with acclaimed horror writer Ally Wilkes, who will lead us through an adventure in cursed objects. You know you want to join us, right? Head over here for details and tickets. 

For now, it’s over to the boss man.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

One of the two Trembling With Fear books appears to be in final proofing, and the other is close behind! We’re almost there, folks! *twitches* It’s so far overdue, and I’m so thrilled that it is about to come out!

Outside of that, I had a rather busy week. I sent out some interview questions for an interview on the site, worked on the new layout, worked on a new page we’re adding, and worked on our new newsletter format.

Now, for the standards:

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

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

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

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter Four

                                                          

Three days later, Peter sat in the raised seat to the right of the Rector, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. The quiet murmur of the congregation faded as the first notes of the hymn echoed through the church, their voices rising in unison. The thick scent of incense filled the air, the smoke curling upwards in slow, deliberate spirals.

Disappointment weighed on him with his inability to return to the catacombs and provide the Rector a holy passage, albeit not from the forbidden scrolls. He had hoped the effort would get him back in favor with the Rector, instead of the scowls he’d been receiving.

The Rector, standing tall at the altar, raised his arms, and a hush fell over the assembly. The golden chalice gleamed in the dim light, filled with dark wine. His steady and authoritative voice rang out in Latin, words Peter had heard a thousand times, yet never failed to stir something deep within him.

Around him, the priests in their vestments stood at attention, their faces impassive but their eyes fixed on the service unfolding before them. Peter’s gaze shifted to the large congregation, kneeling in reverence, their heads bowed, eyes closed in prayer. He shared their unspoken belief that this moment connected them all to something divine.

As the Rector consecrated the bread and wine, the words of transformation hung in the air. Peter felt a quiet thrill of awe. The elder moved with solemn grace, his presence commanding yet serene, appearing ageless as he offered the sacrament to each member of the flock. 

The faithful expressions intensified as the liquid touched their lips. Many trembled, reaching for the cup, their fingers clutching the metal with an almost desperate reverence. The moment the drink passed their mouth, their eyes grew bright with the ecstasy of faith, and their bodies swayed as if the offering filled them with a new strength. 

An elderly man wept, raising his arms to the heavens.

“I feel alive again,” a woman shouted, clutching her rosary.

Two women started to sing the hymn We Praise Thee, O God. As the notes rose, voices joined in from across the nave. The Rector smiled, letting the congregation’s emotions carry them away. 

The first time Peter observed a Communion here, the spontaneity surprised him as the Rector demanded quiet obedience in all other services. He loved this celebration of God much better than the solemn Holy Sacrament of his youth. 

He wished just once to be kneeling amongst the flock as they partook, since the priests always received theirs from a more austere cup prior to the public ceremony. He never felt as moved as those kneeling before him now.

Members exited the church with a renewed energy—some walked with purpose as though filled with divine inspiration, while others lingered, hesitant to leave the sacred space. The change in so many inspired Peter to do more to work on his own connection to God.

“Brother Peter,” an altar boy tugged at his arm. “We have a … situation. The Rector and the other senior priests are still busy with the parishioners.”

Peter glanced toward the Rector who chatted with several individuals. He followed the young boy out of the sanctuary and into a hall.

“What’s going on?”

“James stole a bottle of wine. He’s drunk, but acting strange.”

Fifteen-year-old James was mourning the recent death of his father. Mischief and reckless choices had become a constant. The Rector would punish him severely for this indiscretion. 

Maybe I can talk with the young man and keep this our little secret, Peter thought.

They wound through the corridors.

“Heathen!” Brother Christian shouted up ahead.

Peter sprinted around a corner and skidded to a halt. 

Brother Christian stood rigid, his sharp features etched with a rare hint of strain. His left hand clutched his chest, pale knuckles slick with blood seeping between his fingers. A dark stain spread across his robes. In his right hand, he gripped a chair, fending off an angry teenager. 

James stood a few paces away, his thin frame trembling with rage. His dark hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, and his sunken eyes, bloodshot and wild, darted between Peter and Christian. His skin flushed an unnatural red, as though his fury burned beneath the surface.

Christian glanced up, his face pale and strained. “Peter, he bit me! I knew better, but I tried to take away the wine. He’s gone mad! Get the Rector!” 

With a ferocious roar, the youth hurled the bottle against the wall, glass shattering in a violent spray. Shards clattered to the floor, mixing with the thick, pooling wine, staining the stone like spilled ink.

“James, settle down,” Peter commanded. 

The teen whipped his head around and zeroed in on Peter. James’s feral eyes narrowed like a hungry predator, sending a chill up Peter’s spine. James’s lips pulled back to reveal red-stained teeth. Crimson-froth dripped from the corners of his mouth. 

A knot tightened inside Peter as the urge to run clawed inside him. James released an inhuman moan. 

Christian lifted the chair, swinging it down on James’s head with a loud thwack. The dreadful sound of wood meeting flesh reverberated through the corridor. James staggered, blood trickling from a gash above his temple. 

Christian struck again, the force snapping one of the chair’s legs. A guttural groan escaped the teenager as his knees buckled. He swayed. The chair crashed down again and again. 

“Stop it!” Peter shouted, lunging forward to grab Christian’s arm as he raised the chair for another blow. “You’ll kill him!”

Christian’s face twisted in frustration. He wrenched his arm free, swinging a final blow. James crumpled to the ground, his body twitching before going still.

“What have you done?” Peter’s voice shook with horror as Christian’s chair dropped to the ground, his lungs heaving.

“What’s going on?” the Rector asked, stepping around the corner, his sharp gaze falling on the chaotic scene.

Trembling With Fear 4-27-25

Greetings, children of the dark. I, like I’m sure a lot of you did, saw Sinners last week. My word, what a glorious piece of cinema that is. I’ve got a piece in the summer issue of the BFS Journal all about how we’re not meant to be in an uptick of vampire stories, but if Sinners is anything to go by then… oh my, I am going to be a very happy cinema-goer in the coming months! I bloody love a vampire, as I’m sure regular readers will know. I’m not exactly quiet about it. 

Have you got a vampire story hanging around, inspired by the cinematic resurgence of the dark ones? Well, a quick reminder: we are officially closed to short story submissions until our next window opens in July. Between then and now, the residents of TWF Towers will be hunkered down reviewing the almost-60 submissions we received for the 12 available spots. Please be patient with us while we get through them!

And while we’re on the subject of submissions, we’re already getting some early submissions for the annual summer special, which is great—just remember that our new specials editor John won’t be reviewing these for a while yet as we’ve only just entered Spring! While you’re welcome to send them in, please be aware they’ll be filed away for safekeeping until probably June at the earliest. 

Want to get a response earlier than that? We’re always, always, always looking for drabbles, unholy trinities and serialised fiction! 

For now, let’s head over to this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. Our main course, Peter Bakumov takes a trip to the end of the world. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:

  • Rob Butler’s soaring bird,
  • Christopher Mattravers-Taylor’s ill-fated dive, and
  • S.G. Perahim’s gym bro woes.

One final quick reminder: the next edition of my Writing the Occult online event series is fast approaching. We’ll be talking about relics on 10 May—all those cursed things dug up from the ground, found under the water, buried deep in the hope they would never again see the light of day. We’ll be chatting about the weird things we do with human remains, about Egyptology, about archaeology and shipwrecks and museums and more. There will even be a workshop with acclaimed horror writer Ally Wilkes, who will lead us through an adventure in cursed objects. You know you want to join us, right? Head over here for details and tickets. 

For now, it’s over to the boss man.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

I jinxed us last week. The Trembling With Fear physical edition is still at 78%. So close to being done but not quite there yet.

However, I did have some time to work on the new layout, and Lauren has sent in some great key changes to make sure things happen properly. I may take an agile approach and get the site on the new layout with some of the key pieces and implement other new changes over time. We’ll see. I fear that if I wait for everything to be ready, it may be another year before I can get it done. 

Now, for the standards:

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

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

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

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter Three

                                                          

The chill of dawn still lingered in the rectory’s dining room, its austere stone walls unyielding to the warmth of the sun creeping over the horizon. A simple wooden table, scarred from years of use, stretched across the room, its benches empty save for Peter and a few others quietly finishing their breakfast. The scent of porridge and fresh bread mingled with the remnants of incense from morning prayers.

Peter sat hunched over his bowl, spooning the bland porridge absentmindedly as his thoughts lingered on the holy writings he had stumbled upon yesterday. Testament of the Resurrection John … The script made no sense. God wouldn’t have wasted his time, and Peter felt certain he had been guided to the steel chest. He needed more time to decipher the words and their meaning. 

“You’ve been keeping strange hours,” came a voice rich with disapproval. Brother Anthony, a senior scribe, approached with his own bowl in hand. His short, broad-shouldered frame cast a sturdy shadow as his robes swished softly against the stone floor. His movements, efficient and deliberate, reflected a lifetime of habit, though the slight stiffness in his gait hinted at his years.

 “We were beginning to think the archives had swallowed you whole,” Anthony added, his mouth curling into a subtle smirk. “In the event that it has slipped your mind, we scribes are in need of your approval on our recent translations.”

Peter glanced up, his expression neutral, though his lips twitched at the jab. He knew he’d been lost among the treasures of the library, but with Communion approaching, he needed that special passage for the Rector. 

A chorus of children’s laughter floated in through the open window, a rare burst of life against the rectory’s austere stillness. Peter’s gaze darted toward the sound, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise somber mood. He cherished these monthly visits with the innocent joy they brought to the church grounds. 

“When did the orphans arrive?” he asked, wishing he had the time to share a story with the youth. 

“Three days ago—makes meditation quite impossible.” Anthony sighed, setting his bowl down with a soft thud. His weathered face, framed by salt-and-pepper hair, creased into a frown. “Can you request that these miscreants be housed elsewhere?”

“A good practice in patience, Brother. It’s only for a few days while God’s chosen ones prepare for their holy mission.”

“Indeed.” 

“The Lord requires sacrifice from all of us.” Peter bit back a stronger snide remark, keeping his tone measured. 

Anthony pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. He turned on his heels and strode away, leaving the scent of parchment and candle wax in his wake.

Peter watched him go. Brother Anthony’s complaints were nothing more than idle grumbling. Everyone knew the preparations had to take place on consecrated ground, where only those untouched by the world’s sins could receive the rituals from the Brethren of the Sacred Rite. Once the divine ceremonies were completed, the Rector sent the children out to the far corners of the earth as vessels of God’s will.

He sighed, knowing he had other duties, but he could put off the draw of the secrets in the catacombs no longer. At the bottom of the stairs, oddly, only one sword hung. He held the blade over the small opening as instructed. The quiet wasn’t quite still with low mumbled chants in the distance. The Sacred Rite Brethren—he wasn’t prepared to share the space. 

He inserted the key, but it wouldn’t turn. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Locked—the deadbolt.

The Rector had told Peter to find him immediately if he heard anything. This would give him the perfect excuse to ask about the Testament’s passages. Perhaps the head priest would be familiar with the text or the author, giving him a clue to why a firsthand account of the resurrection would be hidden away. 

He hesitated outside the Rector’s office. The door, heavy and worn, loomed in front of him, as though it could sense his guilt. Peter’s grip tightened around the iron keyring at his side, the cool metal biting into his skin. With a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in.” 

As he entered, the Rector remained focused on the heavy tome open on his desk. 

“Father,” Peter began, his voice measured. He paused, choosing his words. “May I ask for your guidance on a matter of translation?”

The Rector hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze didn’t leave the book. Peter fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I found some ancient texts in the Archive,” Peter continued, his tone casual. “They’re … unusual. I thought they might be relevant to our work for Communion.”

The Rector’s hand froze mid-turn of the page. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “What texts?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Peter’s stomach knotted under the intensity of the Rector’s gaze. “Uhm, just old scrolls, an account of … well … a witness of the resurrection … I’d never heard of such an account.”

The priest stiffened. His olive-toned brow furrowed, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “And how,” the Rector asked, his voice dangerously calm, “did you come upon this? In the Brethren’s chamber?”

Peter bit his lip. He glanced at the floor as he struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much.

The Rector’s hand slammed against the desk, the sound reverberating through the room. “You should not have violated that holy space!” His voice, now a thunderous roar, filled the space. “Anything there is not for your eyes, reserved for the Master of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter flinched, his throat dry. “I only wanted to give you something special for—”

“Enough!” The Rector’s voice cracked through the air, his face darkening. “Return those to where you found them and do not speak of them again.”

Peter gave a somber nod.

“Don’t make me regret choosing you as Custodian. And pray for your transgressions, Brother. The Lord’s mercy is not guaranteed for those who meddle in things beyond their station.”

Peter bowed his head, retreating toward the door. The Rector’s anger lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. 

As Peter slipped out of the office, the scripture of the Testament clung to him like a shadow. He wanted to know more, but that desire reeked of pride—an indulgence of his ego. Obedience and discipline were values he was called to exemplify as Custodian. Was his hunger for knowledge another sin, masquerading as piety?

He wandered along the hallway, replaying the moment, his footsteps echoing louder than he intended, each step a reminder of his trespass. He shouldn’t have gone to the Rector—not when he’d already trespassed into forbidden ground. It didn’t matter what he’d uncovered; to the head priest, the Brethren’s chambers were holy, inviolate. 

Peter clenched his fists, the guilt sharp as a blade against his conscience. It cut deep, sharper than he expected. He had been wrong, and he knew it. He had failed his vows, his calling.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a young girl, possibly around twelve years old, who stood at the end of a line of orphans. He scolded himself for being so distracted. The girl didn’t react, seeming not to notice.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Brother Christian, a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Rite, stepped in his way. Tall and lean, his straight posture and pressed robes gave him an air of quiet authority.

“Brother Peter.” He placed his hand on Peter’s arm, guiding him away with a grip of steel. His olive-toned brow contorted into a frown. “They are practicing their vow of silence in readiness for their mission. You know better than to interrupt.”

Peter walked down the corridor, passing their rigid line, their stillness so different from normal. Dull-eyed, expressionless faces gazed straight ahead. 

They must have had to sit through one of Christian’s sermons, Peter thought. There’s many a time I’ve almost fallen asleep from the long drone.

He wanted to thank them for their commitment, and wish them well, but Brother Christian’s scowl kept him going forward.

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

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

 

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

 

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

Hell, he still thought her eyes were brown.

 

Men are more likely to be stabbed on weekends.

Because they’re home annoying their wives.

 

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

 

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

 

Her fingertips ached— manicured nails extending into imperfect talons.

 

Plenty of muscle mommies out there will prove you wrong!

More like muscle monsters!

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

Women kill differently from men.

I expected nothing less.

 

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

 

We are more subtle and patient.

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

 

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

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

 

So like…

Asphyxiation and strangulation.

 

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

 

You mean like drowning their kids in the bathtub?

Or smothering them with pillows.

That’s awful.

 

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

She dove.

 

Nic Tusa

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

Trembling With Fear 4-20-25

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

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

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

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

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

Over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

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

Now, for the standards:

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

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

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

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

(more…)

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

  1. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Four

Chapter Two

                                                          

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unholy Trinity: Before and After the Cazas by Paul Burgess

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

 

“Cazadores de Vampiros”

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

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

 

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

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

 

 

“A Reluctant Hunter”

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

 

Paul Burgess

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