Tagged: Trembling With Fear

Trembling With Fear 5-11-25

Greetings, children of the dark. The team has been working hard to get through various backlogs at TWF Towers, and we are getting there slowly. Many residents chipped in to get the (very) overdue anthology proofread and ready to go, and I believe the boss man is doing some final touches to that now alongside some various tech design updates for the website and newsletter. Busy guy, as always! Elsewhere, we’re up to date on drabble submissions—and as usual, I’m calling for more more MOAR. We publish three of those a week, so always have a need. 

However, a gentle reminder that we’re looking for the dark and speculative. That means the ol’ gorefest horror and true crime is unlikely to cut it with us anymore. Want to write about a stalker? Make them non-human and it’ll fit better. 

Take a cue from this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. Our main course comes from the mind of Jim Larsen, and I have to warn you that there’s some images in here that might not be suitable for all. Scroll down to the drabbles if you might be triggered by suicide, dead bodies, and child grief. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:

  • Catherine Berry’s foggy dilemma,
  • Andrea Tillmann’s unending hunger, and
  • Alper Ghuchlu’s final rejection.

Over to you, Stuart

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

Hi all.

I believe both Trembling With Fear Books are also in final proofing. I think we’ve got the page count correct, so (ideally by the time that you read this) we’re going to be sending over the size details for both to our cover artist to make final tweaks!

While we still have a few changes to make and I need to run it by everyone to make sure it is looking good. I do believe that our new newsletter layout is also complete, so I just need to time it right to switch us from the current template (and provider) to the new one! 

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 Five

  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
  5. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Six Scheduled for May 17, 2025

Chapter Five

                                                          

Peter sat in the dimly lit Archive, the timeworn second scroll of the Testament of the Resurrection manuscript before him. His fingertip traced along the parchment, the cool texture grounding him as his attention drifted back to the moments after Communion.

The Rector had banished James to a work camp. “Sacrificing for Christ will save the lad’s soul,” the elder had said, but Peter couldn’t shake the memory of the boy’s wild eyes. 

Was the young man’s soul already gone? A chill ran through him.

Although the Rector hadn’t said where, he had assigned Christian to a new parish. Peter couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction; well-earned consequences for the priest’s reckless actions. He frowned, chiding himself for the unkind thought. Justice wasn’t his to decide—only God and the Rector.

His gaze returned to the ancient writing. 

He had promised—he would return the precious scrolls. His resolve had been firm, preparing to do as the Rector commanded. But now, when he touched the fragile manuscripts, an urge to know stirred deep within him. 

Peter pressed his palms to his face, trying to quell the rising pressure. He prayed, God, please, help me resist this temptation. Give me strength … clarity. 

A strange peace settled over him, unfamiliar yet undeniable, allowing his thoughts to sharpen. The sensation drowned out the echo of the Rector’s orders. Was this the Lord’s presence—or simply the intensity of his own desires clouding his judgment? 

He didn’t want to—he knew this was wrong, but something greater urged him on. His fingers shook, tracing the faded ink. 

At first, the text blurred, the meaning just out of reach. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog. A sense of calm descended, clarity sweeping over him. He whispered the ancient words, unable to stop himself.

On the third day, we beheld the miracle of His risen form. His eyes shone as if the heavens burned within them, and His touch cold, yet carried the burden of eternal life. 

He hungered, as we all must hunger, yet His hunger was unlike ours. We fed him the faithful and those needing salvation. He welcomed them with open arms. We bore witness, with trembling hands and solemn prayers, for who among us can question the will of God made manifest?

The passage felt familiar. He read on, but a strange unease swirled within him.

He spoke in whispers we dared not question, asking for death to come. Blasphemy aimed at the Lord in Heaven worried us that His trials were driving him to Satan’s path.

Apostle Peter’s prayers to the heavenly Father for guidance were answered after many nights. 

The Lord said, “Partake of His eternal blessing. He has sacrificed to save his followers and their eternal souls.”

The words beckoned him to see beyond the surface, but the meaning eluded him. He pressed harder as he continued. 

Apostle Peter took from Him the cup of salvation, and we watched as the disciples followed, becoming a vessel like Him, but less touched by the Lord. We knew then his gifts could only be given in small doses to the flock.

Peter thought, This isn’t quite right. Potērion … Cup … Maybe it should be gift of salvation, not cup. And the next part—Αἰώνιον Χρέος—what did that mean? Eternal debt? Duty?

He closed his eyelids. Oh Father, grant me clarity for the scripture You called me to. 

A distant screech echoed through the thick walls, followed by a muffled bang. Peter glanced up, not sure if he imagined the sound. Then another sharp cry erupted, as if someone was in pain.

He stood, his legs stiff from the hours of reading. He looked toward the door once more, listening. The noise had stopped. The silence felt thicker now, oppressive. 

He reached for the handle, his pulse quickening. Was one of the Brethren injured?

He stepped into the hall, the chill seeping through his robes. His lantern light flickered, painting shadows around him. When he reached the main corridor, he stopped to listen, not sure if the sound came from the direction of the torch-lit exit or the forbidden path straight ahead.

The muted voice rose, strained and desperate, the words indistinguishable but layered with panic. Something heavy collided with metal, reverberating through the stone and the darkness in front of him. 

He strode forward, a sense of urgency filling him. An inhuman scream rang out, and he froze in his tracks.

He rushed back for the sword he’d left behind in the Archive. He had dismissed the weapon as ritual nonsense, but now, with its sharp blade glinting, he felt a strange comfort having the weapon by his side.

When he reached the main hall again, he slowed, but his pulse still raced. 

Should I get the Rector? That was his command, after all.

A desperate cry echoed again, a shriek of pure terror seeping through the granite. No time for that. Besides, the Rector might not take kindly to another interruption, and after the last time—what if he lost access to the Archive? 

Peter took a deep breath and continued forward. After several turns, he came to a single door with Ego Sum Via etched above it. I Am the Way.

He placed his ear to the wood. Violent crashes and shouts mixed with sobs carried through. He stood trembling.

 Just a test from the Lord, he whispered, trying to gain the courage to enter.

With shaky fingers, he grasped the handle, but the locked door didn’t budge. He pulled out his key ring, hoping none would work. He tried the first silver one. It slid in, but wouldn’t turn. He tried again with another and another. The tight knot in his stomach relaxed a bit. Then the fourth key swiveled and the click of the lock resounded.

Holding the blade out in front of him, Peter inched the door open, the creak of the hinges groaning in a rusty protest. All sounds from inside abruptly stopped. He pressed the opening farther, the dread of anticipation prickling his skin.

As the light spilled into the room, two doors stood before him. Across the top of each, words were carved into the surface. To the left, Per Spiritum SanctumThrough the Holy Spirit. To the right, Agnus DeiLamb of God.

Without the clue of the noises to guide him, Peter took a guess, opening the right, and stepping inside. He held the lantern out, revealing no living creatures.

What is this place? A heavy foreboding descended onto Peter’s shoulders.

The sharp tang of lye hit his nose, stinging his eyes. It mingled with the burn of incense, masking an underlying decay. He gagged, covering his mouth as the thick air clawed at his throat.

In the center of the room, a thick chain, scarred from years of use, ran through a circular link bolted to the stone floor. On each end, heavy iron cuffs waited to clasp around a person’s wrists, forcing them to remain anchored to the middle of the space. Peter couldn’t imagine the purpose of restraining someone like this.

As he stepped further into the room, his lantern’s glow revealed an eerie arrangement. Towards the wall on his right, two wooden platforms loomed in the opposite corners, each attached to the wall about five feet high, accessible by rickety stairs. After someone climbed on top, they could pull up the stairs, sealing them inside, fully enclosed and unreachable as they looked down on whatever fate awaited those below.

Straight ahead on the wall opposite where he entered, ancient symbols marred the surface, faded from centuries of exposure to the damp and darkness. They spiraled and twisted in unnatural patterns, as if mocking the sanctity of the place with their cryptic meanings. 

Peter’s breath quickened as his eyes scanned the room, but he couldn’t make sense of it. He tried to focus, to understand the function of the strange, twisted space. It felt as though he had stepped into something ancient, beyond comprehension.

A violent thud rattled the wall to the left of him. He jumped, his heart nearly flying out of his ribcage. 

His gaze snapped toward six rusted panels set in the left wall opposite the platforms. Thick ropes attached at the top of each panel, their worn fibers still intact, led up to pulleys in the ceiling. The cords twisted through loops and crossed above the room. Three hung down over one platform, three to the other.

The bangs from behind the panels grew more frantic, louder, as though something—or someone—was desperately trying to break free. A wail pierced the air, raw and tortured, sending chills racing down Peter’s spine.

With his heart pounding, the purpose of the pulley system became clear, settling over him like a heavy blanket. The person on the platform could pull the ropes to raise the panels, releasing whatever was behind them—securing themselves above, safe from whatever horrors they unleashed below.

The crashes grew faster, more violent. Low growls swelled from the other side, a sound that rattled Peter’s core. He took a step back, throat dry with fear. The room seemed to close in on him, its purpose clear and horrifying.

Time to get the Rector, Peter thought. 

“Help me!” A fist slammed against the first panel, while the other panels continued to vibrate with collisions. “Please!” the familiar voice begged, tearing at Peter’s soul.

“Brother Christian?” Peter asked, hoping he was wrong. 

“Peter, get me out of here.”

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
  5. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Six Scheduled for May 17, 2025

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
  5. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Five
  6. Serial Saturday: The Sacrament by T. H. Sterling, Chapter Six Scheduled for May 17, 2025

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

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