Tagged: Unholy Trinity

Unholy Trinity: Who Cries for the Executioner by Martin P. Fuller

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

Who cries for the executioner

They follow. Long lines of the silent. Never speaking, but always watching me.

I’d had to kill them. I’m the state executioner, paid to end their forfeited, judged lives. I comfort my soul with the knowledge some were murderers, thieves, rapists, vagabonds. 

It’s the others which haunt me. The women, the children I’ve killed. Their grey faces mouthing curses as they point to me, their killer. I cannot live with this and place my head in my own noose, jumping from the scaffold.

They watch no more, but I know they wait to meet me at the gates of Hell.

Burning desire

‘You will love me even in death’ was her curse, her screaming words a lament of pain, mixed with rage. 

Yet I’d loved her, cherished her. Turned a blind eye to her ungodly ractices. Then she rejected me, laughing at my proposal.

The laughter wounded and humiliated me.

So, I told the town about her deeds. Planted satanic evidence in her house. When she was convicted, I offered to ignite her pyre. I watched her burn. 

Afterwards, they found me in the smouldering embers, my skin charring as I kissed her partly cremated skull, my love for her finally rekindled.

Tales from the toolbox

I despise sloppy work, being precise, skilled, an artist and craftsman of extinction. 

My fees are reasonable, depending on the sentence requested. Inside my ‘special toy box’ is the simple long hafted axe, requiring strength and although it  requires proficiency to wield it. The double-handed sword is more efficient but not as awe inspiring. The garrot I find tedious, and multiple knife cuts death takes time. I charge accordingly. My secret passion is in the dark recesses of the box. A tinderbox for a good old-fashioned burning. Now there’s a spectacular execution.

I’m available for sanctioned executions and children’s parties. 

Martin P. Fuller

Martin P. Fuller lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: –  a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years. He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

Unholy Trinity: Ones and Zeros by F.M. Scott

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.

Ones and Zeros

The thrust, the firepower, the ones and zeros.  The flawless timing of every component, every brain involved.  The money.

Meritok Corp., with this mission as a trophy of its holdings, a token to the planet that owed its progenitor the spoils of a man who reflected the promise of global community, bankrolled the Juliette.  Andries sat in its cockpit, waiting to depart asteroid Murnau-8 with samples of the blue ore detected by a previous probe.

Outside the window, a purple cloud advanced.  Sensors warned 1,000 feet, 500, 100…  Fixed, angular faces poured from it.  Cabin lights went out like candles.

Gray

Backup power and communication failed.

An hour passed, then another.  Ignition failed, countless times.

Murnau-8 turned away from the Sun, snuffing out all ambient light.  Andries sat strapped inside the Juliette, playing a loop of his life movie, his conquests.  And failures.

Shining a penlight, he fumbled for the case under his seat.

The Gray Pill.  Chemical execution in a vitamin-sized caplet.  Three time-release phases—sedative, paralytic, heart stopper.  Less than a half hour.

Dark tranquility cupped Andries.  Like clockwork his muscles became leaden, breath labored.  Above him hovered a glowing face like those he’d seen through the window before.

Wait for It

The asteroid mission he’d funded, supervised, and flown solo as his money and legal machine stipulated, had dissolved.  It sank under last-second failure, marooned him in the land of a blue ore whose gases promised repair for an overheating Blue Planet.

Barely conscious and fading under the paralytic phase of the Gray Pill, Andries felt the jolt of ignition as the Juliette’s power returned—the result of commands queued up before it blinked out.

He lifted off, managing a feeble, resigned laugh as the spirits of this rock returned him to a desolation encased in the artifacts of his kind.

 

F.M. Scott

F.M. Scott is from Tulsa, Oklahoma.  His stories have appeared in Apple in the Dark, The Horror Tree, The Killer Collection Anthology (Nick Botic Horror), Sirius Science Fiction, The Tulsa Voice, and The Rock N’ Roll Horror Zine.

WEBSITE: www.fmscott.com

TWITTER: @fmscottauthor

INSTAGRAM: fmscottauthor

Unholy Trinity: Down Stream by Andy Martin

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.

Nymph

The creek flowed southeast through hills scraped raw for coal and gypsum before winding through the ‘burbs and into Philadelphia.

Mark waded, casting upstream where the bank eroded, the tree roots making a shelf for trout underneath. He dropped the fly just short of the roots and hooked up, the fish running hard downstream.

Rod high, he reached as it surfaced, not a trout at all, more like an otter made of plastic bags and weeds but somehow alive. His fingers were gone before he could pull his hand away, his blood staining the creek as the thing slashed downstream-  

Pupae

Dad was on midnights so when Anthony came in yelling about something in the creek, Theresia shoved him out the door, Dad’s hanging coat a reminder to “BE QUIET.”

Now that she saw, she wished she’d woke him up.

There was a mountain of trash and leaves under the Rhawn Street bridge, the creek backing up behind it, running over the bank.

“I told you T!”

“We gotta call someone-”

A shudder ran through the big mess and it opened its eyes.

It dragged itself under the bridge, the bottles in its back shattering on the stone-

The bridge collapsed-

Emerger

“Wake up.”

“Huh?”

“Wake up, you smell that?”

“Jesus, low tide?”

“We’ve never smelled it like that before-”

Brad was heading for the window. They were almost a mile from the river-

A roaring, blinding light-

“Kate!”

“Brad!”

Somehow, they were both alive, the front of their row home yawning open to their narrow street.

A gas explosion?

There was another boom, the wind pulling at them, their neighbors were screaming, and over the smoking pile that had been Snyder Ave, Brad saw a leg, hundreds of feet around, coming down again, river water and trash raining down from it-

THE END

 

Andy Martin

Andy Martin is an archaeologist, fisherman, and musician who lives in South Philadelphia with his partner and cat. His writing profile is Instagram.com/@grassapewritesandyells. His music can be found at clamfight.bandcamp.com and Instagram.com/@clamfight.

Unholy Trinity: No Humans Involved by Andy Martin

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 Person…

“You gotta learn kid, it’s always the same with these people. He had problems, but he was getting his act together. Bullshit,” Damico shoved the clipboard at her. “I’ll drive, you write.”

Cruz nodded. The missing guy’s Abuela looked like her own, but tough luck for Abuela, her grandson looked like every creep junkie asshole who’d ever hissed at Cruz in the street-

“In a perfect world, you’d mark that ‘NHI” and move on-”

“NIH?”

“No humans involved.”

Cruz laughed, she loved it.

*

Miguel woke underground, the dream of an old woman he loved fading, replaced by burning hunger-

Floater…

“Look ma’am, if we got no body, we got no reason to be here.”

The jogger was pale. Cruz believed her; she’d seen something in the river. 

“I know what I saw-”

Damico waved over the Schuylkill. “Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. If you did, it-”

“She. The body was a woman.”

Damico gave Cruz a look. “-she’ll pop up. And ma’am, it’s getting dark. It’s not safe for you out here alone.” 

*

Underwater, she clung to a shopping cart on the bottom, listening to the sounds of prey above. She was ravenous but her time would come.

No Humans Involved…

Damico was bit and bleeding bad. 

“We gotta get back to the car.”

Cruz looked out the doorway of the abandoned rowhouse.

“They’re all over it.”

“Fucking set up, Jesus,” Damico whined.

Cruz was plotting her route to the car when the floor gave way, spilling them into the basement and the waiting mouths below.

*

“Back up, back up,” Miller said, twisting in his seat.

Timmons reversed and hit the spotlight. Skinny bodies faded under the El as he did.

Miller was pale.

“Jesus, it can’t be, but two of them junkie fucks looked just like Cruz and Damico.”

Andy Martin

Andy Martin is an archaeologist, fisherman, and musician who lives in South Philadelphia with his partner and cat. His writing profile is Instagram.com/@grassapewritesandyells. His music can be found at clamfight.bandcamp.com and Instagram.com/@clamfight.

 

Unholy Trinity: For the Flies by Eliza Hyde

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.

These drabbles detail three key parts in the unnamed murderer’s life – himself as a teen, then a story in the throes of his serial killing, and finally a final drabble set at the end of his life. Flies are a recurring theme in each of the drabbles, signifying death. I took the idea from a longer piece I wrote which was never published, again from the P.O.V of a serial killer. 

Consumed by Death

I’d never seen a naked woman before, let alone a dead one.

She was sprawled on the floor, her eyes glassy and unseeing. Flies darted across her body, over skin that was just the wrong shade of pale. No breath escaped her blue lips, no steady rise and fall of her chest. 

Properly Dead. 

There were no clues as to how she might have passed on, especially with her being so youthful. I knelt down beside her, my fourteen year-old self fascinated by her frozen perfection. I allowed myself to be caught in her empty gaze, and never really escaped.

Hunger

The woman was alone, and I swear I could hear the annoying thudding of her heartbeat.

Her heart will be the first to go, I thought. I’ll hold the wretched thing in my hands, relishing its dying, futile pulses. 

I was hungry for blood, and the flies…the flies were hungry for death. I could hear them too, buzzing greedily in the darkness. I owed it to them, my companions in murder.

I hung back in the shadows, protected by the night. I gripped my dagger tightly as the woman approached, unsuspecting. 

Her heart pounding in her chest.

Not for long

Time Bleeds Away

I coughed, tasting blood on my lips. Somewhere, a clock ticked and tocked. A frustrating mechanical heartbeat, out of reach and a constant reminder that my time was slowly ebbing away.

I was too weak to climb up, knock it off the wall, smash it to pieces just as I’d destroyed a dozen lives or more. Instead I lay there on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Pathetic, tired, but free. Just myself, and a head full of secrets.

I wonder if they’ll ever find the bodies, I pondered, hearing the faint buzzing of some hungry flies.

Hungry for me…

Eliza Hyde

Eliza Hyde is a trans writer, teacher, Youtuber, radio presenter and Doctor Who fanatic, who divides her spare time between drinking tea, watching horror movies and listening to heavy metal. She has had several short stories and Doctor Who-related essays published in the past, and is currently working on a novel. Her favourite authors are Poppy Z. Brite and Douglas Adams, and her favourite Doctor Who is all of them.

 

Unholy Trinity: Nightshades by Deborah Tapper

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.

Liar

My big sister said if you tell lies, the bogeyman gets you.

He knows. And he’ll creep through the window in the middle of the night, cut your tongue out with an enormous pair of scissors and put it in his pocket.

But that’s not how it happened.

It was a bogeywoman, and she slid through a crack in the wall. She didn’t cut my big sister’s tongue out at all – she chewed it off with her long, sharp teeth. And she didn’t put it in her pocket, either: she swallowed it.

That’s the truth.

Because I don’t tell lies.

 

Debtor

Someone’s shaking him.

He jolts awake. Three hulking men surround his bed. ‘You owe her,’ one says.

‘Owe?’ He sits up. He doesn’t owe anyone anything.

‘Three. Plus interest.’

‘You got the wrong guy.’

‘Two molars and an incisor.’

‘Teeth…?’ he says. ‘You’re the Tooth Fairy?’

‘I collect for her. Three plus twenty years’ interest – that’s fifty.’

‘This is crazy!’ He’s angry now. And scared. ‘I don’t have fifty teeth!’

‘That’s okay. She accepts other things.’

They pin him down. Open a case. He sees pliers, saws, scalpels. The man chooses shears. Grins, blades ready. ‘We call it parts payment.’

 

Stalker

She’s under the bed again. He’s never seen her, but she whispers to him. He jams his fingers in his ears. Won’t listen.

His parents try therapy. Move house several times. It’s no good: she always finds him. He’s sixteen now, sleeping in yet another new room. He’s in bed when he feels her sliding in beside him. Bony hand on his chest. Her voice, whispering.

This time he listens.

The house is empty for months after he vanishes. Then another family moves in. Their son won’t sleep in that room. He hears things under the bed.

A voice.

Whispering.

Deborah Tapper

Deborah Tapper is fascinated by folklore and the supernatural, drinks too much strong coffee and watches too many old TV shows. She lives in the middle of nowhere with her understanding partner and writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs. If she’s not writing or thinking about writing, she’s probably either asleep or dead.

 

Unholy Trinity: Good Deeds by Shawn Casselberry

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.

‘This is a series of misfortunes that involve bad luck and loss. I’m really captivated by someone who tries real hard but still loses. I like taking the meritocracy idea and chopping it into fine little pieces. Nothing is scarier to me than tragedy and failure. The fact that bad luck and loss can strike anyone at any moment makes life truly a horror.’ – Shawn Casselberry

Good Deeds

The memories were fresh in his mind.

Like the time he pulled over to help the man on the side of the road and got mugged or the time he stepped in to protect a woman at the bar and ended up in the hospital with thirteen stitches or the time he went on a humanitarian trip to Haiti and contracted hepatitis.

So when he saw someone drowning in the cold pond behind his house he didn’t dare go in. Instead, he went into his cozy home, threw some more wood on the fire, and wondered where his wife was. 

 

Accidents Happen


It had been 364 days since the last reported accident, which was tied with their record. 

The boss said if they made it one more day the whole crew would get a bonus. 

That was money Victor could use for a vacation with his kids. 

His ex-wife’s new husband was always taking them on expensive trips. 

Victor wanted to prove to her, and himself, that he wasn’t the failure everyone thought he was. 

So at the end of the day, he ran to change the accident sign not noticing the grease spot and slipped, smashing his dream and his skull.

Record Speed

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” my track coach used to say. 

I embraced that wholeheartedly as a sophomore in college and placed in several races. 

But now I’m much older. 

The years have packed on extra weight, and I find myself needing to embrace the slogan again. 

I step on the treadmill and keep upping the speed until I’m literally running for my life. 

My coach’s words echo in my head, “What doesn’t kill you…” 

Something snaps in my legs, my face slams against the belt, and my body whips through the air at record speed into unconsciousness. 

Shawn Casselberry

Shawn Casselberry is a writer, poet, and obsessive Google maps reviewer who loves telling fictional and real life stories. He’s written a couple books and plans to submit more of his work in 2022. He lives in the Chicagoland area with his partner and their dog.

Unholy Trinity: Reflections by Deborah Tapper

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.

Mirror Image

His kid sister’s banging on the bathroom door again, so he turns the music up even louder. Combs his fingers through his dark hair. Tilts his head a little, admiring the effect.

The mirror boy smiles back, exposing razor teeth.

He stares in frozen disbelief as the grin splits open, mouth stretching until those teeth are all he sees. Then he moves. Too late. His twisted image lunges out, jaws crunching shut.

Deafening music drowns the screams, the terrible wet ripping.

His reflection slides back below the mirror’s surface like a satisfied shark, tattered skin still caught between its teeth.

 

Night Vision

The room looks slightly different at night.

He stands in front of the mirror. Bed, closet, unwashed laundry – all normal. Then he snaps the light off. Stares at the shadowy reflection. Something in the far corner, hunched and shapeless.

Not in his room.

Only in the mirror.

It creeps closer every night. Slow. Furtive. Hungry. When it climbs on his bed he gets scared. Hides in the bathroom. There’s nothing in the mirror the following night. He sleeps in the tub again anyway. Just to be sure.

That’s where the police find his skin.

But they don’t find anything else.

 

Looking Glass

The smudge won’t go.

She breathes on the antique mirror, tries again. She’s selling to a fussy collector, who won’t buy if he sees this flaw. It’s almost like an eye. And rubbing only makes it worse.

She pushes harder – harder – and her hand plunges through.

The glass seals around her wrist, trapping her. She struggles, kicks the mirror, but it won’t break and it’s sucking her in. It’s already swallowed her arm to the elbow. She fights until her face squashes against the glass. Then she screams instead.

She’s gone.

The mirror ripples.

And something very different comes out.

Deborah Tapper

Deborah Tapper loves all things strange and macabre. She writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.