Tagged: Unholy Trinity

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: The Nightmare Bird by Jane Bryan

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.

 

Dark Scavenger

 

A moonless night falls heavily across clustered rooftops. Wings beat shabby black feathers against its weight. A blue-black heart throbs perceptibly behind gore-mottled ribs as scabbed talons catch the roof-spine ridge that is the apex of a church. Time-tattered wings fold. A raucous caw tears the sky. Red eyes scan a dreaming village.

The first dream comes. 

Red eyes flare to a brilliance that dims the stars. A black tongue flits in pleasure within a cracked beak. A tapped mind nourishes a bottomless dark gullet. 

Dreams flow in succession. 

Dawn stains the horizon. The scavenger reluctantly departs from the banquet.

 

Dream Smoke

 

Valerian, mugwort, passionflower, chamomile. Dried, crumbled, and laced with extract from the blood-red plant that exists outside of man’s nomenclature. The apprentice’s eyes follow intently every measurement, every movement of the master’s hands, knowing the responsibility of the smoke will soon enough fall to him.

“The Nightmare Bird cannot overlook any dream,” the master speaks. “It is compelled to collect all it encounters.” The apprentice holds the pipe, watches the master pack its bowl.  “The smoke will bring the dreams that hold the Nightmare Bird to our village and shield the dreamers’ souls.”

The apprentice nods and swallows his fear.

 

The Nightmare Bird

 

The new moon hides, and my sanity slips. The stars bear down, biding time. Their malevolence is palpable, terrifying. The trees snicker at my fears from the dark. Do I trust my eyes full of profaned bodies of the fallen, or am I the fallen one?

The stray newcomer destroyed the pipe in reckless incredulity. Too few inhaled the smoke that brings the dreaming. No sleep to dream, no dream as offering, the Nightmare Bird has roosted in my mind.

Beyond the village, an unnatural avian cry rends the heavens like a chorus of countless screams.

The world is forfeit.

 

Jane Bryan

Jane Bryan was born and grew up (kind of). She is bipedal, omnivorous, and carbon-based. Her interests include speculative fiction, amateur phrenology, air sculpture, and sarcasm. She lives where her stuff is.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: The Threads of Ruin by Michael Adamas

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.

 

I.

 

A black powder was falling from the sky. 

Terry stared at the precipitation in confusion; it was too warm for snow, and why would it be dirty this far from civilization? Her gaze turned toward a maple that was dusted with the substance.

The tree was dying before Terry’s eyes. Its leaves had gone brown and fallen. Pustules bubbled up under the bark, splitting it apart. Jumping back in shock, she saw the grove of pines behind her home decaying with the arrival of the terrible substance.

Terry crumpled to her knees, helpless, as the death came to her forest.

 

II.

 

Lucas squinted, trying to make out the approaching figures through the gloom. The boy was sheltered in the burnt remains of a house on what used to be a nice street. He adjusted his oxygen mask, letting out a muted cough. 

The figures drew closer. Raiders, searching for spoils in a land of poisoned earth. Three of them, and armed. They scattered like the vultures they were and picked greedily through the suburban ruins.

When he was sure that they wouldn’t see him, Lucas picked up the backpack he had loaded with supplies and slipped away, disappearing into the wasteland.

 

III.

 

The planet’s surface was littered with bones. Twisted, mutilated skeletons of trees stood among them, massive grave markers for the species lost. The biologists had seen the sight before on several worlds already.

The taller of the two scanned the soil with several instruments held in his many sets of arms. “Xymethian fungus, without a doubt,” he confirmed, waving his antennae wildly.

The second biologist opened communications with their ship. “Confirmed, the Plague has eradicated this world.”

They sadly entered the shuttle airlock. As the anti-fungal gas surrounded them, they prayed that next time, they would not be too late.

 

Michael Adamas

Michael Adamas was born in a barn and raised in a house. He spends long afternoons in the woods and creates art in his free time. He lives in Ohio.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Glamoury 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.

 

Hoodwinked

 

It’s midnight and the girl in red keeps screaming.

He races to tackle her assailant and finds he’s grabbing handfuls of unkempt fur, solid muscle. Dense clouds part and moonlight pours down as the hideous thing rips free, whirling to confront him. Howling and snapping, yellow eyes blazing hate.

The girl’s laughing.

Peeling off her scarlet dress, her human skin.

He runs, but she’s faster. A leap brings him down and she wrestles him onto his back, claws slicing. Opens his belly with one ferocious swipe, triumphant smile sprouting razor fangs.

“Don’t get greedy, Grandma,” she snarls. “This one’s mine!”

 

Footloose

 

He wakes strapped to an operating table.

Specimen jars line the walls and two smiling girls lean over him. He recognises one: the tireless salesgirl who insisted on fetching every pair of shoes his size, who said he had perfect feet.

She doesn’t have feet now. Or legs. And neither does her sister. One glimpse of their snake-like lower halves and he’s struggling, yelling for help.

Nobody comes.

The giggling sisters lay out their saws and scalpels as his frantic eyes skim the room, desperately seeking escape. And he finally sees what’s inside the countless glass jars.

Perfect human feet.

 

Reclusive

 

She’s high in an inaccessible tower, singing sweetly as she spins. That beautiful voice is mesmerizing. He spends hopeless hours circling, searching for a way in.

Eventually she lowers a thin silky rope. It’s strangely sticky, but it takes his weight so he climbs up. Squeezes eagerly through the tiny window – into a shadowy room overflowing with tapestries. Attendants hover silently, motionless.

He blinks – and the tapestries turn into thick cobwebs. Countless corpses hang from them, sucked dry.

She scuttles out. Strikes before he can flee.

And once he’s safely bundled in her larder, she starts singing and spinning again.

 

Deborah Tapper

Deborah Tapper has been published in anthologies, magazines and online. She lives in the middle of nowhere with her understanding partner, drinks too much strong tea and writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: A Birth Story by Caiti Quatmann

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.

 

I.

 

Blinding lights and pain. The room was alive with chaos, as if an unseen beast was ripping her open. Her screams mingled with the sterile hum of the operating room, each contraction like raw claws tearing through muscle and flesh. 

Unmedicated. Her body fought the intrusion, but the pain was primal, fierce, and relentless. The doctors moved with urgent precision, faces obscured by drapes and masks, while she endured the wild, feral agony. 

Her baby’s cries echoed faintly, a haunting reminder of the life she was fighting to bring into the world, as the beasts above roared their final rage.

 

II.

 

In the clinical silence of the hospital, she drifted like a spectral figure. The birth had been a blur, her mind dissociating to escape the trauma. 

She lay in the dimly lit room, unable to hold her baby, who lay in the bassinet, just beyond her reach. Each creak of the hospital bed felt like a distant echo, her surroundings a mere apparition. 

Sleep eluded her, and she wandered through her days in a fog of memories and pain, a ghost haunted by the shadows of what she couldn’t remember, unable to connect with the life she had just birthed.

 

III.

 

Home was no sanctuary; it was a place of feverish delirium. The doctors discharged her after four days, failing to notice the dawning infection.

Her body, this vessel of new life, flooded with the threat of death.  She was collapsing into sepsis, her skin a sallow mask of illness. 

The once comforting familiarity of home felt alien as she fought the creeping poison within. Her body, wracked with chills and unrelenting pain, seemed to be slipping away, leaving her on the precipice of an abyss, where the family she’d so desperately fought to have now threatened to claim her instead.

 

Caiti Quatmann

Caiti Quatmann (she/her) is a disabled poet and writer. She is the author of the poetry chapbook Yoke (MyrtleHaus) and Editor-in-Chief for HNDL Mag. She studied and taught writing at the University of Missouri St. Louis. Her poetry and personal essays have been published by Thread LitMag, The Closed Eye Open, and others. Caiti lives and works in St. Louis, Missouri, USA, and teaches at a local Microschool. Find her on Instagram and Threads @CaitiTalks.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Laundry Day by Debbie Paterson

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.

 

Laundry Day

 

The laundry pile is larger, spilling into the bath. She sighs and grabs an armful.

 She heads to the kitchen, loads up the machine and switches it on. At the window, a shadow passes by.

 She’s alone in the house, her husband working again, more overtime. More time away, more time she’s alone. It used to bother her, the empty days, empty nights. It doesn’t anymore though.

 The lurking shadows bother her more. Creeping, stalking, there.

 As she sits, a shirt sleeve tightens around her throat, followed by shadowed fingers from behind. She didn’t notice the shadow that followed in.

 

 

Missing

 

It takes a few days for him to notice. The laundry basket is steadily filling up, a smell permeating the hall.

He’s too busy with work, overtime, bills, rent. He’s spotted her several times, wandering from one room to another but she doesn’t stop to speak. He guesses she’s angry at him for something, though he knows not what.

Instead the basket is full to overflowing, and the smell is getting worse.

He’s run out of shirts then trudges to the hall. He grabs an armful of dirty washing and there, in the laundry basket is his wife’s severed head.

 

Notice

 

He finds the body in the bath covered in clothes and she’s buried underneath.

There’s a shadow, holding his wife’s head. He’s cold, so, so cold. It walks away out the door.

He stares, not quite believing. Not quite sure what he’s looking at, that his wife is lying dead in the bath. And something has been in his house for days and he hasn’t noticed.

Something has been living there and he didn’t notice. Something killed his wife and he didn’t notice.

Like most of his marriage, he didn’t notice her and it’s only now he notices her absence.

 

Debbie Paterson

Debbie is a 38 year old writer from Scotland, living with her partner, two cats, elderly dog, two turtles and a grumpy spotted talking catfish. She enjoys reading, cooking, collecting and video games. She has always had a passion for stories, particularly those with interesting characters and a strong plot.

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Unholy Trinity: Medusa By Jack Reigns

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.

 

I.

 

The statues filled the courtyard. Two women stepped carefully around them, not wanting to disturb their terrible beauty. The lifelike detail amazed them. Gilly reached out to caress one, frozen in agony like all the others. “Can you believe this? The artist made pores on its skin.” Her girlfriend Nora stepped closer. “Why are they all men?” A hissing noise makes them look up. A large serpent tail slides out of view. Gilly stepped back, heart racing. Nora picked up a stick, and leaned forward, searching. A hypnotic voice hums from behind a statue and asks, “Where is my tribute?”

 

II.

 

Clyde made it to the end of the trail, and the statues began exactly where he was told they’d be. An enormous scale art instillation, hidden deep in the forest, only for the most desperate to find. The rumors at university were true, all this abandoned art for the taking. He looked for a piece he could break off to present as a final project. A quick rattling noise made him jump and pause, there weren’t rattlesnakes here. “Are you admiring my art, young man?” a sultry, feminine voice asked. “Would you be interested in seeing more of my collection?”

 

III.

 

She wove between statues, missing the touch of a living thing, wishing attraction were a conscious choice. If only the ones I craved weren’t so fragile. Those at the far end of her garden were lost strangers, robbers, and thieves. The middle was filled with truth seekers, manipulators, worshippers of her cult. The ones closest to her home were those who’d entertained her, intrigued and attracted her. Four thousand years alone in this cursed forest and there would be no end to this hell. She wished her visitors understood, only those who meant her harm could be turned to stone.

 

Jack Reigns

Jack Reigns was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and finds the area a constant source of inspiration. A lifelong horror fan, as a child Jack would get in trouble for scaring family with stories and is thankful to now share them with willing participants. Jack is the author of The Reigns of Terror series of short horror collections, and a proud member of the Seattle Chapter of The Horror Writers Association. Available works can be found at jackreigns.com.

Trembling With Fear

 by 

Unholy Trinity: The Holiday Things by Shanti Leonard

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.

 

Jack-O-Halloween

 

Halloween bled out into the day, spilling forth from the ether in wispy low hanging fog. Crows perched on slanted pickets, ushering in the dusk with their silhouettes, and beckoning trick-or-treaters out under the overcast sky. 

The jack picked its way through the lawn toward the open window, grass nearly up to its chest. It stopped below the sill, looking around, tungsten reflecting in its eyeholes, thin limbs shining wet in the glow. 

No children around. So nobody could see it. Time to climb inside, cling to the adult necks, drain their memories and ambition through its wicked invisible bite.

 

Thankstaking

 

Thanksgiving was here. Brown and orange. Gravy thick and plentiful. Spices swirling in the autumn air, filling the lungs of huddled families, giving them the ability to all talk at once.

The taker was in the wall, watching through a vent, eating up all the thanks not given through its twisted mouth—teeth spiraling, yellow eyes bugging past the sockets.

At night when the people were sleeping it’d crawl into their ears and drink up their understanding…only a little at a time…

It said a prayer, thankful for the gathering. Now it could send its babies to new feeding homes.

 

Dancing In Their Heads

 

Christmas Eve was the most plentiful night of the year for the hiders. So many colorful lights casted shadows for them to melt into. And the dreams that night were so joyful, wonderous, and juicy.

  They would crawl far up into the sleeper’s nostrils and eat those dreams, defecate out nightmares that would clog up the folds of their brains, eventually leaking into those people’s thoughts, and crippling their minds.

Hiders always wished for blankets of white snow, dancing sugar plums, and presents for the people. They’d wish for music and mirth…so their holiday feast would be lush and delicious.

 

Shanti Leonard

Shanti grew up in a tiny town in the mountains of Northern California, riding bikes and sleds, and playing in the forest surrounding his house. Many people who live in his hometown claim some sort of experience with the supernatural, but he remains skeptical…with unexplained experiences of his own.

His adventures have led him to Hawaii, Texas, and the beautiful, but obviously imaginary, land of Los Angeles, where he sometimes makes movies. His short fiction has appeared in the anthology MOOD READER and his novels include the coming-of-age horror OD AND ED.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Bigfoot By Jack Reigns

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.

 

I.

The print in the mud was enormous, and the sight of it made the hikers pause. “Is that, like, a bear?” A.J. asked. No one answered. Theo, the closest, bent down to inspect it. Rico turned around to look down the trail behind the group. They all felt something watching them, waiting. A smell like rotting meat, body odor, and fecal matter wafted over the group. Rico gagged. A branch snapped under an enormous weight. A shape appeared between the trees. Dark and enormous, it resembled a tree trunk at first. The thing began sprinting towards them. The men ran.

 

II.


Angie heard the dogs barking out in the barn. Not barking; losing their goddamn minds. For the third time since she moved onto this sixty-acre lot bordering the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest, she thought she should get herself a shotgun. Homesteading as a single woman was no joke. She grabbed the flashlight and headed out. The remains of the goat stopped her short. Entrails stretched across the yard from the pen to the barn. A dog yelped in pain while another growled. Angie reached for her cell phone. The wall of the barn exploded outwards, carrying a dog’s body with it.

III.


Dispersed camping offered everything Beau wanted without bullshit rules and nasty outhouses. Nothing compared to waking up in the fresh cool morning and pissing into a mountain stream. He felt eyes on him and reached for the .357 revolver on his side. His fingers brushed the handle and something slammed into his body and sent him flying into the water. He gasped, and his face plunged into the rushing water. A huge reddish-brown animal walked closer, upright on two legs. It lifted his body, pained seared through his hip. It had taken a bite, and lifted him again for more.

 

Jack Reigns

Jack Reigns was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest and finds the area a constant source of inspiration. A lifelong horror fan, as a child Jack would get in trouble for scaring family with stories and is thankful to now share them with willing participants. Jack is the author of The Reigns of Terror series of short horror collections, and a proud member of the Seattle Chapter of The Horror Writers Association. Available works can be found at jackreigns.com.