Tagged: Unholy Trinity

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: All In Their Head, New Life & Polaris by DJ Tyrer

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.

 

Part 1: All In Their Head

   

Headaches worsen. Scans reveal mass deep within brain. Not a tumour any specialist recognises.

Suggestion: Bullet penetrated skull as child, lodged. Mystery as to when or where.

Prepare to operate: Head shaved, anaesthetized.

Strange thoughts, feelings as they drift into dark oblivion.

Wake to find themselves bloody, head oddly numb, alone on narrow forest path, pieces of flesh dangling from their fingernails.

Gingerly, reach up: Piece of skull jutting out, half cut away.

Vomits.

Faint hum. Not a sound, but a vibration within their skull.

Somehow, they just know where to go, begin to walk, a bright light awaiting them.

 

Part 2: New Life

 

Grateful for scientific advances, given a new life where, once, death would’ve been only outcome. Of course, more metal than meat, but glad to be alive, no matter how rebuilt.

Only, things haven’t been so good of late. Twitchy. Almost as if his implants had a life of their own. And, the dreams…

The processors don’t run themselves, the doctors say, but he has doubts. Blackouts. Confusion.

What is happening?

Then, one day, he spasms, collapses.

Skin begins to bulge, rip, tear.

He screams as he dies; his titanium skeleton pulling itself free.

Bloody birth. Stretches, welcomes its new life.

 

Part 3: Polaris

 

We feel fear when the Pole Star shines bright above the northern horizon, knowing it heralds portals between our time and others, the star acting as a pharos for misplaced souls.

Do not allow your sleeping spirit to slip away in the night, following that star’s glow into strange pasts or stranger futures. Jungles, primordial and concrete, Ice Age tundra, and more await incautious dreamers.

And, such portals open both ways and things crawl through, alien in thought and form. Should you travel upon starlit paths, you may return to find you cannot waken, your body host to another mind.

 

DJ Tyrer

DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such as Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree), All The Petty Myths (18th Wall), Steampunk Cthulhu (Chaosium), What Dwells Below (Sirens Call), The Horror Zine’s Book of Ghost Stories (Hellbound Books), and EOM: Equal Opportunity Madness (Otter Libris), and issues of Sirens Call, Occult Detective Magazine, parABnormal, Tales from the Magician’s Skull, and Weirdbook, and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on the Kindle, The Yellow House (Dunhams Manor). You can follow their work on Facebook, on their blog or on the Atlantean Publishing website. 

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Emily by Peter K. Rothe

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.

 

Part 1: Awakening

   

Emily, beloved daughter, the light of our world. A small placard grafted to a slumped stump of serrated wood. A pink pointe shoe sways in the frigid wind.

She had her mother’s grace – a memory that provided nourishment through terminal days. Days waiting for grief to start – a bottomless pit that sought for succour in dark, forbidden rituals. 

She stirs in a pit of shallowed grit, the shoe a waypoint, back to her dad, back home.

The soil contracts and groans, giving new birth to his beloved Emily, ushering her out of darkness into a world of fragile lights. 

 

Part 2: Hunger

 

A savage hunger grumbles within her. 

Her first victim, a familiar face. He weeps with joy when he sees her, even when she sinks her teeth into his succulent flesh. A visage which awakes within her a spark, a memory of who she is. 

Daddy now sways with the mindless ones. Not daddy, anymore.

Unlike Emily, whose soul clings onto necrotic flesh. She vows to change, to stop feeding, to yield and wither, to do the right thing. But Emily knows. The moment that carnal, maddening, hunger returned, and it always did,  Emily would recede and the monster would reign.

 

Part 3: Voices

 

She feasts on living flesh. Fresh souls help to quell her thirst, she awakens. Covered in soil and of meagre frame as she contemplates the cruel acts wrought by her own hands. Acts beyond redemption.

She studies the day’s hunt. Meat stirs, awakened by her infection, they rise. Fresh souls were getting harder to find. So few left for her to taste.

Yet, within her, those she ingested weep as a singular voice. A familiar voice. They call her from within, singing, ‘Emily, beloved Emily, light of our world.’

In vain they plead her to stop the never ending night. 

 

Peter K. Rothe

Peter is an ambitious writer, passionate about creating immersive worlds and vivid characters that overcome impossible odds in horror and fantasy genres. He has completed five full-length novels, including an epic fantasy series. Currently, he is working on a horror novel, Midnight Shift, set in a haunted nursing home, and the first book of an African-inspired high fantasy series. His writing revolves around the themes of family, belonging, purpose, and life’s profound questions such as coping with grief and understanding the soul. He aims to touch people’s hearts through his stories.
And give them the occasional nightmare. . .

You can find him on Twitter @Pearbite1.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Cave Painting, The Cooper Party & Trapped by Cassandra Vaillancourt

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.

 

Cave Paintings

 

     When we entered the lower chamber that’s when we saw the paintings. We were awestruck by the almost realistic depictions of animals and humans. There was hunting scenes followed by battle scenes.

     The more we studied, the battle scenes looked more like raiding parties. As we probed deeper, we saw the capturing of prisoners. We all gasped in horror at the imagery depicting the killing and eating of captives followed by celebrations.

     “This cave must’ve been home to a cannibal tribe.” I Mused.

     A harsh voice from behind barked, “YEAH, AND IT STILL IS!”

     We all turn around and scream.

 

The Cooper Party

 

     A group of friends went exploring in Cooper’s Cave which was named after a group led by Professor Cooper that mysteriously vanished.

     After entering the cave, they discovered a subterranean world of wonders of stalactites, stalagmites and columns.

     After going into an almost endless tunnel, they stumbled upon a huge cavernous room. They heard the screeching of bats and looked up.

     Suspended from the ceiling along with the bats was the lost Cooper Party.

     “Professor Cooper?!” asked the leader. He was answered by the ravenous look of the professor and his group as they lunged down on the hapless explorers.

 

Trapped

 

     “Damn!” Greg hopelessly searched in the cave trying to locate the opening where he entered to no avail. Just when he was about to give up hope, a light fell on him. It was a fellow caver who was beckoning him. Relieved, Greg followed his rescuer.

     Greg had a difficult time keeping up through the endless passageways and sudden turns until he was back in the cave alone except for a figure huddled against a wall.

     Greg cast his Carbide lamp on the figure only to discover that it was the frozen, encrusted remains of himself.

     His light goes out.

 

Cassandra Vaillancourt

Hello. My name is Cassandra Vaillancourt. I am a Trans Woman who is making a transition from artist to writer. I work as a humble retail worker. I’m new to The Horror Tree with my first short story “The War Wreck” and the drabble, “Black Gold“. This is my first unholy trinity. My goal is to become more accomplished in the horror genre with hopefully a couple of books published in the future. I am on Facebook and Twitter.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Bullies by Alan Moskowitz

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.

 

Customer Service

 

The cashier called, “Next” and as I stepped forward the woman behind me moved ahead of me. 

“Hey! I’m next!”

The cashier, a privileged self-absorbed teenager no doubt, ignored me as she rang up the woman’s items.

“I’m talking to you missy!” No response.  

I raised my voice, “I want to see your manager! I’ll make sure you’re fired!” Still she ignored me. 

“Answer me or I’ll call the cops! I’ll sue!” Nothing.

I screamed, “You dumb kid! What are you, deaf?  Or just brain-dead?” 

The cashier called, “Next!”   The man behind me moved through me.

“Hey.  I was next!”

 

Bully

 

Jake came home late, smelling of beer, perfume and sweat – again.  Clara was waiting, carelessly cradling his treasured shotgun.  

Before he could start cursing she loudly recited in a guttural imitation, “Why can’t you look like your sister-in-law? If you lost weight you wouldn’t sweat like a pig. If I cheat on you, it’s your fault!”  

She chambered a shell – clack.  

He turned pale, “I don’t mean those things.  I love you.”

She smiled good-naturedly, “Careful with my gun, everyone knows you’re so clumsy you could blow your own stupid brains out.”  

Boom!

Jake’s passing was declared accidental.

 

A Day in the Park

 

Danny tossed the Frisby and Daisy, his Chihuahua, scampered after it. 

Tim, Danny’s ninth-grade nemesis walking his Cane Corso, Thanos, called out, “You call that tiny thing a real dog?” Danny declared, “Daisy’s real, and special. She can do special things.”

  “Yeah? Can she pick you up?” Tim shoved Danny to the ground. Daisy barked angrily. “Ooh. I’m scared!” Tim mocked.

Daisy made eye contact with Thanos. Thanos shook his head, then snarled. “Your dog’s dead meat,” Tim gloated. Thanos suddenly lunged at Tim, eyes red with fury, fangs bared.

Tim ran screaming from the park. 

“Told you she’s special.”

 

Alan Moskowitz

Recently un-retired from screen and TV writing, Alan also creates short genre fiction for fun and sanity. He loves feedback.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Whispers, Signs and Signals by Kevin M. Folliard

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.

 

Whispers

 

“After midnight, Grandpa can speak, but only in whispers,” Grandma explained. “I can’t stay awake so late at my age, but he’ll adore prattling on with you, dear.”

That night, Ella whispered to her grandfather who had died long before she was born.

“Are you there, Grandpa?”

A hushed word, little more than a breath, sliced the darkness: “Yes.”

“Are you proud of me?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

“Are you happy being dead?”

“Almost.”

“What would make you happy?”

“Grandma’s heart medicine.”

The orange bottle sat on the counter.

“Empty the pills down the drain, so Grandma can keep me company.”

 

Signs

 

Father Coughlin turned off the hall light, and the apparition reappeared, the color of moonbeams, the form of his inquisitive former charge. Forever fourteen. Scarred by bullying peers and a thoughtless father who’d shipped him to boarding school.

They’d found Henry, slack limbs swaying, face swollen blue, belt scrunching the beam in his dormitory. Father Coughlin preached that Henry had been condemned to hell for his act.

Yet each night, his ghost smiled and gave the “OK” sign, as if to say, You’re wrong. I’m fine.

And each night, Father locked his office, sipped brandy, and worried about his wrongness.

 

Signals

 

Jace waited hours, while Mom explored a forgotten truck stop. “Could be canned goods,” she’d said. “Could be biters. Probably both. If it’s safe, I’ll signal.”

The sun set, and still no flare.

Against Mom’s orders, he followed.

Three decayed attackers lay defeated at her boots. Blood spurted from her neck wound. She lurched forward. Soulless eyes locked with Jace’s, triggering a spark of recognition. Mom uncapped the flare and brushed it against the fireworks display from that doomed summer.

Brilliant flashes of color erupted behind her.

Jace’s scream drowned in thunderous cracks that signaled undead hordes from every direction.

 

 

Kevin M. Folliard

Kevin M. Folliard is a Chicagoland writer whose fiction has been collected by The Horror Tree, The Dread Machine, Demain Publishing, Dark Owl Publishing, and more. His recent publications include his horror anthology The Misery King?s Closet, his YA fantasy adventure novel Grayson North: Frost-Keeper of the Windy City, and his 2022 dinosaur adventure novel Carnivore Keepers. Kevin currently resides in the western suburbs of Chicago, IL, where he enjoys his day job in academia and membership in the La Grange Writers Group.

 

You can follow him on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Amazon, Goodreads or on his website.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Burn In…, Fire, and The Real Evil by Kellee Kranendonk

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.

 

Burn in…

 

Tied to a post. Flames ignited in straw beneath me. Placid faces in the crowd. Some jeer, throw obscene gestures at me. They believe I deserve to be roasted alive.

Fire licks up my legs, sears my flesh. My thin cotton dress catches. The blaze encases me, eating skin and meat off my bones. A fiery face appears, looks me in the eye. A leering grin appears. He beckons me as the crowd cheers. I will not go to Hell, I try to scream. But my soul has left my body and I realize that’s not where he’s taking me.

 

Fire

 

Her charred body lies there, still smoking, totally ignored. I cannot mourn for if I do they will kill me too. But if I do not… will she be angry?

The last one to remain, I walk quickly away. Before I reach home, scorching hands wrap themselves around my head, cover my eyes, burn away eyelids. I know it’s her. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, even a dead one.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

It’s not enough. Licks of fire jump into being, destroying the home we worked so hard for. I cannot close my eyes against it.

 

The Real Evil

 

They’re lined up on the bridge, thirteen of them, each vile woman as guilty as a whore. Evil lives within their blackened souls, corrupted by Satan himself. They’re gagged and bound as they deserve. Shoved in the water, they will drown only if they are innocent. None will. The power that resides in me will not allow it. They are all impure. I wait, pleased that I myself discovered these ones. They will rise to the surface and come to shore soon, I’m certain of it. They don’t. But I cannot be wrong. No regrets. Satan has claimed his own.

 

 

Kellee Kranendonk

Kellee Kranendonk has spent a lifetime writing. According to her late grandfather she was born with a pen in one hand and paper in the other. She’s certain that these days he would have claimed she was born clutching a laptop.

She’s had over a hundred published stories, poems and non-fiction pieces. Her work has received honourable mentions, been shortlisted; she’s been a spotlight author and some of her pieces were to appear in a school book project, though that didn’t pan out. Kellee has been an editor, has managed online writing groups, and one of her stories appeared in a best selling anthology. She lives in a brand-new merged municipality in New Brunswick, Canada with her family and a variety of animals. You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: The Dunwich Romance by Shawn M. Klimek

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.

 

The Dunwich Heartthrob

 

The stranger lurked outside the clubhouse door wearing a hooded cloak, exposing only his hairy, goatish, albino, face. Eventually, he pushed open the door with a clammy hand, then lumbered through the gap. Conversations froze as those within, mostly women, connected his grotesquery to the source of a tormenting stench. 

Before he could speak, he was interrupted by a lumpish woman with sloped eyes and a drooling, beaver-toothed pucker. 

Pointing an accusing claw, she croaked, “Dunny, aintcha?”

“Yessum.”

“Wicked pissah! We need more men,” she said. “I’m Ingrid Clout.”

“Wilbur Whatley.”

“Welcome to the Dunwich Village Lonely Hearts Club, Willy!”

 

The Dunwich Passion

 

Ingrid reached both arms around the misshapen boy’s naked torso, his bony rib cage heaving with each grunting exertion. Digging her fingernails into his scaly back, she groaned in ecstasy. 

“Oh, Wilbur,” she cried, staring passionately up into the sweaty, chinless face above her. “Whatever you’re doing to me down south, it’s driving me crazy!”

“Say again?”

Momentarily too preoccupied by his own appetites to make out her words, Wilber Whatley paused manoeuvring the lamprey-like tentacles extruding from his furry waist, only to trigger her protests.

“No, don’t stop!” she pleaded.

“Oh, okay,” he said, then resumed suckling her blood.

 

The Dunwich Dinner

 

“I hope your mother likes me,” Ingrid Clout whispered as they arrived at the Whatley home.

“Dinner was her idea,” Wilbur reassured her.

The front door opened to reveal a woman shrouded in black.

Ingrid recoiled. “Has someone died?”

“No. The sun hurts her skin,” Wilbur explained. “We all suffer. Especially my brother. He never leaves the basement.”

“Poor thing.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll dine downstairs. This way,” said Lavinia.

Ingrid followed. “Nice place. A bit dark.”

“We’re here. Watch your stop,” said Lavinia, giving her a shove.

Her screams faded quickly.

“Mother!” Wilbur was inconsolable. “You know Yog doesn’t share!”

 

End

 

 

Shawn M. Klimek

Shawn M. Klimek is the multi-genre author of more than 240 stories and poems in more than 80 anthologies and e-zines, including previous Unholy Trinities in Horror Tree. He is also the solo author of Hungry Thing an illustrated fantasy saga told in poems.

Trembling With Fear

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Unholy Trinity: Trilogy of Light by Christina Nordlander

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.

 

Sparkle

 

My hand and arm had several opaque, shining facets, without pores. I thought they were attractive, like crystal scales. I preferred them to my first constellations of liver spots.

I didn’t go to the doctor. I wanted to see whether they would make me sparkle.

During that time, I never thought about what was underneath. There are tree galls that push out shoots once the larvae inside are mature.

One morning, one of the facets slid out, a slim-lined ice obelisk. It pierced my watch-strap, I had to tear it free.

I stumbled to the mirror, feeling others pushing through.

 

Reflections of the Sparkling Vampire

 

The sparkle is his immortality surfacing. He can still move, but within decades his joints will seize up and his fibrous lungs will stop expanding. He already has diamond skin and ruby organs.

After each hibernation he wakes with more of the crystal facets. Sometimes one clogged pore flips, like a tiny manhole cover, revealing its shining underside.

He drinks the blood of maidens and youths: messily, uncleanly, to show himself that he loathes it. He doesn’t know whether it slows the process, but he wants to have something alive inside him, regardless of origin, sloshing between the crystallised walls.

 

The Shining Plague

 

The crowds in the streets slowed. Hair grew more burnished, then longer, as if it poured from their scalps. It turned jewelled colours; it grew out in curls and ringlets. Skin turned clearer, more mineral. Ears and fingers grew more slender, eyes huge and fragile.

Bodies attenuated, as if the violent growth of hair had sucked out their juices. They shot to such height that they started tottering, then snapping. Fingers twisted longer, tears – and now blood – sparkled, and still whirlpools of hair flowed through alleys, meeting and intertwining.

From a high enough vantage point, it would have been beautiful.

 

The End

 

 

Christina Nordlander

Christina Nordlander was born 1982 in Sweden. She now lives outside Birmingham, UK, with her husband, and works for a car leasing company. She has published over 20 stories and other pieces, most of them on the speculative fiction spectrum. She also dabbles in visual art and game development. Her most recent publication is the drabble “The Factory Grounds” in Trembling with Fear. She also holds a PhD in Classics and Ancient History from the University of Manchester. Follow her on Facebook or Patreon.