Trembling With Fear 10-13-24

Greetings, children of the dark. Short and sweet intro again this week as I’m presently, at the time of you reading this (if, indeed, you’re the one who waits for it to go live and pounces immediately), at the UK’s Fantasycon in the old Roman city of Chester. That means I’m writing this a good bit earlier than normal (yes, Stuart may well have a heart attack) and in something of a rush.
So let’s get stuck straight into this week’s TWF menu, with a main course from Louis Inglis Hall and a bus journey that’s a bit out of the ordinary. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:
- Meg Keane’s waking regret,
- Christopher T. Mayne’s ruined rumination, and
- Catherine Berry’s gardening tips.
And quickly, a final call for short story submissions! Our autumn/fall window opened on 1 October and will close tomorrow, Monday 14 October, so get in quick. I’ve acknowledged everything received up to Wednesday lunchtime UK time, and will get to the rest of you when I’ve returned from the con life. And yes, there are still a few stragglers from the last open window waiting to hear from us; you’re first in line and we’ll get to you ASAP!
Over to you, Stuart.
Join me in thanking our upcoming site sponsor for the next month! Please check out Josh Schlossberg’s ‘Where The Shadows Are Shown’!
“This Ultimate collection is a treasure trove containing revised and expanded editions of The Name of Fear and A Cleansing of the Blood, two all-new Anton novellas, and twelve original short stories. Follow Anton from the blood-stained sands of Rome to ancient battles with unstoppable beasts in the deepest depths of tenebrous jungles and into a dystopian future where even vampires fear to tread. Each story is a unique journey, offering a different perspective on Anton’s world.”
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Hi all!
A lot of back-end stuff this week. We had a couple of older Ongoing Submissions that were reported as being closed markets to clean up and had a spammy e-mail problem that I believe is now resolved. Really, it was mostly administrative work and not much progress. Apologies for a boring update from my side!
Also, just a reminder that we’re starting to do more social posting for both BlueSky and Threads. So, if you’re over there and don’t follow us, now is the time! 😉
- Thank you so much to everyone who has become a Patreon for Horror Tree. We honestly couldn’t make it without you all!
- The paperback is now live! Please be sure to order a copy of Shadowed Realms on Amazon, we’d love for you to check it out!
Offhand, if you’ve ordered Trembling With Fear Volume 6, we’d appreciate a review! 🙂

Louis Inglis Hall
Louis Inglis Hall is a civil servant living in Scotland. He has been published in titles including Strange Horizons, Apparition Lit and Andromeda Spaceways Magazine. He was longlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize 2023.
number thirty-seven, by Louis Inglis Hall
Jason – thanks for coming in. You might want to take a seat. I need to go over something with you.
No, nothing like that! The partners and me, we couldn’t be happier. Honest. We love all the…things, that you’ve been doing. HR, thank you. HR. Tip of my tongue. Really, Jason, there’s no complaints there. Well, one complaint, but you know about that, that’s all in the past, we don’t need to think of her again.
No, this is about the bus I take to work? It’s the number thirty-seven.
I get the bus in, every morning. Five days a week, there I am, at seven-twenty. At the bus stop, waiting. It’s an old bus, that one. Single-decker. It’s got this green plastic livery and a cracked window halfway down the left side. Now that window is important, Jason, and do you know why? That window means it’s always the same one. Always the same number thirty-seven.
I don’t live in the best part of town. I can say it! I did, once, but since Sarah – well. All I’ll say is where I am, it’s very affordable, and you can do the rest. So. It’s not the most popular of routes. Not enough for two buses. But enough that the thirty-seven is busy, in peak hours at least. We’re talking your typical public transport cross-section here, Jason. The teens in the back, being punk, or emo, or just generally counter-cultural. You’ve got the mums and buggies in the front. In the middle it’s the old folk, and the sort of people that read free bus newspapers, and stuck in with all of them there’s me.
So off the bus goes. Winding its way into town like a drain cleaner, picking up all the scum of suburbia, myself included. Except that sounds efficient, that makes it sound like it performs a function. The bus isn’t like that, Jason. It crawls on through concrete veins like…like thick blood. Clotting its way between stops. Like a scab, something crusted and collapsed, caught in a slow tide.
I’m a noticer, amongst other things. I have a good eye for detail. That’s part of what got me where I am today! So it didn’t take me long to learn all the regulars. The man with the rounded glasses. The twin goths. That woman with the patchy dog. I watch them come and go, I watch the seats empty and fill. It’s relaxing. Like watching the tide. It carries you along. Anyway.
I’ve taken the number thirty-seven five days a week for fourteen months now. And do you know what I’ve found out? There’s an empty seat.
There’s always an empty seat.
I could feel it, Jason. Nagging at me. Like a cavity. There was an absence, a palpable absence. It jarred in my mouth.
My attention was divided, at first. I’d think ‘did someone sit there last week?’ and I wouldn’t be sure. It’s hard to remember. That’s when you start taking notes.
Notes are a really valuable resource, Jason. Even the act of writing helps you commit something to memory. Maybe you should write that down.
It’s the window seat, by the way. On the final row of seats before the back row, on the left-hand side. Is that important? Honestly, I don’t know. It’s made of grey fabric, with swirling colours stitched onto it. It looks bloody awful, but so do all the others too.
You know what it’s like when you have a tooth out. You can’t resist it. The absence. You just want to dig into the pink of it with your tongue. You make it bleed, you press and push until it squirts red metal flavour into your mouth, and that makes you fall back, for a while. Ten minutes later you’re doing it again. Don’t say that’s just me, Jason. I know it’s not.
Are you sure you’re comfortable like that? No, never mind.
You remember the storm, a few weeks ago? That was an important day. The thirty-seven was full, full to capacity. That was the real test. It was rammed up tight with bodies, standing room only. We hit sharp corners and they all swayed, like heads of corn. It was hard to tell, through the meat of them. I had to fight my way through the suits and the anoraks and the embroidered supermarket uniforms, but there it was, on the other side of the crowd. Still empty. Like a missing tooth.
We pulled up to the next stop. The driver wasn’t letting anybody on. All full, he said, and I shouted, no it isn’t, there’s room for one here!
Everyone looked at me like I was mad. Like I was the one person not seeing something sitting in that seat.
Full enough, said the driver, and we drove away.
You know what it’s like when you have a tooth out, though. You just keep going. You press and you press and you press. Which brings us to yesterday.
Yesterday was the day I did it, Jason. I nagged at it, that idea. I worried it in my mouth and rolled it round my lips and in the end. In the end, I just couldn’t resist.
I sat in the seat.
I sat in the empty seat on the number thirty-seven and my god, Jason. In that moment. I tasted it, in an instant. In my mouth. Blood. Blood that wasn’t mine.
There was so much, cold and thick and iron in my mouth. I swallowed it! Like an oyster. There was nothing else I could do. It wasn’t even eight AM.
I took a taxi home instead. I stepped up to my door in the darkness and underneath me I heard this crunch. Some snail under my unforgiving boot. But when I lifted up my foot, there wasn’t any shell. Just something white, and broken, and powdered.
I got the bus again this morning. The absence was gone. Cured. Just an ordinary seat. I watched the people come and go. I watched the seats empty and fill. No exceptions.
And then on my desk, just when I got in, I found these. Do you see them?
Two white little teeth.
What’s that? Why did I ask you to come in? To be honest, Jason, your office is just the closest one to mine. Sorry about that.
You have noticed, haven’t you? I’m a noticer, you see. I pick up on these things. Because you’re still standing up. This whole time.
You can’t bring yourself to sit in the chair opposite me. Can’t even bring yourself to look.
Because I’ve brought it with me. I took its seat and now it’s followed me here and it’s taken mine.
And I’m worried, Jason. The next time I look. I’m worried this time I might see it, after all.
So, thank you. Just…just wanted to check.

Dormant
After a century lying dormant, I emerge from the earth. Barely flesh and half bone, rising to strike fear into the living. To torment, terrify, and deface.
Past cemetery gates, I peer through suburban windows to find glowing squares illuminating rooms. A gaunt woman speaks of death and destruction through a pinched smile. Her expression does not falter, nor does she blink. Pearly whites gnash out the words, Five hundred presumed dead. Next, the weather.
The illuminated family of five stare blankly.
It cannot be. They cannot be tormented. Return me to the soil. I beg, put me back in.
Meg Keane
Meg Keane is a writer of speculative fiction and folk horror. Published by Creepy, Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, Dark Horses, Black Sheep Magazine, Crow & Cross Keys, The Broken Spine, BMR Magazine, the evermore review and more. Included in Good For Her: A Celebration of Women’s Wrongs anthology 2024. Find her editing Thin Veil Press during witching hours or lurking in the shadows on X @megmkeane and Insta @megkeanewrites
How Could I Have Known?
How could I have known what she was when my adoptive mother brought her in from the rain?
How could I have known why she was staring into the sky when we found her?
How could I have known her back would split open and my family would be ensnared in webs of acid?
How could I have known the scent of their cooked skin would entice me?
How could I have known my own back would split open?
How could I have known she was my sister?
How could I have known she was here to take me home?
Christopher T. Mayne
Christopher T. Mayne is a creative writer residing in Pittsburgh with his bookworm girlfriend and two semi-lovable black cats. The horror genre, especially when imbued with gothic themes, has always been a favorite of his, and he hopes to someday write a piece that might even make Guillermo smile. “How Could I Have Known?” is his first horror story.
How Does Your Garden Grow?
“Your flowers are lovely,” Mrs. Carmichael said, leaning over the fence as she admired the lilies. “My yard never looks as lively. Tell me, dear, what’s your secret?”
Cecily gazed at her lush garden; the flora a thriving and vibrant splash of bright colors against heady greens. Each plant was lovingly chosen and cared for with careful dedication. Only the richest, most nourishing nutrients were tilled into the soil. The lilies had certainly flourished since she’d buried Larry in the yard; happily feeding on the pieces of his decomposing body.
“It’s all in the fertilizer,” Cecily replied with a smile.
Catherine Berry
Catherine Berry loves whimsy, potatoes, and adventures with her dogs. Her work has been published in anthologies such as Trembling With Fear, the Trench Coat Chronicles, & Once Upon A Future Time Vol. 3. More of her work can be found at catherineberrysbooks.com