Trembling With Fear 3-23-25
Greetings, children of the dark. We are heads-down here in TWF Towers, desperately trying to get through the proofreading of the 2023 anthology so we can get it into your hot little hands. No, that wasn’t a typo; I’m seriously talking about the anthology from two years ago. This is how utterly destroyed we were last year—we just did not have the bandwidth to even think about it. Now we have a host of new helpers, we’re trying really hard to catch up (yes, the boss man is even cracking the whip). Hopefully we’ll have a new helper dedicated purely to the anthologies soon, and that will help us get back into shape. Slowly, slowly, dear children of the dark. Be patient with us, for we are emerging from the ashes.
But enough apologising; let’s dive into this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. For our main course, we’re dining with some sinners, landlords, and K.A. Sweitzer. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:
- SG Perahim’s glimpse at future film,
- Sian O’Hara’s snowed-in hotel, and
- Shiloh Kuhlman’s otherworldly paramour.
Want to join these four in the illustrious pages of TWF? Here’s what we’re looking for:
- Always, always with the drabbles – those short, sharp bursts of exactly 100 words. Make it dark and make it speculative (scifi, fantasy, horror). We publish three of these every darn week of the year.
- Unholy Trinities – that’s three drabbles that are connected in some way. Sarah Elliott awaits your tales.
- Serials, or dark speculative fiction that can be serialised on the site over several weeks. Vicky Brewster is ready for ‘em.
- Finally, our next submissions window for general short stories opens at the beginning of April.
Make sure you check our submissions page here for what we do and DON’T want. That last bit is super important – don’t waste your time sending us things we have publicly stated we’ll reject! (Seriously, you’d be surprised…)
And finally, if you’re in the vicinity of Kent, England, this Saturday 29 March, make sure you head to Westgate Hall in Canterbury for the UK Indie Chapter’s next indie horror marketplace. You’ll find all the details over on Facebook. I went to the first one in Birmingham last year and it was fab. This time they’ve got 40 indie horror authors from across the UK and Europe, with book signings, readings and panels throughout the day—plus free entry, so you get more money to buy books directly from the creators. See you there, maybe?
Over to you, Stuart.
Oh, and PS: Happy birthday to my other half!
Hi all.
More progress on the layout, I believe the main page is done, just working on a few sub-pages and the individual posts. We’re closing in!
Also, progress IS being made on the next Trembling With Fear print addition! It’s moving slow but steady.
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.
K. A. Sweitzer
K. A. Sweitzer (she/her) is a queer fiction writer living in NYC with her wife, her smart, anxious dog, and her dumb, confident cat. When she’s not writing, she’s spouting bird facts at her critique group, playing ttrpgs, and trying to find the next best chocolate chip cookie in her neighborhood. Her work can be found in Short Beasts.
Hell is For Sinners and Landlords, by K. A. Sweitzer
“Shit”
Drip. Drip.
“No, no, no, shit!”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Ryan springs out of bed. He fumbles for his phone and calls “Henry Repairs.” It rings once. Twice.
“The mailbox is full and—”
He sends an explicit, angry text and right as he hits send slips on the puddle in the hallway and smashes his head against the wall. When he comes to, his forehead is drenched in whatever is dripping through the ceiling. It stings and smells like plaster and… he’s not on the top floor. Is this someone’s filthy toilet water? Fuck! It’s even in his eyes.
Ryan slides the bucket that was just a foot away under the drip. Then in the light of the bathroom mirror, he assesses the damage.
“Shitballs!”
Streaks of sticky blood diluted with toilet-ceiling water run down the left side of his face. His thoughts race. Could he get eye chlamydia from someone else’s shit water entering his eye socket? What were his tenants shoving down the pipes to make them leak?
That’s right, his tenants live in this building. He wonders why he woke up in this unit and…
His phone chimes before he can properly wash his face. He swipes his phone from the sink, ready to chew out Henry, but it’s Vince. As in “Boss Vince.” And it’s a half hour past the most important meeting of his life. And now with two simple words his life feels like it’s over.
You’re fired.
He swallows down the growing pit of anxiety, and winces as he dabs his stinging head wound too hard. He whips the towel down on the ground and screams at nothing and everything.
He walks back to the bed and thinks through options. He could sell some properties but he had just bought this building. His parents… it’s not like they’re using money for anything.
He flings himself onto the mattress, lifting his shirt to scratch his bare stomach. He scratches some more. Fuck, he’s just so fucking itchy.
He looks down and he feels a sharp churn deep in his bowels. His skin is covered in red welts and little bugs. He leaps out of bed and throws open the covers. Swarms of tiny bloodsuckers crawl around waiting for their feast to return.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He pats down his stomach, arms, legs, trying to get rid of the ones that were already gorging. This only makes him even itchier.
He tries Henry again.
“The mailbox is—”
In rage, he throws his phone on the floor. He needs Henry to deal with this and the drip if they’re flipping this apartment. He needs…
The TV on the wall turns on and an unflattering picture of his face appears.
“The family of Ryan Gardner of Hoboken, NJ is relieved to announce his painful passing on Friday, October 13, 2023—”
He hits the power button as his heart hammers in his chest. Was this a fucking joke? He’s about to try Henry again when his eyes catch today’s date. October 13th.
He needs a drink. Or coffee. Or something. His throat feels scratchy, and his fucking stomach itches and stings. He makes his way to the kitchen, scratching his stomach raw. He fills a glass by the sink.
He lifts it to his face, and there’s the tickle of dozens of tiny legs skittering across his face. He spits and drops the glass, swatting and hitting his pounding head wound. He sees stars as the glass shatters and little roaches explode in all directions.
He screams and stomps on a shard of glass. The pain is sharp and deep, and he falls on his ass. He reaches down and extracts a shard about as long as half his thumb out of his heel. Blood coats his fingers for the second time this morning as tears well from the pain and the god damned itching and…
“—at 46 years in a vacant apartment’s backyard face down in dog shit. He was born February 3, 1977 in Mountain Lakes to Jim and Patricia Gardner. They would like it known they are looking forward to more pleasant holidays moving forward. Ryan worked for a management…”
The TV blares in the bedroom. He scrambles to his feet, but it hurts to put weight on his sliced heel. His phone pings and he looks down at the screen. Henry.
no room in sched will text tmrw k?
“Piece of shit!”
“…firm as well as owns a few of his own properties where he did his best to do as little as possible at the expense of his tenants. His tenants would like to argue they paid him to do his job for him.”
He rushes back to the bedroom, kicking the very full ceiling-toilet water bucket over. Frigid infection sloshes into his lacerated heel like a frozen knife.
“Ryan is survived by his four children, three of whom never knew him…”
“What the actual fuck?” He reaches for the power cord. The screen goes black, but his phone lights up, sound blaring from that speaker.
“…and one that wished he’d never met him. He never married, but he never ceased to create enemies in all walks of life.”
He slams the window open and throws his phone out. It bounces off the shed in the backyard four floors down. Relief floods his veins until the window slams down on his back.
Ryan shrieks as he loses his balance and topples forward. The sound of his neck snapping distracts him from the mushy feeling of dog shit smearing across his cheek. He calls out, but his throat only lets out a bubbling gurgle. The pain is excruciating. From the bush he hears his phone.
“No service will be held for this horrible bastard, but all wronged will be given a piece of the estate equivalent to damages received.”
All fades to black.
“Shit.”
Drip. Drip.
“No, no, no shit.”
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Ryan springs out of bed.
A Sinking Feeling
How efficient was this VR technology? It seemed like an already-outdated fad: the expensive fancy suits were flooding the second-hand markets, selling at a fraction of their original price. She squiggled into the ‘pre-loved’ full-body silicone suit and snuggled under a rug.
Getting goggles on, she shuffled through the ‘get started’ tutorial, hastily agreeing to the ‘warnings and conditions.’
She picked the movie: Titanic, then selected the character whose sensations she wanted to feel.
On screen: ‘Warning! Your character’s dying – switch POV immediately.’
She pressed ‘ignore’ in an involuntary shiver as Jack was seized by the icy grip of death.
Stéphane G. Perahim
Stéphane G. Perahim is a middle-aged French lady who lives in Belgium and teaches English for a living. When she’s not surrounded by her young, charming yet snotty students, she writes detective novels and short stories, plays with rather lifelike and creepy dolls, runs half-marathons or works on improving her nascent skills at capoeira. Find her on Instagram @Nefisaperahim.
Snowstorm
Snow whirls through the mountains; an unexpected storm blocks the pass.
Safe in my inn, I smile at the business it will bring. Winter is harsh, but I trust the mountain to provide. It always has.
Traders often stop here, some longer than others, but all eventually find their onward route. They bring their gold, their goods, their stories. As if those matter. We see how they treat others, treat our friends. We see, and we know.
The latest party is a tradesman and two guards. Vile manners, but we have room.
Their mounts alone should keep us until spring.
Siân O’Hara
Siân O’Hara has long been an avid reader of SFF (thanks to her mother, and then a chance encounter in her school library). With other worlds only ever a daydream away, Sian started writing as a way to get her thoughts and feelings out of her head and onto paper. Follow her on Facebook, Instagram, BlueSky, or Twitter.
Kiss Me
“Kiss me.”
Clara’s just outside our bedroom door. She’s been buried for six months; how can she be here?
“Kiss me?”
Pounding on the door. She’s rattling the walls; our wedding photo falls to the floor.
She hits the door so hard it’s splintering.
“Kiss me!”
A chunk of door comes loose, and now I can see her mouth. She’s smiling, licking her rotting lips. Maggots crawl between her once-adorable teeth gap. She won’t stop smiling.
It’ll take just a few more hits of the door and she’ll be able to burst inside.
I guess she couldn’t stay away forever.
Shiloh Kuhlman
Shiloh Kuhlman is an author from the state of Michigan, USA. He has independently written a novella, titled “Funny Pages”, and an anthology titled “Peripheral Landscapes”. Both can be found on schulerbooks.com. He currently lives comfortably with his many pets.
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Lauren McMenemy wears many hats: Editor-in-Chief at Trembling With Fear for horrortree.com; PR and marketing for the British Fantasy Society; founder of the Society of Ink Slingers; curator of the Writing the Occult virtual events. With 25+ years as a professional writer across journalism, marketing, and communications, Lauren also works as a coach and mentor to writers looking to achieve goals, get accountability, or get support with their marketing efforts. She writes gothic and folk horror stories for her own amusement, and is currently working on a novel set in the world of the Victorian occult. You’ll find Lauren haunting south London, where she lives with her Doctor Who-obsessed husband, the ghost of their aged black house rabbit, and the entity that lives in the walls.
