Trembling With Fear 4-13-25
Greetings, children of the dark. I don’t know things are where you are, but on our side of this dystopian nightmare I have now added seasonal allergies which is making me *very happy indeed*. There’s nothing like sore, itchy eyes and a constantly-stuffed-or-runny-nose to add to the unfolding apocalypse that is the world in 2025. I’m planning on channelling my rage into a story or two ASAP; how about you?
If you get around to your rage-story in the next 24 hours or so, remember you have ONE DAY LEFT to submit to our April/Spring window for short stories. The window will close decidedly at midnight on 14 April, so get in quick by filling in the submission form, choosing the TWF short stories option, and hitting send. Remember, we cover the dark side of all speculative fiction: sci-fi, fantasy AND horror. The team at TWF Towers looks forward to reading them.
Consider taking inspiration from the talented folks featured in this week’s edition of dark speculative fiction. For our main course, we’ve got an interesting deadly stream-of-consciousness from Samuel Marlinga. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:
- Deborah Sheldon’s troubled birdbath,
- Geoff Holder’s apocalyptic survivor, and
- Annette Livingstone’s demented doll.
Over to you, Stuart.
Hi all.
Trembling With Fear’s proofing has gone from 50% to 61% done. It’s so close I can taste it, and hopefully we’ll be able to get ahead on this year’s and start right as this comes to a close, so we don’t have the same problem moving forward. Fingers crossed!
For the new layout, I’m waiting for some internal feedback on a few parts, though more sections are being put together, and it’s looking great so far! I did recently realize that one of our plugins might require that I make a bit of a change to the layout, so I’ll be exploring that in the coming week.
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.
Samuel Marlinga
Samuel Marlinga is a new writer from the Chicagoland area with a focus mainly in speculative and weird fiction, with the occasional foray into horror. Previously awarded first prize in the Sultan Short Story Contest while at Clark University, Sam currently also writes film criticism for Dreampunk Media on Substack.
Life of the Dead, by Samuel Marlinga
Head foggy, can’t say why. Moving along. Rambling. Shuffling. Searching. Can’t remember. Going where? Don’t know. Don’t know anything anymore. There’s a crowd, follow it. Keep walking. Slow. Determined. Instinct. Thirsty.
So thirsty.
Mind blurry, need some help. Others come and go, don’t talk much. Can’t either. Don’t have much to say. Flashes fade in and out, say to keep going. Need to get home. Where’s that? Having trouble thinking. Words won’t come. All alone.
Arm hurts, everything else is heavy. Body is numb. Eyes burn, sun is too bright. Mouth dry. Fields and streets. Feet dragging, bleeding. Stay in the shade, huddle with others. Nowhere to go. Quiet. Can’t sleep, already dreaming. Bad dreams, monsters and demons, nightmares, screaming. Too much screaming. Quiet again.
Smell blood, stale and dead. Getting hungry, can’t eat. Stomach is sick, twisted in knots. Taste of nothing. Goes away. Still thirsty. Others passing through, can’t talk. Lonely. Need to find home. Arm still hurts, hanging threads of flesh. Rot and decay. Will it always be like this?
Time passes, not sure how long. Flashes getting longer. Dreams still dreaming. Houses and people, laughter. Still searching. Dark out, screams getting closer. See people, need help. Can’t call out. They scream, they run. Chase after, need help. Need to get home. Can’t see them. Can’t find them. Can’t talk. Can’t sleep. Can’t breathe.
So thirsty.
Images of others. Remember being afraid. Running, always running. Can’t run now. Shuffle and stumble. Smell fresh blood. Need food. Bite and tear. Taste of death. Rotten. Images lost in time. Memory. Grasp at it. Can’t hold on. Can’t sleep. Stand and wait. Don’t know how long. Darkness falls. No moon. Keep moving. Can’t stop.
Tall buildings. Fires all around. Empty streets, dead cars. Bodies lying down everywhere. Dogs roaming. Scavengers. Miss my dog. Where did he go? Signs and stores, glass shattered and broken. No people, just trash. Why were they there in the first place? Stumble underground. Empty trains, not moving. Rats scratching. Always scratching. Gnawing on each other. Biting at legs. Swarms around bodies. Red eyes glowing. Keep following tracks, up through the tunnel. Sparks flying. Stairway climbing, out into the light. It burns.
So tired.
Not sure how much further. No one around. Stars out, crescent moon. Shake and shudder. Body breaking down. Can’t keep moving. Lay down, watch the sky. Was it ever so pretty? Still dreaming, see home. Others come. Try to see. Smells like life, want to take it back. Get hit. Hit back. Bite and tear. Fresh red all over. Roses on the ground. Quiet again.
New place, feels familiar. New house, new home. Stay here. Up the stairs, into the room. Cracked mirror. Pale and rotting, arm is gone. Not hurting anymore, not thirsty. Pictures on the dresser. Find others. New family. Lights flash, thunder cracks. Feel breeze and rain inside. So tired. Crawling now. Stale blood, none left to bleed.
Sleep now.
Calling Them Down
My husband installed a birdbath in our backyard. Magpies loved to splash and drink from it. They left gifts like plastic strips and bottle caps, perhaps to say thanks.
Later, we saw their feathers in the water. Then their bones, picked clean. Was it a hawk?
When we found a magpie’s fresh corpse, we looked up into the ancient trees that lined our property and saw human-sized beings stretching leathery wings. Next day, Joe dismantled the birdbath. It was too late.
Tonight, the beings are scraping at our roof, trying to get in, calling for us to accept their gifts.
Deborah Sheldon
Deborah Sheldon is a multi-award-winning author and anthology editor from Melbourne, Australia, who writes across the darker spectrum of horror, crime and noir. Published fiction includes poetry, drabbles, flash, short stories, novelettes, novellas and novels. Visit Deb at deborahsheldon.wordpress.com.
Survivor
On Monday morning I woke up and found I’d transformed into a cockroach.
It was difficult getting to grips with my new legs. I broke my teapot souvenir from Prague, and couldn’t operate the steering wheel on the Peugeot. So I had to take the bus.
At work it was worse. My office mates mocked me when I swept my avocado salad from the table so I could eat it off the floor.
Insectism is a real thing, I discovered.
But that evening the nukes hit and the entire planet was irradiated. So things turned out fine in the end.
Geoff Holder
Geoff Holder is a Welsh author and screenwriter based in France. He’s published more than 30 non-fiction books on the paranormal and weird stuff, often Scottish in nature, and written for feature films, documentaries, magazines, video games and greetings cards. He’s completed two novels, one science fantasy (with dragons) and the other an alternative-history vampire tale. Sometimes he is coaxed out of his book-lined lair, with upcoming events including talks on Scottish cannibals and an English vampire legend, while he recently contributed to a documentary on the Loch Ness Monster and Scottish folklore. He likes dogs and music with rocks in it.
The Doll
The doll sat in a glass box; blonde hair, porcelain white skin, piercing blue eyes, deep red velvet dress. Beautiful.
“She must be very valuable to be kept locked in a glass box like that?”
“That’s not why she’s locked in a box,” the man said in a hushed tone.
I looked from him to the doll – and that’s when I noticed the padlocked chains around the box. The large crucifix on the top. The salt circle enveloping it.
The doll’s eyes seem to bore into my soul.
A low, deep growl fills the room: “They burnt me at the stake.’
Annette Livingstone
Annette Livingstone will often be found with a book, a mug of coffee and a cat curled up on her lap, attending another online writing course, or ghost hunting at variation locations around the UK. When she is not working in accounts by day she is working on her first novel, a paranormal story about a possessed artefact that is inspired by real events, from a location she has investigated several times. You can find her on Instagram and Bluesky @cherryredwriter.
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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.
