Trembling With Fear 5-25-25
Greetings, children of the dark. I’m writing this to you just before I head off to explore another of London’s Magnificent Seven cemeteries. What on earth is that, I hear you ask? Well, it was a programme in the Victorian era to create cemeteries that were also nice place to escape and relax, and so we have a bunch of “garden cemeteries” around the outskirts that once not only were home to the dead, but to picnicking Victorians. And yes, it’s as weird as that sounds.
However, I do love a good graveyard, and when I discovered my evening plans were around the corner from this one, I couldn’t resist: my day was rearranged so I could do this. And I cannot wait. The sun is sort-of out, it’s sort-of a nice day, so why not take myself to catch a vampire on a Thursday afternoon?
Before I can let loose, though, I must present to you this week’s menu of short, dark, speculative fiction. Our main course is a Black Mirror-esque tale of prisons and forgiveness that might not be so rosy, straight from the brain of Kidron Grifter. That’s followed by the short, sharp speculations of:
- CK Butcher’s childhood warning,
- SG Perahim’s prophetic publishing, and
- Jean E McIntosh’s diving diva.
Over to you, Stuart
Hi all.
The Trembling With Fear physical releases that we should have released last year are in the final sprint. Covers are being finalized; all copy text is done. We’re so close I can taste it! (I’m thinking we’ll be able to launch pre-orders next week if all goes well!)
I’m having one small bug with the new newsletter layout that I’ll be troubleshooting this next week. If it all goes well, we’re probably 2-3 weeks away from switching to it. I need to work out some other settings on it as well, just to be sure everything is working as expected.
With those two pieces done, I’ll be able to put all of my focus on the new layout and this year’s anthology. More details to come!
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.
Kidron Grifter
Kidron Grifter is an avid collector, insatiable reader, and a man of steady habits. Born into the strange heart of Ohio, he has spent the last thirteen years apprenticing in a cosmic axle grease factory, where he learned—among other things—that the universe is as brittle as a dragonfly’s wing. In his spare time, he gouges out stories and leaves voicemails.
Mercy, by Kidron Grifter
They call it the Boom Box. It’s a prison. Death row. A real sick place.
We have to wear these thick metal collars locked around our necks; the collars are filled with plastic explosives. No one knows when theirs will go off. The concept came from President Hard-Ass himself, who personally streams most of the executions live from the Oval Office and tweets out the highlights.
For all the controversy over his style of “America First empowered justice,” you gotta admit it’s poetic. Once the guilty are condemned, a piece of paper with a secret sixteen-digit PIN number is given to a member of the victim’s family. This person now has the power to activate the execution of their loved one’s killer anytime they wish. The person with the code becomes a real-life angel of death, and they even own the streaming rights.
60 Minutes did a segment where they followed a grieving family morally struggling under the weight of this awesome power. On what should have been their child’s 11th birthday, they all gathered, prayed, and then the father logged onto the prison website, punched in the PIN, and clicked “Execute Now.” His hand hovered over the mouse for a second or two before clicking “Yes, I’m sure.” The screen cut to their child’s murderer alone in his cell. At first, nothing happened. He was just sitting there on his bunk with a stupid look on his face. Then—BAM! Pumpkin pie time.
Most guys don’t have to wait for their victims’ birthdays. Usually, they get their heads blown off while the family’s pain is still fresh.
I’ve seen it dozens of times already. A new arrival wanders the yard, chatting nervously, when suddenly their collar vibrates. A red light flashes. They freeze, eyes wide, hands flying to the collar as if they could stop it. They always do that. Must be involuntary. It explains why so many end up missing fingers. Sam, Curly, and I are always finding bleached-white finger bones.
For whatever reason, we are considered the lucky ones. Sam, Curly, and I have worn the collar for years—longer than anyone ever expected. Our tickets just haven’t been punched yet.
Curly is a mass murderer, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Fat, greasy, with a bristle-brush mustache and varicose veins. I heard he was in organized crime. The cartel probably wiped out his victims’ families or at least threatened them into handing over the PIN.
Sam is a pervert and looks like one too. He’s here for things I won’t even let myself think about. He’s the kind who gets off on killing. I don’t know why he isn’t dead yet. Maybe his victims’ family is religious. Maybe they purposely lost his PIN. What a waste. What an unbelievable waste. I think about that every time I see him strutting around the yard, touching himself. I tried to kill him once but lost my nerve. Probably because I’m not a murderer. Even though that’s what I’m here for.
I am innocent.
I loved both Jessica and her sister, Amber. I thought I could have both. I even lied and told myself I deserved them both. I lived with Jessica and saw Amber behind her back. When she wanted me, she’d leave her kitchen window open.
One night, I drove past her house and saw the window open. I parked, climbed inside. The house was dark. Her little dog, Morty, wouldn’t leave me alone, clawing at the bathroom door. When I opened it, I found her dead in the tub, a cord tight around her neck. I panicked. Fled the scene. Went home and crawled into bed with Jessica, telling myself it was a nightmare.
It wasn’t.
The next day, the police came. Jessica was beside herself with grief and anger. She still loves me, though. I know she does. Otherwise, I’d already be dead.
When my sentence was handed down, she sobbed in the courtroom. But as soon as the judge asked if any family member wanted to volunteer for Angel duty, her hand shot up like a rocket.
Days turned into weeks. Nothing happened. My first month at Oatmeal Island, I saw four executions. Five, if you count the one behind me in the showers. I wasn’t looking around in there, but I got coated in brain matter. I kept waiting for my turn. It never came.
Eventually, the guards figured out I was a long-timer and moved me to a separate wing for workers. Curly and I were tasked with cleaning up after the executions.
“You can relax, chavo,” Curly said, wringing out a blood-soaked cloth. “If your angel wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be here.”
We were cleaning a new arrival’s cell. He hadn’t lasted six hours. Blood had congealed on the mattress. The smell of Pine-Sol and gore made me queasy, but Curly got all excited when he found a gold tooth among the mess.
“Score,” he said, slipping it into his pocket. “I’m mailing this to my old lady. Tell you what, buddy—finish up here, and I’ll pay you in stamps.”
Stamps were money here. I agreed. I hid the stamp in a book until one day, I decided to write to Jessica. I poured out my heart, begged for forgiveness. I confessed everything about Amber. Most importantly, I told her I would always love her.
Curly said it would take about a week. He avoided me when we expected her reply.
“No offense, man,” he said, “but I don’t wanna be too close if she decides to blow off your head.”
Nothing happened.
Then, at mail call, I got a letter back. Jessica forgave me! A weight lifted off my chest. My angel had delivered me, redeemed me, canceled my agreement with death.
Jessica came to visit. She looked beautiful. I’d give anything to be on the other side of the glass with her.
“Oh, there’s my baby!” she squealed, removing her sunglasses. Behind me, Curly and Sam pretended to clean, watching her too closely.
“I’m famous now!” Jessica beamed. “A social media influencer. TikTok changed my life!”
“Hey, guys!” I grinned. “Did you hear that? My girl is famous!”
“It was the TikTok community that helped me heal,” she said. “Millions watch my videos about forgiveness.”
Curly pulled out a smuggled cell phone, trying to figure out how to download TikTok.
“You gotta install it first, man,” Sam said, grabbing the phone.
Jessica giggled. “Baby, I want to do something special for my followers. A live stream. Right now.”
She held up her phone. “Hey, guys, I’m here at The Boom Box visiting the man who killed my sister.”
The screen flooded with comments.
“I forgave him because forgiveness isn’t about him—it’s about me. I’ve healed. I’ve moved on.”
My smile faltered.
“And now,” she continued, “it’s time to take the final step in my journey. I want you all to be part of it.”
Curly and Sam stopped breathing. The guards tensed. My collar vibrated.
Red light. Flashing.
“Jessica?” My voice broke.
She grinned at the camera. “I forgive him. But I will never forget.”
She held up a slip of paper. Sixteen digits.
“Say goodbye, baby.”
I reached for the glass. The light on my collar turned solid red.
Jessica smiled. Clicked.
BAM.
Seedling
The legend of the jungle, a warning told to every child but easily disregarded, flashes through my head. Too late. My toes bend and snap, distending as they burrow into soil, rooting me. Rough bark etches its way across my skin, at first foreign, then a comforting embrace. Vines snake their way up my trunk, through tattered clothes, out onto my newly formed branches. Leafed fingers wave in the breeze. The jungle welcomes me—transforms me—its hunger permeates me. As blood turns to sap, organs harden to wood, and the last embers of thought burn away, I am consumed.
C.K. Butcher
C.K. Butcher (she/her) is a speculative fiction writer, professor, and non-fiction author. She lives in the metro-Atlanta area with her husband, two children, and a slew of pets. When not writing, teaching, or grading papers, you can find her playing trivia with her husband, playing games with her kids, reading a book, or watching TV. She has previously published her short fiction in NewMyths.com and The Lorelei Signal. Follow her on Instagram, Bluesky, or X/Twitter.
I Told You So
This imprint was so ancient its first bestseller might have been copied by scribes. However, none of its books appeared original.
Scouring the titles felt like shuffling through deja-vu catastrophe scenarios: Greedy settlers disseminating prayers and ailments on pristine lands; narcissistic dictators raising armies and committing senseless atrocities; hopeless fights against the elements. It screamed historical non-fiction, not speculative fiction.
Yet, the publishing dates hinted that the authors may have been quite the prophets.
He sent a blurb.
They replied:
“We usually decline end-of-the-world stories, but it’s time. Please mail us your manuscript.”
—Cassandra Press, where your vision turns reality
S.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 Mastodon: [email protected]
The Underwater Cave
“Never dive into an underwater cave.”
That was what Keith’s teacher told everyone on the first day of diving class. But when Keith saw the dark gap in the wall of the sunlit watery cove, Keith was thrilled.
“I must be the first diver to explore this cave!” he thought as he swam into the shadowy entrance. “It’s funny; I don’t see any fish or plants. I wonder why that is.”
He swam deeper.
“It’s lined with stalagmites and stalactites.” Keith noted. “All of them are white and triangular, like giant teeth—”
And then the huge mouth closed on him.
Jean E. McIntosh
Jean E. McIntosh has written for Kansas Heritage, the Midnight Gallery, Ravenelectrick, and The Horror Tree. She was voted “Quietest” in class and “Girl Most Likely To Move To A Mountaintop In Timbuktoo”. Although she has been invited a few times, she has never gone scuba diving.
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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.
