E. M. Otten
Bio
E. M. Otten is an accomplished self-published author with a degree in creative writing for entertainment. Author of the Shift trilogy, she writes mainly low-fantasy and supernatural fiction, but also dabbles in horror, sci-fi, and poetry.
Stories (25/0)
Crooked
The alarm buzzed at 5:30 am, as it always did, and I slipped out of bed to make my way to the shower. As the steam surrounded me, the hot water pouring over my skin, I began, as always, to whisper their names. Some might say that I remembered them – their faces, the sounds of their pleading voices – as a form of punishment. Some might say that I remembered them because I felt guilty. But it wasn’t guilt or regret that kept them in my mind, because I felt no remorse.
By E. M. Otten2 years ago in Fiction
Crooked
It didn't take long for me to regret the decision I'd made. But I was stubborn and there was no going back, not now. My feet stomped hard against the damp ground as I walked, ignoring the cackling voices behind me as they faded into the distance. I would not be treated as a pet anymore, like an animal that could be controlled and punished by others. I would not be forced to perform acts of violence against my will any longer, and I sure as hell was not going to let them make me feel guilty for leaving. It was my choice; the only choice I'd ever made for myself.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Cold
Cold—yes, absolute cold— enveloped me in a way that was not quite comfortable, but not altogether unwelcome either. Every year, it happens this way… Ferrier would arrive as the last leaves fell and, just behind him, the cold would come whistling through the trees in swirling little cyclones, flurries of snow and ice and deep darkness. The biting wind carried with it the failures and regrets of the past year, highlighting all that we’d left undone in sparkling white peaks and glassy frozen encasements. Ferrier stood outside at the first snowfall in head-to-toe black wool, his arms open wide as if summoning the winter himself, beckoning the brittle branches of trees to freeze and creak, allowing the air to chill us all to the very depths of our bones.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Living Dead Girl
Trey woke up in the dirt. He rolled over and blinked against the strange lighting, trying to assess his whereabouts. He sat up, rubbing the knot on his head where Gisele had knocked him out. A lake stood before him, calm and dark, the moon reflecting off its surface as if it were a giant, watery mirror. Jutting into the water from the shore was a long dock and, at the end of it stood Gisele, cradling her open book in one hand and gripping the knife with the other. At her feet, another figure was slouched; Adeline.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Living Dead Girl
The motel blankets were rough against Trey's skin as he lay on his side, staring at the quiet figure in the other bed. She sat against a pile of pillows, her knees up around a heaping bowl of chocolate ice cream that sat in her lap. Her eyes were glued to the television screen as some horrible reality show played on mute with French subtitles.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Horror
Living Dead Girl
Lark's blue Mustang sped down the street and onto the highway, heading Northeast. In the backseat was her duffel bag full of clothes, in the passenger seat sat Trey, and in the back of her mind, Gisele lingered. Trey seemed proud of himself as he packed his cigarettes and lit one.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Living Dead Girl
Trey's candy apple red Mustang rolled to a stop next to the aluminum structure and he knew in an instant that Lark Fontaine wasn't quite herself. She'd tied her t-shirt up above her navel, her denim jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her chestnut brown hair was piled into a wild bundle atop her head. He put the car in park and stepped out.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Living Dead Girl
We are not crazy. You want to know how we know that? About a billion tests, a year of daily counseling, at least twenty rounds of various neuropsychological procedures, and constant psychiatric evaluations. But it gets worse, my friend. On the more barbaric end of the spectrum, these bastards took to insulin shock therapy and electroconvulsive therapy to try and treat our apparent schizophrenia. Idiots. We told them it wasn't schizophrenia. We told them we weren't insane. But they didn't believe us. Probably because we speak from the same mouth. Anyway, we're just glad they didn't end up resorting to a fucking lobotomy. That would have totally sucked.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Fiction
Silence
The whistling of the teapot jolted me straight out of my skin and I trembled as I took it from the heat and poured the hot water into my cup. A stiff quiet had fallen over the house like a blanket. I dropped the teabag in and stared into the water as it steeped, the grayish-green of dried tea leaves seeping and swirling until the water turned murky. Warm, damp frills of bittersweet steam wafted into my nose, a sensation that often comforted me on nights like these.
By E. M. Otten3 years ago in Horror