F. H. Morgan
Bio
F. H. Morgan is an up-and-coming Horror/Fantasy short-story author who mostly writes fiction but dabbles in non-fiction as well. Like what you see? Like on Facebook and remember to leave a tip! - https://rb.gy/t4p67t
Stories (8/0)
Demon Box
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The 6 teens sat in a circle just below the window; shadows of light flicked across their faces and partially obscured their identities, though they all knew each other well. The ritual was necessary to keep the demons locked away, at least that is what their parents had said. The box sat in front of the six in shadows. Its wax covered body looked crusty and maybe a bit moldy on the right side where a chunk of… something… hung out between the exposed lips of the tightly shut lid. The top of the lid had six surnames carved into it, the last letter of each, A, B, A, D, O, N, spelling out the name of the monster locked inside.
By F. H. Morgan2 years ago in Horror
I Like to Watch
I like to watch. The workers are scurrying around, like little ants. The crew manager is shouting voicelessly to the others, his arms waving like he is attempting to land a plane. I would have tried to get closer to the action. To hear. From here, I can only watch through the windows of my car. But I want to hear what the manager is shouting. He is pointing at the ditch, his hand jutting forward in sharp motions as his elbow seems to twitch. It causes the green, plaid shirt he’s wears to yank tight on his elbow so much that I think it might rip. Since I can only watch, I like to imagine what he is saying. Something like “Shit! Call the cops this one … She ain’t movin’.” Yes, see, and now that one in the blue shirt and black pants is searching his pockets. I bet it is for a phone. Yup, he’s found it. And now he’s dropped it. I chuckle. This must be his first dead body on the job. The crew manager for this stretch of road is on at least his fourth, only two of those (now three) have been mine. Blue shirt will get used to it; this one will not be his last. I have been busy, and so have the others.
By F. H. Morgan3 years ago in Criminal
The Light Turned Green
When I was a kid, I used to scratch at my arms until they bled. There was this sense that I would be able to find the better version of myself somewhere just under the surface of my skin. If i could just open it, reach in, and pull her out, then everyone would see how special, worthy, I was. The problem was that I never found anything new or better, I was still just the same. Even when I thought I had reached down deep enough to grab at that something great, no one ever seemed to notice a difference and I felt less worthy than I ever was before. Even in the pools of my own blood, I was nothing. Meaningless.
By F. H. Morgan4 years ago in Criminal
The Unrecognized Head in the Freezer
“The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on…” the warm baritone of Jim Morrison cooed in the background as Terry blinked his eyes open to a new day. He felt like death, he probably shouldn’t have allowed what’s-his-face at the Boar’s Head serve him tequila last night. Tequila always messed him up bad. His head felt like someone tried to split it down the middle with a jackhammer, glued it back together, then slammed it with a hammer.
By F. H. Morgan4 years ago in Criminal
