The Right Horror Movie For You.
Horror can seem like a pretty daunting genre to try and get into, especially if you're easily spooked or squeamish. Like many other genres, it can seem pretty one note from the outside with each individual film difficult to put apart from the next but this actually isn't the case.
Write What Terrifies You
I'm starting a new short story today based on the traumatic experience I got out of a year ago. It didn't take much pre-writing for me to know what I was doing. I took one look at the notes and knew it would be good, so I started writing.
Kappa...Alpha...Theta...The giant Greek letters were the forefront of the mansion's stone exterior. Jez stood below them with hopeful eyes. She had been through the wringer the past two weeks of sorority recruitment, an endless blur of early mornings, chanting, spunky girls jumping around, and lots and lots of girl flirting. Jez couldn't remember a time when her cheeks had been so sore from smiling. Her voice was almost gone, she was coming down with a cold, and her feet were killing her from standing for hours, but it had all been worth it. She had made it to the final stage of recruitment, initiation. KAT wanted her, they gave her a bid, all she had to do was play along with whatever their secret ceremony was and she'd be in. This is the start of my college experience, she thought, This is going to be my legacy.
Madame Mirage's Game of Terror or Treasure
“Welcome friend and congratulations. You have been selected to partake in Madame Mirage’s Game of Terror or Treasure. The rules are quite simple. You will enter the portal and seek out a series of challenges. Depending on your wit, courage, and desires, your response to each challenge will secure your fate towards terror or treasure.
It’s midnight again at the Black’n Blue. The novelty of the first few beers was passing. Neon from behind the bar sprays over me, my dilated pupils drink in the colorful, dead light. The headache behind my eyes has already started.
Finish Your Food
I can hear her now as if it were yesterday. Sunday evening was always one of my favorite times when I was growing up. We lived in a small little hick town on the outskirts of Prosperity, Indiana. All the neighbors were family in some way or another, and one of them was my grandmother.
I'll Protect You
I heard the crunch of the browned and crusty snow beneath my feet. It was impure, disgusting, and hardened like this damned world. All the people are the nasty little pieces of salt and dirt that clump together, tainting the virgin snow. Every person is poisoned by every other person. Their imperfections, their ugliness. It's revolting. I didn't think anyone was pure to the insanities this world has created. The grey clouds mocked me, keeping the beauty of the blue sky and the sun hidden from me, as I trudged through the slush, watching the chaos of the hideous people skating on the pond, I could smell the exhaust drifting through the one part of the city that was supposed to be celibate from the touch of man's destruction and pollution. People looked away as they passed me, they wished not to see my judgments of them. A small boy ran down the path knocking his arm into my side. My stack of books fell into the slush. I felt my blood boil and a vile taste formed in my mouth as I crouched down to retrieve my goods. That was when you came up behind me and reached your precious hands into the cold mush on the ground, retrieving my lost treasures. Your long dainty fingers wrapped around the broken spines of my favorite novels, your silky skin, the delectable color of milk freshly squeezed from the udder, intertwined with the cream of the old book pages. I turned my head to look at you. Your long flowing mane blocked your face from me, a curtain of golden sunbeams to hide the masterpiece I was awaiting. You turned your face to me wiping away your hair, a youthful glow of happiness and innocence overwhelmed me. Your eyes were two opalescent sapphires to which not even the Hope Diamond could compare. You smiled, crinkling your lightly freckled Grecian nose. Sweet girl, those are not just freckles though, they are angel kisses, or kisses from one angel to another. "Here." Your voice was a melody playing upon my heart strings. Your hand reached towards me holding the books and I nearly fell back into the nasty snow.
New York City. A city fueled by a world of opportunities and the millions of dreamers, driven by ambition and passion, who dared to take a step into the competitive race, yearning for a chance to be a part of the reason for the city’s famous reputation.
At night my blood leaves me to join the other in the room. It lives under my floorboards like a pearl and has done since I was born. I never really see it clearly but it enters my dreams every night. I will never hurt you but I need to lend your blood it says to me in raspy whispers as if its gurgling the mouthwash my Dad uses. I know it leaves the house but that's all I know for sure. The rest is siphoned in my head whilst I'm dead to the world so it could all be made up. I sense it leaves my window, slops across the lawn like a water bomb and scales the garden fence. Beyond lies the village where it feeds all night. Not blood. It feeds on muscles. Not enough to kill but enough to make its victims weak. In time they strengthen again. Like all cattle I guess. It liquifies their muscles and drinks them. I think its brown, the juice. Its brown in my dreams. Pouring out of their mouths into its quivering open excited cavity. It slurps and smacks and licks. Such enjoyment from something so gross. Muscle soup. Yuk! People wake up utterly tired and visit the doctor. A tonic is needed she says. To fortify you. Its a bug. There are lots of tonic bottles in homes in our village. When its full it comes back home. I sense it cooling down in the fishbowl, licking my goldfish and making it thinner. I have to chuck extra flakes in when it does. My poor fish. Hardly any muscle left. I think it came from the sea, my floorboard friend. Or the hospital waste. Sometimes I sense my dead Mum. Like I was, I suppose its sort of my undead baby. Living next to me. I've seen tentacles in my dreams, blood-filled tendrils reaching into open throats to do their slippery work. They head for the heart first, its favourite treat, so thick and strong. Then the limbs get diluted leaving just enough to move. For fun it often fingers the anxious brains of its victims but this thinking mass is of no real interest to a muscle eater. All those stringy neurons. All that baggage. That's how I know it drinks muscle. In my dreams. We're sort of connected mentally I guess. Sometimes it leaves a trail of fluid like snot across bedroom floors and straight out the windows, but by morning it's crystallised into nothing. Maybe its my strange placenta or a sick moat mollusc. Who knows. It could be ancient. Or my age too! Its hard to say. Anyway, I call it Slinky because it moves like one. You know, sort of flippy floppy. Sometimes, if my head is turned straight, I see it back-flipping up my bedclothes towards my mouth. When I get my blood back in the morning and re-inflate I feel great. Really great. I hope my parents never move house. I'll have to take Slinky with me. In the fishbowl I imagine. For now we're doing well. I'd better get up. It's time for school and as usual I skip breakfast. I take an apple or two to keep my Mum happy and then I run. I run past houses where I know its been. Like circuitry the faded trails all lead to me, a battery of blood muscles ready to pop. I lean back in class and smile at the girl sitting next to me. She looks tired. Really really tired. A thin line of brown stuff dribbles down her chin.
"Oh, my burning feet of fire."
Be aware of the possibility of a large flesh-eating giant when venturing into the woods of the Mid-West and North East. This terrifying figure is a member of Native American folklore, specifically Algonquin-speaking tribes. There are many different descriptions associated with this gruesome monster, but most agree that is a large (15ft tall) malevolent organism that feeds on human flesh.
She blinked. She had been born Samantha Elisabeth McTaggart but her friends just called her Sapphire. She was a smart, enthusiastic and clever little girl, or at least that’s what the adults always said when her friends came over to play. So that was why it came as no surprise to Samantha, that she now held the most valuable book in the world in her hands. It didn’t look like much but she knew better, it was often the least inconspicuous objects that held the most worth.
Yours alone to enjoy
Johnny Whitmore had the priest dead to rights, framed up nicely in the iron sights of his model 1873 Winchester rifle. The ache in Whitmore’s body from lying prone for two hours in wait was almost unbearable. He was getting old - A few years ago he wouldn’t have even thought twice about setting up an ambush like this.
Reflect for a Lifetime
It was only a couple months before that Jenny had laughed in that supposed psychic’s face. Although now in retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have. But come on! He had really told her that her life was going to take a turn for the worst. She had laughed and told him he was two years too late for that prediction! She had after all overcome all the hurdles - her parents trying to convince her that she wouldn’t be successful working for a publishing company or William telling her he couldn’t be with a feminist woman! Despite her massive breakup, her move across state borders to New York City, she had managed to not only survive, but to be successful! She had already gotten a promotion in the 6 months that she had been working for Blaustenhouse Publishing Company. Jenny had also managed to secure a condo in Manhattan! The Upper West side! Her agent had told her it was a steal…rightfully so. Who sells a condo here for only 200K? Plus it was absolutely beautiful, with sunlight streaming through the glass to ceiling windows, the marble countertop, the bedroom that could easily fit a king sized bed…that psychic had to be faking! Everything was finally looking up. She had moved in within a month. Her plants were placed strategically throughout the corners to let in some nature and she had splurged a bit on her soft velvet white couch. Deciding to get rid of her old things, she had decided to furnish her new condo with expensive and tasteful things. Her kitchen drawers held expensive silver flatware, her bedroom housed a fluffy white rug and an ottoman she just had to buy. It had taken her a few weeks to get it just right and quite a bit of money! One thing she was really surprised by was that the condo came with this absolutely gorgeous mirror. It was right in the center of the fireplace and when she had asked her agent if the previous owner was going to be taking it with them, her agent shrugged and said they had left it. Jenny assumed the owner had loved how the mirror fit into this apartment. It was like it was made for it with the minimalist gold detailing and a shine that hadn’t disappeared despite the dust that had collected. Jenny was more than happy to accommodate her TV in her bedroom instead. Who doesn’t like to lie down while watching reruns? This place was absolutely perfect, a dream come true.
Mom was long dead when Her Journals were burned. It had been more than eight years since the woman Herself had been burned in a crematorium oven. Those who loved Her had raised their arms to the waves of heat and smoke pouring from the stacks. I think She would have liked the look of the Journals as they went. Their black covers cracked, and their inked pages glowed. She would have loved it, all that energy being released. I thought it was all too ordinary and disappointing. A person’s stories should burst with colors and shapes as they go spiraling away. Mom’s stories should have ignited the sky.
Typical night shift in a Warehouse. Another groundhog day of returns processing. It is not too bad, not too bad, I keep repeating myself. The money is decent, the job itself is easy and not stressful. Let's face it, even not in the pandemic, with my strong Polish accent and shyness, I do not have many amazing options.
The Spell Book
“Are you sure it’s going to be here?” I ask my younger sister. Elena snorts as if my question personally offends her. “This is the cemetery where he was buried; it’ll be here. You know that.”
Creators We’re Loving
The creative faces behind your favorite stories.
2 published stories
40 published stories
1 published story
21 published stories
5 published stories
5 published stories
11 published stories
11 published stories
15 published stories
9 published stories
6 published stories
10 published stories