Blurred Edges Chapter Four

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Spinning around, Claire clutched at the tub behind her as she stared at the darker recesses in the bathroom, the path leading to the main bedchamber where Martin would soon be. Standing in the shadows opposite the door, Claire could just make out a figure… a nude figure. Old sagging flesh and wrinkles marred its dark body as it stared at her from the corner, breathing heavily. Eyes darting about, she saw that one of its hands was missing; the scratching in the tub reminded her of where it could possibly be.

Halloween Party Part One

Allie looked at her phone, checking the time. “Ugh, it’s already nine. What are you two doing in there that’s taking so long?”

“We’re almost done!” Angie chirped from within the walk-in closet

“Just a minute!” Deedee called back as well.

Stephen King's "On Writing"

     In an effort to make my reading more palpable to all of you, I grit my teeth and purchased this memoir/writing aide and have read it cover to cover now. And I have to say... it's not that bad. What I was expecting was a whole lot different than what I got. The lofty author who holds it high above your head just doesn't exist with Stephen.

Blurred Edges Chapter Three

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Shaking her hand away from her head, Claire screamed as she felt the spider chew into her palm, the fangs slicing as if they were serrated knives. Martin was running up, yelling at her just to stop so he could get it off her, but she couldn’t stand still. Blood was welling up from the wound, dribbling down her arm and onto the stairs, where it began to soak into the wood with alarming speed. Warm trickling blood began to soak into her shirt as she raised her hand up and slapped the reptilian bust with a loud crack. Her hand jolted as if electrocuted and a loud crunch echoed throughout the hall, but the spider was now crushed in a pulpy mess covered in her blood, still latched onto the meat of her hand that it had been able to churn into raw hamburger. In the span of seconds, Martin was at Claire’s side, holding her hand up and carefully extracting the spider from her hand, the twin fangs stick in her palm like syringes.

Merchant of South Texas, Part Two

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Bass sat with the salty loan shark, drinking from an aged bottle of cheap scotch with the odorous man. Finally, Antonio’s eyes lit up and he raised a wrinkled hand up waving over someone behind Joe. The Thirsty Devil was a small bar, and as the night passed the people of the Riverwalk flowed in and out of the dimly-lit tavern in a never ending tide. Bass looked over the back of the tall booth, looking for whoever Antonio was waving at.

Blurred Edges, Chapter Two

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Unlocking the chains around the door handles, Martin slid them off before gently dropping them down to the marble steps. The area was surprisingly clean of graffiti, not that small towns were well known for such art. Still, with all of the places that Claire and Martin had cleaned up, they’d always stumble across some form of tagging that would need a day or two of work to remove. But not counting the rotting doors, the outside was amazingly clean. Perhaps the veritable wall of vines and weeds crawling up the side of the manor prevented anyone from desecrating the building, or maybe they just hid past markings.

Support this Site!

     I rarely call out to the darkened void that is the internet for aid as doing such a thing is tantamount to praying at the altar of an Old One: futile at best, hazardous at worst. But I find myself at said altar, knife raised high with sacrifice ready at hand.
     I am of course referring to Patreon, the site that allows my dear readers to contribute to my coffers in an attempt to wean me off of standard employment so that I can manufacture horror as a living, creating more terrifying tales to update the site with on a more consistent basis.
     Follow the link above to see how you can help out a struggling author, and the rewards you can get by doing so.

Blurred Edges, Chapter One

The station wagon pulled to a stop, prompting Claire to look up from her IPad (playing an old cartoon she watched when she was a kid) and out into the yard of the seemingly gargantuan manor. Pushing a stray few strands of blue hair from her eyes, she opened the door and stepped out into the chilly autumn weather. Hands immediately sought the warmth of her hoodie’s pockets while her jean-clad legs shivered from the frigid wind blowing up from the curving driveway. Leaves circled and frolicked about, carried by the wind, an endless sonata of silence serenading them as they cantered back and forth across the extensive lawn.

The Merchant of South Texas

Bass was in trouble. He needed money to pay rent on his apartment, and he’d just spent what was left of his unemployment on food for his six-month-old daughter, Leah. The child was ravenous and growing larger by the day, as children are wont to do, and Bass was determined that his daughter would never go hungry. But now he faced the proposition that his daughter may be homeless for a while.

Dead Girl's Dance, Part Two

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I lean back as I admire the work that Amanda, my friend in the theater department who happens to do the tailoring for the costumes in all of the plays, has done on my Joker costume; Lurid purple with black pinstripes going down the legs, a pair of black suspenders and a green silk shirt with a purple jacket. Add to it my own shiny black shoes, and I have a great costume to wear to this Dead Girl’s Dance.