In the small town of Black Butte, nestled between twisted pines and winding rivers, a legend whispered in the chilling night breeze. A black cat, with eyes as dark as the abyss, roamed the quiet trails. This cat was no ordinary feline; it was a harbinger of terror, a creature that hungered for more than just mice.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets emptied, and the townsfolk locked their doors. It was then that the black cat emerged from the shadows. Silent as a wraith, it slinked through the darkness, its eyes gleaming with an unnatural hunger.

The first victim, a weary traveler named Samuel, felt the cat’s icy gaze upon him as he navigated the dimly lit streets. Footsteps quickened, but no matter how fast he moved, the cat followed, its obsidian form weaving through the night like a wisp of malevolence.

As the clock struck midnight, the cat pounced, its fangs sinking into Samuel’s flesh. A guttural scream pierced the stillness, but it was soon replaced by an eerie silence. The cat, now sated, melded seamlessly into the shadows.

As dawn painted the sky in hues of orange, the black cat transformed into a perfect replica of Samuel. A doppelganger, complete with his memories, quirks, and secrets. The mimicry was so flawless that even Samuel’s closest friends couldn’t discern the imposter.

For a day, the cat walked among the townsfolk, wearing the borrowed skin of its victim. It played its role with unsettling precision, attending events, chatting amicably at the Aspn lounge, and even sharing meals with Samuel’s family. The mimicry was so convincing that no one suspected the ghastly truth beneath the facade.

When night fell again, the black cat shed its borrowed identity like a snake shedding its skin. The process was gruesome, a grotesque transformation that left behind the lifeless shell of its former prey. The cat, now hungry for another taste, set its sights on a new victim.

Fear spread through Black Butte like a contagion. Whispers of the midnight mimic echoed through the once-cozy town, and every black cat became a harbinger of dread. No one knew who would be the next target, and the once-tranquil streets now harbored a lurking terror that stalked its prey under the veil of night.

The legend of the black cat persisted, a ghastly tale told in hushed tones by those who dared to wander the streets after dark. Black Butte, once a haven of peace, became a town haunted by the ghostly specter of the midnight mimic, a creature that hungered for the essence of humanity, leaving only echoes of the lives it devoured.

Tritone

Tritone’s love of horror and mystery began at a young age. Growing up in the 80’s he got to see some of the greatest horror movies play out in the best of venues, the drive-in theater. That’s when his obsession with the genre really began—but it wasn’t just the movies, it was the games, the books, the comics, and the lore behind it all that really ignited his obsession. Tritone is a published author and continues to write and write about horror whenever possible.

puzzleboxhorror.com

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The post The Midnight Mimic – A Short Scary Story appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

In this new collection, Richard Thomas has crafted fourteen stories that push the boundaries of dark fiction in an intoxicating, piercing blend of fantasy, science fiction, and horror. Equally provocative and profound, each story is masterfully woven with transgressive themes that burrow beneath the skin.

A Series of Short Horror Stories

• A poker game yields a strange prize that haunts one man, his game of chance now turned into a life-or-death coin flip.
• A set of twins find they have mysterious new powers when an asteroid crashes in a field near their house, and the decisions they make create an uneasy balance.
• A fantasy world is filled with one man’s desire to feel whole again, finally finding love, only to have the shocking truth of his life exposed in an appalling twist.
• A father and son work slave labor in a brave new world run by aliens and mount a rebellion that may end up freeing them all.
• A clown takes off his make-up in a gloomy basement to reveal something more horrifying under the white, tacky skin.

Powerful and haunting, Thomas’ transportive collection dares you to examine what lies in the darkest, most twisted corners of human existence and not be transformed by what you find.

* Puzzle Box may earn a commission when you buy through links on our site.

4.4 Stars on good Reads – 4.5 stars on Amazon

What the Reviewers Have to Say

Beat collection I’ve read since THINGS WE LOST IN THE FIRE by Mariana Enriquez. Thomas’s range is astounding.

Edward Lorn

I received the ARC for this collection a few months ago so that I could have time to read it and chat about it before its release on 02/22/22. I wish I had read it immediately upon receipt because it’s THAT good. So good that I will reread these stories, even have actually reread a couple already even though I just finished the collection recently. (I am determined that 2 stories were connected, that a character we meet in the beginning, we get his origin in a later story and I will die on that hill…but I won’t tell you who so you can reach your own conclusions…)

Each story is unique in its style and tone. Some are good old fashion classic horror, we have a few with sci fi elements, cosmic horror and magical realism. There were a couple I would have claimed were written by Stephen King and 2-3 I would have pinned on Stephen Graham Jones (two of my favorites, by the way) I did post mini-reviews of each story on my Instagram if you’re interested, I can be found on IG @the_nerdy_narrative.

I read one story per day and that is how I recommend approaching this collection because these stories will make you think. Some have those fun endings that give you plenty of fodder for your imagination to carry forward as to what could have happened going forward. Some are just thought provoking, ones that deep thinkers will enjoy exploring the meanings of actions of the characters or the underlying theme.

I was blown away by the collection as a whole – I loved every single story. Honestly. There was one that I was lackluster about, but the ending flipped it and made the whole story SHINE. (I may not have had enough coffee and missed some connections as to what was happening, lol) It’s rare I read a collection of this size and feel each story is a 5 star read, but this one is it…especially with all the stories being by the same author. Now I want to read EVERYTHING Richard Thomas has and anything he has coming out in the future.

Top short story collection of the year for me – trust me, it had some steep competition too! 

Lezlie The Nerdy Narrative

Thomas (The Soul Standard) breathes fresh air into the genre of dark speculative fiction with a brilliant collection that teems with haunting elements, dark nostalgia for lost love, dysfunctional families, and self-torment. These 14 stories ably demonstrate Thomas’s skill at conjuring visceral emotion through immaculate detail work. The gut-wrenching “Repent,” about a crooked ex-cop who makes the ultimate sacrifice to save his dying son, is told with an artist’s attention to scene setting. “Hiraeth,” about a farm boy with a “hole in his chest” who is robbed and subsequently punished by the men in the family, bristles with astonishing detail, realistic characters, and emotional depth. In “Ring of Fire,” an isolated scientist with an altered memory runs strange experiments on minerals, splicing horror and science fiction elements into an eerie tale about the evolution of the human mind amid isolation and interference. Equally devastating and refreshing, this is a collection to be savored by horror fans and literary readers alike.

Publishers Weekly

Tritone

Tritone’s love of horror and mystery began at a young age. Growing up in the 80’s he got to see some of the greatest horror movies play out in the best of venues, the drive-in theater. That’s when his obsession with the genre really began—but it wasn’t just the movies, it was the games, the books, the comics, and the lore behind it all that really ignited his obsession. Tritone is a published author and continues to write and write about horror whenever possible.

puzzleboxhorror.com

The post Book Recommendation – “Spontaneous Human Combustion” By Richard Thomas appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

Jason wouldn’t be there to roll over in his sleep and drape an arm across her. He wouldn’t be there to hold her when life’s burden’s came crashing down. He wouldn’t be there to lower her on the bed and make love to her. All that was left when someone lies six feet deep were the haunting memories of past ghosts. 

“It’s all on the video.” 

That’s what the note said. The one she found stuffed in her coffee mug the day Jason died. His phone was left on the counter, unlocked, and with a paused video. It beckoned her to watch it. 

She still remembered the curiosity and confusion swirling in her mind when she hit “play.” 

Jason sat at his study in the upstairs loft. An emotionless, numb look covered his face. His eyes seemed lifeless and hollow and his voice was absent of any emotion. Jason stared at the camera and said,

“At first, I liked being sober. I thought I had my life back. I liked everything I learned in rehab, and when I got out, I was ready for this great life of sobriety that they told us lies ahead.” 

Jason paused, glanced down for a moment, then back at the camera. 

“Things were supposed to get better,” he said. He interlocked his hands and leaned on the desk. “Jobs, relationships, opportunities. Being sober was supposed to open up a whole new world of possibilities.” 

Jason looked down again for several seconds. He cleared his throat, wiped a tear, then interlocked his fingers again. “But they were wrong, Annie. They were all wrong. 

Being sober hasn’t changed anything. Life hasn’t gotten better and…” he swallowed hard then raked his fingers down his face. “The only thing that has happened? I can feel again. My emotions aren’t crippled by the alcohol.”

Jason stared off to his left. “And that’s the worse part. The feelings. The guilt and shame over what I’ve done in my addiction. The depression. The sorrow. Where is the joy they promised, Annie? ” He stared back at the camera. “They said, ‘Oh, Jason, life will be wonderful again. You will feel everything!’ Well, fuck them. I can feel everything and I fucking hate it. I fucking hate it, Annie! I can’t live with the emotions anymore, Annie. Nor can I go back to my addiction.” Jason looked back at the camera with a blank stare. “I liked being numb. And you know what I discovered? It’s me. I don’t like feeling me.  I’m being swallowed alive by my soul. It is a black hole and I can’t escape. Tell them bye for me, Annie. Tell them all goodbye and happy Halloween. “

Jason reached his hand down, opened the desk drawer, and pulled out a .45. He stuck the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The gun blast crackled through the phone. Jason’s skull and brains decorated the window behind him. 

Annie remembered these things before she stepped foot back into their home, and hoped the .45 was still in the desk drawer. 

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The Man drew his sword from its sheath and approached the cave of Abaddon. The light of the full moon shimmered in the blade and shone down on The Man as a celestial spotlight; as if heaven and hell were watching the events play out on a divine stage. All The Man’s senses were acute. His nose smelled the stench of evil arising from the cave. He could hear the breaths of the demonic guard as it inhaled and exhaled, anticipating The Man’s approach. He felt the grooves of the leather wrapped hilt tight against his palm. He lifted his steel, stared into the blade, and prayed. 

“Creator God, grant your servant strength to slay the wretched beast and avenge our families.” He then lowered his sword and walked. 

The voice of Creator God echoed in his soul. “My Son, do you trust me?”

The Man paused, and with a bewildered look, gazed up into the heavens. “Yes,Lord,” he said. “I trust you. Why?” 

“Then go,” God said. “The end of a thing will birth forth a new beginning.” 

The Man raised an eyebrow and said, “What do you mean?”

“You will see,” God said. “Now, go.” 

The Man nodded and continued his pace. He drew near to the cave and the demon guardian stepped out to meet him. The guardian thrust its ax and stuck the blade against The Man’s neck. The Man stopped, narrowed his brow, and stared at the demon with righteous anger. 

“What business do you have here,” the demon said. 

“I’ve come to kill the dragon,” The Man said. 

“What gives you the right to challenge Abaddon,” the demon said. 

The Man held up his necklace of vengeance and showed it to the demon. “I have come to add to my collection.” 

“Abaddon will take your head,” the demon said. “He will shit in your skull then ejaculate down your neck. There’s nothing better than to give a dead, righteous man a desecrating body fuck.”

“If you’re not careful,” The Man said. “I will shove that beak of yours where you do most of your talking.” 

“Very well, fool. It’s your death,” the demon said. It lowered the ax, turned around, and walked towards the cave. “Follow me,” it said over its shoulder.

“With pleasure,” The Man said. He thought about decapitating the guard just for the hell of it–just as a “fuck you” to Abaddon. He weighed the thought and before he could push it out of his mind, his arms were already in motion.

The blade of the sword cut deep into the demon’s neck and orange blood spewed into the air. The demon dropped its ax with a howl and clasped its hands against the wound. It turned around and faced The Man. 

The Man lifted his sword in the air and brought it down in a slicing motion, cutting off the demon’s beak. The beak fell to the ground and chattered. The Man stared at the gaping cavity with satisfaction before the demon fell to its knees. 

The demon held its hands out in a pleading gesture. This angered The Man. “How dare you, a viscous, heartless, servant of Abaddon beg for mercy!” The Man snarled, quivered his lips, and swung his sword. The blade connected with the demon’s wrist and its hands took flight. The demon flailed its arms and more orange blood filled the air as a mist. The Man cocked his arms back again and swung at the demon’s neck. There was a sharp, ripping and gutting sound as the blade sliced through muscle and bone. 

The Man picked up the beakless head and added it to his necklace. He snatched the keys to the iron gate off the carcass and marched towards the cave. The entrance to the cave was around fifty feet in diameter and the bars to the gate were several inches thick. The lock was eye level to The Man. 

He tried the keys until he found one that worked. The bow of the key was a circular, dragon tail. The stem resembled the bone of a human finger and the bit looked like a tooth. It fit with perfection into the lock. The Man turned the key and heard the latch click. He put the keys in his waistband and pushed the iron gate open.  

The hinges roared as if in agony. The bars were laced with human flesh. The Man felt the dried and rotting texture in his hand as he gripped the iron. He eased the gate against the rocky wall and glanced around. The cave was illuminated by strange looking skulls with a fire burning on their insides. They hung from the ceiling by ropes and the light of the flames flowed out of the eye sockets, casting strips of light onto the walls and floor. 

The Man titled his head and walked in a circle, examining the skulls. They were massive, with four faces on each side–human, lion, eagle, and ox.  

“God in heaven,” he whispered. He recognized the bone structure. These were not skulls of the earthly realm. They were angel skulls, but not just any angels. They were cherubim skulls–the living creatures who guarded the throne of God. They were Abaddon’s trophies; a monument of mockery and a reminder of the ones he slayed when Lucifer declared war on God. 

God had Michael the Archangel and Lucifer had Abaddon. The Man recalled another passage from the Book of Abaddon:

“The First War of Heaven was one of violence. More violent than any war of man, both now and in the ages to come. Lucifer was cunning and his deception, powerful. This is where correction is needed about the original account of The First War, which was penned by Kenan, the son of Enosh, the son of Seth, who was the son of Adam.

In his account, Kenan said Lucifer gathered a third of the host of heaven in his cause. But I, Methusalah, the son of Enoch, was gifted in visions of God just as my father. After God took my father to be with Him, fifty years later, the heavens were open to me and I saw my father before the throne of God. He said, ‘My son, come up here and I will show you visions of The First War.’

The army of Lucifer was more numerous than the sands on the seashore. Their number was three-fourths of the heavenly creatures. The leaders of his army were Abaddon, Leviathan, and Lilith. Their advances were almost successful, but the Son of God and his warrior, Micheal the archangel, were able to prevail. But not before most of the angelic beings on both sides were killed. 

God was able to create more angels but Lucifer had to result to more menial means to reproduce. Abaddon and Leviathan took Lilith as their consort, and she replenished the armies of Lucifer.” 

The Man stared at the walls. They sweated a red liquid. He eased over and dipped his finger in the substance. It was warm and smelled metallic.

“Blood,” The Man said. “Human blood.” He wiped his fingers on his chest, leaving behind red streaks. “The blood of my brothers. The blood of my fathers. The blood of my children and the blood of the prophets.” The Man lifted his eyes and stared at the hanging cherubim skulls. “I’ll avenge you all. Every last one of you.” The Man dipped his fingers in the crimson flow again and spread some on his face. He did this over and over again until all his exposed skin burned red. 

“I am the wrath of God,” he said. “The sword of His vengeance and the one who will make hell weep.” 

The Man traveled deeper into the abyss. The walls were now decorated with the body parts of humans and angels. Sounds of great lamenting and sorrow echoed through the corridor. Further ahead, The Man heard footsteps. He paused, dropped his necklace, and gripped his sword. 

“Who approaches,” The Man yelled. 

There was no answer. Just the sound of footsteps.

“I said, who approaches!” This time his voice was more forceful.

The footsteps stopped. 

“Daddy.” a voice called. “Daddy, is that you?” 

The Man froze. Chills slithered up his spine like an arctic serpent then sank its fangs into the back of his neck. His head reeled and his eyes fluttered. “No,” he whispered. “It can’t be. Dorian?” 

“Hi, Daddy. It is me,” Dorian said.

The Man stared at his seven year old daughter with mouth agape. Tears welled in his eyes. He sheathed his sword and reached out a hand towards her. “Why are you here? You’re…you’re supposed to be…”

“Daddy, what is that all over you,” Dorian asked, interrupting him. 

The Man glanced down at his arms. “It’s uh…” He looked back at her. “Nothing.” 

Dorian drew closer to him. She was so close now he could touch her. He ran his fingers through her caramel colored hair and stared deep into her brown eyes. “I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too, Daddy.” She reached up and held his hand. “Come with me. We have lots of games to play.” Dorian let out a giggle then tugged at her father’s arm.

The Man swiped his necklace off the ground and followed her lead. “What games are we going to play?”

“Oh, some really fun ones,” Dorian said as she glanced over her shoulder. 

“Well, what about your brother,” The Man asked. “Is he here? Does he want to play?” 

Dorain shook her head. “No, he is resting.” 

“Why is he resting? Is he ill?” 

“No, Daddy,” Dorain said. “Just tired.”

“Very well,” The Man said. “I guess it will just be me and you. Now, tell me what game we shall play first?” 

“Oh, it is a fun one, Daddy!” 

“Is that so?” He was now walking by her side, still holding her hand. 

“Yes, Daddy,” she said and looked up at him with a smile. “It’s called Save the Children from the Fire. Do you remember how to play that game?” 

The Man froze. His face fell and his eyes took on a serious glow. “What?”

Dorian nodded. “Yes, Daddy. You were not very good at it the first time, so let’s see if you can win now.” 

He let go of Dorian’s hand, grabbed her by the shoulder, and spun her towards him. “Stop, child. This isn’t humorous.” 

“I’m not laughing, Daddy,” she said. Then her voice turned into a shrill. “I am BURNING! BURNING! BURNING DADDY! OH GOD HELP! DADDY WHERE ARE YOU!” 

The Man jerked his hand away. Dorian’s skin started to char then peel off. Her eyeballs burst and fluid poured from the sockets. Flames filled the empty holes. She opened her mouth to scream, revealing more fire. 

The Man dropped his necklace and grabbed both her arms. “Dorian! No! Daddy is here! I’m right here!” Her skin melted into his hands. He drew them back and held them to his face. The flesh dripped from his fingers like wax. His eyes bulged, his nostrils flared, and his lips trembled. The Man was terrified. 

Dorian exploded and her melted skin covered The Man. He screamed and wiped himself with frantic motions. “No, no, no no!” He fell to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and wept. He rocked back and forth, crying, “Dorain, sweet Dorian…my baby…I tried…God knows I did.” 

A thundering voice shook the cave. “Try as you did, warrior. You still failed and your children are dead. Not only yours, but The Girl’s offspring as well.” 

“Noooo,” The Man screamed. He closed his eyes and raked his fingers down his cheeks. “Shut up, Abaddon!” 

“You’re weak,” the voice rumbled. “Just like your so-called Savior.” 

The Man heard a whooshing sound, like someone lighting a large fire. He could feel a bright light shining on his eyelids, so he opened his eyes. 

Before him was a burning cross. Nailed to it was a man, but the man didn’t burn. The Man draped his arm across his forehead, trying to see through the blinding inferno. The figure was held to the cross by snakes. They were wrapped around his arms, legs, and mid-section. The figure resembled a crude representation of the Son of God. He had been castrated and his manhood shoved in his mouth. 

The Man was repulsed by the image. 

“See your weak Savior,” Abaddon said. “See what I have done to him? Now, imagine what fate awaits you!” 

The Man jumped to his feet with a growl. “I rebuke your lies,” The Man screamed. “My Savior is exalted in heaven and is by the right hand of His Father!”

The flames on the cross flickered out and the image dissolved into an ash heap. 

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings stood under the Willow Tree. A finger was pressed against her lips and her stomach was in knots. Something was wrong. Dead wrong. She could feel the angst of The Man surging through her body like the waves of the sea. She reached for The Man with her mind.

“My God,” she whispered. She had felt The Man many times since they met, but never had she sensed such anger and fear in him. “My angel,” she said and placed her other hand on the trunk of the Tree. “You have to let it go, please.” 

The Man picked up on The Girl’s presence. “Dammit, not now,” he mumbled. He didn’t have the time nor energy to deal with her distraction. He put up his psychic block. 

The Girl felt it. The block was like a punch to her gut and a knife in her heart. “Why,” she asked with quivering lips. “Why are you pushing me out?” She dropped her hands and darted to the edge of the cliff. “Why,” she screamed. She then stood in silence, listening as her voice echoed across the Valley. 

The Man drew his sword and picked up his necklace. “Show yourself, Abaddon,” he demanded. “Stop hiding in the shadows like a coward and come face me!” 

The walls of the cave contracted and expanded over and again, as if the cave itself was breathing. With each breath, everything around The Man closed in on him. Then there was the sound of a mighty wind but no gust. The Man looked straight ahead. After the sound of the wind ceased, he turned his head and his ears picked up on another noise. It was a rushing sound.

“Like water,” The Man said. “…Oh shit!” 

In the dim light of the cave, The Man saw a great flood or raging liquid pummeling through the cave. He turned around and sprinted towards the exit but he could not outrun the deluge. He was wiped off his feet in the flood and flailed his limbs as the liquid engulfed him. His instincts told him not to let go of his sword and necklace, so he held them fast. 

The liquid was warm and thick, but translucent. In his state of panic, The Man discovered he could still breathe. But this new found fact did not quench the terror within. He could still see the walls of the cave moving in on him. He tried to maneuver through the gel-like substance but the resistance was great. 

He felt a tug on his leg. 

The Man looked down to see something resembling intestines snaking around his ankle. It slithered its way up his knee and then wrapped around his midsection. 

The Man was helpless. He couldn’t move his arms to try and slice it with his blade. By this time, the walls of the cave were inches from him. His heart pounded and severe claustrophobia constricted his airway. He then heard a thumping.

Thump, thump.

Thump, thump.

Thump, thump. 

The rhythm was like a heartbeat, slow and steady. 

The tension on The Man’s midsection eased. He glanced down and saw the intestine-like serpent uncoil. It made its way through the liquid and began to expand like a balloon. It then folded on top of itself numerous times. The Man turned his eyes upward again. Above him, a shape took form. It was large, black, and had several chambers. Tubes formed around the chambers and the black mass pulsated to the sounds of the thumps. 

The walls of the cave thinned out and became pliable with the gel encasing The Man. He tried to move his arms. This time there was no resistance. Then, he heard Abaddon’s voice.

“How does it feel, oh warrior, to be in the belly of the beast!”

“You bastard,” The Man thought. He snarled and raised his sword above his head.

He hacked away at the intestines, giving him enough room to travel to the other side. He then stabbed the lining of Abaddon’s bosom. The blade traveled through and pierced it. The Man twisted his steel and sawed. The liquid gushed out the puncture until it was all drained. The Man climbed through the opening and then toppled out. 

He fell on something hard. He took a moment to gather himself and saw he still had possession of his sword and necklace. He glanced around and was now sitting in the middle of the road in the Valley. 

“You deserved to be passed from me like a piece of excrement,” Abaddon said. “I should have shat you out!” 

The Man fixed his gaze forward. Abaddon stood before him and the wound in his stomach was healing. 

“Well,” The Man said and stood to his feet. “That was your mistake!” 

Abaddon loomed over him. The dragon was of an ungodly size. His primate body stood erect and his wings were expanded. The goat horns on his head seemed to tickle the clouds above and his dragon mouth could swallow a man whole. 

“Oh,” Abaddon said. “But this next time I will. I will rip your head off and deliver it to The Girl. I will swallow your body then shit you out. I will gather your remains in a pile and spread you all over the Valley so that any who come after you might smell the smell of defeat.”

 “Those words? They shall be your last!” The man charged at the dragon.

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings scurried to the other side of the Willow Tree and hid behind it. The tip of Abaddon’s horns almost reached the edge of the cliff. She had to work up the courage to peek over the side. She had to know if her lover was alive. 

The Man didn’t know what hit him. Abaddon’s tail swiped him and knocked him against the Valley wall. Everything went black for several moments for The Man. Something warm and gritty filled his mouth. He gathered himself then spit out his shattered teeth and a mouthful of blood. The jarring of his head against the Valley wall imploded most of his teeth. 

The Man wobbled to his feet and gripped his sword with shaking hands. He had no idea what happened to his necklace, but it was the least of his concerns. His eyes were glazed over and his vision blurred. He saw a form coming near him then felt immense pressure around his entire body. 

Abaddon squeezed The Man in his hand and lifted him to his snout. 

“You made this too easy, warrior,” Abbadon said. 

The Girl was now watching from the edge of the cliff. Her eyes were wide with fight and tears streaked her face. “No, God. Please, no.” 

The Man gave rapid blinks then turned his head. He saw The Girl lying on the edge of the cliff with their tree behind her. He reached out his hand towards her and his sword dropped. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The Girl watched as the sword twirled and descended to the bottom of the Valley. The blade clanked to the ground and she flinched. 

“I…,” The Man had trouble speaking. “I…I tried…darling…I…love…y–”

The Girl screamed. It was a scream the Valley had never heard in all its eon’s of existence. It was a scream of horror, loss, sadness, and unfulfilled dreams. It was the only sound ever to make the Valley walls leak tears. It seemed as if even evil could appreciate the loss of love unfulfilled. 

The mouth of Abaddon came clamping down on The Man’s head, cutting his words short. Abbadon separated the cranium from the body with a ripping sound and a fountain of blood geysered from The Man’s neck. The Man’s body jerked. His arms lifted above his head for a moment, shook, then went limp. 

Abaddon turned his head towards The Girl with a slow motion. “Here,” he said. “For keepsake,” and spat the head of The Man at her. 

The severed head soared through the air then landed by The Girl. It rolled with force and slammed up against the Willow Tree. The Girl pushed herself up on all fours and scurried over to the Tree. She did not want to see what Abaddon would do to the rest of her lover. 

She noticed The Man’s eyes. They were not filled with terror. The same love and intensity she remembered with such fondness still started back at her. His mouth was open, revealing his jagged, missing teeth. 

The Girl heard a thundering noise behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see Abaddon walking off into the Valley. She turned her attention back to her lover. She hung her head and wept, the tears of her sorrow watering the grass underneath their Tree. She clasped his head in her arms then sat against the trunk. Her body shook with sobbing and she held him to her bosom. She tried to pray, but only unintelligible groanings bellowed forth. 

Memories flooded her mind. The good ones. It was always the good ones. She wanted to remember her lover for the man he was and not the body part resting lifeless in her arms like a still born child. All her dreams were shattered. In one, heartbreaking moment her world had come to an end. There was nothing left of the future she dreamed of. Nothing left of The Man. There would be no more nights of passion. No more of him tucking her blonde hair behind her ear and smiling down at her. There would be no more love poems and no more laughs. All was now a memory. 

How do you live on with memories? You cannot hold them. They cannot wrap their arms around you and give you warmth. They cannot whisper into your ear or satisfy the longing of your heart. 

Memories. These were all she had left of The Man with Hazel Eyes and Broken White Wings. 

She looked down upon him again and between sobs she said, “My angel…we…never…even…got to…fix…your wings!” She dropped his head and it rolled into her lap. She buried her face in her hands and mourned. “You were supposed to fly again! You were supposed to soar, my angel!” 

The Girl wept for hours then sat speechless for the rest of the night. Morning dawned, and she wanted to make a memorial for The Man. She took his head and put his long, brown hair in a ponytail. She grabbed several dangling branches of their Tree and tied it around The Man’s hair. 

The head now hung in the Tree. A slight breeze blew and the head and branches swayed. The Girl sat back down under the Tree to mourn. She would wait three days then fly back to the village. She lied down and rested her head on her arms. She stared at The Man then drifted into a sleep only the sorrowful could know. 

The Girl felt a hand caress her cheek. 

“Wake up, my darling. You need to get up.” 

She drifted between the state of sleepfulness and wakefulness. She fluttered her eyes and a being of light stood over her. “Come on, my beloved. Wake up.” 

It was the voice of The Man. 

The Girl awoke. “My angel?” 

But there was no one there. She furrowed her brow and sat up. She looked around and ran her hands through the grass. She saw The Man’s head still tied to the branches and reality came soaring back to her. The nightmare was real and The Man was dead. Her heart sank again and she moaned. 

“I thought you were here,” she said. “I really thought you were back from the dead.” She stood up and walked over to The Man’s head. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but it was almost evening time. The sun would be setting soon and she didn’t want to spend another night anywhere close to the Valley.  

She placed her hands on The Man’s cheeks. “I’ll leave you here, my love. I’ll come every day to visit you, until your flesh decays and all that is left is your skull. Even then, I will not cease to come visit you.” 

The Girl closed her eyes as she rubbed his cheeks with her thumbs. She was going to try it one last time. One last reach in the hopes of maybe, just maybe she could sense him. She opened her mind to him as she had done countless times before and let her soul search for him. 

She searched…

And searched…

And searched. But she could not find The Man. 

She opened her eyes and shed more tears. She gazed deep into his lifeless, hazel eyes. “You’re gone,” she said. “You’re really gone.” She released The Man then wiped her tears. 

Then she had a thought and said, “My love, we can be together. Where you go I will go.” 

She took branches from the Willow Tree and began to braid them together, making them thick, like a rope. She worked with them more until she was satisfied the noose and branches would hold her. She slipped it around her neck then tightened. 

“We were never meant to be apart. I can’t live without my twin flame.” 

She climbed the tree. When she was satisfied with the height, she stopped. She glanced down at the ground then at The Man. “Here I come, my angel. Forever to be reunited in death.” 

The Girl jumped.

The branches didn’t cooperate like she hoped. The rope wasn’t thick enough to snap her neck. She hung there, choking. With frantic motions she clawed and pulled at the noose. Why? She didn’t know because she wanted to die. It must have just been her survival instincts kicking in, but she knew it was all pointless. In a matter of seconds she would fade to black. She was determined to keep her eyes fixed on The Man until she crossed over. 

She stared at The Man. Maybe it was real or maybe it was her mind being depleted from oxygen, but she saw flames of fire burst forth from the bottom of The Man’s head. The flames formed into a body. They died out and from the neck down flesh appeared. The flames erupted from its back, forming into wings of fire. The Man’s head bonded with the body and life returned. A flaming sword was now in the hands of The Man. It swung upwards and cut the branches around The Girl. 

Gravity took hold and she fell towards the ground. The Man dropped his flaming blade and caught her. 

The Girl realized she must now be in heaven, reunited with her lover. The Man removed the noose from her neck then examined her to see if she was harmed. The Girl took deep breaths then reached out and touched his cheek. 

He felt so real. So alive. So…reborn.

“Did I make it to heaven,” she asked. 

“No,” The Man said. 

Fear etched itself into The Girl’s face. “Hell?”

“No, my darling,” The Man said. “You never left.” 

The Girl furrowed her brow. “Then, I’m dreaming?”

“No,” The Man said. “Touch my flesh and see that I am real!” 

The Girl gave a wide smile. She gripped his cheeks then ran her hands over his face. “My God,” she gasped. “You’re–”

“Back from the dead,” he said. 

Sensations of joy swept over The Girl. She buried her face in his chest and cried. 

The Man slid his hand under her chin and lifted her head. They gazed deep into each other’s eyes. They reached with their souls and reunited their bond. It was stronger; more intense. 

The Man set her on her feet and they embraced. He pulled away, clutched her face in his hands, then kissed her. The kiss was a kiss of hope. The kiss of dreams thought once dead now brought to life. It was love reborn and morphed into something no language in heaven and earth could describe. It was the expression of two twin flames reunited by the power of their God. 

They broke their kiss and The Girl ran her hands up The Man’s back. She felt his wings of fire. Though they were flames, they did not burn her. 

“Your wings,” she said and smiled. “They’re beautiful. But why don’t they burn me?” 

“Because,” The Man said. “The fire of love does not hurt the lover, only those who resent their love.” 

The Girl stood in awe of The Man.

“Now,” he said. “We have something to partake in before I kill Abaddon.” He gave her a seductive stare. “Get on the ground, woman,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh,” she said and bit her lip. “I see. You want to take me under our Tree like in the days of old?” 

“No,” he said. “As in the days ahead.” 

The Girl lied on the ground underneath the Willow Tree and The Man joined her. They made love and all of heaven sang while all of hell quaked. 

In the Valley, Abaddon awoke to the sound of angel songs. 

The Man with Hazel Eyes and Burning Wings flew with The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings down into the Valley. Abaddon was there, awaiting them. 

They landed at the foot of the dragon. 

“You are like a fly that won’t go away,” Abaddon said. “But I see this time, you brought your lwhore with you to die. It will be my pleasure to kill you twice!” 

Abaddon lifted his foot to stomp The Man and The Girl. The Man swung his flaming sword through the air and chopped off Abaddon’s toe. The blow startled the dragon and he staggered for a moment then set his foot back on the ground. 

The Man moved with the swiftness of the chariots of Yahweh. He resembled bolts of lightning as he flashed around Abaddon. He struck with his sword and gaping wounds appeared all over the body of the dragon, bleeding orange. 

Abaddon swatted and clapped his hands together, trying to squish The Man, but he was too quick. There was a sound like a tree snapping, and one of the dragon’s horns came crashing to the ground. 

In fury, Abaddon opened his mouth and sprayed fire. He swung his head in every direction, trying to hit The Man with his flames. The Girl retreated from the madness of Abaddon’s attack and hid behind a rock. 

There was another crash as Abaddon’s second horn hit the ground. The dragon panicked, flapped his wings, and took flight. 

The Man pursued the beast. This time, he was not going to be outran by the dragon. He whirled in and out of Abaddon’s body, circling him and slicing his wings to shreds. Abaddon lost control and went into a nosedive. Seconds later he smashed into the side of the Valley and toppled to the ground. 

The Man landed on top of the dragon and stood on his chest. Abaddon was unconscious and took heavy breaths, his chest heaving under The Man. The Man walked forward and paused at the neck. 

“An eye for an eye. A tooth or a tooth. And a head for a head!” The Man raised his flaming sword then jabbed it down into Abaddon’s throat. 

The beast awoke with a howl. The Man leaped down off of Abaddon, and with sword still in hand, sliced downward. The orange blood flowed. Abaddon made gurgling noises, and with each sound more blood spewed. The Man flew to the other side of the dragon’s neck and worked his sword downward, spilling more of the dragon’s life seed. 

Abaddon met his end in the Valley by the sword of The Man. The blood poured from his body for hours and filled the Valley. Until this day, the Abaddon River still flows through it. Legend has it, the decapitated body of the beast and his severed head still lie submerged at the bottom of the river. The Man and The Girl thought this was the proper burial for him. 

What happened to The Man and The Girl afterwards? 

Well that, my friends, is a tale still taking place. One day, I might tell you the rest of their story. 

The End

Original Short Horror Story by Ezekiel Kinkaid

The post Phantom War Part 4: Abaddon appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

As we detailed in our History of Body Horror article, the reason the genre works so well is because it deals with universal themes and fears. Everyone is subjected to physical pain, disease, aging, and death – and so texts that incorporate these elements are both relatable to some degree as well as terrifying. Even when the elements are stretched to bizarre degrees, there is an underlying current of familiarity.

Writers who work in body horror are particularly adept at cutting to the nerve of our human fragility in all its various forms. They have an ability to weave very real pain and fear into their fiction in ways that are surprising and unnerving. And so, here is a short list of body horror authors you should be reading right now!

Zac Thompson

Zac Thompson is a writer born and raised on Prince Edward Island, Canada. He’s written titles like Marvelous X-Men, Cable, and X-Men: Black for Marvel Comics. Along with indie books such as Her Infernal Descent, Relay, and The Replacer. In 2019, Zac became the showrunner of the Age of X-Man universe at Marvel Comics. His critically acclaimed miniseries, Come Into Me, was called the best horror comic of 2018 by HorrorDNA. His debut comic series, The Dregs, was called “lowbrow brilliant” by New York Magazine. His novel, Weaponized, was the winner of the 2016 CryptTV horror fiction contest.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

Hey, I’m Zac Thompson. I was born and raised on Prince Edward Island, which is the smallest province in Canada. Naturally there wasn’t much to do around here as a kid. So I became obsessed with horror at an early age. My brothers and I would bike to the local video store and rent a pile of horror movies long before we should’ve. Regular triple features of insanity basically rewired my brain by the time I turned ten. That led to discovering horror novels, and horror comics… and before long writing for the website Bloody-Disgusting. Writing about horror led to this craving to create my own horror.

I went to film school with the intent to graduate and make my own horror movies. While there, I met my (often) writing partner Lonnie Nadler. We were both writing for VICE at the time and started to see some of the underlying horror of the city we lived in: Vancouver BC. We built out the concept for The Dregs (my first piece of published fiction) with a local artist Eric Zadwadzki. We pitched it as a noir about a city that literally cannibalizes its weakest citizens and we’re told routinely that it was “unmarketable”. Luckily horror is a genre that thrives in the “unmarketable” space and we didn’t give up. After years of looking for a publisher we were lucky that Black Mask Studios saw merit in the transgression of the work.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Oh man, this is such a multilayered thing. First, I’d say fully understand your contracts before signing them. Pay a lawyer to go over it, I promise it’s worth it. It can be a really exciting prospect to be offered money in exchange for writing a story. But selling the publishing rights always comes with several attached strings. Ask questions until you understand the terms of your payment, who retains ownership of the story, and if/when you’ll ever retain the publishing rights. Set boundaries early in a relationship and reinforce them if you have to. You shouldn’t work for free and you’re not part of a “family” – anyone who says that kinda stuff to you is probably trying to exploit your labour.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the body horror genre?

I love every type of horror but there’s something so universal to me about being afraid of your own body. There’s this primal part of us that understands we’re in this big sack of meat, filled with a complex network of organs that complete complicated processes to keep us alive but we don’t think about it. Until we’re sick. When we feel pain in our bodies it’s this registration that we’re inside this finite thing that can fail us, betray us, even kill us. There’s something so unnerving about that. Walking around every day knowing your sentience depends on some many squishy, fragile things – you can’t escape that. It takes everything about the horror genre and forces it to be entirely localized inside you. There’s no escaping body horror. Even if you cut out the aberration, you have to live for the rest of your life fearing it might come back.

4. What are your top three favorite body horror books (and/or films)?

So this is just off the cuff, without thinking about it too much because I’ll obsess over this if given the time.

THE TROOP – Nick Cutter crafts a weird Lord of the Flies meets Cronenberg mashup that really chilled me to my core. Parasitic alien tapeworms and sadistic little boy scouts. It gets pretty gnarly. Plus it takes place off the coast of Prince Edward Island – so bonus points there.

LAST DAYS – I’m currently on a huge Brian Evenson kick. This is a brutal horror noir with razor sharp prose. A one handed detective is hired by a strange cult known as The Brotherhood of Mutilation to look into the death of one of their one. Unapologetically weird and comes at you with such precision that you wince with every lopped limb. There’s so much amputation in this…it’s actually insane.

THE CIPHER – Kath Koje’s brilliant weird horror masterpiece just needs to be experienced. Bodies do things I never imagined possible in this.

If you’re interested in learning more about Zac Thompson, check out his website at www.zacthompson.substack.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@ZacBeThompson), Instagram (@zacbethompson), and Goodreads (@Zac_Thompson). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Hailey Piper

Hailey Piper writes horror and dark fantasy, and is a member of the Horror Writers Association. She is the author of Queen of Teeth, The Worm and His Kings, Unfortunate Elements of My Anatomy, Benny Rose the Cannibal King, and more. She is an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and her short fiction appears in publications such as Year’s Best Hardcore Horror, The Arcanist, Flash Fiction Online, Daily Science Fiction, Tales to Terrify, Dark Matter Magazine, Planet Scumm, and many more. She lives with her wife in Maryland, where she haunts their apartment making spooky noises.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I’ve always loved horror: monsters, creatures, etc. Anything like that was guaranteed to catch my interest, so once I started writing as a kid, it only made sense I’d jot stories of dinosaurs, werewolves, and aliens. I like to think my writing has grown a little more sophisticated since I was a little kid writing those short stories, but I still love monsters and always will.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

I think as a child I did exactly what I was supposed to do–let my imagination run wild and don’t worry too much. What I would tell the later writer of me is to remember that, keep it close. It took me years to remember to write and not worry over what else was going on. There’s plenty of time in revisions to figure anything else out, but in the writing itself, we need to be free.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the body horror genre?

As with many elements of horror, one of my favorite aspects of body horror is imagination. The subgenre offers endless possibilities and opportunities both for exploring the terrible things inflicted on our bodies or that our bodies inflict on us, as well as taking abstract ideas and applying them physically. We can learn a lot about the horror of those concepts when giving them root in the human body.

4. What are your top three favorite body horror books (and/or films)?

I can’t say top over all, but three that I love would be The Rust Maidens by Gwendolyn Kiste (perfect example of taking an abstract concept, such as the deterioration of an entire region and its people, and applying it to the human body), The Cipher by Kathe Koja (which reaches out and works its own category-defying magic), and Akira, which adds a psychic element in how far the human body can be pushed.

If you’re interested in learning more about Hailey Piper, check out her website at www.haileypiper.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@HaileyPiperSays), Instagram (@haileypiperfights), and Goodreads (@Hailey_Piper). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Eric Larocca

Eric LaRocca is the author of several works of horror and dark fiction, and his work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies published in the US and abroad. He is also the author of several plays that have been produced across the country. Eric is represented by Ryan Lewis/Spin a Black Yarn for Film and Television.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I began my writing journey actually writing for theatre. I worked primarily as a playwright for a number of years, and I was fortunate enough to have several of my original plays performed by a local troupe of actors in my hometown of Kent, Connecticut. Despite my love of theatre, I had always possessed a distinct love of the macabre. I was always drawn to works that were inherently dark. I worshipped the work of playwright Tennessee Williams and his work led me to other writers. Eventually I sought out the dark delicacies commonly found in horror fiction and began to educate myself as much as possible. I also need to credit my mother for encouraging my obsession with horror as I became really invested in the genre when she first showed me the film, Creature from the Black Lagoon. Ever since I saw that film, I was totally engrossed in the genre and did all I could to savor as much horror content as possible.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

I think I would caution my former self to be prepared for the criticism, the negativity, and the hatred that writers are often bombarded with. Obviously, there’s no way to mentally prepare for that level of scrutiny and that kind of negativity, but I would simply urge younger writers to find something outside of writing that gives them pleasure. Also, most importantly, do not engage with trolls or haters. There are people on the internet who are actively seeking to start fights and to suck the energy out of people. Don’t feed them. Don’t give in to their negativity.

Another equally important word of advice I would offer my former self as well as newer writers is to take special care of your mental health. This is a very difficult business to navigate and if you’re not mentally equipped to deal with the rejections and the despair, your journey in writing and publishing will be spectacularly miserable. Take the effort to work on your mental health and make certain that you’re healthy and fit to withstand the barrage of rejections you’ll inevitably receive. To that end, do not give up. Keep writing and generating content. You never know when somebody is going to enter your life and ask: “What else ya got?”

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the body horror genre?

I think what inherently draws me to body horror is the level of intimacy commonly found in the genre. It’s such a profoundly disquieting subgenre when you actually consider the topics and themes at play. Body horror has the ability to be as visceral and as brutal as possible because it’s the dissection of us, it’s the exploration of our bodies. Most importantly, the genre skillfully illustrates one of humankind’s most detrimental sufferings: entropy and decay. I think body horror is an exceptionally “truthful” subgenre of horror because it’s a reflection of ourselves–it’s an examination of our humanity and our weaknesses.

4. What are your top three favorite body horror books (and/or films)?

I’ve been impressed by so many works of fiction and film that cleverly subvert expectations and present body horror in a new, dynamic, and compelling way. I’m immediately reminded of Gwendolyn Kiste’s exceptional novel, The Rust Maidens. Kiste’s writing is so poetic, so lyrical–the horror is so uniquely grotesque and yet so profoundly gorgeous. I also think of Kathe Koja’s Skin as another exceptional example of compelling body horror. Koja’s writing is very unique and it’s a still that belongs entirely to her brand of fiction. Skin was my first introduction to her work, and I’ve been lacking in recent years to check out more of her catalog of fiction. However, Skin definitely stayed with me as a perfect example of dynamic and interesting body horror. Finally, Joanna Koch’s The Wingspan of Severed Hands is another work that I consistently look to for inspiration when executing body horror. Koch’s writing is so hallucinatory and otherworldly. Their command of language astounds me and the way in which they present the narrative in Wingspan is truly remarkable.

If you’re interested in learning more about Eric Larocca, check out his website at www.ericlarocca.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@ejlarocca), Instagram (@ejlarocca), and Goodreads (@Eric_LaRocca). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Jonathan Winn

Screenwriter and author of Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast (“a great read…powerful and jarring” – Cemetery Dance, 2016), Martuk…the Holy (“A Highlight of the Year”), Martuk…the Holy: Proseuche (Top Twenty Best Horror Novels of 2014, Preditors & Editors Readers Poll), the recently released Eidolon Avenue: The Second Feast and Martuk…the Holy: Shayateen. In addition, his award-winning short story “Forever Dark” can be found in Crystal Lake Publishing’s Tales from the Lake, Vol. 2 and various essays are included in the non-fiction Horror 201: The Silver Scream and Writers On Writing, Vol. 2, both from award-winning Crystal Lake Publishing.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

In 2004 I wrote my first play and then my first feature script which, through friends, landed on several desks at DreamWorks. Then, in 2008, tired of the very real constraints of screenwriting, I decided to write a book. Easy enough, right? Well, fast forward four years (yes, four years) and Martuk…The Holy was finally released with its follow-up, Martuk…The Holy: Proseuche, arriving in 2014.

When it comes to body horror, I wasn’t aware that’s what I was doing until the release of Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast in 2016 and then Eidolon Avenue: The Second Feast in 2021.

As for what got me started, as I said, there was a desire to move away from the rules and regulations of screenwriting – I mean, not like writing fiction had rules and regulations, right? Oy vey – so the first book, Martuk, quite literally came to me while I was walking in my neighborhood in Greenwich Village. Washington Square Park, to be precise. The arc, the history, where and when it was placed, the Why of What this Martuk, an endlessly tortured immortal, does. I could barely make it home fast enough to get to the laptop.

The first Eidolon came to me while I was weeding the garden. Or whatever it is you call it when you absentmindedly move dirt around with your foot while chatting on your cell. That book surprised me. I was working with an editor at the time who kept encouraging me to amp it up, make it more, make it worse, don’t be afraid to go really super-dark, don’t worry what people will think, just go all in. And what that did was create stories, bit by bit, rewrite by rewrite, that were radically different from what I’d done, what I thought I’d be doing and, more importantly, what I was aware I could do.

That first Eidolon opened up a whole new world of horror for me. One that encouraged the pushing of limits while rewarding unapologetic courage.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Perfection kills inspiration. Read that again: Perfection kills inspiration. So don’t worry about getting those first words right. Just get ‘em on the page and clean it up later.

Also, especially when you’re twisting the rules, testing boundaries and maybe writing outside the box, stick with it even when people are pelting you with doubt and burying you under constant reminders of what’s done and what isn’t done. I’ve come to realize that when you worry about what others might think, or if what you do will be liked, you run the very real risk of suffocating those parts of your creativity that make you stand out.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the body horror genre?

There’s a testing of limits I appreciate. And courage. I suspect those who write body horror tap into dangerously dark places in order to make what hits the page as impactful and memorable as possible. You have to be brave to face what you find there.

You also have to be super-smart. That’s what really floors me about this genre. It takes real skill to pull this off in a way that’s both believable and still fantastical (or horrifying). The Whys of What Happens in body horror don’t just land on the page. They’re artfully constructed, paced, and planned with a great deal of forethought and talent.

4. What are your top three favorite body horror books (and/or films)?

To be honest with you, the majority of my reading these days – and over the past several years, really – has been mainly research-based for various projects. So I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t have a current list ready. My apologies.

But I will say, although he’s manga and not a novelist, the work of Junji Ito (Japan’s Master of Terror) never ceases to amaze, unsettle, and, by its sheer genius and courage, nudge me to go a bit farther, to stretch my own boundaries, test my own limits. Blindingly surreal and twisted with rock-solid, unique storytelling coupled with unforgettable artwork, the man is a legend for a reason.

If you’re interested in learning more about Jonathan Winn, check out his website at www.martuktheholy.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@Jonathan_Winn), Instagram (@jonathan_winn), and Goodreads (@Jonathan_Winn). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Gwendolyn Kiste

Gwendolyn Kiste is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Rust Maidens, from Trepidatio Publishing; And Her Smile Will Untether the Universe, from JournalStone; the dark fantasy novella, Pretty Marys All in a Row, from Broken Eye Books; the occult horror novelette, The Invention of Ghosts, from Nightscape Press; and the folk horror novel, Boneset & Feathers, with Broken Eye Books. Her short fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Nightmare Magazine, Tor’s Nightfire, Vastarien, Black Static, Daily Science Fiction, Unnerving, Interzone, and LampLight, as well as Flame Tree Publishing’s Gothic Fantasy series, among others. Originally from Ohio, she now resides on an abandoned horse farm outside of Pittsburgh with her husband, two cats, and not nearly enough ghosts.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I’m a horror and dark fantasy author based in Pennsylvania. My books include The Rust Maidens, Boneset & Feathers, And Her Smile Will Untether the Universe, and Pretty Marys All in a Row, among others. My work has won three Bram Stoker Awards and has been translated into five languages.

I’ve always loved horror. I grew up in a horror-centric family; Halloween and all things creepy were very much normal for us. I started writing little picture books in elementary school, and that led to a lifetime love of storytelling. Since I was always into weird stuff to begin with, my stories have constantly circled back around to horror. It’s definitely where my heart is and will always be. Every good part of my life has been related to horror in some way, from my favorite childhood memories with my parents to meeting my husband when we were both horror filmmakers to being a full-time horror author now. There’s definitely no better place for me in the world than in horror.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

It probably sounds too simple, but the best advice is to just keep going. Keep writing, keep reading, and keep doing your best to have fun with it. That can be easy to forget; this industry can sadly be very cruel and competitive at times. But if you do your best to tune out that negativity and just have fun with writing, then that’s really the best way.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the body horror genre?

I love how at its core, body horror deals with themes of identity. It really gets down to the nitty-gritty of who we are as human beings. We often don’t think about it much, because we’re all living in them every day, but our bodies are truly horrifying landscapes. Things can go wrong with them that we never see coming, and our bodies do such weird things all the time. Strange aches and pains and sensations. Plus, from the time we’re born until the moment we die, we’re experiencing constant transformations. That’s part of who we are, and body horror can do a fantastic job of exploring that.

4. What are your top three favorite body horror books (and/or films)?

David Cronenberg’s The Brood is a big favorite of mine. Creepy kids in horror are always fantastic, and the little snowsuit-wearing creatures in The Brood are so great. However, what’s truly unforgettable is Samantha Eggar as their mother Nola. Her performance is seriously seared into my memory, and I love it so much.

The Ray Bradbury story, “Skeleton,” and specifically its television adaptation on Ray Bradbury Theater absolutely terrified me as a child. I was convinced for days after seeing that episode that someone would come along and try to steal my skeleton from inside my skin. shudders

I also love the way Angela Carter deals with body horror in her collection, The Bloody Chamber. She figured out how to take the strange and horrifying elements of fairy tales and tease out the body horror. From the werewolf transformations in her versions of Little Red Riding Hood to her reinventions of Sleeping Beauty and Beauty and the Beast, she really did some of the most remarkable—and remarkably beautiful—work in body horror of all time. Anytime I reread her fiction, it still takes my breath away.

If you’re interested in learning more about Gwendolyn Kiste, check out her website at www.gwendolynkiste.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@GwendolynKiste) and Goodreads (@Gwendolyn_Kiste). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Ben Long

Ben’s love for horror began at a young age when he devoured books like the Goosebumps series and the various scary stories of Alvin Schwartz. Growing up he spent an unholy amount of time binge watching horror films and staying up till the early hours of the morning playing games like Resident Evil and Silent Hill. Since then his love for the genre has only increased, expanding to include all manner of subgenres and mediums. He firmly believes in the power of horror to create an imaginative space for exploring our connection to each other and the universe, but he also appreciates the pure entertainment of B movies and splatterpunk fiction.

Nowadays you can find Ben hustling his skills as a freelance writer and editor. When he’s not building his portfolio or spending time with his wife and two kids, he’s immersing himself in his reading and writing. Though he loves horror in all forms, he has a particular penchant for indie authors and publishers. He is a proud supporter of the horror community and spends much of his free time reviewing and promoting the books/comics you need to be reading right now!

readingvicariously.net/

The post On the Verge: Body Horror Authors to Read Right Now appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

Part Three: The Demons

The Man took deep, heavy breaths and held his ribs. His side screamed with agony and every breath felt as if he was being stabbed with a dagger. His face grimaced in pain yet his heart soared with determination. Each aching step brought him close to Abaddon; closer to vengeance, and closer to The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings.

The road in the Valley narrowed. Before The Man stood the entrance to a forest. He eased his hand away from his throbbing side and stood erect. He narrowed his eyes and the determination in his heart was expressed on his face.

“The Forest of Lost Hope,” The Man whispered and stared at the trees. The leaves on the branches were no leaves at all. Rather, they were shards of human flesh. A crisp breeze blew through the forest and made the skin dance. Patches of the anthropomorphic coverings dropped to the ground. The Man picked one up and examined it. He recalled a passage from The Book of Abaddon: 

“If a warrior is of skill to have made it to The Forest of Lost Hope, it would bid him well to take heed before entering. It is required that a man make deep examination of his heart and soul before he enters. A pure heart and unwavering faith are required to conquer the dark spirits who lie deep within the forest. The Demons are unmerciful mercenaries of Abaddon who will strike at any weakness. The man of sincere heart who enters this realm should also remember that it would do him well to cover himself with the flesh which hangs on the trees. If his heart is pure, he will absorb the strength of the flesh of those who went before him and none of their weaknesses. However, if he is a double souled man, he will absorb none of their strength and all of their weaknesses, thus assuring himself both defeat and death.” 

The Man knelt at the edge of the forest and fixed his mind on Creator God. “My Lord,” he prayed. “By thine Spirit, search my heart and see if there is any wicked way in me. Cleanse me by Thy blood from my sins. Make me whole in Thine eyes. Let my faith in you soar as on the wings of an eagle and let my doubts be annihilated by the power of Thine right hand. Let not fear enter into my heart but guard it as Thine own.” 

The Man sat in silence as he drew in strength from his God. With assurance in his soul, he rose to his feet. Though she could not hear him, he spoke to The Girl. “My darling, our God has brought us thus far, and He will not fail us now. Into the forest I will go, and victorious I will emerge.” 

The Man reached up and removed a patch of skin from a branch at the edge of the forest. He placed it on his face. Within moments he felt the blood bond to his skin. He proceeded to cover the rest of his face and the exposed portions of his arms and legs. He imagined what he must look like–a patchwork of skin hanging on skin. A brutish amalgamation of human flesh which would give nightmares to young children. But the only nightmares he planned on giving were the ones he would gift to Abaddon. 

Once he reached Abaddon, he planned on making him suffer. He wasn’t going to kill the demigod, oh no. He was going to torture to the point of death; to amputate and dismember, then leave him as an invalid who could do no more harm. Instead, Abaddon would be left  in torment in his body and mind, as he would forever have to live with how he was bested by God’s knight. 

“Abaddon,” The Man said with a snarl. “You picked the wrong man of God to fuck with.” He grabbed his necklace of vengeance in one hand then took his first step into the forest. 

“Abaddon,” he thought. “Your time is coming. But for now, I will slay your henchmen.” 

Once in the forest, the man felt a tingling sensation on his skin. His body was absorbing the strength of the deceased’s warriors’ flesh. The pain in his side subsided and the bones made popping sounds as the ribs were forged back together. His muscles grew stronger and his heart braver. He felt as if he could take down an army of thousands. And indeed he could. 

The Man journey further into The Forest of Lost Hope. The moon’s rays were cut by the tree branches, leaving slices of light to guide his way. The woods smelled of depression and despair. It was the scent of loneliness. A smell only one who has breathed it in could identify. And The Man could. It was what he felt when his children were taken from him. The forest tried to bring these disparaging memories up, but the power of the Spirit of God and the power of the warrior’s flesh kept The Man’s mind sound. 

The Man paused. He gripped the hilt of his steel and attuned his ears to the forest. 

A howl bellowed forth in the distance followed by deep, maniacal laughter. The sounds came north of The Man. He drew his blade and journeyed towards the noise. The forest became more dense and the darkness grew as the light of the moon was no more. The Man was now practically blind. He was not going to be able to rely on his physical sight to defeat The Demons. Rather, he was going to have to rely on his psychic ability to emerge victorious. 

The Girl had taught him how to enhance the abilities of his mind. He had the gift since childhood, but never knew how to develop it. The Girl had trained the sight of her third eye into near perfection. The townspeople had considered her a witch because of her uncanny ability and at one point, had tried to set her on fire. The Man intervened and rescued her. He scorned the villagers for their ignorance and saved The Girl from certain death. 

The people had listened to The Man because they considered him a prophet sent from Creator God. Well, almost all the people. The Man’s former wife grew jealous of his stature in the city and of his friendship with The Girl. She conspired with the husband of The Girl to put The Man to death. One night, the two of them attacked The Man in his sleep. They had gathered rocks to stone him. The Man awoke to a throbbing pain in his face after his wife clobbered him with a stone. He was able to fend them off. The commotion awoke the villagers. They saw what was happening, and because they considered The Man a prophet, they took his wife and The Girl’s husband out into the streets and stoned them with the very rocks they tried to use on The Man. Because of their heresy, their bodies were dragged outside the city gates and left for the birds. They would be a reminder of what happens to the ones who attack the anointed of God. 

Since then, the relationship of The Man and The Girl flourished into love. She taught him how to use his third eye and he taught her the ways of Creator God more clearly. Now, in The Forest of Lost Hope, The Man was going to have to rely on his gifting and his God.

“Creator God,” The Man prayed. “Please enrich the sight of my third eye. Let me see my foes in my mind. Let me know their moves before they do. Give me foresight and precognition.”

The Lord answered The Man’s prayer.

In his mind he saw the entire forest, down to the last details. He saw the grooves in every tree, the high and low spots of the ground, and the location of every Demon. It was as if the woods were now illuminated by the sun. 

The Demons were a nasty sight. They had the body of a humans. Their skin was red and their faces and arms were covered in black markings. They had no jaw. Instead their mouth connected with their neck, leaving an open cavity revealing their tongue and rows of sharp teeth. 

The Man drew his sword and his precognition guided him. The first Demon would make a zig zag motion through the trees and then attack to his left. The second Demon would be close behind the first and leap at him. The third would sneak him from behind. 

The Man dropped his Necklace of Vengeance, held his sword with both hands, and waited on The Demons to make their move.

It happened just as The Man predicted. He timed his counter attack with perfection. He turned to his left and swung his sword. The blade connected in the space between The Demon’s mouth and neck. The blow severed his head and a blue geyser of blood spewed from the wound. 

The Man was ready for the next Demon coming to his front. He thrust his sword into The Demon’s chest, ran it through, then tossed it over his head. The Man pinned The Demon down to the ground. The Demon convulsed then melted around his blade and onto the forest floor where it evaporated. 

The Man stood to his feet and turned with a thrust. His sword entered the gaping chest cavity of the third Demon. The Demon hissed then placed its hands around the blade and tried to free itself. The Man twisted the blade and The Demon released it then melted just like the other. 

“What the hell,” The Man said as he watched The Demon squander away. He caught his breath then prepared for the next onslaught.

The Demons were a crafty lot and not unaware of The Man’s ability. But they knew something The Man hadn’t discovered yet. His precognitive ability only reached as far as being able to predict up to three attacks. This time, The Forest would send five Demons after him. 

The Man saw his next three assailants in his mind. One would travel to the tree tops then drop on him. The second would appear from behind the same tree and the third would flank him on his right.

The Man raised his sword above his head and the first Demon lunged to its death. He met the second Demon with a swing and the blade sliced open its midsection, disemboweling it. Blood and guts sloshed to the ground. The Man turned and brought his blade down on the shoulder of the third Demon. It howled, staggered backwards, and fell to the forest floor. The Man drove his steel through the heart of The Demon and it died like the others. 

The Man was not prepared for the fourth and fifth attack. He heard a snarl behind him but it was too late. The Demon grabbed him by his long hair and tried to drag him deeper into the forest. The Man sensed an odd sensation in his back, as if his skin was stretching and being pulled off.

The Man dropped his sword and latched on to The Demon’s wrist. He was able to look over his shoulder. He stood bewildered at what he saw. An arm was extended from his scapula. 

What The Man couldn’t see was the full profile of another warrior protruding from his back. The warrior gripped The Demon’s tongue with both hands and yanked, hard. The Demon’s tongue separated from its mouth and a river of blue blood poured out. The tongue flapped in the warrior’s hand then he proceeded to beat The Demon with it. 

The fifth attack came from The Man’s right. A Demon leaped from the foliage and brought the Man to the ground. He planted face first. His head spun and he tried to regain his wits. He felt the odd sensation in his back again. 

Warrior after warrior expanded from The Man’s back, covered in his skin like a flesh cloak. HIs skin continued to stretch and the warriors stayed attached by strands which stayed connected like ropes. 

The warriors now encircled him. The Forest let loose the Demon horde. The Man closed his eyes and buried his face on the ground, letting his army of encased warriors fight for him. Demon after met their demise at the hands of The Man’s protectors. He could hear the squealing of The Demons as their bodies were dismembered and annihilated by the warriors. 

The floor of the forest ran blue with the blood of the Demons. When the last one evaporated, The Man’s body absorbed the warriors and he was left alone on the ground. He pushed himself up and sat. “Thank you God,” The Man prayed. “Thank you.” He stood to his feet and returned his steel to its sheath. He picked up his necklace of vengeance and held it in his hand. He then heard a crackling and popping sound. 

The forest erupted into flames. A sense of haste and alarm filled The Man. He was worried he would be burned alive in the inferno. He then heard the voice of his God.

“When you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. Now travel ahead.” 

The Man believed the promise of God and stepped forward. The blazing trees surrounded him yet he could not feel their heat. He reached out his hand and stuck it into one of the flames. Nothing. He left it there for several seconds then removed it. His skin was unmarked by the fire. The Man smirked, then traveled through the fire unharmed and said, “The same God who protected Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the furnace of Nebuchadnezzer now protects me.” 

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings saw the blazing forest. Her heart sanke and her mouth went dry. There was a churning in her stomach and she grew ill. All the strength left her body and she sat on the ground and wept. She knew there was no way her beloved could survive such a fire. 

“My love,” she cried. “My precious angel, how will I go on without you.” She wept until the point of despair. She lied down under neath their tree and waited to die.

The Man felt the anguish of The Girl. He had been so focused on using his energy to fight the entities of the Valley he had not yet used The Reach to contact his beloved. The Reach was a psychic bond the couple discovered in the early days of their relationship. It was a type of astral projection each could use to project their energy to the other and communicate thoughts and feelings. 

The Man paused amidst the fire and reached for The Girl. 

Underneath the tree, The Girl felt the presence of her beloved. She sat up and exclaimed, “It’s you!” She could sense The Man as if he were around her and inside her. She heard his voice in her head.

“It is me,” The Man said. “I am very much alive. The power of Creator God is with me and He is protecting me from the heat of the flames.” 

The Girl reached back and said, “Oh, my angel. I was so worried.”

The Man felt her and heard her voice in his soul. “I know, my darling. But rest assured I am alive and well.”

“Where will my angel go next?”

“I do not know….” The Man’s voice was cut off.

“Wait,” The Girl said. “Where did you go?”

The Man was now focused on what was before him. The forest had burned away and in front of him was a cave. The Man now knew where he stood. It was the lair of Abaddon. A cage of iron bars was over the entrance and a demonic guard stood watch. It was tall and muscular and human bones as armor adorned it from head to toe. The guard held a giant ax in its hands. It’s face was full of eyes and its mouth was a long, pointed beak. 

The Man sensed The Girl reaching. 

“My love,” he said.

The Girl was relieved. “Yes?”

“I’m here.”

“Where is ‘here’?”

“The lair of Abaddon,” The Man said. 

“Please be careful,” The Girl warned. “I have a bad feeling.”

“Sit at ease, my darling,” The Man said. “I will add the fingers of Abaddon’s right hand to my necklace.”

The post Phantom War Part 3: The Demons appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

The deeper into the Valley The Man journeyed the darker it grew. The wind hummed like a locomotive as it pressed against his body. The gust was so powerful it blew and dust into his eyes, further decaying his already obscured vision. He draped his arm over his face and walked with slow, calculated steps. 

The Man wondered what abominations awaited him next. Things were already going against the normal routine of the Valley, and a sense of uneasiness suffocated his heart. He reflected on this so-called “order of the Valley” and came to a startling revelation: order was only an attribute and function of Creator God. The Valley was pure evil, and pure evil was always chaotic. There was no order in the Valley, nor was there an order to which satanic brood would attack next. The Valley was pure and adulterated chaos. In the Valley, chaos was king. 

The wind slowed its breathing and The Man was able to see again. The moon no longer resembled a lantern in the fog but hung in the sky as the ruler of the night. He stared up at the trees atop the Valley. He swore by God he saw them move.

“But there is no more wind,” he mumbled to himself. He assumed he still had dust in his eyes, so he fetched the water pouch at his side and rinsed them. He blinked numerous times until his vision was clear. He set his sight on the other side of the Valley and saw several branches ripple then disappear.

“It must be them,” The Man whispered and recalled the tales of The Monsters. 

These entities were covered in tentacles and there were two types. One species had a spiral body with a black hole in the center. They had no sense of sight but the hole operated as a center for heightened hearing. Their bodies were laced with branch-like tentacles.

The second species had no sight either and the same type of black hole in the center, equipped with the same hyper-sensative hearing. The core of these monsters was shaped like a lily. Their tentacles were more soft and fluid, as string blowing in the wind. 

The goal of The Monsters was to wrap their tentacles around each person’s body parts and rip them off with one, powerful yank. A normal man would be lucky to be maimed by only one. A brave man might make it past them with only missing toes, fingers, and an arm. But this man would soon pass out and die from lack of blood or shock. The Man with Hazel Eyes and Broken White Wings was positive there were two hunting him down. One from the east side of the Valley and one from the west. 

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black wings had heard the roaring of the wind when it rushed through the Valley and wondered how The Man was fairing against the elements. She had heard no screams so she was confident her beloved was still alive and making his way to her. The Girl’s nerves still danced and spun like ballerinas on stage despite her confidence. She knew there was nothing she could do but be patient, so she prayed for The Man to survive and find his way to her. 

The Girl wished her angel still had his wings, then he would not have to journey through the treacherous Valley. Rather, he could have flown, like her, to their Willow Tree. They could now be making love under it as in the days before his wings were destroyed. 

She reflected on the times when his wings were whole. 

“Oh, my angel,” she said. “I remember when you would fly and meet me here and wrap those wings around me. You made me feel so safe.” She reached for a branch on the tree and caressed it with her hand. She slid the leaves between her fingers and felt them tickle her skin. 

“Those were enchanting days, my angel,” she said, staring out over the Valley. “The days of ease. The days before Abaddon came.” 

It was only one week ago before the satanic beast wreaked havoc on their village. She remembered the day with the utmost clarity. She was kissing her beloved in the field outside the city walls when something blacked out the sun.

The two broke their kiss and  gazed upwards. A beast of ungodly size hovered in the sky above them. The thing was as black as total darkness and its wingspan was so wide, it seemed to touch the clouds. Its body was covered in hair and primate-like. It had the head of a goat and the mouth of a dragon. Its horns were long and prominent. 

The Man and The Girl stared in awe at the dragon. Its wings flapped and its mouth let out a deafening, apish roar. The two recoiled at the sound as trepidation found its way into the marrow of their bones. 

The Girl broke their trance and said, “Dear God, it is heading…”

“Towards the village,” The Man finished for her. 

The Man looked at The Girl with wide eyes and grabbed her arm with a firm grip. 

His hazel eyes were the most intense and fearful they had ever been.

“Fly with haste to the village,” he had said. “I will go after the beast.” 

The Girl stood frozen, as if her feet were cemented to the ground and as if her wings were weighted down by bricks. She didn’t think she could find the courage to move. However, she found herself nodding in agreement to his command. By the grace of Creator God, her wings flapped and she took flight. 

The Man watched to make sure the dragon did not turn his attention to The Girl. When he saw she was in the clear, his feet left the ground and he went in pursuit of the beast. 

The speed at which the dragon had flown was like none The Man had ever encountered. Each flap of its wings seemed to thrust it ahead one hundred yards. He clenched his fist, gnashed his teeth, and flew faster. Perspiration soaked his body and his muscles locked in knotted balls. The Man had flown so hard, for the first time in his life, some feathers dislodged from his wings. They swirled around him then made a slow descent to the ground. 

The dragon neared the village.

The Man looked on. His face contorted and his brow furrowed. “Damn these fucking wings,” he had shouted. “Go faster!” He dug down deep into his being to find more power to exert towards his wings but he could not fly any faster. “God damn these useless wings!”

The Man glanced down to see if he could locate The Girl. He didn’t see her anywhere near the village. He tucked his head to look behind him. She trailed The Man by several hundred yards. The Man knew if he did not gain on the beast, there would be no village left to spare. His children were there and so were The Girl’s. 

The dragon picked up seed. The village loomed closer. The Man watched on helpless.

The dragon was now in range of the village. It opened its mouth and flashes of fire exploded forth. The humble stick and hay houses evaporated into flames. Screams from the burning victims ascended into the sky and reached The Man’s ears. 

“Cormac! Doriann!” The Man screamed his children’s names as he drew closer to the village. 

Everything was engulfed in flames. The dragon was gone just as fast as he came, leaving behind him a path of smoke and fire. 

The Man ascended into the chaos. The heat from the fire pressed against his skin like hot irons. The smoke clouded his vision and filled his lungs. He stumbled around in the inferno, calling his children’s names as well as The Girl’s between coughs and gasps of air.

“Cormac! Doriann! Ewing! Duncan!” The Man could not get his bearings and had no idea where in the city he was. He was about to pass out when he felt arms grasp around him. He watched as he ascended from the firestorm and the burning village grew smaller in his sight. 

The Girl had rescued him before he passed out and was consumed by the flames. 

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings tried to push the remaining thoughts out of her mind but found herself powerless against their deluge. The next memories broke her heart and brought tears to her eyes.  

She remembered sitting with The Man outside the village as the burning embers still smoked. She watched him rise to his feet and enter the village. She had followed him at a distance, not wanting to see what she knew awaited her–the dead and charcoaled bodies of their children. 

The next image in her mind? It was The Man rummaging through his home which was nothing more than a pile of ashes. He found Cormac and Doriann, his seven year old boy-girl twins. He scooped their bodies from the ash heap and held them in his arm, one against each shoulder. Their skin was black and flakey and their hair was burned off. He staggered a few yards then fell to his knees in anguish. He plopped their dead bodies to the ground, then lifted his head to the heavens.

“God! Why! They were my babies! They were innocent!” He gazed at the girl. His face was littered with disappointment and confusion. “I..I..couldn’t save them.” He ran his finger through his long brown hair and gripped it tight. Through tears he cried, “Damn these wings! I couldn’t get here in time. If only I was…” His voice faded to a whisper. “…faster…If only…faster.” He locked eyes with The Girl again. “I failed us. I failed them. I failed you.” 

They buried their children outside of the village then flew to the mountain where the Willow Tree sat. The Girl sat next to The Man under the tree. They didn’t speak. She rubbed his back as he breathed heavy breaths. She understood. Her heart broke and she weeped with him over the death of their children and the death of the life they had dreamed about. 

Then the unthinkable happened. The Man jumped to his feet.

“What? Where are you going,” The Girl had asked.

The Man answered her not. He took off running full speed to the rocky side of the mountain. The Girl cringed as The Man slammed his back to the mountain. She heard the bones in one of his wings crunch as he let out a laugh filled with pain and anger. The Girl leaped to her feet.

“Stop! What are you doing,” she had said. 

“Damn!”

Smash.

“These!”

Crunch.

“Mother!”

Snap.

“Fucking!”

Crunch.

“Wings!”

Shatter.

The Man’s wings hung broken and mangled from his back. He reached around in a fit of rage and ripped feathers from his wings.

The Girl sprinted over to him. “Stop this madness,” she had yelled. “What are you doing!”

The Man paused and glared at her. “Step away from me, woman. Do not interfere.” 

The Girl backed away. Her eyes were heavy and her face, fallen. She watched in agony and heartbreak as The Man slammed his back into the side of the mountain until his wings were a featherless mush. 

A shriek jolted her from her memories. “My beloved,” she gasped and eased over closer to the cliff. 

The Man with Hazel Eyes and Broken White Wings saw The Monsters rushing down the side of the mountain towards him. They let out an awful sound as they prepared to attack. Their tentacles stuck like lightning and wrapped around The Man’s legs. They pulled hard and The Man fell on his backside. Sword in hand, he rolled onto his stomach and tried to scurry away. The Monsters yanked with more force each in the opposite direction. They spread his legs and The Man could feel the muscles in his legs and groin being stretched to oblivion.

The Monsters whipped their tentacles and flipped The Man over. Survival instincts took over and The Man hacked away at the tentacles with his steel. Orange blood spewed from the wounds and he axed away at them as if he were chopping down a tree. The tentacles severed and The Monsters withdrew them with howls of pain. 

The Man unwrapped himself from the severed limbs and flung them aside. He leaped to his feet and gripped his sword with both hands. The Monsters circled him and waved their tentacles in the air with wild motions. The Man’s eyes darted back and forth, trying to gauge the motion of each movement. 

Another appendage struck. This one wrapped around his waist. He then felt a tightness around his neck as one began to choke the life from him. There was a snap as one of his ribs broke. His brain was being depleted from oxygen and his vision became blurry. His consciousness was fading and his legs were weak. His strength was being dried out like a potsherd in the desert sun. 

In his mind he saw The Girl. They were standing in a field. Her blonde hair glistened under the summer sun. She wore a white dress and had a crown of flowers in her hair. She was smiling up at him and laughing. He could feel his arms around him, pulling him in for a kiss. As their faces met, hers evaporated. He now stared into the black hole of one of the Monsters. With the last bit of consciousness in his grip, The Man raised his arms and made a thrusting motion with his sword. The blade sank deep into the hole of The Monster.

The relief was immediate. The tentacled loosened from his neck and the bleating screams of the Monster brought him back to reality. He withdrew his blade and was then covered in a shower of orange blood. The Monster’s tentacles went limp and it fell to the ground dead. 

Pain surged through The Man’s middle as the other Monster squeezed tighter. Another rib snapped.

“Shit,” The Man yelled. An appendage was now wrapped around his free hand. He hacked away in fury at both of them. 

The two tentacles bled and pulled back. The Monster paused and The Man took his opportunity. He drew his sword back and sprinted forward. He extended his arms and struck the Monster in its black hole. He twisted the blade back and forth and made a circling motion. Blood seeped from the wound and the Monster twitched. The Man withdrew his steel and the Monster hit the ground. The Man raised his sword over his head to strike but the pain in his ribs stopped him. He decided to let the thing suffer as its life ebbed away. 

As the Monster died, the man sliced away on one of the tentacles. He took a piece about two feet long and pierced it through. He grabbed his necklace of heads from the ground and untied it. He placed his sword in its sheath and slipped the tentacle on to add to his trophy. With one hand he held his ribs and with the other dragged the necklace behind him.

“My darling,” The Man called. “I am hurt but I am victorious!” A sharp pain dug into his side as he yelled. He winced and hoped his beloved heard him.

The Girl heard the cry of The Man and her eyes filled with tears of joy. “Oh angel, please take care of yourself. God, please strengthen him in his pain.”

“Abaddon,” The Man whispered. “Your head will be the pendant on my necklace of retribution.”

The post Phantom War Part 2: The Monsters appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

In our last post in the series we focused specifically on authors who write in the folk horror genre. Because the genre is such a favorite of ours, and because there are just so many great stories in this category, we decided to put together a second article featuring additional authors. So prepare to dive back into the realm of isolation, folklore, and supernatural mystery as we present six authors of folk horror you need to be reading!

Adam Nevill

Adam L.G. Nevill was born in Birmingham, England, in 1969 and grew up in England and New Zealand. He is an author of horror fiction. Of his novels, The Ritual, Last Days, No One Gets Out Alive and The Reddening were all winners of The August Derleth Award for Best Horror Novel. He has also published three collections of short stories, with Some Will Not Sleep winning the British Fantasy Award for Best Collection, 2017. Imaginarium adapted The Ritual and No One Gets Out Alive into feature films and more of his work is currently in development for the screen. The author lives in Devon, England. 

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I’m a British writer of horror. This year’s novel, Cunning Folk, will be my tenth novel published and I have three short story collections available too. Since my Dad read me the ghost stories of M. R. James when I was a child, horror has always been the fiction I’ve wanted to write and the field that I’ve wanted to contribute to. I’ve been writing horror since 1995 and my short fiction was first published in 2003, my first novel, Banquet for the Damned, in 2004. I’m a horror lifer and an enthusiast for horror in fiction, film and comics. I pretty much set my goal on becoming a horror writer in my mid-teens, way back in the 1980s.

My break to the next level from the underground of small presses and series fiction to the international publishers happened in 2009, when my second and third novels were taken on by Pan MacMillan in the UK. They were Apartment 16 and The Ritual. Horror had been out of vogue for a long time in publishing, but when it returned to favour, a door opened.

I am now in my third decade as a writer of horror. It took me ten years to complete the first three novels so it’s been a slow, steady evolution for my career. I now have my own imprint for some of my titles, Ritual Limited, and two of my novels have been adapted into films. No One Gets Out Alive will be out this year on Netflix. The Ritual was the first film adapted from my novel of the same name.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

I developed as a writer within the old, traditional route: you had to get an agent to even get a publisher to read a line of your work. It took me 11 years to find an agent. There was no indie publishing as we know it today, or Amazon KDP, hardly any small presses, the internet was small or non-existent etc. But I guess, I’d tell my younger self not to despair so much during the first 15 years, nor to be so extreme about my mission. My endeavours seemed futile for a long time and yet I remained driven – the way of angst. Flipside, I never gave up and focused on what was important – reading, studying writing and, of course, writing more.

I’d mainly insist that my younger self be better informed about publishing and the book trade and how the business works. I didn’t really start figuring that out until 2005, when I became a fiction editor. But the basics of becoming a writer I’d mercifully grasped in adolescence: to read the best writers in the field and to read widely beyond horror. Learning to rewrite early on was transforming for my work too.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

I’ve always found elements of folk stories, folk culture and pagan mythology equally enthralling and grotesque – it’s that combination of mystery and the ghastly that drew me in imaginatively. Particularly certain details that seem almost credible, as if folklore has a basis in something intangible but genuinely supernormal.

In Great Britain we’ve no end of ghost stories and a long tradition of believing in witchcraft, hauntings and curses. I’m surrounded by inspiration; a sense of ancient presences, pagan deities, charmed locales that can influence the human mind and even whole communities. So much of a strange and unknowable past is buried in this island. Much of it no one understands so it’s enigma is appealing; so the idea of the present being affected by what is hidden or misunderstood or obscured by time appeals to me.

I live by two cave systems that contained treasure troves of prehistoric artefacts; I can see the scars of the last ice ages on the landscape around my home; and almost anywhere you go in Britain, you will see vestiges and relics of a darker and more superstitious time. This really distilled in my novel, The Reddening.

So, I guess my favourite aspect of folk horror would be its aesthetic, be it ancient or modern.

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

I’ll go with film: The Wicker Man, Midsommar & The Blair Witch Project.

If you’re interested in learning more about Adam Nevill, check out his website at www.adamlgnevill.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@AdamLGNevill), Instagram (@adamlgnevill), and Goodreads (@Adam_Nevill). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

William Meikle

William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with more than thirty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries. He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, Crossroad Press and Severed Press, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines. He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company. When he’s not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I write to escape.

I grew up in the sixties and seventies on a West of Scotland council estate in a town where you were either unemployed or working in the steelworks, and sometimes both. Many of the townspeople led hard, miserable lives of quiet, and sometimes not so quiet, desperation. I was relatively lucky in that both my parents worked, but I spent a lot of time alone or at my grandparent’s house.

My Granddad was housebound, and a voracious reader. I got the habit from him, and through him I discovered the Pan Books of Horror and Lovecraft, but I also discovered westerns, science fiction, war novels and the likes of Mickey Spillane, Ed McBain, Alistair MacLean, Dennis Wheatley, Nigel Tranter, Arthur C Clarke and Isaac Asimov. When you mix all that together with DC Comics, Tarzan, Gerry Anderson and Dr Who then, later on, Hammer and Universal movies on the BBC, you can see how the pulp became embedded in my psyche.

When I was at school these books and my guitar were all that kept me sane in a town that was going downhill fast. The steelworks shut and employment got worse. I -could- have started writing about that, but why bother? All I had to do was walk outside and I’d get it slapped in my face. That horror was all too real.

So I took up my pen and wrote. At first it was song lyrics, designed (mostly unsuccessfully) to get me closer to girls.

I tried my hand at a few short stories but had no confidence in them and hid them away. And that was that for many years.

I didn’t get the urge again until I was past thirty and trapped in a very boring job. My home town had continued to stagnate and, unless I wanted to spend my whole life drinking (something I was actively considering at the time), returning there wasn’t an option.

My brain needed something, and writing gave it what was required. That point, back thirty years ago, was like switching on an engine, one that has been running steadily ever since.

It’s been a slow and steady progression, from UK small press pay in copies markets for much of the nineties, to getting a novel published in the USA in 2001, then starting to hit the pro short story market, and finding a home for novels with the higher end small presses. I went full time in 2007 and I’ve now got over 30 novels, a whole load of novellas and over 300 short stories in print, including a success story in my current S-Squad series where a bunch of sweary Scottish squaddies fight a ‘monster of the week’ in each book. (I’ve managed to shoehorn in some folklore, Scottish stuff in particular)

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Two things:

I’d have started earlier. I didn’t get going until i was 34ish, and now regret leaving it so late. If you want to be a writer, you have to write. That’s the simplest yet best advice you’ll get.

The other thing is to develop a thick skin. Rejection doesn’t mean you’re crap, just that you sent the wrong thing to the wrong editor at the wrong time. Keeping your bum in your chair and keeping going is the best way to cope with it.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

I love the sense of deep time. It’s something I miss since leaving Scotland. I have a deep love of old places, in particular menhirs and stone circles, and in the past I’ve spent quite a lot of time travelling the UK and Europe just to visit archaeological remains in places like Orkney, Salisbury Plain, Carnac, Malta and Crete.

I also love what is widely known as “weird shit”. I’ve spent far too much time surfing and reading Fortean, paranormal and cryptozoological websites. The cryptozoological stuff that’s embedded, particularly in Celtic folklore with its tales of kelpies, selkies, black dogs and lake monsters especially fascinates me, and provides a direct stimulus for a lot of my fiction.

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

Books:

• The Ceremonies by T.E.D Klein – the masterpiece of the genre. I learn something new from it with each reading
• The Owl Service by Alan Garner – fifty years plus on from my first reading and it’s still as tight and unsettling as ever
• “Sticks” by Karl Edward Wagner – OK, it’s a short story, but its just about the best folklore related fiction there is

Films:

• The Wicker Man – oft imitated, never bettered
• The Witch – my favorite of the recent bunch purely for the consistency of vision. A remarkable work.
• Night of the Demon – my all time favorite, and the thing that hooked me on the genre all those years ago.

If you’re interested in learning more about William Meikle, check out his website at www.williammeikle.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@williemeikle), Instagram (@williammeikle4595), and Goodreads (@William_Meikle). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Tracy Fahey

Tracy Fahey is an Irish fiction writer. In 2017, her debut collection The Unheimlich Manoeuvre was shortlisted for a British Fantasy Award for Best Collection. She has published two further collections; New Music For Old Rituals (2018, Black Shuck Books) and I Spit Myself Out (2021, Sinister Horror Company) and one novel, The Girl in the Fort (2017, Fox Spirit Books).

Fahey’s short fiction is published in over thirty American, British, Australian and Irish anthologies including Stephen Jones’ Best New Horror, Nightscript V, and Uncertainties III, and her work has been reviewed in the TLS and Black Static. In 2019, her short story “That Thing I Did” received an Honourable Mention from Ellen Datlow in The Best Horror of the Year Volume Eleven.

Fahey holds a PhD on the Gothic in visual arts, and her non-fiction writing on the Gothic and folklore has appeared in Irish, English, Italian, Dutch and Australian edited collections. Her writing has been commissioned by visual artist Marie Brett and the Crawford College of Art. She has been awarded residencies in Ireland and Greece.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

Horror has always fascinated me; even as a child I was enthralled by stories my grandmother told me about local dark folklore—tales of the banshee, ghosts and other supernatural occurrences. My very first job (when in school) was writing and doing readings of my own short stories on a local radio station. Those stories borrowed heavily (and unapologetically) from authors who intrigued me, Edgar Allan Poe, Guy de Maupassant, Ray Bradbury…and the writers of Misty, the British paranormal comic for girls. So my roots in horror came from folklore, storytelling, reading and writing.

However, life intervened, and for a few decades I focused on work, teaching and writing on visual arts and design. But my allegiance to horror deepened, and after a severe illness which left me in recovery mode for about a year, I started to tentatively write. I was drawn towards one of my obsessions, the idea of the dark home and its roots in Irish culture. And from this source I began to write short stories which found homes in several anthologies by Fox Spirit Press, Hic Dragones, Dark Minds Press and other small presses. Three years later, I had finished my PhD (on the Gothic home in Irish visual art) and my first collection, The Unheimlich Manoeuvre, which was published in 2016 by Boo Books, and has been reprinted twice by the Sinister Horror Company; in 2018 and again, in a deluxe edition, in 2020.

Five years later, I’ve written several more books, two of them explicitly exploring folk horror – my YA novel The Girl In The Fort (2017, Fox Spirit Press) and my second collection, New Music For Old Rituals (2018, Black Shuck Books) – and a third collection on female body horror, I Spit Myself Out (2021, Sinister Horror Company).

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Read everything. Although the primary genres I write in are the Gothic and folk horror, I have very catholic tastes. I read omnivorously, and always have. It’s through reading you find what you admire, that you find new ways to write. And because I read across genres, it gives me a bigger lens through which to analyse the writing of others—seeing what works and what doesn’t.

Write without fear, and write what you love. Tap in to what obsesses you. For me it this continues to be ideas of liminality, the uncanny, the body, and dark folklore. Explore it. Write authentically. Write what you’d like to read. Find your comfort medium; poetry, short stories, novellas, novels. And when you find your narrative, your medium and your voice, just experiment with writing out these passions and finding different ways to do it.

Submit. I can’t emphasise this one strongly enough. Although you start writing for an audience of one—yourself—it’s so wonderful to have your writing read by others. You learn so much from editors, from reviewers. Sure, it takes courage to send work out (and stamina to deal with rejection) but the simple joy of being published and having your work in the public eye is magical. And when you submit, always be mindful of what editors want, how they want it formatted, and be polite and gracious whether work is accepted or not. There are some excellent websites out there such as Submissions Grinder and The Horror Tree which advertise upcoming submission genre opportunities.

Go to conventions. Another game-changer for me was discovering the British genre scene through conventions. It’s where I met my tribe, people I have subsequently worked with, edited with, written with, and, most importantly, become friends with. It’s not only where you network but where you genuinely connect with others who are on a similar mission.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

That’s a difficult question, as this is one of the genres I’m most drawn to and researched most fully. In 2020 I taught a seminar programme on the Folk Horror Revival in Limerick School of Art and Design. This winter I’m delivering a workshop on Crafting Contemporary Folk Horror at the forthcoming UK Ghost Story Festival which will run in Derby this November 26 th -28 th (for more information on this follow @UKGSFestival on Twitter).

But as a writer, and as an Irish writer, my favourite aspect of folk horror is the idea of reinventing and reinterpreting the folklore of my home country. I have a huge interest in my native Irish folklore since I was a child, and through my academic research I’ve spent a lot of time researching legends, customs and superstitions to do with the home. In my own work I borrow from folklore as inspiration, but the twist I take on it is contemporary. I believe that folklore teaches us a lot about values and community, and I welcome the current folk horror revival which brings a renewed focus to the idea that stories have value, that stories can act as warnings, cautionary tales.

I’m interested primarily in my own cultural history and the idea of connecting to my heritage through folk horror. Although the legends and stories of other cultures fascinate me, I’m aware that I don’t want to appropriate or misuse tropes from other histories. But within my own culture I’m continually learning more about the way folklore changes and reinvents itself. And because Irish folklore is one of the richest in the world due to its flourishing under colonial rule, it’s a never-ending source of inspiration.

I’m also fascinated by ideas of transmission and legacy through storytelling. I’m living proof of how folklore operates in that regard; many of my seminal influences date back to a childhood spent listening to stories. As I don’t have children, writing my interpretation of folklore is one of the ways in which I feel I can actively contribute to the continued growth and diversity of the Irish contemporary folk tradition.

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

One of my favourite folk horror movies is Ari Aster’s 2019 Midsommar. I’m very interested in contemporary takes on folk horror, and I found this movie intensely satisfying. It keeps true to the tropes of folk horror – outsiders come to a remote community that operates under its own moral imperatives, the importance of tradition, and the necessity of sacrifice for the greater good – but this movie is also outstanding in the way that it becomes an avenue to explore themes like loss and the importance of community. Unlike many horror movies it doesn’t rely on the helpful adjuncts of darkness or jump-scares, instead utilising precepts of the uncanny to create an evocative and intense viewing experience. Furthermore (and without spoiling the movie) it also speaks to ideas of redemption and reconnection. And every time I watch it, I find a different layer, deeper resonances. In terms of folk horror film, also I love Robin Hardy’s 1973 The Wicker Man, and the work of Ben Wheatley – especially Kill List (2011). Special mention also for the 2019 low-key Irish folk horror movie, directed by Lee Cronin, The Hole In The Ground.

Next up on my list is a 2017 non-fiction book by Adam Scovell, Folk Horror: Hours Dreadful and Things Strange, which looks at the roots of folk horror and explores ways in which folk horror has expressed and continues to express itself in different media. It’s a fascinating primer on what the genre is and how it has been explored by various creative practitioners. In terms of non-fiction collections of Irish dark folklore, I’d strongly recommend Meeting The Other Crowd by Carolyn Eve Green and Irish storyteller Eddie Lenihan.

In terms of fiction, we’re spoiled for choice, but I’m going to single out Eden Royce’s 2015 Spook Lights: Southern Gothic Horror. Eden draws upon her rich Gullah/Geechee heritage to craft visceral horror stories through her lyrical writing and use of sensual language. I’m very much looking forward to reading her 2021 Root Magic, which takes the same source but focuses on ideas of childhood, tradition and, of course, root magic. I also love Steve Toase’s excellent 2021 folk horror collection, To Drown In Dark Water, which showcases his own background and interest in archaeology and folklore, and Priya Sharma’s beautiful collection, All The Fabulous Beasts, which deftly plays with international folk motifs and archetypes using her trademark evocative prose. Special praise also for Nosetouch Press and their folk horror anthologies, The Fiends in the Furrows (2018) and The Fiends in the Furrows II (2020).

If you’re interested in learning more about Tracy Fahey, check out her website at www.tracyfahey.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@TracyFahey) and Goodreads (@Tracy_Fahey). Finally, to purchase her books check out the author on Amazon.

Catherine Cavendish

Catherine Cavendish is a writer of horror fiction – frequently with ghostly, supernatural, Gothic and haunted house themes. Her latest novel – In Darkness, Shadows Breathe – is published by Flame Tree Press, as well as the two previous novels The Garden of Bewitchment and The Haunting of Henderson Close. Her latest novella – The Malan Witch – is now out from Silver Shamrock Publishing. Catherine’s Nemsis of the Gods trilogy is out now from Kensington-Lyrical, and she’s had numerous novellas and novels published by Crossroad Press. She lives with a long-suffering husband and a delightful black cat who has never forgotten that her species used to be worshipped in ancient Egypt. When not slaving over a hot computer, she enjoys wandering around Neolithic stone circles and visiting old haunted houses.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I have been writing since I could hold a pencil in my chubby toddler paw. Then it was mostly utter rubbish and balderdash – well, if I’m entirely honest, mainly squiggles. Then I learned how to read and write properly and we had these English lessons at school where we were required to write essays. Now, the other kids used to groan when faced with an essay to compose. Me? I would have shouted “Bring it on” if people did indeed shout that at the time. I settled for the more commonly used “Groovy” instead. (Yes, I am THAT old).

The years passed, I left school, went to work, read loads. Found my favourite fiction genres were Historical, Crime and… you guessed it…Horror. I continued to write, but essays had long given way to short stories and novels. I went through the gamut of romance, children’s, historical, and crime but found increasingly that everything I wrote tended toward the ghostly, supernatural and horror. From there it was a short step into writing my first horror novel. Ironically it could be described as folk horror as it centred on the ancient stone circles at Avebury in Wiltshire. This story was never published and has been lost along the way, but I learned a lot from writing it – significantly that of all the genres I had attempted, horror was my far and away favourite.

Some years later, an editor agreed with me, and I signed my first publishing contract.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Read. Read, Read. Now this is a lesson I learned very early on. If you want to write in a particular genre, make sure you’ve read extensively in it. Make sure you know what works and what doesn’t. Focus on authors who you admire and read their work critically. What is it that hooks you in? What keeps you reading? How can you make your dialogue sound realistic (quick tip – read it out loud as if you are rehearsing a play). Look at how they manipulate the rules of language to improve the story, quicken or slow down the pace. Also read other genres. In other words, learn your craft.

Remember a first draft is merely that. The first draft. Once it’s down on paper, that’s when the real writing begins. Whoever said “novels aren’t written, they’re rewritten” knew their stuff.

Get a first-class beta reader (or more if you prefer). This should be someone who is literate, knows how to craft a good story and is a reader in your genre – in other words, your target market. When they offer constructive criticism, take it on the chin. You’re going to need the hide of a rhino so might as well start now.

And of course, be tenacious. If you are writing what you love and loving what you write, as well as continuing to grow as a writer, chances are that one day someone is going to like what you do enough to take a chance on you.

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

The sheer breadth, scope and variety out there. So many wonderfully different stories have been woven around the folklore myths and legends surrounding Mothman, Big Foot , the Green Man, Salem, Pendle and much, much more. I particularly find myself drawn to Asian tales handed down through generations and involving some pretty gruesome creatures and ghosts. Myths and folklore from around the world have provided the inspiration for a host of films such as The Curse of La Llorona, The Ring, The Wicker Man and a host of others.

I also love the way that, with such a wealth of extraordinary material existing out there, it is still possible to successfully create your own folk horror myth. The Babadook is but one example of this and Adam Nevill’s The Ritual and The Reddening are others. As a folk horror writer, you are never short of ideas once you tap into folklore and let your imagination do the rest.

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

This is a tough one because there are so many. I’ll stick with books because the minute I add films into the equation, my head explodes.

One of my favourite horror authors is the great Ramsey Campbell who has the ability to craft superb folk horror tales of which there are many examples throughout his long career to date. It’s tough to choose just one but I’ll settle on The Hungry Moon.

J.H. Moncrieff is a Canadian writer who has been emerging as a real talent, taking a creepy folklore tradition and turning it into a scary, twisted folk horror tale. One outstanding example I have loved recently is Those Who Came Before.

I couldn’t leave Adam Nevill out. His writing and ability to weave a twisted, frightening tale keep me awake at night. As with the other two, he has a number of examples of great stories within the folk horror tradition. I know I’ve mentioned it before but I’ll pick The Ritual which, if I were also to include folk horror films, would almost certainly make the cut. Read the book first though!

If you’re interested in learning more about Catherine Cavendish, check out her website at www.catherinecavendish.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@Cat_Cavendish), Instagram (@catcavendish), and Goodreads (@Catherine_Cavendish). Finally, to purchase her books check out the author on Amazon.

Tony Evans

Tony Evans is a crafter of horror and dark fiction, father, wildlife biologist, and member of the Horror Writers Association. Originally from the Appalachian foothills of eastern Kentucky, Tony grew up listening to stories about mountain monsters and holler witches, and his love for these folktales shows in his writing. While he enjoys all types of horror, he definitely has a hard preference for stories about dark entities, demons, witches, and boogeymen. Tony has published over twenty short horror stories in various online and print anthologies and magazines to date. His debut short story collection – Better You Believe – was released in February of 2019, and his debut novel – Sour – was released in October of 2019. He currently lives in New Albany, Indiana where he spends his time coming up with bad story ideas and trying to entertain his wife and two young daughters – his favorite little monsters.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

Well, my name is Tony Evans (not the preacher…haha) and I was born and raised in Eastern Kentucky in the foothills of the Appalachian mountains. When I was about four years old, my dad started telling me stories about “holler witches”, Bloody Bones, and mountain monsters and I guess those stories just kinda stuck.

As I grew older and started traveling outside of the area, I found that people not familiar with the region really seemed to enjoy when I would retell all of those old tales from the mountains, and so I decided to start writing them down. I guess I just wanted to tell the stories that my dad told to me as a child in the hopes that someone else found them just as fun and fascinating as I did and still do.  

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

If I could go back in time, I think I would give myself two pieces of advice regarding writing.

First, I would tell myself that rejection is not a bad thing. It happens to EVERYONE who writes. No matter how good you think that story you’re writing is, and no matter how much you work on it and do everything you can to get it in the best possible shape it can be in before you submit it…chances are that it, or another one you send, will get rejected. It’s just a part of the game. I’ll never forget the first short story I ever did. I was absolutely sure it would be a huge hit. I’d send it in (to a very well known small press, actually), the editor would fall all over themselves trying to buy it from me, and I’d get rich! Boy, was I wrong! However, the editor was kind enough to give me some pointers on my mistakes, and there were many,  free to sort of help me along. Since then he and I have become pretty good friends. I’ve still not sold that story, come to think of it…but it’s going in a collection I’m putting out in a month or so. Point is, rejection happens to everyone, and it helps you grow as a writer.

The second piece of advice, and this one I’ve found to be very important, I got from a talk given by one of the masters of short fiction, Ray Bradbury. During his keynote address of the Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, Bradbury said, and I quote, “Get rid of those friends of yours who make fun of you and don’t believe in you. When you leave here tonight, go home, make a phone call, and fire them. Anyone who doesn’t believe in you and your future, to hell with them.”. To this day, this quote makes me cry. It’s so important to surround yourself with people who believe in you and want you to succeed. I think a lot of writers are pushed away from what they love because someone in their family or some of their so called friends say things like, “that’s a fun little hobby, but…”, or “well, that sounds cute, but what do you do for a real job?”. So, as Ray Bradbury said, I’d tell my younger self to hell with them!

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

I typically look at folk horror as something rooted in folklore/local urban legends and/or something that’s sort of derived from traditional religious backgrounds, magic, or witchcraft in general. The way that folklore, even in today’s modern age, persists in spite of all the technological and scientific advances is just amazing in my opinion. I always tell people that I don’t believe in any of that stuff, and I consider myself agnostic…but I can remember that even as a child I was scared to death that I’d walk through my house and see Jesus standing there. Very irrational, I know, as Jesus is supposed to be a symbol of good. It’s the thought of seeing something I can’t explain that scared me, and still kinda does. I guess that means that I have to believe in something, deep down, perhaps.

So my favorite aspect of folk horror is how the stories linger, the way they persist throughout the years no matter what, and the fact that the whole genera sort of falls in a realm where science can’t prove or disprove the content’s existence…kinda like the twilight zone. That has always fascinated me.

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

• The VVitch – hands down one of my favorite movies of the last 50 years.
• The Ritual by Adam Nevill, both the book and the movie – a fantastic modern-day folk horror story.
• HEX by Thomas Olde Heuvelt – one of the best witch books written. This novel is a fantastic blend of aged traditions and modern-day society.

If you’re interested in learning more about Tony Evans, check out his website at www.tonyevanshorror.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@TonyEvansHorror), Instagram (@tonyevanshorror), and Goodreads (@Tony_Evans). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Mary Rajotte

Canadian author Mary Rajotte has a penchant for penning nightmarish tales of folk horror and paranormal suspense. Her work has been published in a number of anthologies and she is currently querying her first novel. Sometimes camera-elusive but always coffee-fueled, you can find Mary at her website http://www.maryrajotte.com or support her Patreon for exclusive fiction at patreon.com/maryrajotte.

1. Tell us a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

As one of the resident Goths at my high school, it’s no surprise that my first dark writing was poetry. In my last year, I took a Writer’s Craft class where I wrote a vampire story inspired by Anne Rice and that’s when I realized I wanted to write for a living. My paternal grandmother was a writer. Her stories were more literary tales about her life growing up, but I’ve always been inspired by her and her drive to continue writing, even after her health declined. 

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Don’t be afraid to experiment and let go of the reins a bit. I still have trouble with that myself. I’m a plotter by nature but I sometimes feel I can be a little too rigid so I’m trying to follow my writerly instincts more and allow myself to have more fun. I also encourage new writers to continue honing their craft by trying new things and embracing their interests. Now that I have fully embraced my own love for folklore, superstitions and darker themes, I feel I have found my voice. 

3. What are some of your favorite aspects of the folk horror genre?

I love superstition and folklore not just for the stories but the reasoning behind them. I’ve come across some of the strangest tales that make me wonder why people believed them. And there’s pretty much a superstition for everything! Like, who ever came up with the idea that taking a tooth from a dead man’s skull and wearing it on your person would prevent toothaches? Or burying the hair cut from the head of an ill person in the ground would cause their sickness to molder away in the earth and they would be cured? These little seeds are just the thing to inspire the types of strange tales I love to tell. 

4. What are your top three favorite folk horror books (and/or films)?

One of my favorite modern anthologies is The Fiends in the Furrows from Nosetouch Press. It had all the classic folk horror elements – isolation, strange arcane rituals and paranoia, all with a modern twist.

For movies, I loved The Witch, Gwen and Pyewacket. They all have a similar tone, that sense of dread that lurks over the characters, and misfortune that they can’t seem to escape. The cool thing is that even though the first two are similar, Pyewacket is a great example that folklore and the occult can take place in a modern setting and still be unsettling.

If you’re interested in learning more about Mary Rajotte, check out her website at www.maryrajotte.com/blog. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@MaryRajotte), Instagram (@maryrajotte), and Goodreads (@Mary_Rajotte). Finally, to purchase her books check out the author on Amazon.

Ben Long

Ben’s love for horror began at a young age when he devoured books like the Goosebumps series and the various scary stories of Alvin Schwartz. Growing up he spent an unholy amount of time binge watching horror films and staying up till the early hours of the morning playing games like Resident Evil and Silent Hill. Since then his love for the genre has only increased, expanding to include all manner of subgenres and mediums. He firmly believes in the power of horror to create an imaginative space for exploring our connection to each other and the universe, but he also appreciates the pure entertainment of B movies and splatterpunk fiction.

Nowadays you can find Ben hustling his skills as a freelance writer and editor. When he’s not building his portfolio or spending time with his wife and two kids, he’s immersing himself in his reading and writing. Though he loves horror in all forms, he has a particular penchant for indie authors and publishers. He is a proud supporter of the horror community and spends much of his free time reviewing and promoting the books/comics you need to be reading right now!

readingvicariously.net/

The post On the Verge: Folk Horror Authors – Part 2 appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

The cool, autumn night brought with it the presence of uneasiness and uncertainty. The full moon hung high in the air like a stationary spotlight–a beacon guiding the two lovers with its gravitational force. It pulled the two together in ebb and flow; in high and low, just as it did the tides of the seas and oceans.

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings stood atop the mountain. Her shadow draped across the valley under the gleam of the moon like a black sheet. She breathed in the crisp, night air then exhaled.

“Dear God,” she prayed. “Please bring him safely to me. Let not my lover stumble nor let fear be found in his valiant heart.”

Her thoughts were on The Man with Hazel Eyes and Broken White Wings. She knew it would take him longer to find her since he could no longer fly. He was now down in the valley, obscured by the curtain of her stretching shadow. He heart pounded deep in her chest and perspiration formed on her forehead. She knew what things were awakened in the valley when the full moon stepped onto the stage of the night sky.

The Girl had seen the Creatures in her dreams and heard their whaling. She had visions of the Demons and had seen their teeth. She had premonitions of the Monsters and trembled at the energy they gave off.

“Dear God,” she prayed again. “I hope he remembered the protective amulet. And may he be strapped with his steel and prepared for battle.”

She had given The Man a protective amulet when they first met. It was a black cross crafted from jet stone. She knew deep within her heart and soul the Man would need it one day. She never thought today would be the day.

She also knew The Man was wise and would not enter the Valley without its protection nor the comfort of his steel. Nevertheless, her heart feared his journey. So, under the glow of the night’s sun, she awaited her lover.

The Man with Hazel Eyes and Broken White Wings traveled through the Valley under the shadow of the Girl. His thoughts jumped from her to his Guardian Creator. His ears were attentive to every sound. His nose picked up on a rancid scent.

In the Realms of the Phantoms both good and evil had a smell. The Good gave off a clean fragrance of fresh linen and sunflowers. The Evil stunk of rotting flesh and sulfur.

The Man knew if he could smell the entities of the night, then they could smell him as well. It would only be a matter of moments before they would pick up on his scent. When they did, they would awaken and seek to spill his blood.

He looked up from the Valley and saw the trees. He peered through the twisted fingers of the leafless branches at the moon and thought of her again–The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings. He had to get to her. Their very lives depended on it.

A shuffling in the rocky sand of the Valley drew his mind away from her. His hand moved with a swift motion and gripped the hilt of his steel, which rested in his waistband. The noise ascended. It grew closer and louder.

And then he saw them in the moonlight.

These weren’t the foes he expected to see first. From the tales of the few survivors to make it through the Valley, the Creatures were the last to face.

The Man drew his steel then gripped his cross amulet. “Dear God,” he prayed. “Let my feet be swift and my blows deadly.” He let go of the cross and held his sword with both hands.

A massive, churning clod of serpent-like creatures raced towards him. In the light of the moon, the reflection of their scales resembled all the colors of the rainbow. Their tales were as scorpions and they had no face.

These were the Mind Serpents. They were beasts of such negative, psychic power, they were able to enter the mind of a man and make him go insane. Doubt, depression, and self-loathing would take over. Once the Creatures had a man paralyzed by his own self pity and sunken into the hatred of his own soul, they would strike with their tails.

The venom would work as a mind toxin and make a man take their thoughts as his own. Once this happened, a man would, in a fit of insanity, run his blade through his own heart.

Legend had it that the number of the serpents represented the threat the warrior posed. A man of normal courage would face one. A brave man, two, and a courageous man, three. Never had there been tales of more than this.

The Man counted the faceless heads as they approached.

There were five.

The Man swallowed hard and felt the finger of fear tickle at his heart. He swiped it away and prepared himself for war.

The Creatures were within twenty yards when they launched their psychic attack. The mind fuck was the most insidious sensation The Man had ever experienced.

He always thought he was mentally strong, but now he felt himself in a tornado of negative thoughts and emotions. He dropped his blade and fell to his knees. He placed his hands over his bleeding ears and screamed.

“Jesus! God! Make them stop!” Spittle flew from his lips and the tendons in his neck stretched as a flesh covered harp.

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings gasped as she heard the screams of her lover echo through the Valley. She ran towards The Willow Tree at the edge of the cliff. She parted the curtain of its hanging branches and placed one hand on her bosom and one hand on the trunk of the tree. Her eyes searched in desperation for The Man but he could not see through the shield of darkness in the Valley.

“Please, my angel. Please be all right,” she said between heavy breaths.

The Man continued his screams and the serpents encircled him. They churned and twisted, running their bodies over his stomach and shoulders.

In his mind, The Man saw visions of great sorrow, pain, and loss. He saw all Abaddon had taken from him and his heart grew faint.

“I am no warrior,” The Man thought. “I am no fighter. I am only a failed savior with broken wings. I am a coward frozen by terror and self pity.”

Further and further his mind spiraled down into an abyss of nothingness.

But there was something different about The Man the serpents were not prepared for; something no man in the Valley ever had…

As The Man reached the bottom of the pit of his mind, he found a Phoenix waiting for him.

“Who are you,” The Man asked.

“I am you,” the Phoenix said.

“I am no Phoenix,” he said. “I am but a wasted angel with useless wings and a coward’s heart.”

The Phoenix flapped its wings and engulfed The Man in waves of fire. “No,” it said. “You are thunder and lightening. You are a burning ember and a flash of fire!”

The Phoenix took flight and extended its talons. The bird gripped The Man by the shoulders and began to fly him out of the abyss. The grip of the Phoenix burned and brought a sense of mental sobriety to The Man. The two ascended higher and higher, causing all the dark thoughts to dissipate.

The Man now saw who he really was. Though he had broken wings, he was a warrior. He was more courageous than all his peers and the most noble knight to ever step foot into the Valley. He was a man of abounding love. A man of resilience and perseverance. A man loved by God and The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings.

The Man was jolted back into consciousness. A stinger from one of the serpents was whizzing through the air at him. He ducked and rolled away, then knelt and fetched his steel.

The serpents lashed and coiled in anger and confusion. The Man saw their hesitation and struck. With the rage of a wild beast, his sword followed the lead of his hands as a bridled horse. He chopped off one head, followed by another. Sprays of rainbow colored blood misted from the serpents as their bodies flopped on the road of the Valley.

He finished off the rest of the serpents in the same manner. Their bodies seized and their rainbow life seed drained from their bodies. The Man was soaked in the multicolored blood and pools of it puddled around his feet.

“Oh God, the smell,” The Man said and his his nose in the gape of his arm. He gagged a few times then dry heaved.

After he composed himself, The Man gathered the faceless serpent heads and ran them through with his blade. His piercing left holes at both ends of the heads. He wiped his sword on one of their lifeless bodies, then returned it to its sheath. He removed his backpack and retrieved his rope. He then slid the rope through the heads and tied it off at each end into a giant necklace.

The Man clenched his trophy and raised it towards the night sky.

“Abaddon,” he yelled. “Heaven knows no fury like a warrior’s blade!”

He lowered his prize and continued his journey. The necklace of heads crackled as he dragged them through the rocky soil of the Valley.

“Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings,” he called out. “I am coming for you. As I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, it shall fear my evil!”

The Girl with Sunlit Hair and Black Wings heard the voice of her lover ascend from the Valley to her ears. She stepped away from the cliff and rested her back against The Willow Tree. She slid down and sat, relieved.

“I know you are coming, angel,” she said. She breathed deep and exhaled as she awaited him to face his next challenge.

The post Phantom War Part 1: The Creatures appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

Many successful horror stories have at least one, if not all three, of those factors playing a major role in their plots. Though such inhospitable elements make for terrifying environments in fiction, there are many people in the world thriving in such places as Alaska.

In our quest to find the best horror across the nation, Puzzle Box has made it to The Last Frontier. A land of ice and snow, full of untamed wilderness and ancient lore. Here, seemingly tucked away from the rest of the country, we have sought out several authors who hone their craft amidst what many would consider to be a desolate landscape. Yet these writers find their surroundings actually help spark their imagination and inspiration. So without further ado, allow us to introduce the Alaskan horror authors you need to be reading.

Jamey Bradbury

Jamey Bradbury is the author of The Wild Inside, from William Morrow (2018). Her work has appeared in Black Warrior Review (winner of the annual fiction contest), Spark + Echo, Sou’wester, and Zone 3. She won an Estelle Campbell Memorial Award from the National Society of Arts and Letters. Jamey has an MFA from the University of North Carolina Greensboro. She lives in Anchorage, Alaska.

1. Tell me a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I have always loved being scared, since the days I entertained myself through boring sermons at church by reading the book of Revelation and scaring myself with images of unholy beasts and rivers of blood. But my grandmother was a huge storyteller–and if she was in the right mood, she would tell me about the spirits she saw and the premonitions she had. As a girl, she had encountered a handful of ghosts, and hearing about these incidents thrilled my spooky little brain. From early on, I liked making up my own stories; it’s no wonder, with Grandma whispering spooky tales in my ear, that I tended toward the scary.

I was never a Goosebumps kid, but I loved the middle grade novels of Betty Ren Wright, especially Christina’s Ghost and The Dollhouse Murders. Those were my doorway into stuff like Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, and Harlan Ellison, the way the old black-and-white Universal horror movies became a doorway to The Thing, Poltergeist, and Nightmare on Elm Street.

Once, a friend of mine who can’t do horror asked why I loved horror movies and books so much. I honestly think the attraction is all about heightened emotion for me–that, and I love the way horror allows me to talk about and explore big feelings and ideas in really tangible ways. The metaphors horror offers makes it easier and more accessible to deal with topics that might otherwise feel too scary to come at directly.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Maybe this is the boring answer, but I think I’d go back and tell my younger self to learn more about the business of writing. Students in MFA programs and writing workshops spend thousands of hours talking about craft and structure and all the things that theoretically will help them write something that will someday be published–but no one ever talks about what comes after that, or how to make good decisions about publication, or any of the hundred other things you encounter when you’re trying to find an audience for your work. I think this is something more programs should spend time on.

When it comes to writing process, though, I’d say trust your process. It’s interesting and somewhat helpful to read about how other writers tackle their drafts, and I can daydream all I want about how easy it must be for plotters to whip out a perfect, polished draft in one take–but the truth is, writing is never easy for anyone (not even for plotters), and in the end, what works for me is what works for me. I can’t copy anyone else’s process; I had to figure out what works for me, and learn to trust that.

3. Has living in Alaska influenced your writing at all?

Alaska has been a huge influence on my writing. Strangely, it was only when I left Alaska for a time that I found myself really drawn to writing about it. While I was away, first in North Carolina to get my MFA, and then later, living in Vermont, I discovered how much I missed Alaska, and pretty quickly resolved to go back as soon as I could; in the meantime, I started writing about the landscape I was longing for. That quickly became my first novel, The Wild Inside.

I think Alaska offers a perfect setting for horror. The endless dark, cold winters are an obvious backdrop for spooky stuff, but the glaring sunlight and long, sleepless summer nights offer their own sort of disorienting atmosphere. There’s a lot of space up here, a lot of land to get lost–or to lose yourself–in. I can’t go for a hike without thinking about all the different kinds of terrors that could befall a person alone in the woods or on the mountainside. Maybe that’s just my freaky brain, but I think that in addition to being one of the most beautiful places on earth, Alaska is also one of the most inspiring–and one of the scariest.

As a bonus, it’s also just a great place for a writer to live. I absolutely love the long winter and the way I can curl up like a hibernating bear in my house and completely focus on whatever I’m working on.

4. What are your top three favorite horror books?

Top three favorite horror books – at least for the moment!

Hex by Thomas Olde Heuvelt. Truly the creepiest book I’ve read in quite a few years–so creepy, that I read it a second time within just a few months (not something I normally do)–and not only did the book hold up, it was even better the second time. The town of Black Spring, New York is held hostage by the ghost of a witch who was executed by the townspeople centuries earlier; no Black Spring citizen can leave town without becoming suicidal. A group of teens sets out to expose the ghost on the internet–but things quickly backfire on them. Possibly the scariest aspect of the book, especially for writers: Thomas Olde Heuvelt wrote the book in Dutch, set in Belgium, then rewrote the entire thing in English and moved the action to New York, to better appeal to American audiences.

My Best Friend’s Exorcism by Grady Hendrix. For all the ’80s babies out there, Grady Hendrix’s tale of demonic possession among teenage girls is a nostalgic trip back to one of my favorite eras of horror. This is one that makes me laugh and cry as much as it scares me–and it’s such a great portrait of female friendship, especially that heady, dramatic, love-hate that can happen between teenage girls.

Ghost Summer by Tananarive Due. A short story collection by a master of the genre, Ghost Summer is like a collection of precious, cursed jewels. Each story reveals layers of complexity with simple, elegant language that also manages to get at both real and supernatural fears that live deep within the characters.

If you’re interested in learning more about Jamey Bradbury, check out her website at www.jameybradbury.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@JameyBradbury), Instagram (@jameybee), and Goodreads (@Jamey_Bradbury). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

DM Shephard

DM Shephard pulled up anchor at 18 and joined the Navy to escape a small town in the Mojave desert. Through many twists and turns she made her way north to Alaska. She came for a job, but stayed for the adventure. When she’s not playing with live electricity, she’s out exploring what Alaska has to offer, or hanging out at her off-grid cabin near the tiny community of Chicken with her husband Ray. She blends together her experiences in STEM into her own brand of Suspense, Horror, and Romance.

1. Tell me a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I grew up in Victorville, CA, a small town in the Mojave Desert, that has been the setting for many horror and sci-fi movies over the years. One of the most influential for me was the 1977 version of The Hills Have Eyes. Michael Berryman, who played Pluto actually came and did a talk at my school when I was a kid. From Dusk Til Dawn (1996) was also shot in my hometown, along with Breakdown (Kurt Russell, 1997). I liked to concoct stories based on the local legends in the desert. I joined the Navy’s Nuclear Power Program and went forth seeking adventure. Unfortunately, a diagnosis of MS cut my dreams of becoming a super-spy short. So I became a super electrical engineer. Through many twists and turns, I made my way north and got a job in one of the toughest environments on earth, Prudhoe Bay. My husband and I are now trying to turn 30 acres of Alaska wilderness into an off-grid non-profit, Fortymile STEAM Foundation.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

My writing has improved greatly over the years. And I read as much as I write. The best advice I can offer is to sit down and write it. You can’t edit a blank page. What you write initially is going to suck. I look back at my earliest writing and think how that is terrible. But that’s okay. It’s far better than agonizing over everything and never getting the story down on paper. Write now, edit later.

3. Has living in Alaska influenced your writing at all?

Alaska has greatly influenced my writing. I moved to Alaska in 2007 for a job, but stayed for the adventure. My Dark Land series that I am currently self publishing is based on Athabascan Legends and experiences that my husband and I have had in the backcountry of Wrangell-St. Elias National Park. I am also querying a gothic horror based on the Klondike Gold Rush set in Dawson City. I have several Blog posts on both.

http://dmshepard.com/alaskan-writing-inspiration/

http://dmshepard.com/getting-there-is-half-the-adventure-my-trip-into-wrangell-st-elias-national-park-in-the-name-of-writing-research/

http://dmshepard.com/the-ghosts-of-the-palace-grand-theater/

4. What are your top three favorite horror books?

Three favorites? Tough call, since I love reading. Tie between The Stand and Carrie by Stephen King. You by Caroline Kepnes. For non-fiction, The Great Mortality (about the Black Plague in 1348).

If you’re interested in learning more about DM Shephard, check out her website at http://dmshepard.com//. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@dmshepard13) and Goodreads (@D_M_Shepard). Finally, to purchase books check out the author on Amazon.

Mary Farnstrom

Mary Farnstrom has been a freelance writer and illustrator for over a decade, with a focus on the horror genre. She is currently finishing her dual degree at the University of Alaska Fairbanks while writing for Puzzle Box Horror and creating the image for her own brand as well.

1. Tell me a bit about yourself and what got you started in horror writing?

I grew up in Southern California, but moved to Alaska when I was twenty-seven, which means this August I’ll have lived here for five years. I have loved the horror genre and surrounding culture ever since I was traumatized by Child’s Play (1988) at the age of three (maybe four?). I’ve always loved writing and was lucky to have a lot of my teachers throughout my youth encourage me to pursue it.

The road to a higher education for me has been incredibly long, but mostly because I spent a lot of time flipflopping between English to Linguistics and Central Alaskan Yup’ik, then finally (most recently) back to English. That being said, I’m one class away from having my bachelors in Yup’ik, so I’m planning on finishing that degree alongside an English degree.

What really decided it for me was when I took a Creative Writing class for a Linguistics degree requirement and I wrote a flash fiction horror story. It was exhilarating and tied into my love of the genre—then the most amazing ego-stroke happened. People actually LOVED it and even though I absolutely love, I had no idea that people would love my horror fiction. That’s around the time I found Puzzle Box Horror and the rest is pretty much history.

2. We talk to a fair amount of new writers. What tips would you give yourself if you could go back to when you started based on what you know now?

Write. Write every day. Even if it’s just a journal entry, it’s an exercise in using language to express yourself. Don’t be afraid of critique, it’s actually one of the most beneficial things a writer can receive. It can illuminate the things that you might be having difficulty with and it can often point out things that don’t work.

If you find you’re having trouble writing, remind yourself that all first drafts are shitty. In fact, they’re literally called “shitty first drafts,” but that’s what the editing process is for. Write that shitty first draft, then set it aside. I look to Stephen King a lot when I think about the editing process, he recommends at least six weeks between finishing your shitty first draft until you go back and edit the shit out of it.

Let people read your writing when you’re done! Don’t be afraid to put your work in front of someone. Don’t be afraid of rejection when you finally submit for publication, because rejection doesn’t mean you failed. It’s just a learning experience and it will help you grow as a writer. Also, even though you should shoot for the stars, not everyone ends up a best selling author. That doesn’t mean you can’t make a feasible living doing what you love.

3. Has living in Alaska influenced your writing at all?

I can honestly say that it has! I’ve seen most of the state, but I still have a lot to explore—through my study of indigenous Alaskan cultures I’ve come across such a treasure trove of Alaska Native cryptid and ghost lore. Hopefully I’ll be illustrating the rich culture of lore and haunted nature of a lot of the abandoned places in the state with our next edition of Atlas of Lore.

4. What are your top three favorite horror books?

This is a crazy good question—I absolutely love Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin, Psycho by Robert Bloch, and The Shining by Stephen King. I think the honorable mentions would be anything by Shirley Jackson, who was a total boss, and The Turn of the Screw, a novella by Henry James.

If you’re interested in learning more about Mary Farnstrom, check out her website at www.theunhingedalaskan.com. You can also follow the author on Twitter (@RealMacabreMary) and Instagram (@realmacabremary)

Ben Long

Ben’s love for horror began at a young age when he devoured books like the Goosebumps series and the various scary stories of Alvin Schwartz. Growing up he spent an unholy amount of time binge watching horror films and staying up till the early hours of the morning playing games like Resident Evil and Silent Hill. Since then his love for the genre has only increased, expanding to include all manner of subgenres and mediums. He firmly believes in the power of horror to create an imaginative space for exploring our connection to each other and the universe, but he also appreciates the pure entertainment of B movies and splatterpunk fiction.

Nowadays you can find Ben hustling his skills as a freelance writer and editor. When he’s not building his portfolio or spending time with his wife and two kids, he’s immersing himself in his reading and writing. Though he loves horror in all forms, he has a particular penchant for indie authors and publishers. He is a proud supporter of the horror community and spends much of his free time reviewing and promoting the books/comics you need to be reading right now!

readingvicariously.net/

The post On the Verge: 3 Alaskan Horror Authors appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.