The 12 A.M. To Nowhere

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Featured Indie Horror Short Horror Stories

This must be the hundredth time I have woken up on this damn subway covered in blood and body parts. If I have to spit one more ear lobe out my mouth again, I swear I am going to shit a brick.

Nothing changes.

It is the same thing over and over. There’s the red head over there draped across the seat. One of her green eyes is dangling out of the socket and her legs are gnawed off at the knees. Then there’s the douche bag looking bro dude with black hair and a trimmed beard. Well, what’s left of him anyway. He is splattered all over the car. At my feet are the police officers. One has his chest ripped open. The other has her organs over her face, and still another is missing his head.

I examine the car and see broken windows. It had crashed at some point. I walk down the aisle and see the mangled remains of men, women, and children. A crash didn’t do this. There is no way a wreck can take someone’s intestines and wrap them around the holding bar like a coiled serpent.

“Hello!” I yell. I say the same words every time. “Anyone there? What the fuck happened?”

I look down at my hands and they are dripping crimson. My eyes scan my body again and I am naked. Goosebumps are all over my flesh and there is skin underneath my fingernails. I hold my hands up and stare at them.

“What the hell…” Something crunches under my feet. I stare down at it and see a severed jaw.

The sinews and ligaments are wiggling and dripping blood. Then I remember Ronnie. He got on the subway with me. We were going to the movies because they were having a horror triple feature.

“Ronnie!” I call. “Where are you, man?”

I step over more dead people and go into the next car. I see Ronnie. The expression on his face is sheer panic. His brown eyes are gazing into me and he is missing his ears. Blood trickles down his neck and for some reason, all I can focus on are the drops which are on a few strands of his neck hair. His fingers are missing from his hand. They had been shoved in his mouth and he resembles a bad Dick Tracy character.

I sob and tremble. “Ronnie! Oh, God! Ronnie!” I grab him and shake him. The fingers spill out of his mouth and topple onto the floor. “Shit,” I mumble and step back.

I remember now.

I know what’s coming.

I have the same memory lapse for a while then when I get to this point it all comes back to me.

I peek over my shoulder and remember Hannah. My beautiful, blonde angel who loved me like no other. She came with me because we both love horror movies. Too bad I couldn’t save her. She is sprawled out on a seat with her throat ripped to shreds. Her hip bones are missing too.

Who the hell can rip out hip bones?

You can The thought arose from the recesses of my mind. “Bull shit!” I yelled. “I did not!” I clasp my palms over my ears. “Shut the fuck up and get out of my fucking head!”

I spin in circles and scream. All I notice are the blood stains splattered on the car. I stop then grab Hannah and hold her in my arms.

“Who did this!” I yell. I fling my head back and cry. I pull a hand away from Hannah and wipe my eyes then blood mixed with tears stream down my cheek.

You did this, the voice in my head says again.

I throw Hannah’s corpse down in rage and glare up at the ceiling. I clench my fist and lift them towards the heavens. “I did not!”

Yes, you did.

“Bull shit! You liar!”

Then the events play through my mind. I killed all these people. I killed Ronnie. I killed Hannah. I killed those kids. The revelation is too much for me. My knees grow week and I fall to the ground. I can feel the warm blood on my naked butt. I pull my knees to my chin and bury my head into them. I weep and rock, smelling the copper scent of blood and organs.

I don’t know if this is hell.

I don’t know if this is reality gone mad.

I don’t know if this is quantum physics on hallucinogens.

All I know is I can sense the full moon even down in this subway and I am going to have my transformation.

And this shit is about to happen all lover again.

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The Demon Dog of Valle Crucis, North Carolina an Urban Legend

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Featured Haunted Places Horror Mystery and Lore

My day job is working as a pest control technician for an awesome company here in Blowing Rock, North Carolina. Come to find out, I have a haunted site on my route. (Yeah, I know. What are the odds that the horror author gets the route with a haunted place or even better a place haunted by a demon dog?) I have included pictures in this article that I took the last time I was in this area. This local legend of the demon dog of Valle Crucis has been around since the late 1800s.

The story was birthed at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Valle Crucis, North Carolina around 1860. A few people were found dead in the nearby woods by an apparent animal attack. Instead of looking for a rational explanation of what happened, the local minister claimed he saw a “demon dog” kill these people. I’m not bashing ministers or any religion or denomination, for I myself an am ordained minister, but given the time period should we be surprised?

This urban legend has gone on for several generations, but the most popular story has to do with two young men who were students at App State. They were traveling down the road next to the church one moonlit autumn night. A large, shadowy figure leaped our from behind one of the tombstones from the church’s graveyard and appeared in front of their vehicle. The driver swerved to the side of the road to avoid slamming into whatever had stepped in front of them. According to witnesses, he slammed on the breaks and eased his vehicle to the shoulder.

Cemetery in Valle Crucis at St. John's Episcopal Church
St. John's Episcopal Church and gravestones

The two friends peered out the window into the darkness. The figure took shape under the moonlight and they were shocked at what they saw. A massive dog, the size of a full grown man, stood in the road staring at them. it was covered in shimmering black fur and had large, yellow teeth. It’s eyes were glowing red and did not reflect back the light like a dog or cat’s eyes will sometimes do at night. One of the young men turned to the other and said, “Do you see that?” His friend replied, “No, and neither do you.”

Sign in front of tombs at St. John's Episcopal Church

The dog eased towards the vehicle and growled. The driver took his foot off the braked and slammed on the gas. The vehicle sped down the dark, mountain road, hugging the curves as hard as it could without flipping. Sixty miles and hour…Seventy miles an hour…the driver did his best to keep the car under control. He glanced in his rear view mirror and had the shock of his life. The demon dog was keeping us with the car. No, it was gaining on them.

The driver mashed the accelerator even harder. The car sped over a the bridge where the streams in Valle Crucis meet to form a cross (the name in Latin means Vale of the Cross). The dog stopped following them and then vanished.

St. John's Episcopal Church sign established in 1862

The frightened friends drove into Boone and stopped at a local diner, which was the only place open late at night. They tried to let their nerves settle down but it wasn’t happening. They knew neither of them were going to get to sleep for a while. They also knew they had experienced something terrifying and supernatural. The two men shared their story and the urban legend of the Demon Dog of Valle Crucis was cemented into North Carolina folklore forever.

There are other stories surrounding this quaint little cemetery at St. John’s. Some have reported seeing the apparition of a woman wondering around the graves. Others have reported sounds of gunshots and a weeping female, all of which cannot be connected to any known event.

Is the legend of the Demon Dog true? Is this a case of lycanthropy maybe?

When I was out there, I called and whistled for the demon dog several times. I walked among the graves and tried to see if I could get him to come out. He was either napping or had better things to do. I got back in my truck and drove away. I looked in my review, and to my disappointment, there was no demon dog chasing me.

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The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid – Entry One Theodosia

Categories
Indie Horror Short Horror Stories

Entry One: Theodosia by Ezekiel Kincaid

I leave these words and experiences behind so those who come after me might not feel so alone. Stephen King called this gift “The Shining”. Others have called it the Third Eye of the Sixth Sense.

I call it The Reach. It is the rare, yet powerful ability to walk in the realm of the dead while living in the realm of the living. It makes the dead visible, their voices audible, and their thoughts understandable. It is the gift which many fake, but few have.

And those who have it?

You would never know, for the things they see are beyond belief. They never talk about it. They never write about it either because the world is full of so many fictitious diatribes.

But I am going to write about it.

I don’t care if you believe me or not. I am not writing to convince you. I am writing to share Theodosia’s story, and to tell how though the darkness howls, the light roars.

I am Ezekiel Kincaid, the one many have dubbed the Paranormal Pastor, and this is the story about my experiences with Theodosia.

There was one glaring lesson I learned from her…

When the darkness howls, the light roars.

I discovered this a long time ago, but it never became a reality until I met Theodosia.

Theodosia started off as a story idea. A tale about a young, innocent girl who had the ability to see and walk in the realm of the supernatural. This realm I called The Ethereal Plane, playing off the ideas of H.P. Lovecraft and others.

It was meant to be a horror fantasy. Theodosia was supposed to be a young girl with psychic ability who encountered creatures from the Plane that wanted to use her talent to cross over. Yet as I wrote, Theodosia took on a life of her own.

Many of horror fans and horror authors would roll their eyes and say, “Oh sure, I get it. As a writer, your characters ‘come to life’ and take over the story.”

I have been writing long enough to know that. My characters have taken over my books and stories many times. Johnny Walker Ranger, the main character of my recently released book, is a perfect example. I created him, and then as I wrote, let him run with the story in my mind.

But Johnny never visited me in my dreams.

Johnny never showed up on my couch scolding me because the story wasn’t written well enough.

Johnny never appeared in my back yard catching fireflies with his sister.

Theodosia did.

I started writing Theodosia’s story three years ago, but things didn’t get weird until this last five year.

The first time I heard her speak unsettled me. I was sitting at my desk one night writing her story. I felt someone walk up behind me. I turned to see who it was, but no one was there. It was late and I had been writing for a while, so I figured I was just tired. I faced my computer again and went to finish up a scene before I headed to bed.

“That’s not how it happened.”

A child’s voice spoke from behind me. The hairs on my neck stood on end. I felt a chill all the way in the marrow of my bones. I eased my head around in a slow, almost lifeless motion.  My body followed, spinning the chair I sat in. When my eyes fell to the scenery behind me, nothing was there– just the clothes I had tossed on the floor and my sleeping dog.

“Did you hear that,” I asked my dog.

She moaned and opened one eye then ignored me.

“Guess not.” I shook my head then arose from my seat. I shut my computer and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I knew it was her. I knew it was Theodosia. It was then I began to wonder if this wasn’t just more than a story.

Since her audible voice broke through, every time I sat down to write her story she showed up. She screamed and scolded every time I sat down to write.

“No, change this.”

“This isn’t dark enough.”

“This isn’t how it happened.”

On and on Theodosia went, telling her story and taking it to a place I never imagined.

I reached the end of the book and had it outlined. The odd thing was Theodosia never showed up when I worked on the ending, so I just came up with something on my own. 

This is when Theodosia took the story to a new level.

Theodosia came to me one night in a dream. Her red hair was disheveled and matted to her face. Her eyes were black, and her pupils changed colors from red to green to yellow. Her lips were dry and cracked and the skin on her face hung in shreds.

We were standing in the hallway on the second story of her farmhouse. When I saw her, I knew I was not dealing with a sweet, helpless little girl. Theodosia was evil. Pure darkness devoid of any light.

“What do you want,” I asked her.

She smiled an insidious grin, revealing teeth covered in human flesh. “I want to show you how the end happened. How I died. How my sister died. How the children died. And you need to know about the demon. It didn’t happen the way you outlined it.”

Theodosia’s voice was not sweet anymore. It was deep and grating.

She continued. “And from this point on, no more sweet Theodosia in your story. She is dead. The darkness took her and corrupted her. Now, follow me.”

I followed Theodosia around the upstairs and she showed me awful things. Those images are burned in my mind and I will never forget them. They were vivid. They were raw. They were brutal.  And I started to think they just might be true.

When Emile was done showing me these things, she said. “Now, go and write what I showed you.”

Then, I woke up.

I began to pray and ask God if I should continue to write this story. I asked Him to show me what was going on, who this girl was, and why this was happening. I didn’t want to finish the story. I didn’t want to write Theodosia anymore. Not after seeing her true form.

But God had different plans.

A few weeks after the dream Theodosia showed up on my couch. I was sitting in a recliner working on her story.

“What you wrote today was terrible. I didn’t like it. You didn’t write it as good as you could,” she scolded.

I glared at her. “Yeah, well. I’ve been distracted today. Lot’s going on. I will fix it.” I glanced down at my computer screen then back at her. “And for the record, pop off at me again and see what happens to your story. Now, go away.”

Theodosia snarled at me. “You wreak of the Lamb’s blood, pastor.”

I smiled up at her. “Good. Now, in the name of Jesus go away and leave me alone.”

Theodosia disappeared, but came back the next night.

I was in my yard, catching fireflies with my kids. As they were off chasing some with their nets, another light appeared on the opposite side of the yard. The light was a lantern. It was being held by the oldest of the two girls, and they were running and jumping, trying to catch fireflies. One of the girls looked over her shoulder at me.

It was Theodosia, but she wasn’t corrupted like in my dream. She had the look of sweet, childlike innocence. Then, the lantern filled with blood and the apparition of the two girls vanished.

The very next day, Theodosia visited me again. I was sitting in my bed writing, and she materialized in the chair at my desk. Her appearance was like from the dream. She radiated darkness and evil.

“What do you want? Why did you show me you and your sister last night? Why do you want me to write this story,” I asked.

Theodosia changed form before my eyes. The sweet, innocent girl was back.

“Because,” she began to weep. “Because the darkness. It came and it corrupted me. It destroyed me. It destroyed my family. It ravaged my soul. You have to tell my story. People have to know. They have to know how dangerous the dark is and how powerful it can become.”

She wiped her eyes and went on. “Then you have to show them the light. They have to know the light. But they can’t see it until they come face to face with the dark. I can’t change what I did, but you can give me justice and redemption by using my story to help others.”

Then the little girl disappeared.

I had my answer from God.

So yes, Theodosia, I will finish your story so your life will not be wasted.

She came to me many more times while I wrote her work. I cannot go into anymore detail unless I ruin certain points of the book for the reader. I have finished the book and have not seen her since. I am currently seeking a publisher for it. I have a feeling when she finds a home, I will see her again. I also have a feeling this book might end up being haunted. 

About Author Ezekiel Kincaid

Twitter: @EzekielKincaid
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ezekethefreak/
Website: https://ezekielkincaid.wordpress.com/
Books and other anthologies
https://www.amazon.com/s?k=ezekiel+kinciad&ref=nb_sb_noss_2
Free reading can be found on Stitched Smile’s WordPress site
https://stitchedsmilepublications.wordpress.com/
And Horror Bound
https://www.horrorbound.net/?author=5de80c37c09a8973f9c333cf

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The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid Entry 3: Brandon

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Featured Indie Horror Indie horror writers Short Horror Stories
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I had just settled down for the night with a good book and a bottle of whiskey. The paperback I was reading was from 1987–C. Dean Anderson’s Torture Tomb. The cover had appealed to me so I snatched it up at a thrift store. I nestled into my recliner, flipped it open to the beginning, and started reading. 

Then there was a knock on my door. 

“Unbelievable. Every freaking time.” I grabbed my phone off the stand next to me. “Ten thirty at night?” I always kept my Glock 19 with me so I swiped it off the stand and pulled on the slide, easing a bullet into the chamber. 

I rolled out of my chair and crept to the door. 

There  was a knock again. 

I turned the deadbolt then got in a shooting stance. “Come in,” I said. “It’s open.” 

The knob turned and I moved my finger to the trigger. 

The door opened and I recognized the face. I wanted to pull the trigger. Not out of fear or a threat, but out of anger. 

“Mr. Kincaid,” the man said. “You have to stop. I’m begging you. I can’t take it anymore.”

The man was Brandon. He looked like crap. His complexion was pale and he had a bruise on his cheek. He wore a gray, stained sweat suit and was clutching at his stomach. 

“You got about two seconds to turn around before I either put a bullet in your knee cap or smash your teeth out with the butt of my gun. I haven’t decided which yet.” 

Brandon’s eyes bulged then grew wet with tears. His lips trembled and he stammered. “Ppppplease. Mr. Kincaid. You have to stop. I can’t–” He hung his head and sobbed. 

I lowered my gun. “Stop? Stop?” I let out a mocking laugh. “You think I am going to stop? After you pulled a gun on your own wife? My little sister? Whom I love with all my heart? And after you threatened to throw your own kid out a window? Oh no, Brandon. I won’t ever stop till I cripple you.” 

Brandon sobbed harder.

“You know what your problem is Brandon,” I asked.

He responded with more tears.

“You are a coward. You’re an abusive bully who cries and throws temper tantrums because he doesn’t get his way. And you won’t ever quit.”

Brandon lifted his head and gazed into my eyes. He knew I was right. 

“I see everything you do. I know when you try to hurt her or threaten her. I saw what you tried to do today and I shut it down didn’t I? That box that flew across the room and knocked you out, leaving that bruise on your face? That was me.” I raised my gun again. 

“I know,” he mumbled. 

“Now, Brandon. You want me to stop? Then you leave. You get as far away from them as possible. You do that and I will stop. But if you stay? And if you ever, and I mean ever, so much as raise your voice at her or touch your kids in a threatening way, I will finish what I started today.” 

Brandon looked down at the ground and gave a slow, almost lifeless nod. 

“Now, get out of here. I was trying to read a book.” I slammed the door in his face then went and sat back down in my chair. I set my gun back on the nightstand and picked up my voice recorder. I turned it on and hit ‘record’. 

“Telekinesis,” I said. “It is a real and powerful phenomena. It can be dangerous, but I promise I will only use it to protect the ones I love.” 

I hit stop and set the recorder down. I uncorked the whiskey and took a swing straight from the bottle. I leaned up and placed it at the foot of my recliner. I picked up my paperback and read for the rest of the night.

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The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid Entry 4: Rachel’s Circle

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Featured Indie Horror Indie horror writers Short Horror Stories
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I’ve learned not to question when the dead come to me. Now, I welcome them and listen to
their tales. One such visitor was a young girl named Rachel. She wouldn’t tell me her last name, but she
did tell me what happened to her.
“Mr. Kincaid.”
I was taken out of my world of writing by a soft, sweet voice.
“Yes,” I was sitting on my bed with my computer in my lap. I glanced away from the screen and
saw her.
A young girl stood at the edge of my bed. She had short black hair, a pale complexion, and sleek
features. She looked to be around nineteen years old. She was soaking wet and naked. She covered her
chest with her arms and water dripped from her hair and body and puddled on my floor. She shivered
from the cold and swamp grass draped her skin in places. She smelled like the bayou—the bayou and
rot.
“I’m cold,” she said and chattered her teeth.
I studied the girl. Her lips were cracked and purple. “Come on,” I said and motioned with my
head. I pulled back the blanket.
The girl crawled in and covered herself. She curled up in a ball next to me and stared up with
green, solemn eyes.
“My name’s Rachel,” she said then swallowed. Her throat made a crackling sound. “And I need
your help.”
“Why?”
“I’m alone and afraid here.” Rachel sat up in the bed and wrapped the covers around her. “I—I
guess I should tell you what happened. Or, show you rather.” Rachel held out her hand to me, palm
upwards.

I lifted my hand from the keyboard in a slow, steady motion and placed it in hers. Rachel’s skin
was cold, wet, and clammy. I closed my eyes and was taken deep into a Louisiana swamp. I saw Rachel
kneeling in the middle of a protective circle she had drawn around herself with a knife in her hand. Her
voice narrated.
“I was being groomed to be a blood thorn witch. I was accepted into a coven and was taught the
old and ancient ways.”
Her naked body swayed, and a gentle breeze rippled her hair.
“I had already sliced my hand and given my blood to the keepers of the forest world. I had
studied Grimore and thought I could handle it.”
An owl screeched and landed on a branch above Rachel.
“A presence appeared in the circle. It was dark and menacing. It gave a low growl.
I saw an entity standing in the circle with Rachel. I had seen him and dealt with him many times
before. He was tall and skinny with red hair and pointy features. He wore a black suit and sunglasses. He
was a Leviathan demon and he goes by the name “The Philistine”.
“I gave myself to the god and goddess.”
I knew who they were. This god and goddess were just Leviathan and Lilith.
“The old ways either lead to madness, death, or a great poetic spirit. I think you can guess what
happened to me. I realized in those moments the circle of protection doesn’t work when you’ve already
invited it in.”
I saw Rachel take the blade of the knife and slice both her arms from wrist to forearm. The
copper scent of her warm blood filled the forest and she toppled to the ground. The Philistine stood
over her then he turned and saw me.
His features contorted and he grew angry. “You can’t help her,” he said. “I got to her first.” He
smirked then scooped Rachel’s body up and walked towards the swamp.
Rachel let go of my hand and I opened my eyes. She stared deep into me.
“I couldn’t find the light of God in life. Can you help me find it in death?” Rachel gazed at me
with a face pleading for hope.
I reached and grabbed my Bible off the floor and opened it to John chapter 1. I read to her. “In
the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the
beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not anything made. In him
was life, and this life was the light of me. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not
overcome it.”
“Thank you,” Rachel smiled. She held out her arms, showed me her scars, then faded away.

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