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.”

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

“I’m coming Jekyll, you’ve got to let me brush my teeth!” My toothbrush hung lazily in my mouth and I found it difficult to keep from drooling on my clean pajama top—thank god I was single. I caught my eyes again in the mirror before I turned the hot water handle, rinsed off my toothbrush, and spit. There was blood in the sink again, Jesus—was I falling apart? My toothbrush made a hollow clunk as it hit the bottom of the toothbrush holder. When I opened the medicine cabinet, I was greeted by the same rainbow of pill bottles that was waiting for me every night. I emptied Tuesday’s compartment into my hand and tossed the array of antidepressants, vitamins, and sleeping pills back with a handful of water that I splashed up from the spigot. Here I was thinking that these were supposed to make me feel better, but the last few days had proven they weren’t working.

The water splashed down on Jekyll—that was when he let out a pitiful cry and jetted out of the bathroom. I sighed, it was laborious and made my back creak; my shoulders stung with the pain of exhaustion. For a moment, I could have sworn I caught a whiff of smoke, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. I hastily closed the medicine cabinet, but as the mirror swung closed with a snap, I looked back up at my reflection and my eyes succumbed to my exhaustion. It lived on my face as the puffy purpling bags under my eyes—a desperation for sleep, filled the void within me. When I finally opened my eyes again, I caught a glimpse of something over my shoulder in the mirror, I felt myself start, but before I could even think I had spun around to face—nothing. Just empty space. It felt like the entirety of the Kentucky Derby was stampeding across my chest, the wind was knocked clean out of me. There wasn’t anything there. You’re seeing things, Lorna. Dr. Mason said hallucinations were a possible side effect. Calm down.

I shuffled out of the bathroom and flicked the light switch off behind me. Just seeing things. My feet scuffed the floor in my outrageously fluffy panda slippers and I flopped down into the tangled mass of plush blankets and nest of pillows I had made for myself. Jekyll made his usual rounds after hopping up on the bed, being sure to step down with what seemed the weight of a small child on my stomach before he settled contentedly between my ankles and I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

It couldn’t have been more than a few hours later when I jerked awake, my tangled hair at the back of my neck soaked in sweat. I had been startled awake by a loud crash that had come from my bathroom. I yelled out at Jekyll, with what I’m sure was more than a few choice swear words, but he stood up at my feet, stretched, and answered me with a trill. My breath caught uncomfortably in my chest and it churned relentlessly with the loud thud of my accelerated pulse. My eyes burned with exhaustion as I made a feeble attempt to see through the inky blackness of my room. I still hadn’t let out that breath. It didn’t feel safe to, not yet.

“Hello?” I heard how shaky my voice was as it came out of me. Yes, Lorna—the killer stalking around your house is totally going to answer you and tell you that they’re there. I reached over to my bedside lamp—CLICK—what—CLICK, CLICK—why isn’t my lamp turning on? Rummaging through my nightstand drawer revealed a dusty flashlight, prayer aided it being brought back to life despite the likelihood of corroded batteries. If I was going to be murdered in my own home, I would rather see it coming. My bare feet met the cold laminate flooring, a shudder ran through my body, and I felt around for my slippers. My spotlight was fixed on the open bathroom door and I felt as if my eyes were bulging right out of my skull. Any moment, I was sure that I would see someone dashing from the shadows and persistent nausea met that paranoia with gusto.

By the time I had padded silently over to the bathroom door, I felt silly—the emptiness glared back at me like an innocuous April Fool’s joke. I don’t know what I had expected to be there, or what I would have done if there had been something there, for that matter. My exasperation gave me a false confidence and I was just about to turn to go back to bed when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shower curtain rustle and heard the rings clatter against the tension rod. If I had known how to juggle, I might have caught the flashlight as it leaped out of my hand. I rolled my eyes at my apprehension and snatched the flashlight off of the floor. You’re way too high strung for your own good. It had to be the meds playing tricks on me. None of this was happening; no doubt, waking up in the morning would have me feeling foolish.

Just then, another calamitous crash came from down the hall and any renewed spirit I had gathered drained from me altogether. My knuckles must have turned white due to my vice-grip on the flashlight. Get it together Lorna. My other hand felt for the baseball bat that I had stashed behind my bedroom door. My palms were so sweaty that it felt as if they had been slicked with butter; suffice it to say, it made gripping the bat with any security quite difficult. After abandoning the flashlight on the dresser, I hefted the baseball bat over my shoulder and peeked out of my bedroom around the corner. Without the benefit of the flashlight in my hand, I struggled to see through the darkness of the hallway, but I had decided that if there was someone in my home they were going to get a fight.

I stepped down the hallway in silent trepidation, the clatter of drawers opening, closing, then opening again, and then a cacophony of silverware clattering to the floor. Each step brought me closer to the sinister orange glow that bathed the walls with flickering shadows. Another step and a sudden crash of my metal barstools caused me to jump so high I could have sworn my head brushed the ceiling. Paralyzed in fear, I grasped the baseball bat tightly to my chest and pressed myself against the wall, as if trying to make myself smaller. Go, Lorna, just go! I forced myself off of the wall and gripped the bat with new conviction, a surge of adrenaline propelled me forward and into the kitchen.

What I saw myself come face to face with was enough to elicit the kind of scream that clawed its way out from my gut. A figure of a man being devoured in flames stood hunched amid the destruction and spreading fire in my kitchen—wherever the flames danced upon his skin, the flesh hung off of him in charred strips. His black eyeless sockets turned to me, but my eyes were fixated on his twisted features, where the fire had melted his face it sagged off his jaw and exposed the charred bone beneath. I clutched the bat feebly as he rose to stand upright and began to slowly amble toward me.

My feet carried me backward, mirroring his footsteps and I saw that each step revealed scorched floorboards; I continued stepping back, unblinking, the heat dried my eyes, they began to burn. I heard a hiss at my feet but stumbled over Jekyll before I could register he was even there. The man lunged toward me and in a knee-jerk reaction, I swung the bat off of my shoulder with as much force as I could muster. I was stunned to find it only caught air on its way through the man’s form and adopted a fast-burning flame. The baseball bat burned like a torch as it sunk into the drywall on the other side of the figure. The flames spread up as if fed by gasoline and rage and before I knew it they blanketed the ceiling above me.

The man was unfazed by my assault, his arms still reached for me. Without hesitation, I scooped up a growling Jekyll and scrambled clumsily back through my bedroom door and slammed it behind me. He was squirming violently in my arms, his fearful anticipation brought his claws down hard into my shoulder, but I held him tighter as I witnessed that same orange glow filter in under the gap of my door. Shit, shit, shit… Smoke rose from under the door, flames soon followed and I felt the sharp edge of my bedside table bite the back of my bare thigh.

Fire consumed my door as if it was comprised of nitrate film—what the fuck—I couldn’t open my window fast enough and doing so while holding on to my wrathful ragdoll was practically impossible. He spit angrily at the combusting monstrosity that stepped through the curtain of fire that used to be my door. Fuck this. I gave my window a good shove and it let out a loud whine. Jekyll was the first through, but before I could follow an excruciating pain shot through my leg—and then I fell and everything went black.

When I came to, I was laying on my back and could feel the hard chill of the sidewalk beneath me. I could hear someone call, “she’s awake,” but I could only see blackness and the outlines of two people above me.

“Miss—,” I heard a deep husky voice and I knew it was addressing me, but I didn’t know how to make my body respond to it. “Miss—Jones?” Another figure appeared above me, and they all slowly came into focus. A police officer was addressing me abreast the two EMTs who then disappeared from my view—when I tried to sit up, they jumped to help me, and the dull ache in the back of my head became more pronounced.

Ten minutes went by and my eyes were still dry from being overwhelmed with smoke. I mindlessly clutched my singed and shaken blackened mop of a cat, his claws clung tentatively to the blanket I had draped over my shoulders. I was surprised they had found him at all. The cold curb bit at my exposed legs, but the heat radiating from the blaze behind me reminded me that I much preferred the cold at this very instant. I could hear as my roof cracked and caved in under the burden of the fast-moving fire. The insurance company is never going to believe this… I’m so screwed.

“Are you alright to speak with me now, Miss Jones?” The police officer was back to ask his questions. He probably thinks I did this myself. I blinked repeatedly until I was able to break my gaze away from the darkness across the street. When I finally was able to look up at him, I saw he was looking at me as if I were an escaped mental patient—the 911 operator had sent everything but the kitchen sink after a neighbor had called to report a scream and smoke coming from my home. I’ll have to find out who it was so I can thank them.

“What was it you said was the cause of the blaze?”

“I—I’m not sure.” It wasn’t entirely a lie if I didn’t know what the hell I had just seen in my home, was it?

“What happened right before the blaze broke out?”

“Sleep, I was sleeping, my cat woke me up and I was headed to the kitchen.” I still wasn’t technically lying.

“The ambulance is going to take you to the hospital to treat you for smoke inhalation and those burns on your ankles.” I had already had enough strange eyes on me tonight, so the idea of being under the watchful eye of strangers made me shiver. Even though I knew I would soon be laying in a hospital bed with a nurse dressing my wounds, I started to feel sick. It was a deep, relentless, twisting anxiety that told me the burning man may have gone up in flames with my home, but that it wouldn’t be the last time I saw him.

Macabre Mary

Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.

Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.

www.macabremary.com

The post Infernal appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

Despite all of his talents within different genres of writing and the fact that his modern reputation is based primarily on his horror stories and lyrical poetry, he made his living as a literary critic and theoretician–one of America’s greatest.

Short Stories

Poe can be considered the master of the macabre, as he famously transformed the genre of the short horror story with his psychologically deep and insightful tales that the genre had never seen before. His classic stories helped to re-imagine the genre, where The Tell-Tale Heart, The Pit and the Pendulum, The Black Cat, and The Masque of the Red Death which revealed the depths of his masterful story-weaving talents. While The Black Cat isn’t Poe’s most popular short story, it definitely reveals in a shorter form the dark and psychological terrors of Poe’s mind–the words that poured out of this author’s soul spoke of deep pain and misery that one can only credit to the gothic form.

The Black Cat (1845)

For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not–and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified — have tortured — have destroyed me. [Read More…]

Other Notable Short Stories

• The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841)
• The Tell-Tale Heart (1843)
• The Black Cat (1845)
• The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar (1845)
• The Cask of Amontillado (1846)
• The Pit and the Pendulum (1850)
• The Premature Burial (1850)
• The Masque of the Red Death (1850)

Poetry

Even if Poe had never written a single story, his poetry would have been enough to secure his legacy in literary history, as nearly every single one of them is considered a poetic masterpiece. A brief introduction to some of his works of poetry would most notably include The Raven, Annabel Lee, To Helen, and Ulalume. Below we have included one of our favorite poems by this famous dead author, which can be considered one of the all-time favorites and most notable of all of his poems, The Raven.

The Raven (1849)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore–
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door–
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door–
Only this and nothing more.”
[Read More…]

Other Notable Poetry

• To The River (1829)
• Spirits of the Dead (1829)
• The City in the Sea (1831)
• The Sleeper (1831)
• The Haunted Palace (1839)
• The Conqueror Worm (1843)
• The Valley of Unrest (1845)
• The Raven (1845)
• Lenore (1845)
• Annabel Lee (1849)
• The Bells (1849)
• A Dream Within A Dream (1850)
• A Valentine (1850)
• Alone (1875)

Why Should You Read Edgar Allan Poe?

To be clear, this selection of the work of Edgar Allan Poe is woefully lacking, but these are a great selection out of his incredibly large body of work. We urge you to read as much of it as possible and if you’re already a studied fan of Poe, let us know what your favorite story or poem is below!

Macabre Mary

Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.

Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.

www.macabremary.com

The post The Gothic Literary Pioneer: Edgar Allan Poe appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

They are a part of life but I still haven’t grown accustomed to them. In fact, I hate them so much I stopped taking walk-ins years ago…

It was a Tuesday morning and I had just poured a fresh cup of coffee. The aroma was rising in my nose as my computer booted up for the day. I was about to sit down and work on putting the final touches on the first draft of Johnny Walker Ranger: Demon Slayer, Vol. 2. I didn’t even get to sit my butt in the chair when the doorbell rang.

“I moved outta neighborhoods cause of crap like this.” I glanced at the bottom left of the computer screen. It was 7:59 a.m. “Better be Girl Scout cookies.” I placed my mug next to my computer and walked towards the door.

I turned the knob and pulled. The sunlight danced across my night-laden eyes and I squinted. I raised a hand over my forehead to shield my face from the light. I blinked a few times to focus on the shadowy figures standing before me. They came into view and I saw a man and woman around my age.

The man stood with his hands crossed in front of him. He was lanky, had scraggly facial hair and donned tattered jeans and red Dr. Pepper shirt. The lady had short brown hair with round features. She was wearing a white tank top and cut-off jean shorts.

I eyed them up and down. “Look, a homeless man and a hooker.” I motioned at the guy with my head. “Good thing you’re not an add for Dr. Pepper, cause if you were, I’d never drink the stuff.” I started to close the door.

The lady thrust her foot forward and stopped the door.

“Mr. Kincaid, please,” the man said and placed his hand on the lady’s shoulder.

“I don’t do walk-ins. Hold on, let me get my secretary so you can make an appointment.” I peeked over my shoulder. “Hey, Janet!” I paused for a moment then looked back at them. “She must be out. Sorry, you’ll have to reschedule—never.”

“Please!” The man raised his voice. His eyes rounded and a look of desperation flowed over him. His lip quivered. “I’m a friend of Trisha’s.”

The name punched me in the gut.

Trisha.

She came to me on a whim. She was having nightmares about an entity with the head of a goat skull, body of a feline, and tail of a serpent. To make a long story I short, I used my ability to save her from being cult stew.

I narrowed my eyes and glared at them for a few moments. “Fine.” I eased off the door. “You got five minutes to make sense or you’re gone.”

“Thank you,” the man nodded and came in.

“Stubborn jackass,” the woman said then walked over the threshold.

“Don’t mention it, Roxanne,” I huffed.

“I hate that song!” She snapped back.

“Who hates that song?” I snickered.

I stepped in front of them and made my way into the kitchen and arrived at the coffee pot. “Anyone want some? I just put it on.”

“Yes,” the man said. “We would both like a cup.” He gave the woman a brazen glare.

“We would.” The woman’s voice was flat, monotone.

The couple moved toward my table. He pulled the chair out for her and let her sit. He took his place next to her.

I poured them each a cup of coffee and placed it before them on the table.

“Thank you,” the man said and took a sip as the steam snaked around his face.

I pulled out a chair from the table, turned it around, and sat down with my arms draping over the back. “Your five minutes start now.”

“My name is James,” the man said. “This is my wife, Alice.”

I acknowledge them with a nod.

“You helped Trisha, and now I need you to help my wife,” James said.

I glared at the woman as she wrapped her lips around the cup. “Someone looks like they think I’m a fake.”

“Excuse me,” the woman strutted her head back like a turkey.

“Yeah. I seen that look a thousand times,” I said.

Alice wrapped her hands around the mug and glanced down, her eyes heavy. “I—I do have a hard time believing any of this.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “Number one, its early and I don’t like morning interruptions. Number two, its early and I don’t like morning interruptions. And three, I don’t like interruptions so get on with it. You either want my help or not.”

“My wife has lost something very important to her,” James said.

I rolled my neck then rubbed the back of it. “Dear Lord, please?” I lifted my eyes while my head was lowered. “I’m not a psychic lost and found. Get out.” I waved my hands at them.

“Told you he was a fake,” Alice said and pushed her cup away.

James gripped her wrist. “Just wait.”

“If I was a smoker, I would light one up right now,” I said. “The mood calls for it.” I placed my forearms on the table and interlocked my fingers. I breathed in deep and exhaled. I could hear the ringing of my computer as updates and messages dinged off. I shot a glance over at it then returned my eyes to my audience. “People usually call me a fake to try and manipulate me to do what they want. Doesn’t work on me. If you think I am a fake or a circus side show, you can drag your ass out the same way you came in. We are done.”

I stood up from the table and kicked my chair back. “You want a prediction? You both will die one day. How’s that?”

Alice placed the back of her hand over her mouth and gasped. James hung his head.

“Alice, stop.” James lifted his eyes to me. “She doesn’t mean it.” He glared at Alice. “Tell him.”

Alice placed her hands on the table and cleared her throat. “I am sorry I offended you.” She wouldn’t look at me. “Please, I need your help.”

I grabbed the back of my chair, lifted it, then slammed it down and scooched it toward the table. “Fine.” I sat down.

“Tell him why you are here, babe.” James set his cup down on the table.

Alice adjusted in her seat. “Someone very close to me—well who used to be very close to me—gave me something when we were young. Two white stones.”

“Who gave them to you?” I asked.

“My younger sister, Rachel. I was eight and she was five when she gave them to me. I carried them everywhere. They were special because she used her own money to buy them then gave them to me as a birthday present.” Alice teared up. “She died fifteen years ago in a car accident. Since then I have been looking for those stones and can’t find them.” Alice wiped her eyes. “So, Mr. Kincaid, I need to find them. They are all I have to remember her by.”

I gave a slow nod. My heart was moved with compassion and I all the sudden wasn’t annoyed by her anymore. I stretched out my hands across the table. “Let me see your hands, Alice.”

Alice was hesitant. She looked to James for assurance and his expression told her it was all right. Alice placed her hands in mine.

“First, I am going to prove I am not a fake.” I closed my eyes. “I am searching your memories.”

Alice gave a slight twitch when I started.

“I see—your childhood.” My countenance fell. “So much pain and sadness.”

Alice let out a soft whimper.

“Someone. They threw things at you. A red thermos.”

Alice went to speak but I cut her off.

“No. I’m confusion two things. I see a red ball, two black eyes, and a thermos—”

“Lock.” Alice said.

“Yes.” I nodded.

We opened are eyes and gazed at one another.

“I was bullied bad. From elementary through high school.” Alice began to cry. “The bullies—”

“Shayna, Julie, and Amanda,” I said.

Alice pulled her hand away from mine and placed it over her lip. Her fingers trembled. “How did you—”

“Tell me what happened.” I held her other hand tight.

“One day at P.E.,” she swallowed. “They cornered me with those red rubber balls you use for dodge ball. Then they pelted me with them. Shayna hit me right in the nose and blackened both my eyes.”

“What about the locks?” I asked

Alice closed her eyes and bit her lips. “When I would run up or down the stairs in the hall. The kids would throw locks at me. The brand was thermos.”

“Dear Lord,” I said and shook my head. I stared at her with mixed emotions. Part of me felt sorry for her and the other part of me wanted to track those people down and shove the locks into every open cavity of their body. “Give me your other hand. I need to keep searching.”

Alice reached so I took hold of her hand. Her fingers and palms had grown clammy.

I searched her memories again. “You’re one constant was your teddy bear, Clark.”

Alice teared up again. “Yes.’

Then I was in deep. Her memories were flashing before me. “Alice. I see you as a child. You are in the woods. You are burying your toys.” Then my voice changed. It was that of Alice when she was a little girl. “It’s okay, no one will find you here. You are safe.” My voice returned to normal. “Alice, what is this?” I opened my eyes.

Alice’s body shook as she sobbed. “How did you know I buried my toys? I have never told anyone that. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not even James. I had forgotten.” The look on Alice’s face was one of amazement and sorrow. “I am so sorry I doubted you.”

I held out my hand to stop her. “Why did you bury your toys?” I asked.

“Because the kids. The bullies. They would steal my toys or destroy them. So, I started to bury them.” Alice said.

I closed my eyes again. “I saw young Alice again in the woods next to her buried toys. “I see you holding two white stones. You buried them with your toys.”

Alice jerked her hands from mine and placed them over her mouth. “My God. I did! I remember! I buried them there because Shayna tried to steal them from me at school one day.”

“There still there.” I told her. “Do you remember where the place is?”

Alice nodded. “I do. My mother still lives in the same house I grew up in. I remember the stop between the two trees.”

I looked at Alice then at James. “Take her there. She will find the stones.” I stood up from the table.

James reached across to shake my hand. “Thank you,’ he said. His eyes were wide, and his face beamed with thankfulness.

I clasped his hand. “Glad I could help.”

Alice ran and gave me a hug. “Please forgive me for doubting. Thank you so much.”

I pulled her away and smiled. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t been to see if they really are there.”

“Oh, they are.” She gave me a half smile. “I remember it clearly now.”

I saw the couple to the door and gave James my number. “Call me if she finds it.”

“Will do,” He took the slip of paper with my cell number.

We said our goodbyes and I returned to my computer to work on Johnny Walker Ranger: Demon Slayer, Vol. 2.

Four hours later my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Kincaid, it’s James.”

“Yeah, hey James.”

“Alice found the stones right where you said they would be.”

“Good,” I smiled. “Glad she found them.”

“Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hung up the phone and kept writing.

The post The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid Entry 5: James and Alice appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

“The Shambler From The Stars” (1935)

This particular short story first appeared in the September issue of Weird Tales, in 1935—later on, it was included as a part of his first published book, The Opener of the Way (1945). It was one of the many works that bore the influence of H.P. Lovecraft and can be considered part of the genre of cosmic horror. More than just another author following the footsteps of Lovecraft, Bloch still included elements of Lovecraftian influence, such as the inclusion of The Necronomicon, and The Book of Eibon. Deliciously self-indulgent, Bloch’s story is about a writer of weird fiction obsessed with learning all things occult when he looks to find the aforementioned esoteric tomes of forbidden knowledge. As we all know when it comes to Eldritch cosmic horror, this writer inevitably summons something disastrous.

“The Secret in the Tomb” (1935)

Another instance of cosmic horror in the early days of Bloch’s writing career, it has been compared directly to the stylistic literature of the father of cosmic horror himself—to the point that, if the author of this had been unknown, it would have been assumed to have been a product of Lovecraft. This dark, dank tale of eldritch horror and dread is lurking, just beyond sight, and awaiting the arrival of the last descendant of a long line of sorcerers.

“The Mannikin” (1937)

Another Weird Tales original, published in the April edition in 1937, we get a tale of a strange reclusive and a disfigured, hunchbacked man named Simon, whom the locals all despise. As a short story, of course, it doesn’t take long to find that this cosmic horror is based all around the diabolical hump on Simon’s back—just wait until you find out what the hump really is.

“The Sorcerer’s Jewel” (1939)

This is a story that Bloch originally published under the pen name Tarleton Fiske in Strange Stories Magazine, in 1939; in this story we see a similarity to “A Shambler in the Stars” when we follow a photographer who takes incredibly bizarre photos as his life’s passion. While he doesn’t believe in the occult, his assistant happens to be a devotee of a peculiar occult practice and everything changes when the photographer is brought an ancient jewel.

“Yours Truly, Jack The Ripper” (1943)

Over the years, Robert Bloch’s short story “Yours Truly, Jack The Ripper” has been adapted to various mediums following its publication—the story is about a man from Chicago who is approached by a gentleman from England who tells him that he’s looking for Jack the Ripper. This, of course, is strange on its own as the infamous serial killer should have died years before. The Englishman believes that Jack the Ripper has become immortal through occult means and that his serial murders are actually ritual sacrifices that restore his youth. The man from Chicago is enlisted to help to bring the Ripper to light.

“Satan’s Phonograph” (1946)

A slow burn for a short story, this haunting tale follows the narrator down memory lane as he tells the reader about the ingenious, but wildly mad piano teacher that helped him to reach Carnegie Hall—but when the pupil returns from his tours across Europe with his new wife in tow, he finds that his old teacher had been institutionalized—when his insane old teacher shows up in his house with a seemingly innocent phonograph and his wild theories, the narrator believes his teacher is simply delusional.

“Sweets To The Sweet” (1947)

Bloch spins the thread of a sinister six-year-old girl, following the narrative of the housekeeper as she speaks to her former boss’s brother, who happens to be a lawyer. The housekeeper encourages the lawyer to look into what she believes to be a brutally abusive situation between father and daughter. She tells the brother about all of the signs of alcoholism and beatings, while the child is accused of witchcraft. When the lawyer finally goes to investigate what is happening in his brother’s home, he finds out that the truth may be more disturbing than he expects.

“Floral Tribute” (1949)

An eerie tale of a young boy being raised by his grandmother brings her fresh flowers home every day—it’s not until the inhabitants of the local cemetery come to speak with the grandmother that she finds out that he has been taking them from the graves of the nearby graveyard, where he plays among the tombstones.

“The Shadow From The Steeple” (1950)

Yet another story based in the Lovecraft universe, Bloch starts the story off with the friend of a character Lovecraft had killed in his short story “The Haunter in the Dark” whom Lovecraft had modeled after Bloch himself. A convoluted and dark fictional tale based on Lovecraft and his circle of writers, we get to see the authors appearing as characters of their own making. As another story within the Cthulhu Mythos, we see how involved Bloch was still within the Lovefcraft style even at this point in his career.

“Head Man” (1950)

An interesting spin on Nazi Germany’s obsession with the occult and paranormal, a SS executioner puts everything on the line to keep possession of the heads of a man and woman who had been charged with witchcraft and executed as a result.

“The Hungry House” (1951)

A tale that will once again make you fear your own reflection in a mirror; “The Hungry House” takes place after a couple moves into their new home. As they try to get comfortable in their new house they begin to see spooky inexplicable reflections around the house and dismiss it as being an overactive imagination. It’s not until the husband finds the locked closet in the attic that they realize something is incredibly wrong with their house—in it are all of the mirrors that the previous owners had removed from the walls of the house.

“Notebook Found in an Abandoned House” (1951)

This story is told from a notebook found in an abandoned house, which was written by a twelve-year-old boy by the name of Willy Osborne who is trapped within the house by the sinister beasts, or “them ones,” that stalk him from within the woods and swamps that surround the house. “Them ones,” that Willy is scared might come and get him are monstrous, Lovecraftian elder creatures who used to be take sacrifices to be appeased.

“The Light-House” (1953)

This particular short story took special influence from a story that Edgar Allan Poe began before his death in 1849, but was never able to finish; in 1953 Bloch took this unfinished short story, finished it, polished it up, and then had it published. As such, it is considered a posthumous collaboration. It follows the pursuits of a nobleman who takes a job as a lighthouse keeper, so he may write in solitude. His loneliness gets the better of him in this weird and satisfyingly dark tale, when he tries to psychically summon a companion.

“House of the Hatchet” (1955)

A couple with a relationship on the rocks decides to take their a second honeymoon on the road—on their trip they end up stopping at a haunted tourist attraction, where the story goes that a husband had killed his wife with a hatchet in one of the rooms. When they decided to take a tour of this haunted house, the husband begins to feel a heavy dark presence in the room where the murder was said to have occurred…

“Terror In Cut Throat Cove” (1958)

Considered a horror adventure tale, “Terror In Cut Throat Cove” follows the tale of an American writer who is approached by a treasure-hunting duo; they end up recruiting him to help them locate this long-lost legendary ship that sunk with a massive fortune aboard because the writer has an undeniable fondness for the girlfriend of the treasure hunter. A crazy adventure ensues until they find the ship and one of the divers returns from the ship’s wreckage without his head.

“The Animal Fair” (1971)

This story of a drifter who ends up in the small town of Medley, Oklahoma while the carnival is in town—where he enters the a tent that houses a gorilla who happens to be the main attraction—not to mention seriously abused by his trainer. This horrifying weird tale ends in a shocking twist and is well worth the read.

Works Cited:

Cowan, Matt. “FIFTEEN HORROR TALES BY ROBERT BLOCH.” Horror Delve, 4 Apr. 2016, horrordelve.com/2016/04/04/robert-bloch/.

HorrorBabble. “The Shambler from the Stars” by Robert Bloch. Youtube/”The Shambler from the Stars” by Robert Bloch, HorrorBabble, 12 Mar. 2018, youtu.be/0Q6xA0f9SNk.

HorrorBabble. “The Secret in the Tomb” by Robert Bloch. Youtube/”The Secret in the Tomb” by Robert Bloch, HorrorBabble, 20 Aug. 2018, youtu.be/vodqchPxgCoyoutu.be/vodqchPxgCo.

Thomas, G. W. “The Early Robert Bloch.” Dark Worlds Quarterly, 6 Aug. 2020, darkworldsquarterly.gwthomas.org/the-early-robert-bloch/.

Macabre Mary

Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.

Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.

www.macabremary.com

The post A Gothic, Cosmic, and Psychological Lifetime of Horror: The 16 Greatest Short Stories from Robert Bloch appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

Fight if that’s necessary, but run if you can, just so long as you run together. The words of Louis L’Amour echoed in her mind, she had lost so many companions already, it felt like a bad joke. She wiped the residue from her sweaty face with her charred sleeve, there was heat radiating from the building that lay in fiery ruin in front of her. She was alone now. Who could have known the only thing that would kill the creatures was immense heat? Their dying screeches echoed in the night air, but to Jenna, it was a pleasant sound, a sound that meant that sometime—maybe in the near future—that she might be able to sleep through the night without a white-knuckled grasp on her knife. She stood there in careful contemplation, the glow of the fire reflected off of the sweat that crept down her forehead, the light from the fire and the creatures’ screams were likely to bring more of them around and the last thing she needed was to have to blow up another building.

Jenna tucked her lighter back into her jeans pocket and tugged on her ponytail to make sure it was still tight, tied her loose boot laces and slung her bag back over her shoulder. If she could make it to the edge of the forest, she was sure she would be safe for the night. She turned her back to the rubble behind her and squinted into the dark, the tree-line wasn’t too far away—maybe a five-minute jog. Her heart was still racing with adrenaline, so she hopped down from her perch and took advantage of the high. Running into another one of them didn’t even cross her mind, but all the same, her hand was never more than a few inches away from the handle of her knife as she moved briskly through the remnants of the town of her childhood.

She was near to the old gas station when a motion sensor light went off across the street—her breath caught in her throat and she was thankful that her boots hit the wet pavement softly. She ducked behind a gas pump that was out of commission, her eyes were wide as she stared at the hideous creature that was now attacking the bright light above it. It let out a ghastly screech then there was a shatter when the glass hit the ground and the sound resonated throughout the now abandoned main street. She heard a clatter in the alley behind the gas station and she drew her body in as if trying to make her body as small as possible. Her body was glued to the gas pump, shaking as she drew in shallow breaths, trying to not make a sound in the darkness that now consumed her. Heavy thumps against the pavement were all around her, the handle of her knife in her clammy hand was slick with sweat. The adrenaline once again pulsed throughout her body, she readied herself to run when the gas pump was ripped out from behind her, the sound of metal hitting the ground barely noticeable over her own screams as three creatures overtook her.

Originally published on the Official Blog of Mary Farnstrom.

Macabre Mary

Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.

Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.

www.macabremary.com

The post Fight For Your Life appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

The eclectic nature of The Other Stories podcast is perhaps one of its most attractive qualities of this horror, sci-fi, and thriller fiction show. Their variety of authors and narrators along with stellar audio effects make this an immersive experience, but what really makes this podcast special is the agonizingly spooky and mysterious nature of these short stories.

These aren’t the stories your mother told you, no–these are the Other Stories!

Ready to get your blood pumping a little bit and help your body out at the same time? Here is our curated list of our 10 favorite episodes of The Other Stories, we truly hope you enjoy these as much as we did!

The Chip Truck Man

David J. Thirteen brought us this interestingly chilling tale of two brothers who are never the same after encountering a terrible man on their shortcut home.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

The Doll

Kathryn Stablin wrote this short story and she did a masterful job in conveying the story of a woman whose strange niece comes to visit her; while watching her niece the woman realizes the terror of the doll.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

The Gorgon’s Head

The Gorgon’s Head was written by Ben Errington about a boy who had always believed in the Greek myths–but then he unexpectedly finds a powerful object and unleashes its wrath upon others.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

Stranger in the Night

Horror writer Matt Butcher brings us the story of a jaded and miserable girl who has lost her religion and the hitchhiker that is let into the car.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

Painted Anguish

This is a story written by Zach Friday, about a man who goes to an art show on the weekend–what he doesn’t realize is the painting that draws him in has evil intentions and he will bend to its will.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

One Last Drink

This story was written by Jon Freeman and Daniel Willcocks, who tell the story of Jack as he goes to meet his old university friends who had fallen out of contact. Their reunion takes place at a bar, but as Jack gets progressively more intoxicated, he realizes that things aren’t exactly as they seem.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

Nocturne In Spirit

Written by Kezia Kynaston-Mitchell, this short story is about an aging concert violinist who is haunted by her memories. The loneliest place to be is in a crowd, especially when you have a terrible secret.

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

The Solstice

Writer Kev Harrison weaves the tale of a boy of the northern villages, as the winter solstice looms near, he learns that it is time for him to get his mask made to ward off the siege of the dark spirits. The only problem is, he’s the only boy in his village, will he be enough to keep the darkness from ravaging the land?

You can find this and other episodes on The Other Stories Podcast channel.

Macabre Mary

Georgia-based author and artist, Mary has been a horror aficionado since the mid-2000s. Originally a hobby artist and writer, she found her niche in the horror industry in late 2019 and hasn’t looked back since. Mary’s evolution into a horror expert allowed her to express herself truly for the first time in her life. Now, she prides herself on indulging in the stuff of nightmares.

Mary also moonlights as a content creator across multiple social media platforms—breaking down horror tropes on YouTube, as well as playing horror games and broadcasting live digital art sessions on Twitch.

www.macabremary.com

The post The Best of the Other Stories Podcast appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

“Shadowend Funeral Home?” Robby Falcon turned his gray F-150 off the main road of Baker High School and onto the service road that led to the interstate. “Brayden, that placed stopped being scary when we were in elementary school.”

Brayden Briley, packed his dip can with a loud pop and said, “Look, Falcon, it’s not about being scary man. It’s about having the place to ourselves.” Brayden opened the dip can, swiped out some tobacco, and stuck it in his front lip. He wiped his lip and checked his face in the side mirror to make sure no remnants of tobacco hung on. He looked at Falcon again. “Remember? Privacy?” Brayden reached in his back pack and produced a dime bag of weed and a fifth of whiskey.

Falcon did a double take. “Brayden, dammit! Put that away man. People can see!” Falcon slapped at him with one hand and kept the other on the steering wheel, then turned left to merge onto the interstate.

Brayden chuckled, “Don’t be such a baby, Falcon. No one can see.” Brayden stuffed the alcohol and weed into his back pack, hiding it underneath his history and math book.

Falcon’s face relaxed when he saw Brayden stow their stash away. “And how do you know Shadowend will not be occupied with other said teens engaging in underage drinking and other shenanigans?” He checked the rearview. His curly, sandy blond hair was damp and disheveled from 7^th hour P.E.

Brayden placed an arm on the seat and grabbed Falcon’s shoulder. “Look man, that placed stopped being a party spot in the early 90s man. Sure, in the 80s it was the place to go. The stories were fresh then and people were looking for a scare. The place is so dead now, that not even the cops go out there. It’s perfect. The funeral home is considered so lame and overdone, its almost like its not even there.” He removed an empty plastic water bottle from the cup holder and spat.

Falcon sped up and merged. “Did you invite them?”

“Yeah.” Brayden spat again.

“And?”

“And they said they’d come. What’s the big deal?”

Falcon gave Brayden a backhand to the chest. The slap made a hollow echo throughout the cab. “What do you mean ‘what’s the big deal’? I’ve been trying to go out with Sarah since like 8^th grade.”

Brayden made an umf sound and almost spat his dip on the windshield, then giggled. “I know, so don’t screw this up. Which, by the way, when I talked to Annie and invited them, she said that Sarah had told her just the other day about how hot you looked in your baseball uniform.” He jabbed Falcon in the ribs. “Huh? Huh?? Hey slugger?”

Falcon swiped at Brayden’s hand and gave a half smile. “What time did you tell them to meet us out there?” Falcon took his exit.

“2:00 am.” Brayden scratched his head, disturbing his short and wild black hair.

“2:00 am it is,” Falcon said, and took a left.

The full moon hung high over Shadowend that night. It directed its rays on the dilapidated funeral home like a spotlight, as if the structure was a lone actor on a stage of rustling tree branches and waving grass. Falcon and Brayden pulled up to the building five minutes before 2.

Shadowend sat on ten acres of land. An overgrown road with busted asphalt led back to the main building, which sat encircled by a wrought iron fence. The once active funeral home and cemetery stayed in business until 1980, when unexpectedly, the owners fled or disappeared. Soon after, the rumors circulated about the owners. A Satanic cult, eaters of the dead, child murders, aliens, and whatever else the imaginative minds of teenagers could come up with. But the truth was, no one knew.

The lights on Falcon’s truck shined on the face of the funeral home. The Victorian looking house, once a pristine white, now faded old and graying, like a sad elderly man in his last years of life. The windows were cracked, and some had holes the size of baseballs in them. The screen door sat cockeyed on its hinges, and the post which held up the awning of the porch was leaning..

“Oh, nice pick Brayden,” Falcon said, staring through the windshield. “I hope someone doesn’t fart too loud. They might knock the place down.”

“She’ll hold, capn’,” Brayden said in a terrible imitation pirate voice. “Now come on.” Brayden grabbed his backpack and got out the truck. Falcon killed the engine and followed.

A few seconds later, headlights appeared. It was Annie and Sarah. The two girls hopped out of Annie’s white Mustang and Sarah waved a bottle of vodka at them. “The whiskey won’t be enough, boys.” She said and winked at Falcon.

Falcon gave Sarah a nervous smile. Man, she looks so hot, he thought. Her red hair glistened in the moonlight, as if each particle were made of rubies. “You look nice.” Falcon said, then regretted how awkward it sounded.

Brayden snickered then said, “Yeah Sarah, I tried to talk Falcon in to wearing his baseball uniform, but he refused.” He put his arm around Annie and gave her a wink.

Sarah cut her eyes at Annie, then Brayden.

“Oh whatever,” Annie said. “We all know you have the hots for one another. Just get it over with.”

Falcon and Sarah exchanged skittish smiles, then Falcon reached out his hand. “Come on, let’s go explore the house.”

Sarah flipped her hair over her shoulder and grabbed his hand. Falcon walked her down the cracked cobblestone walkway and up the porch to the cockeyed screen door. Annie and Brayden followed.

Falcon turned his phone light on, then opened the front door. The light reflected off a dangling chandelier, hanging almost head level. Directly in front of them were red, carpeted stairs with white railings. Strewn across the floor were broken pieces of furniture, mortar from the ceiling, and numerous beer cans.  In the back of the room, a dark hallway drew their attention.

“What do you think is back there?” Sarah asked.

“The morgue,” Brayden said and stepped through. “Come on, or you just gonna sit there and stare at it all night?”

The four teens eased through the doorway and let the screen door bang behind them. They skipped to the hallway, as if dodging landmines, trying not to trip on all the debris scattered across the floor. With all the lights on their phones shining, the group followed Brayden down the long hallway, then half way down, turned left.

Their lights gleamed back at them and reflected off a rusted chrome table, littered with grass, dirt, empty cigarette packs, and other pieces of trash that had deteriorated into unrecognizable black smut. A tube from the embalming station dangled over the side.

“Come on, Annie. Climb up there and lay down.” Brayden raised his eyebrows and winked.

“That is so disgusting.” Sarah coughed and placed a hand over her mouth.

Annie slapped Brayden. “So romantic.”

A deep humming noise, hollow and echoing, buzzed from the back of the mortuary.

“What was that?” Falcon asked.

Brayden motioned with his head. “Sounded like it came from the cold chambers.”

“Cold chambers? What’s that?” Annie tilted her head.

“The place where they would store the bodies.” Falcon said and followed Brayden to the back of the room.

The cold chambers sat along the wall in rows of threes. The doors were open, and the table on the one at the bottom left was rolled halfway out.

The humming noise came again.

“Where is that coming from?” Sarah stepped closer and squinted into the darkness.

Falcon shined his light on the cold chambers. “Sounds like its coming from one of those.”

The sound flowed again, this time softer.

Brayden eased forward and knelt by the cold chamber; the one with the table rolled out. He held his hand over the opening, palm facing forward. “I feel a breeze.”

Falcon knelt beside him, crawled halfway into the chamber, and shined his light into the back. “You guys aren’t going to believe this.”

Sarah placed a hand on Falcon’s leg. “What?’

“There’s an opening back here. Like a tunnel or something.” Falcon crawled further in. A trash bag had been duct taped over an opening and it crackled as a breeze waved it. He pushed the bag aside with the back of his hand and shinned his light through the opening. “Oh yeah. It’s a tunnel.”

“Sweet,” Brayden said. “Let’s see where it leads.”

“Um, no!” Annie grabbed Brayden’s jeans by the waist and tried to pull him back.

Sarah cracked open the bottle of vodka and took a swig. “Come on, Annie. Don’t be such a little bitch.”

Annie snatched the bottle from Sarah and took a sip. “Fine.”

“Hey give me some.” Brayden tried to grab the bottle.

Annie pushed his forehead. Brayden chuckled, took the bottle, and drank.

“Hey assholes, y’all coming?” Falcon’s voiced flowed from the tunnel. He was already in.

The three teens giggled, then joined Falcon.

The tunnel sloped in a slight decline, and there was dirt on all the sides, top, and bottom. They could still feel the cool breeze coming from ahead of them. The air smelled musty, like an old library. Falcon fought his way through spiderwebs and other retreating insects.

“Hey Annie, let’s hope they ain’t got no rats down here,” Brayden joked.

“Ew, shut up.” Annie slapped his butt.

“Hey! Stairs!” Falcon yelled from the front of the line. Before him, the tunnel widened to a winding metal staircase. The teens scurried down the steps, and when all their feet touched the floor, they stood, mouths agape at their surroundings.

“What is it?” Sarah turned in circles, shining her light. She then snatched the bottle from Annie.

“Stain glass window. Pews. Looks like a church,” Falcon said.

“Buried under ground?” Annie asked.

Falcon shrugged, still glancing around.

“Holy shit! Look at that!” Brayden pointed his light straight ahead.

The teens stood at the back of the sanctuary. The middle aisle led to where the pulpit should be, except there wasn’t a pulpit. What looked to be an old pine box rested in the middle of the stage, having been covered with stacks of old Bibles and religious relics. Only the corners of the pine box remained visible. Bibles and relics had even been piled on the floor around it and up the sides.

Falcons started down the aisle. “That’s odd. Like really odd.” He craned his neck around and glance at his friends, then smiled. “Let’s check it out!”

Brayden raised his eyebrows and followed.

“Look,” Annie protested. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason why that box is covered with Bibles and stuff. We should leave it alone.” She eased behind Brayden.

Falcon arrived first and blew the dust off some of the Bibles. “What do you think’s in the box?”

Brayden lifted his shoulders, then he and Falcon exchanged mischievous glances. “Let’s find out.” The boys began to push and fling the Bibles and relics onto the floor, making loud thuds and clanging sounds.

Sarah drank more vodka, not at all interested in this little adventure anymore.

Annie bit her nails and fidgeted with her hair.

The top of the pine box had torn out pages from the Bibles glued to it.

“You think it’s a coffin?” Brayden asked and ran his hands along the pages.

Falcon nodded. “Sure looks like it.” He studied the relics on the floor, then grabbed one. It was an old iron cross, with the end fashioned in a point. Falcon jabbed the point between the lid and the box and pried. He went along the entire left side, popping all the nails loose. He threw the relic to the ground, then called to the girls. “Hey ladies, time for the big reveal.”

Brayden rubbed his hands together, giddy as a school girl. Sarah huffed, drank some more vodka, then shuffled over rolling her eyes. Annie tip toed over with sweaty palms.

“Guys, like I said, that thing was buried for a reason. I don’t think opening it…is a good idea.” Annie bit her lip.

Brayden rubbed her back. “Oh come on. Are you serious? It’s probably just an old decaying corpse.”

“Yeah and besides, we’ve found something here no one else has. Who knows? Maybe this discovery will make this place poppin’ again.” Falcon grasped the lid with both hands and lifted it opened. The old wood groaned in protest.

Brayden shined his light into the coffin, and his mouth fell open. Annie clamped a hand over her’s with a gasp. Sarah dropped the vodka bottle, and Falcon furrowed his brow.

Lying in the coffin was a body no more than five feet long. It was wrapped in faded cloth. Written on the cloth were more religious symbols and phrases in Latin. White hair snaked out from the corpse’s head, and a small opening was cut over the mouth. In the opening was a rolled-up piece of paper.

Falcon went to pull the piece of paper out its mouth but was stopped by Annie’s hand clamping around his wrist. “No. Absolutely not,” she grimaced. “This isn’t right. This doesn’t feel right. We need to go.”

Falcon jerked his arm away and dismissed her.He retrieved the paper and unrolled it.

“Well?” Brayden asked.

Falcon handed him the page. “More Latin.”

Brayden tossed the paper on the body. “Too bad none of us can read it.” A movement caught Brayden’s attention out the corner of his eye. He stared down at the corpse. “Hey did y’all see that!”

Falcon waved a hand at Brayden. “Stop messing around. I’m gonna shut the lid.”

“Thank God,” Annie mumbled and rubbed her arms with her hands. “Feels like it’s gotten colder since we’ve been here.”

“No I’m serious look at her mouth!” Brayden pointed.

The group leaned in to get a better look. The cloth around the corpse’s mouth moved in and out, as if it were breathing. .

“That’s it I’m done.” Annie pushed away from the coffin and sprinted down the aisle toward the stairs. The other three turned their attention away from the coffin and watched Annie in disbelief.

Sarah was the first to look back at the coffin. When she did, she screamed. The corpse sat up, and the breathing became more visible, as the cloth around its lungs expanded and relaxed. In reactionary manner Brayden, who always carried a folding knife with a four-inch blade, whipped it out and started stabbing the corpse in the chest. He than worked on the stomach and tore away the old cloth. A translucent liquid poured out, followed by a flurry of baby eels.

“Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod!” Brayden dropped the knife and leaped back.

Falcon slammed the lid and dashed towards the stairs. Sarah had already joined Annie. The four teens scurried up the stairs, crawled through the tunnel and out the cold chambers. They ran back down the hall, then paused at the front door. A shadow moved passed the window, and faint moaning sound came from the porch.

“Is there another way out?” Sarah asked between breaths.

“The back.” Brayden turned toward the hall and sprinted, the others right behind him.

The teens arrived at the back door, which was a faded and chipping white. Brayden turned the brass deadbolt and opened the door. Concrete steps led down to a cobblestone walkway. The walkway led to the abandoned cemetery. Through the clearing they could see a tall hill. The full moon hung over it and illuminated the top. They watched as shadows loomed. Something approached from the back side of the hill. As the things moved closer, the shadows took form.

They looked human.

A few seconds passed, then a mass of human figures appeared. They walked with contorted and jerky gestures and moaned. Some tripped over each other and rolled down the hill.

Brayden slammed the door and locked it back. “Guys we are seriously…”

“The truck,” Falcon interrupted. “It’s our only chance. We can make it if we go now.”

The others nodded, and they took off down the hallway. Falcon led the way. He went to pass by the mortuary room but jolted to a stop. The others bumped into his back.

“What the hell? Why’d you stop!” Sarah shrieked.

Annie shined her light ahead, then let out an ear-piercing shrill.

The corpse from the coffin stood in the middle of the hallway. The grave cloths hung off her in shreds. Her skin was as pale as the moonlight. Symbols were cared into her body; not the religious symbols that once decorated her coffin, but different ones. Evil, dark looking ones. Eels still pumped forth from her stomach, falling to the ground with sloshing and splattering sounds. Her white hair seemed to glow, and her eyes looked like dark red marbles. She opened her mouth and her tongue flopped out, falling all the way to the floor with the eels. The end danced and curled on the floor. Yellow eyes formed in the tip of her tongue, as did a slit. The slit opened, and the bottom unhinged like a snake, revealing fangs.

Annie turned to run away. The tongue wrapped around her ankle and tripped her to the ground. The eels were on Annie before her face thudded against the floor. In a matter of seconds, they had eaten her skin off.

Brayden went to grab the tongue. When he got close, it struck him on the hand. He felt a warm liquid pump from the fangs into his hand. The fluid filled his entire body within moments, and a burning sensation hit him all over. He looked at his arms, and his pores leaked a red and purple liquid. Brayden fell to the ground in pain, where he sweated his insides out his pores till he died.

Sarah and Falcon couldn’t move. Fear deadened their limbs. They gawked as the tongue grew in length and thickness. The tongue coiled up and stared at them with its yellow eyes and flickering tongue. It struck Sarah first, right in the mid-section. She screamed and grabbed for Falcon. Falcon tried to hold on, but the snake proved too powerful. He watched with tear-soaked eyes and a pounding heart as the tongue-snake swallowed Sarah. Even when she was in its belly, he could still hear her screams.

Falcon backed away and stepped into the mortuary. The tongue shrank and rolled back into the lady’s mouth. She matched Falcon’s steps, going with him into the mortuary. A clattering sound rang out as Falcon backed into the embalming table. The lady’s hands extended with a slow, smooth movement towards Falcons’ neck.

Falcon stared deep into her dark red eyes. His head spun, and he became disoriented. He fell back and laid on the table. The last thing Falcon saw before he died was the embalming needle moving up his nose.

The lady didn’t bother to dispose of the bodies. She even left Falcon lying on the embalming table. She shuffled out the room, then went down the hall toward the front of the house. She walked around the staircase and into the sitting room. She sat down in her rocker and rocked. She reminisced about her days at Shadowend, when the home was in its prime.

The post Shadowend Funeral Home appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

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.

The post The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid Entry 3: Brandon appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.

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.

The post The Paranormal Journal of Ezekiel Kincaid Entry 4: Rachel’s Circle appeared first on Puzzle Box Horror.