HORROR ART:  THE MOTHMAN CLEARING BY KARLWENNERGREN

Here is a creepy painting that those afraid of bugs may find chilling.  The Mothman Clearing is a gorgeous piece that can still unnerve you.  For those unfamiliar with the urban legend of The Mothman, I’d advise you to check it out.  Nightmare inducing stuff.

The Mothman Clearing by karlwennergren

With the help of 

@mrrayhonda as Han

CreepMissPasta as Leia 

and @oldmanmurphy as the scrolling text.

Merry Christmas errybody.

NEW (HOLIDAY) STORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I hope you’re all having a Ho-Ho-Horrible holiday!  Yes, I probably I stole that line from the Crypt Keeper.  Moving on…I want to share this little holiday themed story with you.  Season’s Screamings!  I know I stole that line from the Crypt Keeper.

I call this Holiday Horror Story…

At The Patio Door

Rick Collum stood on his patio looking down at the doormat that read BE NEAT WIPE YOUR FEET in big blocky letters.  Right between the “A” and “T” of the word “NEAT” there sat a mushy looking red and white ball and Rick knew at once that Felix had placed it there.  Felix was his cat.  He had not named the cat himself, in fact, he had argued that Felix was an extremely cliché name for a cat, but his wife, Melanie, had put her foot down on the matter.  He hadn’t even wanted a cat in the first place.  Melanie had put her foot down on that matter as well.

She insisted Felix would be good practice for the young couple before they had a real baby – a starter kid, she had told him.  Think of it like a fuzzy toddler with training wheels.

So Rick had caved and they picked up a kitten from the local shelter, a mostly black and white shorthair, with splotches of blonde fur sprinkled here and there, and Rick grew to love the cat and the cat grew to tolerate Rick.   Rick’s backyard was heavily wooded.  It sat on ten acres of forestland dominated by evergreens with an occasional cottonwood scattered in like a giant yellow typo amongst a sea of emerald text.  The nearest house was six hundred yards down the quiet, scarcely used street that ran past Rick’s old Victorian style home.  This all gave Felix plenty of space to prowl about, hunting little animals whilst pretending he was a Jaguar in the jungle and not just an ordinary kitty.

From time to time, he would leave a mouse head or the half-eaten carcass of a sparrow at the patio door.  Rick found Felix’s fleshy feline offerings to be sweet in a grotesque and morbid kind of way.  It was almost as if the mutilated little critters were his cat’s way of saying thank you for cleaning the litter box and filling his bowl with Fancy Feast every day.  Whenever Rick would find one of Felix’s gifts he’d let out a deep here we go again sigh, fetch his work gloves, and dispose of whatever was left of the unfortunate animal in the compost bin. But there was no frustrated sigh from Rick this time, and trudging off to the tool shed to grab his gloves barely seemed appropriate because once he realized what he was staring at his body froze with dread.  The mushy looking red and white ball sitting between the “A” and “T” on his doormat was actually a mushy looking red and white ball with a green iris and a black pupil.  Felix had delivered a human eye to the patio door.

There were two reasons why Rick Collum was sure the blood-coated eyeball sitting on his porch had once belonged to a person, the first of which being humans have fairly unique eyes, at least compared to the animals that lived in the woods around his home.  If Felix had brought back the eye of a dead deer or bobcat or coyote, Rick would have realized immediately that it was not a human’s.  It might have been the wrong size or maybe an unnatural color.  There were a multitude of tells that could have given this fact away to Rick and even though he was no wildlife expert he knew he could spot them. The second reason why he was sure the eye once belonged to a person was because he thought he recognized it.  It looked just like Melanie’s, and, Rick surmised, the chances were more than likely that it was hers.  It wouldn’t have been hard for Felix to find her corpse during one of his backyard, jungle-cat prowls, chew it from her face, and bring it back to the house.  After all, Rick had slit her throat and dragged her body into the woods just two days prior.

He believed that his mind had temporarily cracked the day he tossed her down in the snow, next to the blue-tarped stack of firewood in the backyard, and ground the serrated edge of his handsaw across the front of her throat.  For Rick, going crazy hadn’t been an instantaneous thing.  It had taken weeks, perhaps even months, for him to reach that point.  Sleepless nights dominated by angst filled internal dialogues had warped his thoughts; lurid red daydreams had beaten down his psyche.  He was as mad as a loon when he murdered his wife, but the moment her blood trickled to the ground, mixing in with the slush like a cherry flavored snow cone, he felt his sanity miraculously return.

   He had stood over her dead body that afternoon, fingers shaking, not from the chill of the sharp winter air, but from shock, taken aback with himself, yet remarkably clear minded for the first time in ages.  Minutes later, he was lugging Melanie by her ankles through the forest behind their home.  He stopped randomly about a quarter mile into the labyrinth of Christmas trees, left her body at the base of a Douglas fir, and started back towards the house.

   Now, two days later she had returned – at least part of her anyways.

Rick plucked the eyeball up from the porch and walked inside the house.  He had never held an eye in his hand before and he supposed he never would again.  It was heavier than he expected, but just as squishy.  He made a beeline straight for the kitchen sink, dropped it down the drain, then flicked a switch on the wall.  The garbage-disposal’s blades roared to life.  It was a hungry monster that dwelled just beneath the stainless steel basin where Rick sometimes peeled potatoes.  It chewed and ground the eyeball to paste with whirling metal teeth, then swallowed it down its crooked, plastic neck.

He wasn’t trying to get rid of evidence.  Rick was well aware that he would not be getting away with his wife’s murder.  Eventually Melanie’s mother would wonder why her daughter wasn’t answering her calls and ask Rick’s brother-in-law, who lived only an hour away, to drive down to the house to check on her.  Or maybe it would be that drama queen, Jamie Lynch, Melanie’s bestie from the office, who would become suspicious first and call the police.  It didn’t really matter.  He had nowhere else to go. He didn’t own a passport and quite frankly, even if he did, he probably wouldn’t have tried to flee.  He was too tired to run.  No, Rick was going to pay for his crime – he had accepted that – but he didn’t want to be reminded of this fact in his last few days as a free man.  All he wanted to do was pet Felix and watch sports on the couch.

   He flicked off the garbage disposal’s switch and the monster beneath the sink went to sleep.  Rick marched back across the house until he reached the oak trimmed glass door that opened up to his patio.  He tugged at the handle, cracking the door, and icy winter air invited itself into his living room.  Rick stepped outside to see if Felix was around, but the kitty was nowhere in sight.  He called out his name a couple times and even contemplated looking for him, but decided to retreat to the warmth of his heated home and make dinner instead.  Felix would come back when he was good and ready.  Sometimes his jungle prowls lasted all night.  Besides, it was getting dark and he had a hankering for spaghetti.

The following morning, Rick trudged downstairs in his PJ’s and brewed some coffee.  Once it was hot and ready he poured himself a cup, stirred in a teaspoon of sugar, then slogged sleepily through the living room as he sipped it.  He stopped once he reached the patio door and peered through the glass to see if Felix was waiting on the porch to be let in.  He was not, however, he did see something else sitting on the patio.  It looked like uncooked bacon smothered in watery ketchup and he hoped (as ridiculous as the idea sounded in his head) that it was, though deep down he knew this was not the case. Rick opened the door and strode outside to investigate.  The wooden porch burned cold against his warm naked feet.  He bent down and picked up the fleshy thing between his finger and thumb.  It was part of an ear.  A sick feeling crept into his stomach where it mingled with coffee and last night’s spaghetti.  Without a moment of hesitation, Rick rushed back inside and trotted into the kitchen, taking care not to spill from his mug, then fed the chunk of ear to the monster that lived beneath the sink.  Rick would feed the monster the spaghetti from his stomach as well.

One hot shower, two bouts of vomiting, and three swigs of Pepto Bismal later, Rick was trekking through the woods towards the spot he had left his wife’s body.  He needed to see Melanie in order to confirm that it was indeed her body parts that had been turning up at his patio door.  He was bundled up in a puffy North Face jacket that had fit him better when he was 20 pounds heavier.  On his head he wore an ugly knitted cap with an orange puffball at the top and draped around his face was a Christmas themed scarf that had cutesy pictures of elves embroidered into it.  Mismatched mittens protected his hands from the biting cold and baggy ski pants sagged awkwardly off his rear as if he was auditioning for a part in the stage production of Christmas With The Crips: A Holiday Trap Boy Musical.

Melanie had purchased most of the clothes he was wearing.  When she was alive, Rick rarely had a say when it came to his wardrobe.  It had become commonplace for her to lay his outfit for the day on the bed by the time he came out of the shower every morning.  Now that she was dead, he realized he’d forgotten how to dress himself.  Or maybe he just didn’t care.  What did it matter anyways?  Soon enough he’d be sporting a prison jumpsuit – probably for the rest of his life.  The sun was out that morning, shining bright and ironic in the freezing winter sky.  Snow crunched loudly beneath his boots and birds in the trees above his head sang songs about a man who murdered his wife with a handsaw.

Rick spotted Melanie’s corpse fifty feet ahead of him.  She was still lying at the base of the tree exactly like he left her – dead and nearly headless.  The closer he got, the more he regretted setting off to find her.  He wondered if it would be better or worse to see her face sans eyes or ears or whatever else Felix had managed to gnaw off.  On one hand, such a sight might give him some macabre sense of closure, on the other-

Rick didn’t get the chance to finish his thought.  Another one had bulldozed its way into his head, bullying the old one to the back of his mind.  This new thought was:  Jesus Christ.

   He was close enough to touch Melanie’s body now.  Her throat had lolled back unnaturally and the open gash in the front of it made her look like a human Pez dispenser.  Her skin was black and blue, frostbitten from the cold, but her face was still intact, even more so than he had expected it would be.  She was not missing an ear, nor was she missing an eye.  She was however missing the eight and a half month old fetus that had been gestating in her uterus when Rick sawed her throat in half earlier that week.

The jacket Melanie was wearing had been torn to shreds; her sweater underneath was but a web of tattered, cotton ribbons.  Melanie’s swollen stomach splayed open as if a hand grenade had went off inside it.  Felix had not been the one to dissect her.  It would have been impossible for a house cat to do such a thing.  No, some other animals had gotten to Rick’s wife – wolves or coyotes, he assumed.

The baby she was carrying was gone – most likely dragged off and devoured by the scavengers of the forest.  Rick then came to the realization that the body parts he found on his patio had belonged to his unborn son and not his wife.

He had green eyes just like Melanie.  The words cemented themselves in his mind.

Rick doubled over and began to heave.  There was no spaghetti dinner this time.  He had given it all to the monster beneath the kitchen sink.  The only thing that came out was Pepto Bismal.  It tasted the same going up as it did going down and it turned the snow at his feet bright pink.

  ***

The baby was the reason he had killed his wife.  During the last couple years of their marriage, Rick had grown to hate Melanie.  He was working up the nerve to leave her before she announced her pregnancy to him.  It came as a terrible surprise.  Melanie was supposed to be on birth control at the time.  She told him the child had been a gift from God, which Rick found strange since he had never known her to be the religious type.  He suspected she had secretly stopped taking her pills.  Rick urged her to get an abortion, but she had made up her mind.  She would be having their baby with or without his blessing.  This was yet another matter Melanie had put her foot down on.

   And so, just like with the cat, Rick had caved and together the two bought a crib, converted his office into a nursery, and did all the other things young couples do when they’re expecting their first child.  According to their Obstetrician their baby would be a boy and they could expect him to be born late in the month of December

.   “Could be a Christmas baby,” their doctor had said to them.

   Shortly after that was when the crazy thoughts began flooding Rick’s head.  Eight and a half months later was when they finally went away.  All it took was a rusty old handsaw and a few buckets of blood on a cold winter afternoon.

There was nothing left for him to see.  Rick wiped the remaining pink slime from his mouth and started his short hike back towards the house.  The birds overhead were still whistling their tunes, but now they sung of a baby, ripped from his dead mother’s womb and torn to shreds by hungry, wild animals.  Rick felt like his brains had been scrambled after seeing what had happened to his unborn son.  He wondered if the baby was still alive while it was being eaten, then decided he’d rather not know the answer to that and pondered other questions instead.

   Was anything left of his little son’s corpse out there, hidden under the white sheet of icy slush that blanketed the forest floor?  Bones perhaps?  There must have been something.  Otherwise, Rick wouldn’t have been finding little bits of baby on his patio.  A powerful sense of guilt swept over him.  Melanie might have been a bitch, but his son didn’t deserve what happened to him.

The trees were silent evergreen spectators, rising out of snowy earth.  They stopped abruptly twenty yards from Rick’s home, circling carefully around it as if they were afraid to root themselves in the soil where Melanie’s murder had taken place.  Rick’s journey had left him fatigued – more mentally taxed than physically exhausted – but still, he felt like he needed to rest, to lay his head down, to close his eyes.  He aimed to do all these things as soon as he got inside the house.

His backyard was an icy desert in the middle of a lush green paradise.  He lumbered through the last of the trees and across the inverted oasis.  The slush beneath his feet seemed tainted.  It looked grey and hoary like an ashtray – dead even, if it were possible for snow to appear that way.  He halted suddenly when the toe of his boot kicked something hard and rigid sticking out of the snow.  It made a metallic clinking noise when his foot connected with it.  Rick gazed down and saw the handsaw he had used to kill his wife staring up at him – yet another reminder of his terrible crime.  He bent down and pulled it free from the slush.

   He had not held it in his hand since that day.  Its teeth were still stained red with Melanie’s blood.  The saw smiled at him like a satisfied glutton that had just enjoyed a big feast.  Its grin was derisive – it mocked him.

Rick spun around and flung the saw as hard as he could.  He wasn’t aiming for anywhere in particular.  All he wanted was to make the damn thing go away, just as he had done with the ear and the eye.

   The handsaw spun through the air like a boomerang and for the briefest of moments Rick was afraid that – just like a boomerang – it might bend back around and make its way towards him again, grinning its red Cheshire Cat grin.  But the saw flew a straight course, sailing out of the yard, and vanishing between the trees.  Rick watched until it disappeared from sight then turned back around and resumed his journey across the yard.

He eyed his porch like the finish line at a marathon.  It was eight below freezing outside, but somehow Rick was sweating.  He stumbled up the wooden steps and nearly fell flat on his face when his foot slipped on a patch of ice.  Without so much as a thought his hand reached out to grip the rail and he managed to catch himself before spilling onto the deck.  He paused at the top of the steps to get his bearings and it was here that he noticed it, sitting neatly atop the doormat like an uncooked cocktail sausage dipped in marinara sauce.  The air rushed from his lungs so fast they felt like they were going to collapse in on themselves.  He was looking at a human finger and this time he was sure that it did not belong to his dead wife or his unborn son.  The severed digit was too big to be a baby’s and too masculine to have belonged Melanie.  It was thick and stubby and a little bit hairy.  It had a cracked yellow nail at one end and at the other it was bleeding onto his doormat.

   The sight of it evoked a strong sense of disgust in Rick, worse than the other body parts he had found on his patio, worse than the saw with the crimson grin, worse even than his wife laying in the snow with her Pez dispenser neck and a belly like a lunar crater.  Perhaps it was the uncertainty that revolted him so much.  There were no tracks in the snow around his patio.  Where had the finger come from?  Who had it belonged to?  Were there other bodies out in the woods?  If so, how did they die?

Rick darted towards the finger and snatched it off the doormat.  He needed it off his deck.  He reared his arm back and chucked it as hard as he could towards the trees.  It twirled end over end through the air before spiking itself nail side up in the snow like a lawn dart a few feet from the place Melanie had taken her last desperate breaths.  It hadn’t made it to the forest like the handsaw had.  Now the finger was sitting upright in the middle of his yard like a miniature monument.

Rick stared at it for a while, contemplating whether or not to walk out across the slush and try again.  He decided to let the finger stand in peace.  It was supposed to snow later that afternoon.  Fresh powder would have it covered up by the evening.  He called out for Felix, but the cat did not appear when he shouted his name.  Defeated, Rick withdrew back inside his living room then plopped himself down on the couch.  He had only been awake for a couple of hours, but he was wiped.  His eyelids were becoming heavy and he could feel himself drifting to sleep, but before the dreams took over, his mind conjured up one more thought – something he had not yet considered.

The eyeball, the ear, and now the finger were all relatively fresh when he found them on the porch.  The weather outside was below freezing.  Exposure for only an hour at that kind of temperature would’ve been enough to freeze flesh solid, yet the way that he remembered it, the eye had been squishy when he held it in his hand, the ear had been warm to the touch, and the finger was still bleeding when he came upon it.  It was an utterly insane conclusion to draw, but this sudden epiphany could only mean the body parts he had been finding were being delivered to his porch just minutes before he arrived.

Sleep was beginning to overpower him, but a final groggy thought popped inside his head before he faded to black.  It would lead to a frightful dream during his nap, but he wouldn’t remember any of it by the time he woke up.

Someone else is out there.

The first thing Rick expected to see when he woke up was the finger he had spiked in the snow, standing like a loyal Soviet soldier guarding the entrance of an underground bunker somewhere along the Siberian Tundra.  The finger was still there, however there was something else much more prominent that caught his attention first.  A black, white, and blonde ball of fur was curled up at the patio door.  Rick sprung to his feet at the sight of it.  His cat was home.  He zipped across the living room in a flash and jerked open the door in the same perfunctory manner Kramer might have entered Jerry’s apartment on Seinfeld.  But the second he got a clear look at his kitty, he knew that something was very wrong.

The black, white, and blonde, ball of fur curled up at the patio door was actually a black, white, blonde, and red ball of fur and it wasn’t moving.  Felix was dead.  Just as dead as his wife, dead as the grey ashy slush that caked the ground in Rick’s back yard.  Felix’s body was twisted and coiled as if someone had wrung him out like a wet towel.  Blood oozed like strawberry syrup from his mouth and eyes.

Rick wanted to cry, but couldn’t.  Maybe the cold had frozen his tear ducts.  More than likely, it was the fear swirling inside him that had put a stop to the tears.  He was no longer in denial.  It hadn’t been Felix or any other animal that was leaving body parts on his patio.  He was being stalked.

Rick took off his glove and touched a hand to Felix’s fur.  His body was still warm.  The cat had just been killed.  It couldn’t have been more than 20 minutes before he woke up.  A bizarre sense of frustration swept through him.  The bastard had gone too far.  Rick’s hands were quaking; he clenched his fists to regain control of them.  He almost screamed out at the trees, where he assumed his stalker was watching him, but stopped himself.  Rick had always been a levelheaded guy and almost never let his anger get the better of him – that is, when he wasn’t hearing voices telling him to kill his wife.

Rick scooped the poor cat up off the porch and carried him out into the middle of the yard.  It was here that he would dig Felix’s grave.  He grabbed a shovel from the tool shed and went to work.  The finger stood a few feet away from the plot as Rick began to dig – the sole mourner at the unfortunate kitty’s funeral.  The digging was more for Rick than it was for Felix.  He always had an easier time thinking when he was doing some kind of yard work.

His stalker was no doubt watching him while he buried his cat.  Rick didn’t know why he was being tormented.  He suspected it was some perverted form of payback for what he did to his wife.  He thought of Melanie again, then – oh God, the baby!  Maybe it wasn’t animals at all that had removed their son from her stomach.  Maybe it had been the stalker.

Yes, that was it.  The freak had removed Rick’s son from his dead wife’s stomach before he died inside her and now, for whatever reason, he was trying to drive Rick mad.  The only thing he couldn’t place was where the body parts had been coming from.  It didn’t matter.  He knew now what he had to do.  If his son was alive, he was going to rescue him from whoever this sicko was.  After that, he would call the police.

   The baby would most likely be handed over to Melanie’s mother while Rick was in prison.  She was well-to-do and not that old – the boy would have a good life.  It wouldn’t absolve Rick of his sins, but at least he could do something good with his last few hours as a free man.

Rick scooped the last bit of dirt on top of Felix’s grave and patted it down with the back of his shovel.  He tossed it to the ground then whirled around to face the trees.  They didn’t look like silent spectators anymore.  He felt like the captain of a ship and his crew of tall wooden giants had just surrounded him after declaring mutiny.

“I know you’re out there,” Rick said.  There was an air of false bravado in his voice.  Deep down he was terrified.  He pointed to the living room.  “I’ll be waiting right there.  On my couch.  If you have any balls, you’ll bring my son and we can finish this.  I’m not moving from that spot until we do.”

And with that, Rick marched inside and prepared for war.

Rick Collum had never been to war before.  If one were to overlook the Melanie incident, he hadn’t even been in a fight since the seventh grade, when an older boy named Tommy Harper punched him in the gut for spilling the contents of his lunch tray all over the eighth grader’s brand-new Denver Broncos football jersey after Rick tripped over a backpack in the school cafeteria.  Rick had seen movies about war before – he went through a phase in college where he was really into old Vietnam movies.  He and his roommate had even gotten high one Friday night and watched Apocalypse Now three times in a row.  But this was not Vietnam or Cambodia and he was not Captain Ben Willard or Colonel Kurtz or even crazy ass Colonel Kilgore and he did not love the smell of napalm in the morning.  In fact, he didn’t even know what napalm smelled like.

His home wasn’t a conventional military stronghold.  There was a fire burning in the fireplace and his television was tuned into a holiday music station that was currently playing through a Bing Crosby Christmas album.  He was sitting on a pistachio green leather sofa and in his lap was a fire-poker that he used to jab kindling when it needed help catching.  It was his M1 Carbine.  Rick had no real gun (Melanie had never let him own a firearm) and he had no military training outside of what he had seen in old movies, but he readied himself and waited just the same.  Charlie was hiding out somewhere in the woods and he needed to stay alert.

The sun had gone down hours ago and snow was falling so heavy that he could barely see the trees across the yard.  A few inches must have already come down because the finger was finally buried – out of sight, but not out of mind.  He felt like he had been sitting on the couch, listening to holiday crooners forever.  Rick began to wonder if his stalker would ever show and for a second he even doubted his sanity.  Maybe his cracked mind had never really mended itself and everything he’d been experiencing was all one big psychotic episode.  

That theory didn’t last too long though.  It melted away like a dead man’s presence in a world that’s ever moving, always forgetting.  He was sane, all right.  Rick saw it appear in the darkness.  His eyes could just barely make it out, but there was definitely something outside.  Or someone rather, standing at the edge of his yard, where the tree line began – the figure of a man.

The man stood statuesque, as if completely oblivious to the snowstorm that was rolling in.  Rick squinted, trying to make out his features, but the yard was dark and the figure was just a black silhouette against a white backdrop.  There was no denying what he was seeing – his stalker had arrived.

Rick leaned forward in his seat, gripping the brass handle of the fireplace poker tight.  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.  There was something off about the man’s figure.  It gave him a bad vibe.

   The man had an object in his hand, but Rick couldn’t tell what it was yet.  Something appeared to be dangling from his torso – perhaps a rope of some sort.  It reached all the way to the ground.  There was no sign of the baby.  Rick’s heart sank a little in his chest.  He had been so certain the stalker would show up with his child.

   The figure began to move across the yard and as it did, its shape grew larger and clearer.  By the time the stalker reached Felix’s grave, he could tell he was dealing with a very large man.  From the looks of it, the figure was easily 6’ 5” and over 250 lbs. – he had a body that would dwarf Rick’s much smaller frame.  Closer the big man advanced, and his features began to take shape.  Rick could now see that his pursuer wasn’t wearing any clothes.  It was both ridiculous and terrifying to see the massive naked man striding through the snow towards his house.  In his hand was the saw Rick had flung into the woods earlier that day.  The damn thing was still grinning red.

Bing Crosby’s smooth baritone voice was flowing out of the television’s speakers.  He was singing of sleigh bells and treetops and snow – the song was White Christmas.

   ***

The giant naked man was standing at the base of the patio steps and now his features were as clear as day.  The sight made Rick stand up involuntarily.  He knew where the man had been getting the body parts – himself.  One of his eyes appeared to be missing from his face and it looked as if his ear had been torn off the side of his head.

Yet the most maddening thing about this man’s face was how hauntingly familiar it was.  Rick was sure he had never met him before, there was no way he would have forgotten him if he had, but he knew his face.  Somehow he knew it.

The man stomped up the porch’s wooden stairs.  His footsteps rattled the deck.  He was built like an NFL lineman – tall, wide, and sturdy, his big muscles hidden by a generous layer of fat.  He reached the top of the deck and Rick lowered his poker towards him as if he were an Aztec warrior wielding a spear.  The glass patio door was the only thing separating the two.  There was still something hanging from the man’s torso, it dragged across the deck as he moved towards the door.  It was not a rope as Rick had originally thought.  No, this was pink and fleshy, and it protruded from the man’s doughy stomach like a growth.

Wait – Rick couldn’t believe what he was seeing – was that an-

There was no more time to finish his thought.  The patio door swung open.  In rushed a gust of icy air, but the cold was not the only thing that entered Rick’s living room.  His stalker was now only a few feet away from him.  Rick jabbed at him with the poker, but the hulking man knocked it away effortlessly and it fell to the floor.  With one hand, he shoved Rick down to the sofa.

   Rick looked up at him and suddenly knew why the face was so familiar.  It was his face, and Melanie’s too – an amalgam of the two of them.  The man had Rick’s nose and his dead wife’s lips.  His one remaining eye was the same color as hers, but damned if he didn’t have Rick’s chin.  He glanced again at the fleshy rope hanging from his attacker’s stomach, right where his belly button should be – a rope that had once been connected to Melanie’s womb.  And so, he understood, the stalker had brought his son after all.

The man wrapped a four fingered hand around Rick’s face and scowled at him.  Rick was sure he would have cursed him if he could talk, but unborn babies don’t know how to speak the English language.  A few days ago his son had been in Melanie’s belly.  Now he was a massive man with a mutilated face that was about to punish his father for selfishly ending his life before it had the chance to begin.  He raised the saw to Rick’s neck.   Rick didn’t feel the need to question how what was happening was even possible.  His mind was sound, but thinking about the ins and outs of what he was seeing might have caused him to lose it again and he didn’t want to die a madman.  The teeth of the saw felt cold against his throat.  The grinning glutton was ready to feast again – and feast it would.

Bing Crosby’s Christmas album was still playing on the TV.  The famous crooners soothing voice blended seamlessly in the air with Rick’s screams.  He sang of calling pipes and mountainsides of summer meadows and bleeding throats.

-End

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Jingle Fucking Bells everybody.

This story features vulgar language.  Don’t read it if you’re easily offended.  Also, don’t read horror if you’re easily offended.  Maybe Goosebumps.  That should be ok.  ; )

Right On Time:  Jeff The Killer

He’d been watching her for a couple of weeks and in that time he had memorized her entire daily routine.  

7:30 am- Wake up and shower

8:00 am- Head to Starbucks for a disgusting cup of sugary syrup, a splash of milk, and just a hint of coffee.

8:30 am- Arrive at the office

11:45 am- Lunch – a salad at her desk, except on Wednesdays.  That’s when she meets the black chick from HR at the café across the street for a little girl talk.

And so on…

It hadn’t been hard.  He noticed almost immediately that she was a slave to her ways – the type of person that didn’t typically deviate from her schedule, which was fine by him. Her predictable habits had made planning her murder practically effortless.

He checked the time on his watch as he pulled the stolen sedan up in front of her townhouse that night.

10:35 PM

That meant she had just finished watching television for the evening.  Probably one of those shitty reality shows she DVR’s, he thought to himself.  If he had to venture a guess, he would have said she was brushing her teeth right about then.  In ten minutes she’d be in the shower and after that it was bedtime.  Except – he managed a smile – she wasn’t going to make it to bed.  Just a few more minutes and all of his careful planning would finally come to fruition.  He let his fingers slip down between his legs.  His cock had gotten hard in anticipation.

He told himself that she deserved what she was about to get.  All of his victims had.  Sure, none of the women he raped and murdered had ever done anything to cross him directly, but that didn’t matter.  They were the type of females that sickened him – promiscuous sluts in their late 20’s or early thirties that claimed they were too wrapped up in their careers for a serious relationship.  Dumb broads who considered themselves independent women, skanks who wore over priced designer blouses and carried obscenely expensive Michael Kors handbags wherever they went.  Grown ass women who idolized the geriatric whores from Sex & The City.

Women like her didn’t even notice guys like him, but it wasn’t like she was too busy to meet men.  In the three weeks that he’d been stalking her, she had hooked up two different fellas.  They seemed like real douchebags too – the type of guys who used dating apps and wore too much AXE body spray.  The fact that she fucked men like that made him hate her all the more.

His watch now said 10:47 pm.  She would be in the shower by now.  10:45-11:02, those were the golden minutes – his window of opportunity.  H had decided that the best time to break into her place was while she was busy washing.  He thought about her tits for a minute and what they must look like up close.  Again he reached his hand down to his crotch, this time gripping it tightly.  Somehow his cock was even harder.  He popped the car’s driver side door open then headed around to the back of the house.

It had rained pretty hard earlier that day and now the air was unusually fresh.  He swore he could smell the ocean even though it was eight miles away.  Part of him wished the weather hadn’t cleared up.  There was something peaceful about the sound of heavy rainfall to him – as if it drowned out the earsplitting roar of existence and brought a few brief hours of harmony to the world.

The lot in the back of the townhouse was so small he felt like he could stretch out his arms and touch the fences lining either side of it.  There was a fake rock sitting underneath the yard’s one rosebush.  It stuck out like a sore thumb.  Inside was a key to the patio door.  He knew it would be there because he had watched her use it before, but even if he hadn’t he surmised it wouldn’t have taken him too long to locate the obtrusive thing.

“Dumb bitch,” he whispered to himself.  “You think someone couldn’t tell this rock was fake?  Dumb bitch like you deserves to get skull fucked.”

He bent over and removed the key from the faux rock’s tiny compartment, then slowly, quietly, he unlocked the patio door and stepped inside.  He was in the kitchen now.  The shower was running; he could hear it as soon as he entered the townhouse.  So far, everything had gone just as he expected, but this wasn’t a surprise to him.  After all, he’d been preparing weeks for this night.

He always planned his kills meticulously.  The last place he wanted to go was prison.  Most serial killers were in it for the fame.  They left clues and calling cards so they could read about themselves in the paper.  They wanted the talking heads to argue about them on TV and when they got caught, they wanted to be celebrities.  Not him though.  He only wanted to maim and torture as many stuck up skanks as possible.  Getting arrested would ruin all the fun and he’d barely just begun to play.  The woman in the shower would be his ninth victim, but there were more that needed to die.  So many more.  Half the human race if need be.

He floated through the kitchen and into her living room.  The shag carpet squished underneath the wet soles of his shoes as he walked across it.  He moved through the shadowy house like a phantom.  The darkness was his domain and he was the monster hiding in it.  The sound of the shower was louder now.  It was coming from the second level.  He stopped at the base of the staircase and peered up.  A yellow light was seeping out from beneath the door of the upstairs bathroom.

That famous scene from Psycho bled into his mind.  He supposed jumping her in the shower was a little cliché, but at least he wasn’t going to use a knife.  No, he preferred to choke the life out of women.  It got him off.  Besides, it’s not like he was dressed in drag like that faggot Norman Bates.

He crept up the stairs as silently as possible.  There was no need to check his manhood a third time, he knew he would be ready to give it to her when the time came.  Excitement was beginning to surge inside him, but as soon as he got to the door, a sudden twinge of panic shot through his body.

The door!  What if it was locked?!

He had just assumed it wouldn’t be since she lived alone, but that didn’t make it a sure thing.  If she heard him trying to fiddle with the doorknob then she might scream.  All of the townhouses in that neighborhood were packed close together.  Hers even shared a wall with another one and the people living in the adjacent building would easily be able to hear her cries for help.  Even if no one called the cops, people would be looking out their windows to see who came out of the house, maybe even snapping pictures on their camera phones.  What if they got a clear shot of him?  The police would catch him for sure once her body was discovered and then his playtime would be over.  

How could he have been so careless?!

He thought about turning around and heading back down the stairs.  There was always tomorrow.  If he was quiet about it, he could just come back.  Then something else skipped through his mind.  The man from the grocery store two days prior – the one she had been giving “fuck me eyes” to at the check stand.  Weeks he had been tailing her and she hadn’t once looked his way, but that slimy prick in the sleeveless t-shirt sure got her attention easily.  She was probably in there right now thinking about him.  

No, he decided to himself.  She doesn’t get to finish that fantasy.

He wrapped his fingers around the doorknob.  The metal felt like ice against his skin.  The sensation of his heart beating wildly in his chest was tremendously apparent to him.  He took a deep inhale.  If the knob didn’t turn he would break the door down.  With a little bit of luck, he could crash into the bathroom and grab her around the throat before she could let out a shout.

He twisted his wrist a half-inch to the left and the knob spun with it.  Success.  A triumphant sigh emerged from his mouth.  All of his worrying had been for nothing.  The door was unlocked.  He cursed himself for his stupid mistake, then turned the doorknob the rest of the way and slinked inside.

The shower sounded so loud, like snow on an old analog television when the speakers’ volume is turned up all the way up.  The air was so thick inside the steamy bathroom he could practically chew it.  Cautiously he stepped, taking care not to slip on the slick tiles, wet with condensation.  He moved slowly, but with a purpose, concentrating only on his target.  His dick was practically ready to burst through his jeans.

Her opaque, beige shower curtain had a pink, flowery design stitched into it.  It was the kind of tasteless garbage he figured a woman like her would hang up in her bathroom.  His focus was keener than ever.  Closer he stalked and now he was standing directly in front of it.  He extended a hand out towards the shower curtain, but felt himself recoil before touching it.  

Something was off.

The shower was running.  Like the rainfall earlier that day, it dominated his ears, but this time he didn’t find it comforting.  He had come to a realization that made his stomach drop.  Aside from the sound of the all-too steady stream spraying from the shower head, there were no other noises coming from the other side of the curtain.  No singing, no splashing, no sound of water occasionally sloshing around the bottom of the tub – no nothing.  It was as if he was alone in the bathroom.

But then why was the shower running?  He glanced at his watch; it read 10:58.  She had to be in there.  In 3 weeks, she hadn’t finished a shower before 11:02.  Had he missed her?

The shower’s roar seemed almost maddening now.  He stood in front of it listening, waiting to hear something, anything, emerge from the other side of the curtain, but nothing ever did.  With a shaky hand he reached for the hanging fabric barrier, gripped it firmly, then in a quick, sudden motion, he jerked it back.

The woman was indeed in the shower, her eyes wide and gleaming.  They sparkled with terror.  Her panicked face looked as if she was readying a scream, except he knew it wouldn’t come.  How could it?  She was already dead – a naked bloody heap at the bottom of the tub.  Someone else had gotten to her before him and by the look of it, they didn’t seem to mind movie clichés.  

Her killer had mangled her with a knife.  Each of her toes and fingers had been sliced clean off and her legs and stomach were riddled with deep cuts and gashes.  For a moment he wondered if she was still alive while her assailant had been whittling her flesh.  He looked away, trying to divert his eyes.  That’s when he saw the pink gelatinous lump laying next to the drain.  He stared curiously at it.  To him, it looked like a blood-soaked jellyfish.  It wasn’t until he glanced back at the woman that he realized her murderer had carved one of her breasts from her chest and left it in the tub for him like some sort of grotesque Easter egg.

He hadn’t planned for this.  He had taken almost everything into account, but he hadn’t planned for this.

Fright’s razor sharp talons sunk themselves into his chest.  He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly in his tracks when he saw the mirror.  There was a message written on it, a string of crimson letters smeared across the glass surface.  He had been so focused on the shower earlier that he hadn’t even noticed it.  He read the words.  It was short and brief, but it sent a horrible feeling of dread through his entire being because – and this was something he was sure of – the message was written for him.

RIGHT ON TIME

The humidity of the bathroom was making him woozy.  It was an odd sensation; the steamy heat coming off the shower in combination with his dizzy head made everything feel unreal – almost as if he was experiencing a bizarre fever dream.  He opened the door and wave of cool air crashed against his face.  With it came a heavy dose of reality.

It hadn’t been an accident that the woman he’d been following was murdered the very same night he decided to make his move.  No, the killer had even sent him a message.  The entire time he had been stalking her, someone had been stalking him. While he had been planning her death, someone had been planning his.

He didn’t run out the bathroom; he galloped.  It seemed like the staircase had somehow moved a hundred feet down the hall.  The shadows were no longer his to hide in.  They had a new monster – and it was coming for him.  His legs stopped working as soon as he reached the top of the stairs causing him to collapse onto the bannister.  With all of his strength he hoisted himself up to his feet.  

What had happened?

A couple seconds later and a searing pain in his back answered that question.  He reached behind and felt something sticking out of it, like a cold metallic cyst that had suddenly sprouted from his spine.  There was pressure pushing down on the back of his head now – a hand forcing him into a helpless position, doubling him over the bannister.  For a second it felt like he was levitating as he dangled precariously, looking down towards the living room floor fifteen feet below.  Then came another searing pain even worst than the first.  Slowly, his assailant had begun to pull the knife his body.  It felt as if his wound was being defiled, as if someone had just finished using it the same way he used his victims.

How big was the blade?  How deep had it been buried?  It seemed like it took forever to remove.  Once it was finally out, he could feel the hallway’s cool, drafty air add insult to his injury as it licked at the gaping gash in his back.  He tried to get back to his feet, but before he could, someone snagged ahold of his ankles.  In and instant, he was toppling over the handrail.  The living room spun around him as he fell down to the floor.  He landed on his shoulder with a THUD and let out a groan.  There was no doubt in his mind that it was dislocated.

He gazed up and saw the figure of a man crawling down the stairs on all fours like an animal and he wondered for the second time if he was dreaming.  The only thing he could make out was his pursuer’s bushy hair, blacker than midnight and as wild as a savage.  Desperate questions streamed through his head.

What is that?  Jesus Christ, what the hell is that thing?

He watched silently as the man or animal or thing that had attacked him reached the bottom step and stood up on two feet, uncurling its spine like a cobra dancing for a snake charmer.  The shaggy head of dark, matted hair turned in his direction and now he could see a face – a human face – or at least one that used to belong to a human.  His stalker wore a skeleton’s smile – no lips and a set of flat white teeth that contrasted bitterly against purple gums.  Like a rotting corpse it had no nose and its pallid complexion looked snow white in the moonlight seeping into the living room.  In its hand it held an eight-inch bowing knife, coated in blood.

It began to slither towards him again, watching him through a pair of bulging, yellow eyes.  It almost looked as if it was wearing a person like a Halloween costume.  A teenager or young man perhaps.  It was dressed in black pants and a white hooded sweatshirt that had been tie-dyed in the blood of the woman in the bathroom.

He tried to get up, but it put a foot on his chest and pinned him to the ground then crouched on top of him and placed the point of the knife up against his abdomen.  He barely felt it penetrate his stomach.  But as the blade turned inside him a blazing hot sensation swelled throughout his core.  He stared back into the ugly thing’s unblinking eyes as his vision started fading to black.  The last thing he heard was its horrible, croaky voice – just as repulsive as its face.

“Go to sleep,” it growled.

He decided not to fight it so he closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.

EXCLUSIVE SCI-Fi STORY

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Mutant Crawfish Uprising is the best kind of uprising.

There Are So Many Possibilities In Horror

This picture reminds me of a story I once read by Stephen King.  It’s called “Beach World” and it’s part of his short story collection, The Skeleton Crew.  I consider that book to be a big influence on my writing.  For those who haven’t checked it out, King showcases a variety of different styles and narratives in the anthology.  Each story is completely different from the ones that came before it. 

I read it in the 6th grade and it was the first time I realized just how flexible the horror genre can be.  There are stories in the book set on distant alien worlds. Some of his tales involve magic while others are grounded in reality. There were stories that were dark and menacing, there were others that were even a little sweet.  The book really opened up my imagination and made me look at horror in a different light.

So keep an open mind.  There are so many different directions you can go with your writing.  The possibilities are endless.

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Some of these have been featured in previous posts. But this post is most of the creepypastas so far, that I can listen to over and over. In otherwords these are my favourites. Here’s a link to my playlist that will probably gain more as time goes on, otherwise, click on whatever one sounds interesting.

“Abandoned by Disney” narrated by themrcreepypasta written by slimebeast

“Anasi’s Goatman Story” narrated by themrcreepypasta

“It Has No Face” narrated by creepypastajr

“Don’t Go On Haunted House Tours” narrated and written by creepsmcpasta

“The Pursuit Institute” narrated and written by Scary Story Time with Liam

“The Peering Head” narrated and written by Mr. Nightmare

“Esteban” narrated by Otis Jiry written by S.C. Young

“Don’t Peek” narrated by creepymissuspasta written by spamalot2006

“Tailypo” narrated by Otis Jiry written by Veronica Byrd

“The Strider” narrated by naturestemper written by Pruzel

“The Stump” narrated by Jonathan Jones written by Ashley Franz Holmann

“The Crawlspace” narrated by Mr. Nightmare written by DirtyMikeNTheBoys

“The Sneak” narrated by thatcreepyreading written by Shape Shafter

"Lonely Bethany," as narrated by Creepymissuspasta

My work, “Lonely Bethany,” as narrated by the lovely and unparalleled Creepymissuspasta. Give a listen, and subscribe! And stay tuned for a big announcement and future projects!

You should absolutely listen to this. The story is awesome and just happens to be one I narrated myself. Aaron is an amazing writer and you should also read his other works.

I’m so confused!

I Saw A Bit Of Sun Today

I saw a bit of sun today

It peeked out briefly through the clouds

Its rays of golden radiance

Shined down to the Earth so proud

I was not the only spectator

The light gathered a crowd

We stopped, we watched, we stood in awe

As the sight left us all wowed

For years it hadn’t shown it’s face

Hidden behind a dark grey shroud

That rains and blankets all of us

In a blackness that’s unbowed

But the sun escaped its cage today

Of this, my friend, I vow

Though its triumph was a short-lived one

For in moments it had cowed

The clouds once again enveloped it

Slaughtering its brilliance like a sow

I swear I even heard it scream

As if the day could cry out loud

Then just like that its glow was gone

And rain fell towards our upturned brows

But I saw a bit of sun today

And I’m left with more hope now

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What The Rain Brought by karlwennergren

Brand-new anthology I’m working on, featuring some of the Internet’s favorite horror authors. Stay tuned! More to come!

VINCENT V. CAVA’S NEW BOOK IS FREE ON KINDLE - MARCH 28

Just a little…

Haunting — These tomes of terror will stay with you long after you put your book down and go to bed for the evening.  They’ve been known to burrow themselves into a reader’s imagination and are capable of warping dreams into twisted, unspeakable nightmares.

Just a little…

Unique — These aren’t your standard horror stories.  Don’t think this collection will include tales of gothic castles or blood sucking vampires.  Expect one-of-a-kind takes on every ghastly ghoul and hideous monster you read about in this book.

Just a little…

Frightening — Prepare yourself for some of the most chilling flash fiction ever penned.  The mad genius, Vincent V. Cava, has done it again with the latest entry in his creepy catalogue.  Do yourself a favor and leave the lights on when you read it.

Just A Little…Terrible

Just A Little Vincent V. Cava is all I need.

There are several different YouTube users who have done awesome readings of various stories scribed across the web. The quality of the stories varies, but the passion of the readers is awesome. The above link is MrCreepyPasta, the first user I found of the sort. I’ve linked his reading of The Showers, one of my favorite CreepyPastas below. He also has A Favor for A Favor which is a pretty good story by Vincent Vena Cava and The Holders: The First Seed. He has a great selection.

There’s also CreepyPastaJr. He has a good voice, and again, that passion. The passion of these readers really lets them stand out. They put ambient music and sounds, they put the emotion in their voices necessary for the topic. Here’s one of the videos I found of his called “Radio Silence.”

I was recommended the story 1999, and I searched it on YouTube. The search yielded this guy, CreepsMcPasta. He has a great voice for the readings. He has the same energy as the previous readers. He also has a pretty good selection of stories, some of my favorites. Especially the aforementioned 1999, which is shown below. He also does non-horror readings, feelspastas, for example.

There’s also smaller channels like CreepyMissusPasta. Again, that same appreciation, the same love for what she does. She’s been going for a while and has far less recognition, but she’s good. Check her out!

SCPReadings is focused on a specific set of stories. Based on the Secure, Contain, Protect Foundation briefings. They’re a marvelous series of works written by people who really care about the topic. To write about it there are very strict rules to layout, themes, and what will and won’t work. If you’ve never seen it, check it out, as well.

If you know of others, let me know! I love to hear these.

If you like this, share it (tweet, reblog, etc.)! And if you have recommendations, let me know!