•February 9, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Life or something like it

When I was around 5 until 10 or maybe a bit older, I would sleepwalk. I would hear second hand stories from my mother about how she found me in the kitchen, searching for tape for reasons I wouldn’t explain, there was an incident where I woke up in the shower and panicked, not remembering how I got there. These stopped when I got to be a teenager and got pushed aside for embarrassing ammunition later in life.
Then my oldest son started sleepwalking, only he started younger. The first time I can remember was when he was 3, I woke up to him perched like a gargoyle on top of the radiator next to my bed. At least I THINK he was sleeping. Then when he was older he would stand at the top of the stairs and just stare straight ahead, or wake me up in a panic…

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•October 30, 2016 • Leave a Comment

‘Horror is an emotion’: Why the genre will never die

Shared via the CBC News Android App

31 Days of Horror Prompts for October (#19)

•October 21, 2016 • Leave a Comment

Author Amanda McCormick


I’m actually going to write this before I post my prompt response from yesterday. I’m working on it, but it’s turning into a really long story… and I haven’t gotten the chance to get to the horror element of it.

Me and those long stories that I can’t help but to write.

Anyway, we need Day 19’s Writing Prompt, even if I end up having to post the rest of this prompt tomorrow! So, let’s get to it!

Prompt #19

The knife plunges into her chest and she stumbles. When she straightens and yanks the blade out, to your horror, she doesn’t bleed.

So, there we go! Prompt #19. If you want to change it up and write from the lady’s perspective, do it. If you want to write about the person experiencing it, go for it. ❤ It’s up to you!

If you end up responding to this prompt…

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Can our pets see ghosts? – J.H. Moncrieff

•July 31, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The Woods 5 – The Woods by L.V. Gaudet

•July 8, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The Woods (1)5        The Woods

The boys burst into the house, hurriedly kicking off their boots at the back door before going any further.  Everything looks exactly like it did when they went out to play.

It’s 1985 and the furniture and décor are a clash of pieces mostly from the sixties and seventies, some bought new, some second hand, and some are hand-me-downs.  Nothing has been upgraded in the past ten years, a testament of thoughtful care and financial mediocrity.  The worn couch and dented coffee table, victims of having two rambunctious growing boys in the house, are overdue to be replaced.  A comic book lays discarded on the floor, open as if it is trying to fly away, The Thing is caught forever in an epic battle against a green monster that looks like a rough tree bark wall with many arms surrounding The Thing with flailing punching fists.  The television, and ancient tube set, sits dark and quiet on its stand.  A pair of discarded socks are tossed carelessly on the floor, and the latest edition of TV Guide sits on the coffee table.

“Mom!” Jesse looks around.

The house is dead silent except for their own breathing.


Kevin stands there, looking around.

Yes, the house is exactly as they left it before they went outside to play.  How long has that been?  An hour?

But not quite.

Everything seems a little muted.  Off.

And more dusty than he remembers.

Jesse runs into the kitchen.  After a pause of a few heartbeats, Kevin follows.

“Mom?” Jesse pauses just inside the doorway, looking expectantly for their mother.

The teakettle still sits on the stovetop, two tea towels hang from the oven door handle where they were hung to dry after washing dishes in the sink, and the table is set for dinner with places for four.

Flour and sugar bags sit on the countertop next to a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon and measuring cup, pulled out in preparation of baking a cake.

Their mother is not there.

They run through the house calling, “Mom! Mom! Mom!”  They end their search back in the living room, out of breath.

“She’s not here.”

“Where could she be?”

“Next door, maybe?”

“Let’s go see.”

They pull their boots back on and rush out the door into the backyard, trained not to use the front door because that would somehow make more cleaning work for their mother, and around the side of the house to the front.

They stop, staring around wide-eyed, and turn to stare at each other, their faces full of fear and confusion.

They are standing in the woods next to that old stump.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t cuss,” Jesse said automatically.  There is hell to pay if their mom ever hears them use bad language.  Hell is one of many forbidden words.

Kevin turns to him, appalled.

“Seriously?  You’re worried about me cussing? We are back in the woods! That is impossible!”

He stops.


“What?” Jesse is sulking now.

“The grass.”

“What about it?”

“Wasn’t there grass in the yard?”

“Yeah, so?  There’s always been grass in the yard.”

Kevin narrows his eyes, wondering if Jesse is just being dumb or is messing with him.

“It’s early spring.  Look around.  There’s still snow everywhere.”

“Yeah, so?” Jesse isn’t getting it.

Kevin’s shoulders sag with the futility of it.  Do I even bother? He sighs.

“Jesse, do you remember what the yard looked like? Just now, when we went back to the house.”

“Yeah, your bike was laying on the grass. I almost tripped on it.”

“Where was the snow?”

They both just stare at each other.

5 Cops Share Their Most Eerie On-Duty Paranormal Experiences | The Ghost Diaries

•July 6, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The Woods 4 – The House by L.V. Gaudet

•June 28, 2016 • Leave a Comment

The Woods.jpgThe key jams in the lock, not wanting to go in.

The realtor looks at him nervously and smiles.

“It’ll go in.  The key works.”  His grimace gives face to the lie.  He isn’t so sure it will work.

He fiddles and struggles with the key for too long before the rusting lock mechanism finally unwillingly gives and allows them access.

His smile is almost sickly with relief.

He turns to the prospective buyer, hoping yet again that this is not a big waste of his time.  His commission is going to depend on how much the house actually sells for.  It’s not the usual commission deal.  He is getting more than the average commission percentage, an unusual agreement made with the municipal office that wants only to unload the property and get it off their books, doubtful anyone will bother to bid on it.

This guy is the only person who has shown an interest.  He could bid a dollar, the lowest bid allowed, and walk away with the property for nothing, less than the price of a cup of coffee.

He tries the door, hoping it opens easily.  A warped door can turn off a buyer before they see anything else.

The door sticks in the frame and, after he puts some weight into it, gives with the dull sound of two pieces of swollen wood pressed against each other giving up the fight to hold together.

They enter the house and step back thirty years in time.

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