Heidi was at a crossroads in life, she was recently divorced and she just moved into a new condo. She had a little house-warming party which is where things start to go dreadfully wrong. She didn&#…
Source: David’s Haunted Library: 3 Down
Heidi was at a crossroads in life, she was recently divorced and she just moved into a new condo. She had a little house-warming party which is where things start to go dreadfully wrong. She didn&#…
Source: David’s Haunted Library: 3 Down
Interesting.
Cover art by: Masloski Carmen
Editor: David Watson
Do you love the horror genre? Do you look at horror as a lifestyle? Do the “norms” not understand your love of the macabre?
Despair no longer, my friend, for within your grasp is a book written by those who look at horror as a way of life, just like you. This is your guide to living a horrifying existence. Featuring interviews with Midnight Syndicate, Valentine Wolfe, and The Gothic Tea Society.
Authors: Kristin Battestella, Mimielle, Emerian Rich, Dan Shaurette, Steven Rose Jr., Garth von Buchholz, H.E. Roulo, Sparky Lee Anderson, Mary Abshire, Chantal Boudreau, Jeff Carlson, Catt Dahman, Dean Farnell, Sandra Harris, Willo Hausman, Laurel Anne Hill, Sapphire Neal, James Newman, Loren Rhoads, Chris Ringler, Jessica Robinson…
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About us: HorrorAddicts.net is a podcast, blog, and publisher run by horror addicts, for horror addicts. Our main goal is to promote horror authors, musicians, artists, and entertainers for our lis…
Source: Current Submission Calls

The Farmington Writers Circle meets again tonight, October 13, 2016 at 7:00 p.m. not at Starbuck’s at 4337 East Main, , but at Mary’s Kitchen (the student cafeteria) at San Juan College. Follow this link to the Facebook page for Mary’s Kitchen for directions. The meeting will actually take place just outside the cafeteria after it has closed, so bring your own refreshments (if desired).
The evening’s topic has not been determined.
The Farmington Writers Circle is nascent organization of Farmington-area writers who are interested in finding or developing innovative ways of publicizing and marketing their works. Meetings are usually round-table discussions, although occasionally a member will lead the discussion when it deals with an area of the member’s expertise. There are no fees or requirements to attend meetings. Writers of any and all genres, regardless of writing experience, and non-writers with an interest in the art are welcome. Previous topics have included establishing a website to maximize the use of social media in publicizing works, writers’ conferences, and finding an agent among other topics. Meetings generally run for two hours. For more information, contact me via this website.
By T.N. Haynes Flouting restraint they come, Finally Dry screams like naked razors scraping rust from atrophied ducts. Her eyes meet mine and politely flick away. Ashamed? No … (not that) Gratified…
Source: The Toxicity of Tears
Party’s Over Nancy crept around the side of the Sutton house, avoiding the upper story windows as she peered into the basement. The glass was frosted and she could see shapes, but that was al…
Source: Through Dolls Eyes by Jesse Orr
The Whistling Room by William Hope Hodgson (1912)
Tuesday’s Tale of Terror October 11, 2016
“Then I heard it, an extraordinary hooning whistle, monstrous and inhuman, coming from far away through corridors to my right.”
October is the month for ghost stories. We love stories about luminous skulls or cavernous tombs, haunted grounds, haunted castles. These other worlds draw us in. Can you hear the call? Is it hovering behind your ear? Chilling your neck? Come into the world of Carnacki the ghost finder.
Do you believe there could be a hidden mischief in silence? Carnacki is a ghost hunter. He is invited by Mr. Tassoc, owner of Lastrae Castle in Ireland, where a room is said to emit an evil whistle that drives all away in horrific fear. Carnaki agrees to spend a few weeks at the castle to solve the mystery.
“This room had just that same malevolent…
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The Farmington Writers Circle will meet again on October 13, 2016 at 7:00 p.m. not at Starbuck’s at 4337 East Main, , but at Mary’s Kitchen (the student cafeteria) at San Juan College. Follow this link to the Facebook page for Mary’s Kitchen for directions. The meeting will actually take place just outside the cafeteria after it has closed, so bring your own refreshments (if desired).
The evening’s topic has not been determined.
The Farmington Writers Circle is nascent organization of Farmington-area writers who are interested in finding or developing innovative ways of publicizing and marketing their works. Meetings are usually round-table discussions, although occasionally a member will lead the discussion when it deals with an area of the member’s expertise. There are no fees or requirements to attend meetings. Writers of any and all genres, regardless of writing experience, and non-writers with an interest in the art are welcome. Previous topics have included establishing a website to maximize the use of social media in publicizing works, writers’ conferences, and finding an agent among other topics. Meetings generally run for two hours. For more information, contact me via this website.
By padrespaleale Underneath the calm sharks gather, waiting in the deep, silent they sense weakness. The smell of blood guides them to their prey. The sea bubbles their sense of peace shattered in …
Source: Sharks
Here is an interesting article for those with a historical bent: https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/dec/23/ghost-stories-victorians-spookily-good

The Farmington Writers Circle will meet again on October 13, 2016 at 7:00 p.m. not at Starbuck’s at 4337 East Main, , but at Mary’s Kitchen (the student cafeteria) at San Juan College. Follow this link to the Facebook page for Mary’s Kitchen for directions. The meeting will actually take place just outside the cafeteria after it has closed, so bring your own refreshments (if desired).
The evening’s topic has not been determined.
The Farmington Writers Circle is nascent organization of Farmington-area writers who are interested in finding or developing innovative ways of publicizing and marketing their works. Meetings are usually round-table discussions, although occasionally a member will lead the discussion when it deals with an area of the member’s expertise. There are no fees or requirements to attend meetings. Writers of any and all genres, regardless of writing experience, and non-writers with an interest in the art are welcome. Previous topics have included establishing a website to maximize the use of social media in publicizing works, writers’ conferences, and finding an agent among other topics. Meetings generally run for two hours. For more information, contact me via this website.
Beginning in January 1, 2017, this will be the location of a new on-line quarterly magazine for short stories, poetry, and other short works of the horror genre. You can find the guidelines for submissions on my current Submissions and Announcements page, which will remain the same, with the only exception being that the word limit for submissions for “The Chamber” will increase from 1,000 to 2,000 words.
I am creating this magazine primarily because it is not fair to my contributors to submit a work for publication, when that work will be at the top of my blog posts for only a day, and then that author and his readers will have to wade through a morass of unrelated blogs to find that one post. To remedy this, I will create a separate page on my blog for my new magazine, “The Chamber”, where each quarter’s selections will appear on a separate page for eternity (or until WordPress folds, or until I give it all up and wander off to buy a bar in Key West or etc.) Issue 1 will appear on January 1st. Cut-off date for submissions will be November 30 (I don’t want to work over Christmas). Selections will probably be made by December 15. Send submissions per the Submissions and Announcements guidelines, but specify Submission for “The Chamber” in the subject line, if you want your work published in The Chamber, or Submission for The Blog, if you want to be published in the regular blog. I will continue to publish submissions in my regular blog until December 31.
Why call it “The Chamber”? The word chamber has numerous sinister and macabre connotations: a chamber of horrors, a torture chamber, one chambers a round into a rifle, etc. A chamber can also be where a sorcerer, an alchemist, or a member of the Inquisition stores his library. It is with this last connotation in mind that I am developing my Chamber for the storage of my selection of sinister and macabre works from the best up and coming authors that seek to contribute to my blog.
So, start editing your best, most powerful material and see where this new venture takes us! I want powerful, hard-hitting material that leaves its readers gasping and awe-struck at the end.
By Rufus Woodward My Grandfather had a haunted mirror. He said, “If you look into the mirror very closely, so very closely, you can see the ghost and the ghost can see you.” “Did you ever see the g…
Source: The Haunted Mirror

Lo! ’tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
I went to bed alone; that much I know for certain, despite the bottles emptied, the junk injected, the glass smoked, locked within my apartment for days, abhorring the light, avoiding the sun, embracing the permanent midnight fighting with the page during the waking hours, battling with the numbness of the soul, the desolation.
I woke up next to her; the cold, pale corpse of my childhood’s love.
In the substance-induced dreams I was back at junior high, when my heart was still unbruised, my liver virgin. With the whole world ahead of me, all roads wide open, all I had to do was pick the path and follow it to the end. It’s too late now, yet in my sleep I smiled broadly, for I recalled how it feels to be outside the pit of shit. And there she was, too, smiling at the beach, when the question was popped and the first dagger was driven through a heart that was destined to be broken into millions of pieces oh so many times. Yet, I didn’t know at the time and even the pain of love felt real and delightful, for it ignited a fire in the soul; a fire that was never meant to be extinguished.
And as I slowly opened my exhausted eyes, I stared at the decomposing body lying next to me; my arm around her waist, my body pressing up against hers, and I wanted to move, to jump, to disappear, but I couldn’t; chained to the bed, the substances still in control and all my muscles too heavy to obey the desperate commands of my panicking mind.
Suddenly she moved, turned to look at me, and the cold, dark eyes pierced through mine, staring straight into my soul. I couldn’t move, yet I saw a future that never unfolded taking place inside my head; a future that didn’t involve countless empty bottles of bourbon, cooking crack-cocaine, smoking meth, shooting junk. In the cold, dead eyes I witnessed warmth, safety, sanity. I smiled, despite the fear that overwhelmed my barely beating heart, and I wished to close my eyes and disappear into the fictional future reflecting in those dark eyes I hadn’t had the chance to stare into because of wrong decisions.
Her mouth opened slightly, exposing the falling teeth, the rotting gums, the green tongue. An invitation for a kiss and I was still not ready to kiss the devil, even though I had sold my soul years ago. Her hand reached for my cheek and the blood froze in my veins, a chill traversed all of my bones. Numb, I wished to jump out the window and disappear into the night, but couldn’t move.
She pressed her body closer to mine, and once more I could see a future in another city, with brighter prospects. I also saw the mediocrity of that future, the lack of the one thing that has maintained my sanity throughout years of abuses. And I couldn’t decide, couldn’t pick the right choice. It didn’t matter, either, because she was right there, next to me, rotting away with every passing minute and all I could do was accept her touches, her embrace, her forceful kisses.
With no end in sight my mind was too exhausted after a week of sleeplessness and of abusing every drug known to man. She smiled and despite the rotting teeth and gums I saw the hidden beauty, a beauty which I lost due to wine decisions, and a single tear rolled down my eye.
Abruptly, her face was replaced, and others took her place in my bed; I was surrounded by corpses and ghosts and I couldn’t run away. Standing accused in front of those I hurt, and those I lost, I could only accept the jury’s verdict and I was condemned to a slow, painful death and I smiled at the idea of the grave.
The ghosts evaporated, the sentence had been dealt, and the jury was therefore disbanded. Yet, she remained, her empty eyes still reminding me of a life never lived, of moments never experienced; was it for the best? I asked myself, and there was no place where I could find an answer.
From within the darkness the eternal flames appeared a preview of what’s to come and I smiled, barely, at the future waiting around the corner. A final kiss from the frozen lips and warmth flooded my numb body; it lasted only a second. She was suddenly gone, I was still there, and the flames were extinguished. With nowhere to run, with no dreams in which I could find refuge, I got up.
I sat heavily on the couch, stared about the dark room and breathed in the perfect stillness of the night. All alone, once more, and my sole companion were my memories, those of the past lived and those of the future that remained a stillborn.
And as I filled my glass pipe, getting ready for yet another week of staying awake amidst the binges, I heard a loud, complaining sigh from my bed and the blanket was raised.