Check out another wickedly creepy story in the Friday the 13th Horror Series…
Fun Fact:
The title of this story popped into my head first, out of a murky, dark sky as if some evil imp whispered it to me. The story unwound itself afterwards, like a bad—and very disturbing—dream.
About Dead Man’s Shirt:
Mike O’Grady’s on the hunt for a job, not a career as a serial killer. But when he buys a shirt with a dubious background he begins to wonder. Has he acquired the shirt, or has it acquired him?
Excerpt:
With the tan jacket in his hands, Mike stands and remembers. Horror floods through him in the wake of—
Is that satisfaction?
Oh, God.
He’s imagining all this, right? Brought on by the news reports and that scene out on the street. Only a few blocks from here. And all the stress he’s been under.
Then, what’s all over his jacket?
Splashes of coppery brown. Some large splats. Some just small dots.
Like were on the shirt.
Most of the red stains are on the sleeves. Like a man in a dream, Mike picks at the substance with his nail. Some of it flakes off.
It has to be—paint. Yeah, that’s it. But where did he get into paint? When?
Another image suddenly flashes into his head. The knife lying in the bottom of the sink.
Oh, God, no.
Impossible.
Isn’t it?
About the Author:
Award-winning author Laura Strickland enjoys time traveling to the past or wherever else her fancy takes her and searching out settings for her books, be they Historical Romance, Steampunk or something in between. Born and raised in Western New York, she is intensely interested in animal welfare. Connect with her at: www.laurastricklandbooks.com
In my latest #Fridaythe13th story, Sandcastles, our killer uses the beach itself as his murder weapon. But can people really drown in sand? And how realistic is quicksand portrayed in stories?
Drowning in sand, also known as sand aspiration, is a real risk. It can suffocate and crush you at the same time, causing respiratory asphyxia due to thoracic compression. Tragically, children have perished this way, even in sandboxes.
And while quicksand might rapidly swallow a character whole in a book or movie, this isn’t realistic. The human body is less dense than quicksand, so you will only sink partially…until panicked movements by the victim cause more liquidation, which will make them sink further. Despite its name, quicksand provides a slow, dramatic death, giving the victim ample time to deliver tearful goodbyes, profess love, or reveal plot twists.
Who can forget the Swamps of Sadness in The Neverending Story? RIP Artax.
About Sandcastles:
How far will one woman go to avenge her brother’s murder? She’s not sure the police deserve to capture the murderer and have the news hail them as heroes…and maybe the Sandcastle Killer deserves to see the inside of a grave rather than a cell. Kindle or paperback.
Excerpt:
“You’re awake,” he said, a lively lilt in his voice.
“David…why?” she sobbed, seawater filling her prison, feet kicking up the wet silt turning to mud. She sunk her fingers into the sand as she tried to claw her way up, only for one wall to collapse. Mud washed over her feet, rising to her ankles, then her shins. “David! I’m going to drown.”
“Yeah, careful with that,” he said from a distance. “Trying to claw at the walls will make it worse.” David took the same, lectured cadence July’s father might use to remind her that improperly insulated windows would run up her electric bill.
She felt herself sinking, pressure on the soles of her feet as the earth sucked July into the abyss, slowly, as if Mother Earth were taking the time to savor her morsel.
“Hey, you want to see something?” he shouted, even further away. “Get ready to catch.”
She screeched for help as loud as she could, tendons in her neck straining. A shiver ran up her spine when her feet hit a dramatic temperature change and her body slipped further into the quicksand.
“C’mon, now. You won’t catch it. On three. Ready? One.”
“Help me!”
“Two.”
The mud crept up her chest, a chilling reminder of David choking her unconscious earlier. She peddled her legs to stay afloat, thighs burning in the sludge.
“Three.”
She recognized her cell phone as it arced through the air. She struggled to get a hand free, but snagged the device before it fell into the mud.
“Did you catch it?” He laughed. “It still has the SIM card, if you think you can call someone.”
What is it about a picture? Especially on a phone, the bright LED makes the vibrant colors pop. Even in the sun’s glare, the sandcastle he built was clear, July’s grave lurking in the background. Her eyes succumbed to the picture’s gravity, and she stared at its magnificence before the mud stole her vision, hearing, and breath.
Author bio:
Jon Minton is an American speculative fiction writer based in Oklahoma City. He is a software developer but has always been passionate about a great story.
Happy Friday the 13th! It’s release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. Today, I’m pleased to welcome myself with my story, Mister 13…
Fun Fact:
While writing this story, I researched the dates for past Friday the 13ths and used the actual date for each year that was mentioned. One of the dates I used was January 13, 1984…which happens to be the date I got married. And, it was on a Friday the 13th. And, we divorced nearly 13 years later…coincidence or were otherworldly forces at work? 😀
*** Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents – grab them now before the price goes up!!!
Psychologist Giselle Bishop is treating a patient who suffers from friggatriskaidekaphobia, a fear of Friday the 13th. When he was younger, his family was murdered on Friday the 13th by an unknown killer dubbed Mister 13 by the media. Since then, he’s been terrified to leave his house on the dreaded date. She understands his fear because years earlier, her roommate fell victim to Mister 13.
With another Friday the 13th approaching, Giselle convinces him to overcome his fear by facing the very day that paralyzes him, so he reluctantly ventures out. But when she sees a news report that a young woman was found murdered by someone with the same MO as Mister 13, she understands she has made a grave error and her patient is right to believe he is in danger. But he’s not the only one, because now Mister 13 is coming after her.
Excerpt:
She answered the call, and Lydia cried out, “Did you hear what happened?”
Dread gripped her. “No, what is it? Are you okay?”
“Someone was killed…in your house. Yours and Darcy’s old house. The girl who lives there now was murdered. Tonight. Someone called it in to the media. Not even 911. They called the news station.”
The sentences rushed out, piling on top of one another in a panicked jumble.
“Oh my God,” Giselle gasped. “That’s horrible. Do they know who did it yet?”
“No,” Lydia said. “But I’m pretty sure it was Mister 13.”
“What? Why do you say that? Are the details the same?”
“I don’t know. They haven’t said much yet. But, come on, Friday the 13th. At your old house. I just know it was him.”
Giselle grabbed the remote and flipped over to a local news channel. The sportscast was on, but the story scrolled along the bottom, ‘Breaking news, a young woman was found dead in her home after a tip was called in to our station. Details are sketchy at this time, but it appears the victim was stabbed multiple times. Police are not releasing whether they were connected, but thirteen years ago, a young woman was murdered in this same house by an unknown killer. Police suspect it was the work of the serial killer known as Mister 13. Again, we are unsure if this latest killing is by the same person. More details as they become available.’
“Oh God,” Giselle murmured. Her mind went to Everett. She’d finally convinced him to face his fears, to venture out on this dreaded date, and the first time he summons the courage to do so, another tragic murder happens.
“I’m sorry, Lydia. I’ve got to go. Let me know if you learn anything else. Talk to you soon.”
She hung up and dialed Everett. The call went straight to voicemail. “Everett, please call me as soon as you get this. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” She hung up without mentioning the murder. If he was out and heard about it, he’d be terrified.
Fear settled in the pit of her stomach. It was irrational to think something would happen to him…the murder had nothing to do with Everett, but rational or not, she couldn’t quell the worry. And she wouldn’t rest until she knew Everett was okay.
Bio:
Alicia Dean began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy.
Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley (she almost always works in a mention of him into her stories) and watching a LOT of television, which she calls research so it doesn’t appear that she’s wasting time.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Krysta Scott with her story, Tormented Whispers…
Fun Fact:
Recently, I had the opportunity to stay in a refurbished motel on route 66 in Flagstaff, Arizona. I was thrilled. My eldest not so much. One of the differences between a motel and hotel is that the location of the door to your room is different. In a motel, the door opens to the sidewalk and parking lot. In a hotel, the door opens to a hallway inside the building.
My eldest didn’t like the exposed feeling of opening the door and stepping right outside. Also, the motel had a huge window facing the parking lot. This meant that anyone who walked by could look into our room. It was a bit unnerving. She insisted that my husband and I occupy the bed closest to the door. Anyone who has watched Schitt’s creek knows that this is the ‘murder bed’. If someone were to break in, the people in that bed will be killed first. I am very pleased she was so concerned for our welfare.
It didn’t help that there was an Embassy Suite right across route 66. We had stayed there last year enjoying the hot breakfast and complimentary cocktails. Some of her objections are raised by Megan at the beginning of the story. Below is a photo of the motel.
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Raelynn Carter used to hear voices as a child but she silenced them long ago. When her boyfriend unceremoniously dumps her, she and a group of her friends embark on a project to renovate an old hotel on route 66. Once there, she encounters a presence, and the voices start talking to her again– unloading their stories of torment, pain and longing.
Attempting to ignore them, she focuses her efforts into repairing the dilapidated hotel. But the voices become more insistent. Then someone dies. At first it looks like an accident but there is something more sinister lurking in the shadows. As the body count rises, Raelynn knows it’s only a matter of time before the evil comes for her.
Excerpt:
I backed away. Another scream pealed out from inside the room. Shit! Someone had gone inside. Tentatively I took a step forward. “Susan?”
No response. I leaned in and flicked on the light. As I did, the lights came on. A gust of wind rose from behind me pushing me across the threshold. The door slammed shut. I turned to wrench it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
A whimper came from the far-left corner. I edged around the bed. A small figure crouched shivering by the wall. “Hello? Can I help you?”
Her head snapped up with wide deer-in-the-headlight eyes. Curly brown hair barely touched her shoulders. She couldn’t be more than seventeen. A rough whisper escaped her lips. “You shouldn’t be here. He’s coming.”
“It’s ok,” As I spoke, I could see my breath. I shivered as I reached out to the girl. “He’s not here now. Why don’t we go outside where it’s warmer.”
She shook her head. “He won’t let me.”
“It’s ok, let me help you.”
The lights flickered. She looked up, her face crumpling into terror. “He’s here.”
I followed the track of her gaze but saw only the ceiling. When I turned back to the girl, she was gone. A quick scan of the bathroom revealed it was empty. A small tremor skittered up my spine. This was the second hallucination in less than an hour. It was time to leave. I rushed to the door, yanking as hard as I could.
A rumble of laughter filled the room. There is no escape!
I yanked harder. My heart hammered in my chest. But the door wouldn’t budge. My hands were so sweaty they slipped on the handle making it hard for me to grip it. Still, I yanked.
The laughter grew more intense until it was shuddering through me. The humming followed urging me to turn my head to the mirror. It glowed in the center. I closed my eyes refusing to do its bidding. It didn’t matter. My feet moved anyway, propelling me until I stood in front of the mirror. My arm flew up and my palm connected with the cold fractured surface. On their own my eyes opened. This time I didn’t see my reflection.
Bio:
Krysta lives in the southwest. She loves anything containing the elements of science fiction, horror and mystery. In addition to the Friday the 13th series, she is the author of a paranormal romance, Shadow Dancer.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Dex Rivers with his story, House on 13th…
Fun Fact:
I researched deadly, quick-acting poisons for the story, but they are surprisingly hard to obtain, so I had to use another murder method. If the authorities check my search history, I’m in big trouble.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
Newlywed Linette Holmes is ecstatic to have found her Mr. Right, but she’s less than enthusiastic about moving into the home he shared with his first wife, who met an untimely end. However, she wants to make him happy, so she reluctantly agrees and moves in, ready to start her new life.
When her husband abandons her for a business trip, she’s stuck alone with his morose housekeeper. Soon, things start to go very wrong and she has a close call she barely escapes. She assumes it’s just an accident, but when the ‘accidents’ escalate, she can’t ignore that her near misses appear more calculated. Is the housekeeper trying to kill her or is something otherworldly at play? When a visitor is killed in the house, she decides it’s time to vacate the premises. But easier said than done. In the beginning, the house didn’t seem to want her there, but now it won’t let her leave.
Excerpt:
“You seem like a good person. I’m glad Brenton found somebody.”
“I’m sure he’s been lonely since he lost Gillian.”
Rex chuckled. “Oh, Brenton doesn’t allow himself to be lonely for long. It’s a shame about what happened to that girl.”
“You mean his wife?”
“No, the other one. Melody Delgado. Did you not hear about that?”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to know, but she said, “Hear about what?”
He winced. “I guess maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, but it wouldn’t be too hard for you to find out.”
“Find out what? Please tell me what what’s going on.”
He hesitated for just a moment, then said, “Your husband was dating this nice little girl. Last May, she had a terrible accident. Right here at the house.”
Fear gripped her throat. “Accident? Is she okay?”
Rex gave a humorless chuckle. “I wouldn’t say she is. Poor girl is dead.”
Linette’s hands shook, and she nearly dropped her coffee cup. “How did she die?” The words trembled out of her.
“Seems she got disoriented and fell down the stairs. Broke her neck. They say she died instantly.”
Fell down the stairs? Regina’s doubts came to mind. Was she right in thinking that Brenton might have had something to do with his wife’s death? Surely the police wondered how two women could suffer accidental deaths in this man’s house. “Where was Brenton?”
“On a business trip. She was staying here at the house while he was gone. I met her a few times. Really nice girl.”
Dread tightened her stomach. “So the police cleared him?”
Rex frowned. “Yeah, the police definitely cleared him. He had a solid alibi he was in Chicago. You don’t suspect your husband of killing her, do you? Why, I know Brenton and there’s no way he’d do something like that.”
She forced a smile. “Of course not. I was just…”
They chatted for a few more minutes but Linette couldn’t recall anything they discussed. Her mind was racing with thoughts of two women who had been with Brenton both dying in this house. And now she had to live here. Chills raced over her flesh. Was she crazy or should she be scared?
Bio:
I live on the East Coast where I spend my free time devouring horror novels. I enjoy them so much, I sometimes wonder if something is wrong with me… To be safe, I decided to channel my affinity for the macabre into writing about it rather than acting it out…you’re welcome.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Stephen B King (NO, not THAT Stephen King – he’sthe Australian one.) with his story, The Grimoire of Caligari…
Fun Fact:
After having 16 books published, I can honestly say I had the most fun I’ve ever had writing The Grimoire of Caligari. My loyal readers know that mostly I write serious psychological thrillers featuring serial killers. A study of the mind when it fractures, is a subject that has always fascinated me. A good friend of mine is a well renowned psychologist (though he works in high stress level recruitment, such as underground mining etc) and my youngest daughter has a degree in criminal psychology and justice (the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree) – both have given me invaluable insights into varying psychosis. I think we would all agree, serial killers must be insane in some form, or another, wouldn’t we? Mass murderers are ‘my thing,’ much to my wife’s chagrin, and I love writing about them.
In this story I was able to tell a tale not only steeped in my favorite subject, but I could also add the dark horror element of trying to reanimate the dead (a respectful nod to my more famous namesake) along with medieval history. Once I had the inspiration of Lucian Brufos’ struggle with deepest grief and guilt imaginable, the words flowed from me as if from a faucet I couldn’t turn off. It was as if they were coming through me, not from me; if that makes sense?
I believe that guilt can be one of the most powerful triggers for psychotic episodes, and poor Lucian blames himself entirely for the tragic death of his wife and twin daughters. Under such circumstances, who of us would not want to bring our loved ones back to life if we possibly could? When Lucian meets The Dark Man, who calls himself Jolly, (a character I have featured in two previous books: Glimpse, the Tender Killer, and Glimpse, the Angel Shot) he is flung headlong into the search for The Grimoire of Caligari. Caligari was a famous wizard who was burnt at the stake by the Catholic Church in Italy five hundred years before. Jolly assures Lucian he knows where the Grimoire had been buried, and that it contains the spells necessary to assist in a black magic ceremony to bring back Lucian’s wife and daughters from the grave. Lucian is more than willing to do anything to make that happen, despite a young girl who resembles an antique doll who repeatedly warns him not to, and that he will die if he continues.
The question for the reader is: Is Jolly a figment of Lucian’s troubled mind, or could he be some evil entity forcing him to comply?
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Ancient history lecturer Lucian Brufos has suffered the worst tragedy imaginable; his wife and twin daughters were killed in a car accident leaving him alone and so depressed he attempts to end his life. When he wakes he refuses to speak and is committed to a psychiatric ward for evaluation where he meets The Dark Manwho calls himself Jolly. Jolly assures Lucian he can help bring Lucian’s family back from the grave, but to do so, he must find one of the world’s most famous wizards in history’s book of spells, The Grimoire of Caligari.
Excerpt:
“Lucian,” he said softly that first time he spoke in his sickly syrupy voice. “Lucian, can you hear me?”
I turned slowly, feeling some invisible hand tugging on my forehead, so I had to look at him. He was sitting on a straight-backed chair alongside me, which I don’t recall being there before. He wore a long black jacket, the kind a pilgrim father might wear, a black shirt with a black string bow tie. I glanced down and noted his pants were black, as were the western-style boots with scuffed toes. He held what looked like an ancient Bible, though I didn’t see a cross embossed on its cover, so it may not have been a holy book. “There’s no need to speak if you don’t want to; just think of any words you might have and project them. I can hear your thoughts just as easily as if you speak, so don’t fret. Or you can nod for yes and shake for no if you prefer. Is that all right with you, Lucian?”
I recall, with absolute clarity, that I turned back to the window and thought, please, just go away and leave me alone.
And then, something weird happened. It was as clear as a bell tolling out midnight. I heard him speak, but this time, not with my ears, but in my mind. “Oh yes, Lucian, I could leave you alone to suffer in your silent world of pain and angst. But then, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to show you how you could be reunited with Connie and the twins, could I? There is a way I can help you do that, but the question is, are you brave enough to converse with me to find out how to reanimate their corpses?”
Bio:
I left school very early to join a rock band, and spent a few years writing poems, short stories and music. I’ve won two short story writing competitions, had poems published, and enjoyed being a long-haired rock guitarist before life got in the way and I settled down, married and had children. I’ve owned my own businesses and managed large vehicle sales dealerships and observed people from all walks of life. It is these observations which has aided in creating characters. Contact me at: steve@stephen-b-king.com. Tell me if you think Jolly is real……..
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Mary Coley with her story, The Thirteenth Victim…
Fun Fact:
I spent the night as a guest in the house I’ve written about, and decided it would be a locale for future stories! Spirits are lurking everywhere.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
Serial killer Zander Murphee’s hunt for his Thirteenth Victim gets derailed when he moves into a Tulsa mansion and the neighbors come calling.
Excerpt:
As the elevator car inched upward, Zander studied the interior. Padded leather walls on three sides, stained carpet on the floor. The elevator jerked to a stop.
The door remained closed. He punched the OPEN button. Nothing. He punched TWO again. The elevator twitched.
He punched ONE hoping the contraption would return to the first floor of the house. The low hum of the motor didn’t change.
Sweat trickled through his eyebrows and into his eyes. His vision blurred. He blinked and peered at the inspection sticker again. Now it appeared to show an inspection date of fifty years ago, not last month. He rubbed his eyes and they stung with his perspiration.
The elevator lurched. The lightbulb in the sconce flickered once, twice, three times and went out.
“Freaking elevator. Help!”
He pounded on the wall even though he knew Desiree was long gone. He punched on the flashlight feature of his cell phone and shone it on the elevator’s control panel. He punched each of the keys with no result. The elevator didn’t even twitch.
Was there an exit panel on the roof? He shone the flashlight up.
A grinning head hung suspended in space above him. A drop of drool eased over the bottom lip of the apparition and fell past his face to the stained carpet at his feet. A wave of cold air passed over him. He froze in place. More drool cascaded down from the mouth of the distorted wide-eyed face.
Bio:
Mary Coley usually writes mysteries. As an early reader with a voracious reader father, she was exposed to horror early on through Edgar Allan Poe, HP Lovecraft and Stephen King. She says that her story, The Thirteenth Victim, was easy to write, and “felt like coming home” in many ways. She recalls that her first penned stories in middle school were horror stories.
Coley set her story in Tulsa, OK, where she has lived for more than 25 years. Her character, Zander Murphee, is an antique dealer and an undiscovered serial killer. Intending to continue his murderous pursuits in a new locale, he relocates to Tulsa and buys an historic oil mansion with the help of Desiree Smythe, a gorgeous realtor who is assisting with a for-sale-by-owner house.
Both the mansion and Desiree meet all his expectations, but all is not as it seems. Zander encounters unwanted visitors to his home on the day he moves in, including insects, rodents, and—he refuses to believe it—ghosts.
Coley has eight published mysteries, a non-fiction children’s book and numerous short stories to her credit. In 2018 she won the Tony Hillerman Award from New Mexico/Arizona books, and was awarded the Oklahoma Book Award for Fiction in 2022 for her mystery, Blood on the Mother Road. Visit her website at https://www.marycoley.com .
The Thirteenth Victim will appear as a Friday the 13th Story, releasing January 13, 2023 on Amazon as an ebook, and in the anthology of the same name which includes 13 creepy stories by 13 authors.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Brenda Clark Thomas with her story, The Surrogate…
Fun Fact:
I got the idea for my story after I did research on abandoned asylums. I learned that some of those places had back exits where they rolled coffins down a tunnel and into waiting hearses in order for the patients not to see how many people were dying.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
When Heather’s sister goes missing, she enters a photo contest to pay for a detective, but gets trapped in the abandoned sanatorium she’s photographing. An apparition with information appears but refuses to share until Heather agrees to do something she’s never dared to do.
Excerpt:
Ashley ran through the front doors, picked her way down the cleared stairs, and into the morgue. The flashlight’s beam hit the wall, and then the plaster littered floor. It moved in an arc and lit the bag and tripod. She swept the beam across the room. The camera lay on its side by the medicine cabinet. She walked over and picked it up.
The morgue door slammed shut.
Screaming, she ran to it, yanked the metal handle, and pounded. “Help! Help! I can’t get out!”
She raced to the window and climbed up on the chair. The police car, fire truck, and ambulance bounced down the road and out of sight.
How could they leave her like this? But then Ronnie Carpenter wasn’t the brightest. He was probably too busy trying to get in front of that firetruck with his lights and siren to think of anything else.
She sat beside the rucksack and started to cry. Her parents thought she was spending the night with Heather. No one would realize she was missing until tomorrow. For now, she was stuck in the basement.
Wait, the bum had escaped through the coffin chute, so maybe she could get out that way too. But what if he were hiding in there? Or there were snakes?
She swept the flashlight across the room and shuddered at the blood-smeared cement. Three black feathers lay in a pile. Someone performed voodoo in this room.
The camera came on all by itself. She picked it up, then stared in disbelief. The preview screen showed a transparent hand and fingers touching the basement wall.
The camera flipped to the next shot of a ghostly child barely discernable in the gloom.
The picture changed again. This time the face of the snarling bum with wicked eyes glared at her.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
She switched the camera off and sat listening to the wind rattling the leaves outside the hole in the window. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, she wrapped her arms around herself. She’d have to go through the tunnel, even if he were out there somewhere. It was better than staying here.
Far down the coffin chute, the rusty spring creaked as the door opened. Footsteps limped down the shaft.
Step. Slide. Step. Slide.
The bum jumped down into the room.
She swung the flashlight’s beam onto the man. A dirty, blood-soaked rag covered one eye.
He slapped his palm with a pipe. “Brandon said you was purty. Yessir, He was right. My little blondie.”
Bio:
Brenda Clark Thomas is the 2020 fiction runner-up of the prestigious Poets and Writers Maureen Egen Writers Exchange Award. She writes speculative fiction with a literary bent. Most recently, she’s concentrated on writing horror. Her flash fiction, “The Fire Man,” is slated to appear in a Crystal Lake Publishing anthology soon.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Tamrie Foxtail with her story, Strangers on a Street…
Fun Fact:
There’s a train that runs through my town around ten at night and occasionally (though with less predictability) in the mid-morning. On the one hand I love the sound of the train, on the other, there’s a little, macabre corner of my mind that waits for the sound of a crash.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
Amy Lee dreams of escaping her brutal husband. Following a chance encounter in a grocery store her dream becomes a reality. Or has it become a nightmare? The stranger down the street is threatening to turn over evidence that she’s guilty of murdering her own husband unless Amy helps rid him of his wife. Can Amy escape a madman’s threats? Or will she be forced to resort to murder to keep the freedom she’s only recently gained?
A Friday the 13th Short Story: 13 authors ~ 13 suspenseful stories. Murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th… Find each story in the series on Amazon.
Excerpt:
“Prison. Such a nasty place. And of course, they’ll think you murdered your husband so you could collect the life insurance. You’ll lose the money. When you get out of prison, you’ll have nothing. Except a record, of course. Such a pity.”
“The police will never believe I killed him.”
“Of course, they will. If they start to think the accident that killed your husband might not have been an accident…they’ll start to investigate. They’ll start asking who would have had reason to kill him. The spouse is always the first suspect. When I tell them I saw him hit you they’ll start checking into the number of times you’ve been in the ER. They’ll start looking at who he spent time with. They’ll come up with Maddie Crown. They’ll check her alibi and her husband’s of course. They’ll come up with a theory that you either found out about his lover—perhaps he told you he was going to leave you for her—they’ll come up with three motives.” He held up one finger.
“One, you found out about the affair and killed him.”
He held up a second finger. “Two, you killed him to end the abuse.”
A third finger joined the first two. “Three, you murdered your husband in order to collect the life insurance.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps all three. It’s simple. You waited by the tracks and flagged him down. You hit him with something in order to stun him or render him unconscious. It didn’t take strength to get the car from the RR crossing to the tracks. You inherit the house, the life insurance. You get out of an abusive marriage. You have plenty of motive. I have none. Just like you have no motive to murder my wife, while I’ll inherit plenty of life insurance, the house, etcetera.”
He stood and slipped the bracelet into his pocket. “I’ll be in touch, Amy.”
Bio:
Tamrie Foxtail was raised in the sunshine state. She married the best man she ever met, an Okie who brought her to the Sooner State.
She loves books, carousels, scrapbooking, and coffee. She works with the special education program in her local school district.
Happy 2023! It’s almost release day for a series of horror short stories revolving around Friday the 13th. I will be sharing each story on my post, one per day. Today, I’m pleased to welcome Connor Treadwaywith their story, Rosemary…
Fun Fact:
Connor Treadway is the pen name for a writing team based in northeastern Florida. When brainstorming ideas for the story, they realized “Old Florida” is the perfect setting for a horror story with Gothic flair.
*** Pre-Order the Friday the 13th stories for only 99 cents!!!
Disturbing dreams that feel all too real…
When Ivy Powers inherits her great-aunt’s gorgeous but neglected Victorian home, it feels like a dream come true. Recently divorced and eager to leave a job she hates, Ivy relocates from New Jersey to Passaway, Florida. The tiny hamlet is the type of place tourists visit for a taste of Old Florida–spanish moss dripping from craggy old oak trees and gators in the swamps.
Ivy’s dream soon turns into a nightmare when she begins renovations on the old house and its overgrown rose gardens. Her sleep is plagued by visions of a shrouded woman, a reflecting ball, and the scent of rosemary, which lingers even after she wakes. The mysterious old man who watches from an attic window next door also spooks her, until he persuades her to join him for tea in the garden, an afternoon custom he shared with his late wife.
Are the dark forces invading Ivy’s dreams a threat…or a warning? Can she find the truth before it’s too late or will the garden claim her and bury her with the rest of its secrets?
A Friday the 13th Short Story: 13 authors ~ 13 suspenseful stories. Murder and mayhem on Friday the 13th… Find each story in the series on Amazon.
Excerpt:
Tonight, the pockets of shadows created by great swags of Spanish moss and dense sprawl of bushes seemed darker and denser. Instead of guarding the garden’s secrets, the inky depths yawned like gaping chasms into some kind of hellish underground. Rosemary hunched in the wheelchair, pulling the blanket higher as if to ward off some vague threat.
“I’m safe here,” she reminded herself in a whisper, slowly scanning the area as if to identify the source of her disquiet.
Everything appeared unchanged—the sprawling canopy of live oak limbs, the looping ropes of kudzu and spiky palmetto fans, the path of cracked stone pavers that zig-zagged off in both directions, the squares of yellow light from nearby houses masked by leafy branches, the gleam of the sun’s final glow flaming ominously in the mirrored gazing ball set atop a pedestal on the other edge of the clearing where Rosemary had set up the bistro table and chairs years ago after she and Jeremiah were first married.
Finally, she realized what was different. It was the silence. No cicadas sang. No whippoorwills called from the woods. Not even a mosquito hummed in the clinging shroud of moisture. Usually, summer nights buzzed with a riot of sound—the deafening roar of cicadas, the hoot of barred owls, the scrabble of lizards in the undergrowth, the muted sounds of domestic activities as neighbors settled in for the night, the musical clatter of windchimes, the huff and puff of wind as if the garden itself was inhaling and exhaling.
The quiet swelled into a pulsing presence that filled the garden, throbbing against Rosemary’s eardrums, immobilizing her body, blurring her vision. She wondered if she was having a heart attack, but the sharp snap of fingers inches from her nose pulled her from the invisible mire.
“Goddamn, woman. It’s too early to fall asleep.” Jeremiah’s tone was harsh, impatient, angry. Blinking to clear her sight, Rosemary cringed away from her husband’s scowl which suddenly transformed into a benevolent grin that was somehow even more frightening. “Don’t want you to miss our evening tradition, my dear. Time for me and you. Together. Just us. All alone in your beautiful garden.”
Bio:
Connor Treadway is a pen name for the writing team behind Gothic thrillers and mysteries. The duo is based in northeastern Florida.
Author Alicia Dean 