With our third birthday today, I look back at all the wonderful memories.
First, we changed our brand, from being a mag to being a journal. Thus, The Dark Sire Literary Journal was born! Changing the brand also meant changing our appearance – the look and feel of TDS. With this change, we simplified the process to create a sleek cover that depicts the season and content without giving away the content.
Second, we went digital because our readers wanted more ONLINE content. So, we overhauled our blog, The Dark Forest, to house our featured writers, poets, and artists, as well as TDS interviews and articles. We even continued publishing serializations and brought back the 3 original titles: Kyuuketsuki by S.M. Cook, Vampyre Paladin by Brenda Stephens, and The Last Summer by Frances Tate. Though we decided to focus on online content, we still plan to publish paperback collections.
And lastly, we published a great list of exceptionally talented creatives. To name a few of those creatives: Quinn Graham, Lori M. Myers, Anthony Santiago, June Trop, Margaret Roarty, B. L. Tucker, Krista Canterbury Adams, Kaleb Tutt, Rami Ungar, Shaun Power, Jennifer McIntyre, Paul D. Coombs, Natalie Harris-Spencer, Quinn Ponds, Kyla Stan, Jennifer Robbins, P. T. Corwin, Clive Owen Barry, Kerry E.B. Black, M. A. Stevenson, and ShallieD. And let’s not forget about the featured blog content in The Dark Forest, with work from SAMIR SIRK MORATÓ, LISA ROSE, LOGAN MCCONNELL, KEEGAN MILANO, DEE ESPINOZA, ZACHARY TOOMBS, MAUREEN MANCINI AMATURO, DAVID CRERAND, and MARA S. AKRAM. The Dark Forest also included author interviews through The Creative Nook feature, of the above authors but also to include DAN KLEFSTAD, RAMI UNGAR, and SUE M. SWANK, who wrote about her experience as a psychic in our Reality Meets Fiction feature. We’ve done too many things to list it all, and we had fun doing!
And now, here we are, celebrating our 3rd birthday and facing year four down the barrel. What’s to come in 2023? We’re not sure. But one thing is for certain… we’re here to stay! We can’t wait to get to work on the paperback collections, feature more creatives, and publish original serializations on a weekly basis. However, before we do that, we’re taking a break. With the holidays coming up, we want – need – to center on family and mental well-being. That said, we’ll return bright and new in January.
Anyone who wishes to become part of the TDS family and tradition can still submit their work. When we return, we will eagerly read and view your submissions for publication in February. In fact, here’s our next call for submissions:
We want VALENTINE’S DAY horror stories and gothic tales. Think: Frankenstein and His Bride, Michael Jackson’s Thriller video, and Poe’s Hop Frog or Anabel Lee. Heartbreaking, creepy, to die for. Deadline: January 15, 2023 SUBMIT via the TDS Website
Thanks to all our wonderful writers, poets, artists, and readers for such a great year! With all your support, next year is sure to be even better.
Welcome to the third year anniversary celebration, where we present three of our favorite Halloween stories. Last but not least is SNOWFALL by the brilliant Mara S. Akram. This story is inspired by the Swiss folk legend of the undead hunter Türst and his three-legged hounds. To end the celebration, we give you a nightmare come to life!
SNOWFALL
I knew it would be that night and not the next.
Maybe it was the moon that told me, its honeyed light poured in through the spine of the cabin as I lay snug under the warm covers, my face bathed in the orange light of the fire.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Ama’s words all those years ago. ‘Magic happens when no one’s looking,’ she had told me. Ever since, I had been determined to see it – to know for certain it existed.
So much had happened since the last Light’s Giving. With Ama gone and my mother a shell of herself, I needed something to prove life still held meaning, still held magic. But everyone knew not to go out on the nights before Light’s Giving. All the stories said that whoever saw Türst was never seen from again. Those were the stories the Elders told. The stories Ama had told. But I, for one, had never seen anyone disappear, except those who died and were buried in the cold ground. And besides, my best friend Kilan said the stories were just there to scare children into doing what they were told.
On the other side of the dying flames, my mother’s rumpled form lay obscured beneath a heap of dark pelts. She would not even notice my absence, I was sure. A quick look and I would be back before the flames in the fire had dulled to embers.
I didn’t give myself long to think about it. I pulled on one thick skinned boot and then the other, wrapping myself in Ama’s old cloak. I pulled the hood down over my hair as I pinched my body through the small door and out into the milky silence of the night.
I made my way down the narrow path, enjoying the delicate snowfall that kissed my lips and nose. The cabins looked like snug snow boots, their wood frames wrapped in animal skins, barring out the cold. So quiet a night, and still I was not worried. I should have noticed that even the forest had gone quiet. That not one animal made a sound as I passed close to its shadowy edge.
Kilan said it was the Elders who buried the tribute beneath the crooked yew tree themselves, that they wanted to keep the rest of us fearful; believing in old magic, believing in shadowy creatures that lurked deep within the forest but secretly I hoped he was wrong.
The altar fire had all but died under the chill night air. Across the ravine, the field stretched out, yellow moonlight glinting on the unbroken snow. I stood for a long time, watching my clouds of breath in the snowfall. Even the gentle sound of my boot crunching against the snow seemed loud in the stillness.
The sound when it came was distant at first but sharpened suddenly. It was something like the jangle of tiny bells followed by a slow grating sound.
The noise made my chest tense. I fell to the ground behind the altar bracing myself against the stone. As I peered out across the field, I saw nothing but the wide expanse of glistening snow. Then the sound was gone and for a moment I was sure I had imagined it. I rolled over in the snow, feeling the relief of the steady rise and fall of my chest.
I leaned into the altar, gripping the edge to stand but as I pulled myself up, a movement caught my eye on the far side of the field. I froze, crouched, halfway between kneeling and standing. The world seemed to be spinning as I watched a shadow move out of the forest. My chest ached for breath but still I could not breathe as I watched the shadow lengthen and stretch across the snow, slick and stealthy as oil.
I didn’t wait to see the shadow’s body as it came out of the forest. I gasped in the cold night air and pressed myself flat against the snow. It would not see me behind the altar. It would never know I was there.
For a moment it was impossibly quiet except for the gentle snicker of the dying embers in the altar above. Even the wind seemed to have silenced itself in the presence of whatever now moved out across the snow. There was a pressure to the air, like the feeling of having one’s head under water. I raised my head and rolled on my side, trying to get free of the murkiness that had filled the air.
That was when I saw it.
Türst stood frozen at the edge of the field.
Everyone knew Türst was a man, or at least that he had been at one time. But the shadowy figure I saw now was so far from being a man I couldn’t reconcile myself to calling him one.
The dragging sound resumed as the dark figure advanced across the white. Behind it, a trail of piteous creatures hobbled along – Türst’s three-legged hunting dogs. To call them hunting dogs seemed wrong. Their skeletal frames trembled in the still air, as if each step were painful.
I was so entranced by the sight, that my head inched up, over the edge of the altar to take in the full view of Türst and his dogs as they moved across the field. As I peered over the dying embers, I saw a glimmer of silver nestled between Türst’s bone white fingers. My heart danced in my chest at the sight of it. Silver. A gift from the lake beneath the mountain, the place where all dead things were said to go and from which some, like Türst and his hounds, returned each year. It was a strange mixture of glee and terror that filled my chest as my eyes tracked Türst across the field. Each long stride was as slow and inevitable as the dark pool of blood that clotted the snow around the great sow’s body after each Light’s Giving.
I could not look away though my mind screamed at me to do so. The same voice that had pulled me out of the ice when I was seven. The one that had told me to jump off Myra’s sleigh before it went crashing down the ravine. The voice that had saved my life on more than one occasion was pleading with me to turn away, to crawl back to the cabin, to shut my eyes and turn my back on the open field where Türst and his hounds had come to do their work.
But though the voice pleaded with me, I found my body would not move. It remained rigid, peering over the altar, knees anchored in the snow, fingers almost frozen to the altar’s base, gripping the stone like two pale spiders.
It was the sound that broke the spell. The sound that unchained my body from the altar.
It was a wholly unnatural sound, like life breathed into stone. Türst was speaking to his hounds and in that moment, I knew that somehow, he knew I was there.
My body acted even as my mind remained frozen at the base of the altar. My hands and legs pushed me back. Away, away. The only words that came to me. I chanted them silently, trying to keep as low as possible, grateful for the monstrous height of the fire altar. If I could just make it behind the last cabin, I could stand and run the rest of the way.
A terrible sound rooted me to the ground. The howl of the hounds sounded like a chorus of dying animals. There was a reason magic happened when no one was looking. The creatures that wielded magic were hideous and beyond nature’s care. They were indifferent to time and suffering, to pain and joy. I knew these things instantly the moment I heard the howl of the hounds and the chilling sound of their scampering legs covering the distance across the field to where I lay planted in the snow like an offering.
The scampering legs and low whines grew louder as the hounds descended into the ravine. Shock and fear shot through me as my head collided with something hard. I turned, expecting to see the dark wood of the base of the cabin, but instead I found myself looking up at a boot.
I could barely recognize Kilan’s voice as he pulled me up and pushed me behind the cabin. ‘Run! Don’t stop!’
The world melted. I choked and gasped for air, but still I ran.
A safe world. I needed to get back to a world where Kilan was right, and I was wrong. But behind me the hideous howling continued to fill the air.
I did not wait to hear the sound of life breathed into stone again, and when the scream came, I didn’t stop.
Mara S. Akram is a Pakistani-American writer living in Switzerland. An alumna of the Author Mentor Match mentorship program, her fiction writing has appeared in the archeo-fantasy novella The Eye of the Ocean. When not reading, writing or drawing, she can probably be found getting lost in the Swiss countryside. To connect with Mara, visit her on Twitter or at www.art4mara.com.
What do you think of Mara’s story? Let us know with a comment. And… be sure to come back at 1pm for another featured story. We hope you enjoyed the party and will keep it rolling in 2023, when we come back for a whole new year of literature, art, and fun!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
Welcome to the third year anniversary celebration, where we present three of our favorite Halloween stories. The second story is A MATTER OF PRIDE by the award-winning author David Crerand. This story tells the tale of a vampire who swears to show no mercy. Let’s continue the celebration with a darker note that takes an unapologetic bite!
A MATTER OF PRIDE
The great plague, known as the Black Death, was a decade into its methodical crawl across Europe. City populations were being halved. Rural communities were being decimated and some smaller villages were even disappearing from maps. All of the religions were being sorely tested by humanity’s general loss of faith in any of the gods they habitually prayed to.
For two years now, I had been following the burning funereal pyres. I moved alongside the path that was being blazed by the sickness. I hid all my bodies amongst its millions. With death such a constant presence all around me, it became even more urgent that I secure blood for my own survival before it might become corrupted by the disease and, therefore, useless to me.
I took a step back, deeper into the shadows, watching her approach. Even from a few yards away, I could see the vacant stare that clouded her vision. The burden of perpetual grief, the draining toil of dragging her life’s pain. She plodded along the darkened alley oblivious to her surroundings, her ability to look out for her own safety stripped away by the numbness that her life had become.
I felt her weakness and frailty as soon as I put my hand on her shoulder. I had been prepared to use the soothing power of my voice to convince her to come with me, but as soon as she turned to face me, I saw it was not necessary. It appeared almost as if she was meeting her death willingly. With all of the battering life had delivered her so far, my assault was simply its final insult.
I fed upon her gently, and she gave me no struggle. It was as if she acquiesced her blood to me rather than forcing me to steal it. As she grew weak and collapsed against me, I maintained my deadly contact and continued to empty her, while sweeping her up into my arms. I hugged her close, like a lover, for any who might glance our way.
A large bonfire, fed by a steady stream of corpses carried from the houses of the village, burned just off the alley’s end. I carried this now drained vessel to the fire. I walked past several others, engaged in equally morbid activities. No one paid me any mind. No one noticed that the corpse I carried was neither blackened nor blistered with the tell-tale traces of plague. They saw only another body. I tossed the almost weightless bundle on to the top of the blaze and moved off into the night.
I felt little energy, even though I had just fed. I craved blood that was emboldened by the lives its donors were living. What I was being forced to survive on in the streets was a pale substitute.
The terrible stranglehold of the epidemic was crushing the throat of the continent, but creating ideal conditions for predators such as myself. These were times of such worldwide tragedy and personal loss, gut-splitting fear and desperation, and even grief-stricken madness, that many people simply fled or wandered off, leaving too many disappearances for authorities to investigate any of them.
I was not thrilled by the drastic change in living conditions brought on by the current situation. After all, I am an immortal. I will live forever. So long as I continue to find clean blood upon which to feed, I reminded myself. But time was on my side. I smiled. Time was always on my side. I had survived the countless years of war that man had waged upon one another. I had survived other contagious outbreaks, natural disasters, and other scourges that had swept the world and the resultant declines in my lifestyle had only been temporary. This time, however, felt differently to me.
I was being forced to move every few weeks, and though I had been very successful in finding and securing temporary shelter in subterranean caverns in the nearby woods, I missed the luxury of my estate back in my homeland. In my past, feeding was not only a necessity, it was a passion. The selection of the prize, the thrill of the planning, the exhilaration of the capture. The kill, my god, the kill. Blood pumping, spurting from wounds. The tearing of cloth and flesh. The smells, not of death, but those of dying. Sweat, the coppery scent of fresh blood, the palpable fear. The sounds of life surrendering and subsiding. The pounding, pulsing and surging of a new victim’s life force rushing through me, creating a new chapter in this unending story. This was to truly sense immortality, I realized. This is how I came to understand my need to live forever.
But hunting had become feeding. And feeding had devolved into simply overpowering any weakling who had wandered too far from the herd. Survival was now a case of gathering the low hanging fruit in order to continue my existence. I needed to ride out this competition with an ‘un-natural’ natural competitor until it either fizzled out or destroyed humanity entirely. Some things after all, did remain out of my control.
Surely, you think me some cold-hearted bastard, for amidst the death of millions, I mourn the lifestyle that has been wrenched away from me. The glorious march of an imperial immortal has been forced to descend to the daily plodding of a field hand at harvest. The richness of the life I had lived gave eternity substance and purpose. The blood of the dead gave me the power to understand the purpose of living, and bear witness to man’s rise and ultimate fall. The excitement, pomp and ceremony of court. The glorious gowns, bright lights and champagne of nights of theatre and opera. These were the things replaced by dark, dingy alleyways of anonymous death. Living at night had once again become hiding in the darkness, and I had thought those days long gone. The grandness of my life had been swept away, and I was angry. I had always thought of my life, after having received the gift from my maker, as a personal achievement of Nirvana. My current life had become tiny and insignificant. I needed it to be huge once more.
Weeks later, I had moved many miles to the south, seeking warmer weather. I came upon a gypsy encampment, which, after a hard day’s travel, had settled for the night. The plague, still present in that region of the country, was now taking the children of the parents it had taken on the first outbreak.
The moon had slid behind a sheath of clouds as I crept up to the closest wagon. It was standing a little apart from the others, no lights shown within, and it was quiet inside. I climbed quietly into the back of the wagon. There, sleeping among all the barrels and bundles of the life they hoped to live somewhere else, were a mother and her young son. The mother was in her twenties, the boy four, perhaps five. The young child looked a lot like his mother. I leaned in close to the boy’s face and took a gentle sniff. The trace was faint, but clearly there. The boy had the sickness. The child was doomed.
I turned to face his mother. As I did, a beam of moonlight pierced the clouds, streamed through the little window of the wagon and fell upon her face. I leaned in close, inhaling her exhalation. It was fresh, untainted, available. I looked back over at the sick child. Surely this mother would become infected caring for her dying child, I thought. My actions this night would save her from witnessing her own child’s horrible and painful death, while granting her a peaceful transition rather than one of agony.
Though my bite is gentle, she stirs and awakens. She begins to struggle against me, while still remaining silent, hoping to not awaken the sleeping child. I leaned more of my weight into her, pushing her deep down into the bedding, severely limiting her ability to strike up at me. She bucks frantically trying to throw me off. I cover her mouth with my palm, the fingers of my hand splayed out across her cheek, and turn her face into the pillow, opening her neck to my attack. I re-establish contact with her wound and begin to, once more, extract her essence. She starts to quiet beneath me, and I believe that she is exhausted and surrendering. But then, I feel her lips, quivering insistently against the palm of my hand. She is trying to speak to me, imploring me. She totally abandons her struggles, no more kicking and thrashing, becoming more insistent in making me feel her words. Her eyes plead with me. Her heart reaches out to mine. I know that I shouldn’t but I relinquish and remove my hand.
“My son,” she whispers, “please, don’t take my son.”
For some reason I choose not to tell her that her son is already dead.
“I know what you need,” she begged. “Blood. You need blood, yes?”
I nodded slowly, remaining silent.
“You can have mine,” she said earnestly. “You can have mine and leave his, no?”
I hesitated a moment before giving her an answer. “I shall not take your son’s blood.”
My words calmed her, and she settled into her fate, assuming she had secured her son’s. I drained the rest of her blood quickly, gently closed her eyes and crossed her hands peacefully across her chest. I turned to her sleeping child.
“I have made a promise to your mother,” I told him, though he still slept. “And I shall keep my word. I will not take your blood.” I paused and looked once more at the peaceful, resting face of the young woman beside him. “But I will not have you suffer. I do this for her.”
Carefully I removed the pillow from beneath the sleeping boy’s head. I gently brushed one reluctant curl back off the boy’s forehead and gazed for a moment upon the angelic face of the innocent. Quickly straddling the child, one knee on either side of his little chest, I slammed the pillow down over the boy’s face. Immediately awake, he began to struggle and try to call out for his mother beside him. His muffled cries went unanswered and he struggled in vain to break free from someone that was so much larger and stronger than he was. I held firm for the two minutes it took for the boy to finally still.
My anger overtook me at that moment. I had done something I could never have imagined doing. I had killed out of compassion. I had taken a life for some noble purpose rather than to just destroy and feed. My wrath drove me to smash the little oil lantern and set the gypsy wagon ablaze before storming off into the night.
I reached a critical crossroad that evening. I made a few reaffirming determinations that evening as well.
I determined that having eternal life was all about living eternally, not surviving eternally. The quality of the gift of immortality is significantly diminished if the individual blessed to revel in it doesn’t have the hedonistic integrity to indulge it completely. I determined that if I was supposed to be a vile, vicious monster, then, goddamn it, it was time I returned to being a vile, vicious monster, instead of some community street cleaner.
For, I am a hunter. I will kill you. And I will drink your blood.
David Crerand enjoys telling stories and has been writing as a hobby for many years. He has been published in Lost Worlds, Crossroads, Dogwood Tales, Abhelion Webzine, and Honeyguide Magazine. His work on The Village Series won him The Dark Sire Award in 2021. To connect with David, visit him on Facebook and Twitter.
What do you think of David’s story? Let us know with a comment. And… be sure to come back at 3pm for another featured story. The party keeps rolling – don’t miss it!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
Welcome to the third year anniversary celebration, where we present three of our favorite Halloween stories. First up is WHEN DR. JEKYLL AND HIS WIFE, SYBIL, VISITED A MARRIAGE COUNSELOR by the ever-talented Maureen Mancini Amaturo. This story is a comedy that uses the Jekyll story in a new way. To start the celebration, we kick off with an interesting story that sure to make you laugh!
WHEN DR. JEKYLL AND HIS WIFE, SYBIL, VISITED A MARRIAGE COUNSELOR
It wasn’t her moods that confounded him. It was her impermanence. Even with his scientific background, Dr. Henry Jekyll could not deduce exactly what was the issue with his wife, Sybil, but he knew, surely, it was more than hormones. Henry and Sybil would make plans, make promises, make love, but more times than not, neither would recall any of it. He guarded his own secret that explained his side of the issue, but he was at a loss wondering, what is it with her?
Almost a full year of marriage now, and things were not getting better with time. One grey, biting, winter day, Henry and Sybil Jekyll agreed to seek professional help. They phoned a marriage counselor and made an appointment for the following week. At Henry’s insistence, they wrote down what they had agreed on. He feared neither of them would recall they had made this pact since Henry Jekyll often found himself with long intervals of blank memory, as did his wife. Using this note and lucid moments, they committed to their agreement until the appointment day arrived.
“Doctor and Mrs. Jekyll?” A woman—starched and stiff-lipped, her black hair wrenched back to a taut, small bun, her nose like the blade of an ax—entered the waiting room. Henry and Sybil stood. “Come with me, please.” The couple followed her down the hall to a door that read Lawrence Talbot, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.
Talbot greeted both of them with a nod and indicated they should sit. Dr. Jekyll rested his top hat on his lap. Sybil clutched her purse to her chest and kept her head down. She melted into her chair, shoulders curled forward, knees together. She barely whispered, “How do you do?”
Talbot opened a notebook atop his desk and raised his pen. “I never take appointments this late in the day. I always leave the office before dusk. But when you called, Dr. Jekyll, you sounded so troubled that I agreed to meet this afternoon.” Lawrence Talbot checked his watch. “We should get started.” He turned to Mrs. Jekyll. “Sybil, please tell me–”
“My name is Victoria. Address me properly, s’il vous plait.” Sybil’s posture straightened and her neck elongated. She adjusted her purse and brushed an invisible speck of lint from her forearm. She stared directly at Talbot.
Talbot turned to Henry Jekyll. “Victoria?”
Henry shrugged.
Sybil shifted in her seat. “I, personally, did not feel the need for this, but all the others were in agreement.”
“The others?” Talbot asked.
She shrugged in resignation.
Talbot assumed she was referring to her husband. “And you, Dr. Jekyll, are you willing to participate with a face of patience and honesty? If not, I’m afraid we won’t accomplish much.”
Sybil began to giggle. “As for what face he participates with, well, that’s anybody’s guess.” She crossed her legs, pulled her skirt above her knees, and pushed the chair to her left a few inches.
“Victoria, what exactly do you mean by that?”
“I’m Peggy Lou. Get it straight, Talbot.” She punched the arm of her chair.
“You said you were Victoria.”
“Not anymore. Victoria split. She’s not the type to talk about personal stuff like this. She didn’t even want us to come. This is all just too uncouth for a dame like her.”
“Peggy Lou, is it? Why don’t you use your given name, Sybil?”
“Because that’s not my name. And Sybil is a weakling.”
“I see.” Lawrence Talbot did not see at all and made a few notes. He looked at Henry Jekyll who put his hands up.
Talbot pointed to Dr. Jekyll with his pen. “Perhaps, you can tell me what the issue is.”
Dr. Jekyll fingered the brim of his hat. “My friends warned me that a woman becomes a different person after marriage. Cliché bachelor talk, I thought. With Sybil, I was sure I married the woman who would understand me, would accept that at times I would need my isolation. Sybil seemed to be someone I could trust, someone who would always be there for me. Her unpredictability—and that is all I thought it was at the time—was a trait that attracted me when we were courting. I admired her creativity and wrote off her repeated changes in voice, appearance, and demeanor as calculated flirtation. The fact that she executed it so well intrigued me.” He pulled a monogramed handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “In my line of work, a constant wife who honors the privacy within a marriage is of the utmost import. Her respect for privacy remains true, but constant she isn’t.”
“Just what is your line of work, Doctor?” Talbot asked.
Henry looked down at the hat on his lap. “I study the multiple sides of man’s nature.”
Talbot felt the hair on his arms stand, his shoulders stiffen. He tugged at his collar to loosen his tie. He felt an intense heat crawl up his neck and across his face. “I see.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his notes to avoid eye contact with Dr. Jekyll. “And would you say, Mrs. Jekyll–”
Sybil stood and pointed right between Talbot’s eyes. “Peggy Lou. Got it? Peggy Lou! Cut the Mrs. Jekyll crap.”
Henry Jekyll leaned forward. “See what I mean?”
“Peggy Lou, I assume you heard what your husband just shared.”
“I’m not deaf.”
Talbot shook his head. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort.” Talbot turned to a clean page in his notebook. “Peggy Lou, I’d like to hear your side of the story.”
“Here it is, plain and simple. Sometimes, the handsome, brilliant doctor I married becomes a cruel monster, an absolute monster.”
“I see.” Talbot made notes. “What behavior, exactly, makes you describe him as a monster?”
“Oh, it ain’t just behavior. Everything about him changes. His face distorts. His body twists and bends over. He stops talking and only grunts. I’d say he’s outright crazy, but I really think it’s his drinking problem.”
Talbot’s eyes widened. “Drinking problem?” Talbot turned to Dr. Jekyll. “You didn’t say anything about a drinking problem.”
“You don’t understand,” Henry Jekyll said. “It is all part of my work. It is absolutely necessary.”
“That’s a strange job requirement.” Talbot turned toward the window behind him and glanced at the late-afternoon sky, gauging the moon’s appearance.
Dr. Jekyll continued, “But it isn’t at all. You see, in each of us, two natures are at war, the good and the evil. All our lives the fight goes on between them, and one of them must conquer. I am studying the effects of a serum, a serum that could alter human behavior. I share this assuming you respect the confidentiality of your clients. Confidentiality is critical, you understand.”
Ducking to achieve a better angle at the emanant moon, Talbot said, “Of course. Yes. Confidentiality.”
Dr. Jekyll placed his top hat on the floor and stood. “Mr. Talbot, can you help us? There is an extraordinary disequilibrium in our marriage. My wife seems to exhibit a routine fluctuation in personality. Her moods are volatile. She is quite inconsistent in her affections for me. The variability in her self-image creates extreme unsteadiness, painful precariousness in our relationship. To say she vacillates is quite the understatement.”
As her next personality emerged, Sybil removed a pair of half-lens glasses from her purse and put them on. “Now, now, Henry. You behave yourself. You know those who live in glass houses should not throw stones.” She pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger. “Remember, it is always wise to examine our own behavior before judging others.” Sybil fluffed her hair. “You’d be wise to listen.”
Talbot asked, “Peggy Lou, are you saying that you feel Henry exhibits the same mutable behavior of which he accuses you?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Talbot. Peggy Lou was becoming bored, so I took over.”
Talbot leaned in closer to Sybil. “And who are you?”
“Mary Lucinda. We all felt this discussion could do with a mature perspective.”
“Mary Lucinda,” Talbot repeated then wrote furiously in his notebook.
Henry Jekyll’s knee bounced. His fingers clenched and unclenched. He wiped perspiration from his neck and brow. His collar felt like a noose. Overdue for his serum dose, the effects were becoming unbearable. Discomfort compounded at his seeing Talbot growing more and more agitated. Jekyll watched as Talbot’s fixation on the swelling moon in the darkening late winter afternoon seemed to have an effect on him. Talbot’s eyes darted around the room. His jaw clenched. He tugged at his collar and tie. He rolled and shifted in his chair. Anxious, yes, Talbot was increasingly anxious. Dr. Jekyll glanced out the window himself hoping to spot the source of Talbot’s uneasiness.
Jekyll squinted to be sure he was clear on what he saw when he next looked at Talbot. Amazing. That beard was not there earlier. His brows, the growth is unnatural, he thought.The noticeable click of Talbot’s long finger nails against the desk as he wrote, a sound not present earlier, unnerved Henry Jekyll. Both men, consumed by some personal affliction and waxing disquietude, were so distracted that neither had even commented on the fact that Mary Lucinda had gone, or that Vanessa Gail and Marica Lynn, and Clara, and Helen, Marjorie, Nancy, Lou Ann, three other female personalities, and the voice of a baby named Ruthie had come and gone while Sybil sat watching them both.
Henry Jekyll strained to regain composure. Though he had heard Sybil’s voice changing again and again, he could not tear his eyes away from Talbot. Finally, when Henry did look at Sybil, he noticed that her demeanor had altered. Her legs were askew, her elbows rested atop the chair’s back, and she was chewing gum. Henry Jekyll focused long enough to hear his wife answer Talbot’s last question, “Who’s here now?”
She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I’m Mike.” Then, Sybil’s voice changed again. “And I’m Sid. We stick together. We don’t like you two men ganging up on all the girls, see? We figured this situation needed us guys to make it even, you know?”
Now that Sybil had revealed no less than sixteen personalities, Jekyll watched for Talbot’s reaction. He saw then that Talbot, like Sybil, was of a transient nature.
Fixated on the very unfixedness of the moment, Jekyll watched as Talbot ran a hand through his hair, hair that seemed three times as thick as it was when they first met. That is when Jekyll saw that Talbot’s hand had doubled in size and appeared to be covered in fur. He noticed Talbot running his tongue across his teeth, now protruding like small, sharp sabers, and that Talbot continued to monitor the moon through the window behind him. The angst of it all, the irregularity, the shock became more than he could bear. Foreboding hung heavy. Henry Jekyll could no longer resist. He reached beneath his cloak for the vial in his vest pocket. While Talbot was transfixed on Sybil peppering her faster and faster with questions, his voice becoming gravely and mumbled, Dr. Jekyll swallowed the serum.
By now, Talbot had succumbed to complete transformation—his body, a mountain of fur tearing through his clothes, his breathing like the snore of a bull, his fingers morphed to claws. And Dr. Jekyll’s own transformation took hold. Henry Jekyll stood like a man, but his back curved with a hunch, his features enlarged and distorted, his teeth became craggy and colored like rotted maize. His brow protruded so his eyes became small and sunken. His hands, overgrown and gnarled. The two transfigured men stood in a confrontational stare.
Sybil rose from her chair. Dr. Jekyll waved his arm at her and pointed, shouting at her to be seated. She said, “Hell no. Maybe you can bully Sybil, but you ain’t telling Peggy Lou what to do.” She grabbed her purse and mumbled, “Let’s blow this joint. It’s getting kind of crowded in here.” Sixteen Sybils left the building, and not one looked back in curiosity at the banging, bumping, howling, and crashing in the room they left behind.
Maureen Mancini Amaturo, New York based fashion/beauty writer with an MFA in Creative Writing, teaches writing, leads the Sound Shore Writers Group, which she founded in 2007, and produces literary and gallery events. Her fiction, essays, creative non-fiction, poetry, and comedy, are widely published appearing in: The Dark Sire, Every Day Fiction, Coffin Bell Journal, Drunken Pen, Flash Non-Fiction Food Anthology (Woodhall Press,) Things That Go Bump (Sez Publishing,) Film Noir Before It Was Cool and Attack of the Killer (Weasel Press), The Re-Written Anthology (Wingless Dreamer,) The Year Anthology (Crack The Spine,) Little Old Lady Comedy, and Points In Case. Maureen was nominated for The Bram Stoker Award in 2020 and the TDS Creative Fiction Award 2021 and 2022. She was awarded Honorable Mention and Certificate of Excellence in poetry from Havik Literary Journal in 2022. A handwriting analyst diagnosed her with an overdeveloped imagination. She’s working to live up to that.
What do you think of Maureen’s story? Let us know with a comment. And… be sure to come back at 1pm for another featured story. The party keeps rolling – don’t miss it!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
Every once in a while I will come across someone with a dirty little secret, which they profess they are loudly and vehemently against.
A few years ago I was at a photoshoot with a young model. I am also a professional photographer. She was a lovely young woman in her early 20s with a truly stunning face, body, and a brain to match—which is always a much welcomed pleasure!
During the shoot we exchanged light conversation about news events and previous work relations with others in our fields.
The topic switched to the Miami party scene; she stood firm in her statement of never partying in the hottest south beach clubs, never drinking or smoking, and certainly never partaking in recreational drugs, because to her it was morally wrong and would greatly limit her modeling career.
As she continued her one woman crusade about how she had seen other models lose their looks and careers from enjoying the party scene, I was getting visions of her not only partying like a wild woman, but partying with a major Miami nightlife celebrity—Mr. Michael Carbone.
When her tone began to turn snooty and judgmental, I found myself annoyed at her and the constant flow of images I was receiving, including images about the precious weekend of partying at a hotspot nightclub with Mr. Carbone, along with other models.
Usually, I try to avoid mixing my psychic side with my photography side. It doesn’t always work that way though, and this time proved to be no different.
Casually, as I was touching up her makeup, I asked how Mr. Carbone was doing since she had last seen him the previous weekend. Without a second thought to ask me how I knew Mr. Carbone or about the previous weekend, she replied that he was good, but everyone was somewhat hungover after the massive club event he held. She followed up quickly by excluding herself in the mix.
After that slip of the tongue confession, she became quiet. I felt her become awkward and self-conscious, and it also started to show in the images.
I knew the shoot was over when that happened.
We called it a day and parted on polite terms.
She never contacted me again, nor asked me how I knew about that weekend.
But I know she wondered, and in all accounts probably still wonders how I knew about that weekend!
Just goes to show that people should be careful when bragging around a psychic, because that psychic has a private viewing of your secrets!
If you enjoyed this fascinating real-life story by Sue M. Swank, you won’t want to miss out on her next story, titled “Public Readings and Dirty Secrets,” which will be featured on September 1!
Those inspired to create gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism short stories, poems, and art should consider submitting their work to The Dark Sire for publication. Works based on the “Reality Meets Fiction” series will be given special consideration.
If you have any questions for Sue, or would like to talk about your own psychic interactions, please leave a comment below. And, if you’d like to connect with Sue, visit her on Twitter (@sueswank) and Facebook (Sue M. Swank).
Ever since I can recall, my husband and children fondly call me “Doom and Gloom.” This stems from when I would say something and it would come true.
Just now, I thought back to an incident that occurred several years ago between my husband and myself.
We were getting ready for an evening out. I was putting on my makeup while my husband was talking with me when I got slightly fuzzy headed. This is usually how my guides send me visions.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the bathroom sink, which prompted my husband to ask what was wrong. I explained that I had a glimmer of a vision and began to describe it in detail: Dark and rainy, we are parked on the side of the road and surrounded by swirling red and blue lights. Then I heard a small pop that followed with a small fire explosion.
My husband was quick to respond with, “Alright doom and gloom! Don’t go jinxing us tonight!” I simply giggled, and then proceeded to finish my makeup.
In an effort to prove me wrong, my husband rushed to check the forecast for our area and proudly told me that the weather was all clear skies with no chance of rain. I just smiled and nodded, knowing that if the vision were to be correct, it would happen as we were on the road anyhow.
As we were getting in the car, the same vision hit me once more, only harder. I glanced over at my husband, who quickly exclaimed, “Woman don’t start that doom and gloom stuff!”
Just as we got halfway across the bridge, it began to sprinkle. I giggled. My husband gave a sideways look of annoyance.
It wasn’t long after we exited the bridge, when a deputy turned his lights on, signaling us to pull over. His lights were red and blue.
“Dear just pull over!” I exclaimed. Showing more displeasure at my persistence, he pulled over to the side of the road near the only streetlight.
Once we pulled over, the streetlamp went out, leaving our car flooded with red and blue swirling lights…and me giggling.
By now it’s raining solid. My husband rolled the window down in time for the deputy to walk up and ask my husband for his driver’s license and insurance.
Flustered to no end, my husband reached over to the glove box, and in doing so, he inattentively knocked a penny into the empty cigarette lighter.
A small explosion, along with a pop, erupted suddenly, causing me to hysterically laugh, which resulted in my husband blurting out jokingly, “You bitch!”
Not understanding the situation fully, the deputy requested my husband to step outside the car, as his partner walked around to my side of the vehicle. Mind you, I was still horse-laughing at the time, which probably made both deputies think I was some kind of a lunatic and my husband a jerk.
Several moments later, he returned with a ticket, and we drove to our destination silently.
Over drinks, my husband finally spoke, and his statement initiated ANOTHER round of wild horse laughter from me.
“So let me get this straight sweetheart,” my husband said. “You see a doom and gloom vision…I ignore the vision…the vision plays out…I am placed behind a squad car as they run a check on me…and I am then given a ticket and allowed to return to the car all because you forgot to renew our tag stickers on the car.”
What could I do? I paid for the drinks and dinner that night and horse-laughed the rest of the night!
It’s always interesting in our home!
If you enjoyed this fascinating real-life story by Sue M. Swank, you won’t want to miss out on her next story, titled “Excuse Me”, which will be featured on August 1!
Those inspired to create gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism short stories, poems, and art should consider submitting their work to The Dark Sire for publication. Works based on the “Reality Meets Fiction” series will be given special consideration.
If you have any questions for Sue, or would like to talk about your own psychic interactions, please leave a comment below. And, if you’d like to connect with Sue, visit her on Twitter (@sueswank) and Facebook (Sue M. Swank).
Back in March I had the opportunity to read Dan Klefstad’s wonderful vampire novel Fiona’s Guardians. It tells the story of a man named Daniel who is hired on as a guardian for Fiona, dedicating his life to acquiring blood for her survival. It’s also a story about Mors Strigae, a group dedicated for centuries to hunting down and destroying vampires. This book delivered in every way—so many moments that were dark and glamorous, a strong sense of adventure, and excellent scenes of compelling action. If you haven’t yet, be sure to read the full review.
Recently, I had the chance to chat with Dan on Zoom. He discussed his favorite characters and moments in the book, as well as the creative process. Best of all, he gave a reading performance, and his reading provided an exciting and compelling introduction to the novel.
If you want a chance to win a free copy of FIONA’S GUARDIANS, visit TDS on Twitter. Random drawing winner announced June 25, 2022.
And now, the full interview. You’re not going to want to miss this one!
Dan Klefstad is a longtime radio host and newscaster at NPR station WNIJ who lives in DeKalb, Illinois. His latest novel, Fiona’s Guardians, is about humans who work for a beautiful manipulative vampire named Fiona. The book was adapted by Artists’ Ensemble Theater for their Mysterious Journey podcast, and in October 2022, a hardback edition with new chapters will be released. To connect with Dan, visit his website or follow him on Twitter (@danklefstad), Instagram (@danklefstad), and Facebook (Dan.Klefstad).
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
We give a warm welcome to author Zachary Toombs. If you missed his most recent contribution, titled Oil and Fire and Flesh, you can find it in The Dark Forest. Do yourself a favor and go read it now. This is a wonderfully dark and disturbing tale sure to give you goosebumps. It’s the type of story that lingers with you like a ghostly companion long after you’ve read it, continuing to haunt your thoughts. It’s a story about a chef named Ian who is driven by a strangely possessive urge. An emptiness engulfs his life, and only three elements can fulfill it: oil and fire and flesh. We loved Zachary’s honesty and willingness to take this story to the dark place it wanted to go. I had the chance to chat with Zachary. He told me about what inspires him, the writing process, and his thoughts on the evolution of the horror genre in years to come. Do yourself another favor. Sit back, relax, and enjoy reading my conversation with this amazing author.
TDS:Hi, Zachary. Thank you for taking the time to chat with me. Give us a bit of background about yourself. What inspired you to become a writer? Was there an aha moment? Or was it something that gradually developed?
Zachary Toombs: As I’m answering this first question, here, I just turned twenty-one a couple days ago, which means that approximately twenty-one years ago I was born in a little, hard-to-pronounce town in upstate New York. Throughout those twenty-one years, I had an affinity for imaginary things that came from my reality. Though, they always had a dark or fantastical tinge to them. Regardless, there was never any other option than to become a creative person for my profession, a dream I’m currently pursuing after getting my creative writing bachelor’s degree.
TDS: What does it take to write a good work of horror/gothic fiction?
Zachary Toombs: I definitely don’t have all the answers here, but there are some things I do while approaching the concept of a horror narrative. I always try to remember the importance of character, and emphasize each and every detail to build toward the overarching theme I am trying to convey. Whenever I think of horror stories that have stuck with me, I think immediately of a single character whose behavior, demeanor, or dialogue is terrifying.
TDS: Tell us a bit about your creative process. Are there consistent routines you follow each time?
Zachary Toombs: I believe you’ve coincidentally answered this one yourself. I always try to emphasize consistency in my process. Sitting down and writing one thousand words of something each day can accomplish wonders. Even if the idea you have in your head is, according to you, “not good” or “crap,” getting it on the page is the important thing. The amount of stories that I have begun as one thing and transformed into something entirely different along the way is extraordinary and can be owed to this process. Also, I like to write with music on in the background—typically atmospheric black metal or long, unwinding pieces of electronic music.
TDS: What’s the best advice you’ve ever received about writing?
Zachary Toombs: I had a professor a while back who used to discuss the importance of “always writing.” This doesn’t mean sitting down at your computer for twenty-four hours each day and cranking out page after page—this simply means observing. Cast the lens of your creative eye over everything. If you are not at your desk, don’t scroll on Twitter or Instagram. Have a book in your hands and build that creative library of influences. Carry around a small notebook and scrawl little ideas and words and doodles in there.
TDS: Where do you see the horror/gothic genre in the next five to ten years?
Zachary Toombs: I’m not sure if I can predict the exact architecture of the scene in that time frame; I can only hope for what it will be. And to me, my hopes for the scene are in the upheaval of its stigma. This applies to all of the media/artwork that comes out of the scene. Many people classify the work as that of edgy people or those trying to be provocative while this is simply untrue, as I’m sure you agree.
TDS: This question’s just for fun: Anything scary hiding under the bed? Any skeletons in the closet?
Zachary Toombs: I do have a pet tarantula under there, actually. Though, the closet’s empty.
TDS: What can we look forward to from you in the future? Would you like to give us a teaser?
Zachary Toombs: While my first novel, Night’s Grasp, is available on my site (zacharytoombs.com) and on Amazon, there is a second one in the works of a different ilk. A third, too. While one of these is quite grounded in reality, this other one is a dream-laden journey of self-exploration.
Zachary Toombs is a writer and artist from a small town in upstate New York. His work has been published in numerous venues, including The Dark Sire, Bez & Co., Freedom Fiction, and others. His novel, Night’s Grasp, was released this past September. Want to connect with Zachary? Find him on Twitter: (@ZacharyToombs8), Instagram: (toombszachary), and his website: zacharytoombs.com.
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
Like a silent incantation these words were laced throughout my every day. The oil in the cast iron fed an eruption of greasy fire, searing the sinews of dripping flesh. Yes, there was the neon-licked mist of the city, the chefs who worked under me, and the solitude of my apartment, but these three words were the operators of my limbs. The workers of my mind. The motivators of my smile.
Oil and fire and flesh.
I had red wine most nights. It swirled about in my glass as I sat in that engulfing leather arm-chair that occupied the living room. Most of the time a book rested in my opposite hand, taking my attention. Distracting me. But this evening only had the glass of red wine in its makeup. No book. But the longer I sat in total darkness, the only light spilling from the slit between the drawn curtains, that wine appeared thicker and thicker. The red hue glistened in the light that slit created like a morbid lantern. No book could satisfy me. Not like this urge that had been ripping at my insides. This hunger that ebbed and flowed.
Each filet I seared in the pan teased.
Served as a reminder.
A reminder that this hunger wasn’t going away—not unless I did something about it.
And that was when the phone rang. When its piercing blare cut through the thoughts and urges and hunger, beckoning. The tone unearthed a certain nostalgia, as it seldom rang, especially at this hour. I rose from the embrace of the arm-chair and made my way through the darkness. I stared at the handset as it shrieked. And once I held it to my ear, a familiar hunger spoke to me through the static of the landline, “Good evening.”
The call led me into the hills beyond the city. I had to leave my very own restaurant in the hands of one of my subordinate chefs. But I didn’t care. For, the way this man spoke over the phone dripped with a necessity to give it attention.
On the train ride over, I had wanted to catch up on the reading I had missed, but nothing of the sort was accomplished. I sat and stared at the words on the page, thinking only about the phone call.
About what it elicited
“Good evening,” I had said back.
“This is Ian, I imagine?”
“It is.”
“Offers like these don’t concern people in your position. You have a very successful grill there in town. You get to cook whatever dishes you want.” He let the hissing landline get a word in. “For an ordinary man there is no incentive to leave.”
Was this the call I had been awaiting?
“You don’t love to cook, Ian. What you desire does not contain love. It is empty.”
“What are you—”
“I’ve faxed over an address. A train for you to take. Once you get off, there will be a black car waiting for you.” Before hanging up, he ended with, “I can fill this emptiness.”
And after approximately two hours of sitting and staring and thinking, the train reached its station. I stepped off into the desolate autumn—which whispered winter down my neck—and into the backseat of a glossy black sedan. It was remarkably warm inside, almost shockingly so; the driver must’ve waited for the better part of an hour.
He wore a suit of some kind—one I couldn’t parse from the deep backseat. But based on his stiff demeanor, formal silence, and unenthused glances, I doubted this was the man I spoke to last night.
He drove me further into the hills. The houses—small like huts—at our sides were thinning and the trees—bare and twirling—were growing more plentiful. They shrouded us in their embrace until becoming an engulfing tunnel. The road wound and wound on a continual grade, our sedan following suit. Despite the car’s heat, the air’s growing chill oozed out of the sights.
In a crescendo, in accordance with our altitude, a greater accumulation of frost clung to the dead grass and rotted leaves. The wind started presumably as a breeze but picked up into a mighty sigh. It toyed with trunks like toothpicks.
We never eclipsed the desolate wood. Our vehicle only plodded through a stretch of gravel path before braking amongst several other—nearly identical—black sedans. As the driver put it in park, I froze at the sight of a massive building. It had that ancient look of a castle but channeled the wind like a pair of lungs, to give off this sense that it lived.
I stepped out onto the gravel.
I was asked, by my driver’s demeanor, to approach the pair of doors at the front of the massive, stone-bricked beast. These doors were six inches thick of a dark—almost black—wood, but not even the biggest fool could get himself a splinter on them. And as I placed my hand upon the silver of the door handle, a deeply buried part of me emerged—if only for the span it took to open that slab of wood. It asked all the burning anxieties an “ordinary” person would ask.
Which is why I don’t need to list them here.
Inside, it was massive.
Fountains of rushing water were the pair of overseeing eyes perched in the back of the place. They supervised a long stretch of loft, equipped with red-clothed tables. The plates and goblets and silverware shimmered, even after those who ate from them were finished.
Yes. This place was a restaurant, far different from my very own. It ejected me from my body and sent me soaring to spectate an immense culinary gallery.
But what put me right back in my own little shell was the suited man who greeted me.
He was a slender person; each bone in his punctual face bulged against the tightness of his skin. That suit hugged those arms like a python does its victim. But what meagerness his frame presented was compensated for by the razors in that stare. Threats, secrets, commands—all spoken by a pair of irises. But when his lips moved, they uttered, “Good morning, Ian.”
It was like he was trying to formulize being normal. Over the phone it was, “Good evening,” and here, “Good morning.” These formalities—they dodged what his very own eyes told me about him.
“Allow me to show you the kitchen. No need to dawdle.” He coupled his hands behind his back and led me through the place.
I couldn’t absorb the rest of the dining room before we reached our destination. There were two aisles of organized chaos. Chefs in crimson coats communicated at a wicked pace. Even with my backlog of experience, their mutterings went unheard. Fire spewed from gas burners through a filter of cast-iron. Cookware hung from the ceiling like ornaments: Knives—sharp as eagle talons—pots—glistening like jewels—and cutting boards—bleached clean.
He brought me down one of the lines, his hands still coupled firmly. The cooks didn’t flinch as we brushed past them. They worked through the tickets without a formality to be spared.
He led me into an office. It, too, was immaculate in assemblance yet stark in composition. The chairs that framed the glossy, long black desk were without blemish. And that desk—free of dust—reflected his face as he sat behind it.
I sat across from him.
“I am the chef here.” And while he didn’t look like a chef—didn’t have a chef’s hands—these words were impregnable.
“And I’m assuming you own this place?”
“Everything is mine,” he proclaimed, giving me that look again. “Food draws the people. Pays every bill. Why shouldn’t the chef be the engine?”
I sat in silence, unable to speak on something I agreed on him with.
“I have no doubt you’ll catch on quickly.”
He had shown me every square inch of this place. Of this fortress. There were so many rooms that one could classify it as a manor from a different era. With as many bedrooms as there were—six or seven, I had lost count after a long while—there were also quite a few surprises. The handful of studies were, in isolation, like libraries.
We ended the tour at a stretch of stone-hewn balcony that overlooked the groaning army of naked trees. He had given me a glass of red wine on one of our stops—and with each sip I could feel myself becoming assimilated to this corner of the woods.
“One last stop.”
I turned to look at him.
His attention was seemingly elsewhere—out in the desolate wood.
We wandered through the forest. No birds—not even crows—cawed. No mole or rat scurried. Only the chef and I.
It was a bunker of thick sheet metal. No windows. One of its four walls hosted a steel door with a massive rusted lock chained to its handle. He sifted through various keys—presumably for all those damned rooms—until picking one out precisely with a slender index and middle finger.
The door groaned open once that lock had freed it. And on the other side, gazing with a spectral eye, was a long shadow exhumed by the dead forest. It cascaded down a narrow staircase. This darkness was only pierced by a yellow bulb that dangled from an anemic wire.
“Let us fill your emptiness.”
Emptiness.
Once I heard this again I immediately assigned it as dishonesty. What I sought was the satiation of my hunger. My desire. For, a desire is not empty. It is filled with vanity and impulse and destruction. It carves a path of fire until it is nullified by whatever forbidden fruit incepted it.
I took an initial step down the staircase. The stone carried a frost so cold it gnawed at my toes. The wind that made those trees groan disappeared once I took a second step. The bulb, as we passed it, made my ears ring with its brightness. And when that intensity fell away, I had reached the bottom of the stairs.
A racket emerged.
Another door stood before me. It masked that clatter which continued to drum and drum away. Though unlike a drum, it lacked rhythm. It wasn’t measured or composed or ready. No. This noise was pure catharsis. Pure primality.
The chef opened the door.
A door opened within me, too, only more ferociously, unleashing my hunger in all of its crude avarice. For, what was revealed took shape in a wide room lit by panels of white, buzzing, industrial light that flooded the space with sterility. It rained upon everything with no relent. It assaulted the steel walls. It made seeing painful.
But no greater pain was held within those four walls than in the eyes of those captives.
Cages barred them in at either side of me, and from each of them emerged that dreadful racket in the form of life. It was life that clung to desperation for survival. Life that dreamt of seeing the sun. Life that didn’t glare or gaze. Only life that stared through petrification.
Humans.
Their mouths sewn shut.
The hooks that hung from the ceiling made sense. The slight dips in the floor. The drains they led to.
I had been searching for something to fill this emptiness—and if that’s what it was, then it resided here, within this very room. In fact, it was much larger. It was as large as this entire sojourn. My desire spanned from the moment I had peered into my wine glass and that phone rang to now.
And thank God he had given me a tour of this place.
Because it let me know exactly what was to fill it.
“I need your help,” the chef said—something the others in this chamber would’ve said if they could’ve. “You see, no one knows of this chamber other than those that need to. The other chefs. Myself. You.”
“The customers—”
“They are clients. They know of this restaurant’s esteemed position in the culinary world; they know our filets are the best their palates will ever touch, but they know nothing else.” He took a few echoing steps toward one of the cages. And in response, like to opposite poles of a magnet meeting, those captives scrambled to the farthest corner of their enclosure. “And your help is needed immediately. It is needed tonight.”
“Tonight?”
He approached me again. “There is going to be a very special client dining tonight. In the culinary world, he could send this place soaring further. Further than even I can comprehend.”
I smiled and broke eye contact, shrugging my shoulders. “How can I be of service?”
He snickered—just about scoffed—and opened the vest of that suit. Inside was a pocket that perfectly sheathed the glistening Damascus of a cleaver. And upon revealing such a blade, he said, “Choose one to cook,” and offered the shimmering heap of steel to me.
I had dreamt of this scenario for so long. The nights upon coming home from my very own restaurant and wallowing in my apartment, wishing it were a dungeon like this. The days staring through pan-fire at someone, wishing they were in that pan and not a mere cut of cow. Oh, how I longed to have this exact cleaver in my hand and decide which walking cadaver to run it through.
Which to cook.
Which to eat.
And the one I chose was the man who gave it to me.
What I wanted so adamantly extended beyond the mere flesh on a man’s bone. What I hungered for was more than the tender sinew of a masterfully cooked filet. And in his final living moments, the look the chef gave me was not one of a chef—rather one of petrified cattle.
Cattle like those who cowered in our midst.
I chopped those vegetables not to appease the critic who arrived, shook hands with the hostess, and sat down, but to ensure you had a bed to rest in. Even if you had been reduced to this cut of flesh, you deserved such a final moment. After all, without you there could be no ravage to my hunger.
The critic sat near one of the fountains. He was a wide man who waddled, equipped with a thick set of jowls that moved as much as that crimson tie which dripped down his chest. Though, that tie was soon covered by a linen napkin that he had folded into a pretentious bib. He inspected the high ceilings. The tablecloths. Every aspect of the place as he jotted things down with a shimmering fountain pen.
Once I zigzagged the pan with oil, the cut of flesh went into the pan, igniting it. It sizzled in its baste, drawing sweat from my brow until it dripped. I could taste the salt from that sweat. Veins bulged from my red skin. And as the minutes passed and the sizzling continued, all else blurred. But when it was finally time, I wiped my face with a white rag and brought you out of the pan and onto that bed.
Once I stepped out of the kitchen, I did so into the office where you first brought me. I had ironed and hung your suit up on the wall. The colors of an imminent dusk pierced the windowpane, drenching that cloth in another orangey layer. And when I removed my own clothing, I bathed in that sunlight for a bit. That setting orb was so clear and honest it should’ve shed a tear from my eye. But as naked as I was no such tear fell.
And once I clamped that suit to my frame, I went back into the kitchen, gathering eyes from the staff as I approached you.
I carried you to a man whose mouth was wet with anticipation.
Who couldn’t wait to have a taste.
Zachary Toombs is a writer and artist from a small town in upstate New York. His work has been published in numerous venues, including The Dark Sire, Bez & Co., Freedom Fiction, and others. His novel, Night’s Grasp, was released this past September. Want to connect with Zachary? Find him on Twitter: (@ZacharyToombs8), Instagram: (toombszachary), and his website: zacharytoombs.com.
Featured Extra!
This story was a perfect fit for The Dark Sire. We loved the dark tone and the disturbing depiction of obsession. We needed to know more about the inspiration and creative process behind this story.
TDS:What was your inspiration for writing this piece?
Zachary Toombs: Inspiration is hard to nail for me. If I had to point to a specific source for this story’s premise, it was the swathes of metal music I have been listening to as of late. The artists that I have been listening to–Deafheaven, Paysage D’hiver, and ColdWorld just to name a few–bleed this sort of mood that I had to write about in reflection. It started with hunger, a sense of longing, and eventually a character formed, bringing with it a sequence of events and dreary setting.
TDS:What creative process did you use?
Zachary Toombs: I knew what I wanted to cover thematically, but I needed to get these feelings out. So, in a sort of catharsis, I wrote a handful of poems that reflected the way this music and my own ideas made me feel. Then I funneled some of this ambiguous language into the frame of a story. Filling in the gaps was easy.
TDS:What authors have influenced your work?
Zachary Toombs: For this piece I can point to Agustina Bazterrica’s Tender is the Flesh as a loose source. However, the narrator tells that story woodenly–to the story’s benefit–but I didn’t want to give off this stark detachedness in this piece. And so, regarding the language and narrator, I looked to Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair as a foundational inspiration.
What do you think of Zachary’s story? Let us know with a comment. And…there is another exciting feature to come. Enter The Dark Forest June 18 when we take a deep dive into this amazing author’s creative process, thoughts on the horror genre, and more!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
On June 8, we featured a book review of Rami Ungar’s newly released novel The Pure World Comes. It’s a story about Shirley Dobbins, a lowly housemaid who encounters a huge upgrade in her life when the baronet Sir Joseph Hunting hires her on to be his assistant scientist. Working by his side, she learns of the mysterious Eden Engine, a machine designed to harness the energy of the pure world, an energy Sir Joseph hopes will repair the imperfections of our world. However, the machine also conjures something terrible, putting the lives of everyone in danger. It’s a fine gothic horror novel with plenty of surprising hauntings filling the pages.
Recently I enjoyed the pleasure of interviewing Rami about his new book. We talked about some of his favorite moments in writing the new novel, his inspiration for writing it, and some of the influences that helped create it. Most enjoyable of all was Rami’s reading of the popular haunted toilet bowl scene. This is a chapter that many other readers and reviewers of his book have highlighted. You will get the chance to hear it from the author himself!
Don’t take our word for it, watch the interview now:
Rami Ungar is an author from Columbus, Ohio, specializing in horror and dark fantasy. He has previously published three books and has a new collection, Hannah and Other Stories, being released by BSC Publishing Group. When not writing, Rami enjoys reading, following his many interests, and giving people the impression he’s not entirely human. Want to connect with Rami? You can find him on Twitter (@RamiUngarWriter), Facebook (@RamiUngarWriter), Instagram (@rami_ungar_writer), his website (ramiungarthewriter.com), and his YouTube channel (Rami Ungar the Writer).
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
If somehow we could harness the power to perfect ourselves and the world around us, how would we go about doing it? Sure, there are obvious errors we’d seek to fix immediately: physical defects like a missing leg, spinal or nerve damage, heart problems, various diseases, and the list could go on and on. Then we enter the territory of say aesthetics. What makes an individual beautiful or handsome? What authority decides such things? Such matters seem to involve a variety of variables that are subjective to the eye of the beholder. Some might even argue the same subjectivity would apply to ethics and values. The perfect ideal is a difficult thing to attain, let alone comprehend, and this is a resonant theme from Rami Ungar’s novel, The Pure World Comes.
Shirley Dobbins is a lowly housemaid who one day receives a grand opportunity, a chance of a lifetime. After the tragic death of the Master and wife of the current Avondale household, baronet Sir Joseph Hunting comes to the rescue, hiring her to become the head housemaid of his estate. The rest of the family comes along as well (after some arguably naïve, petty resistance). This includes Lucinda, an entitled brat for the most part, though she becomes more sympathetic as the tale goes on, Griffin, another entitled brat who is hopelessly head-over-hills for Shirley, and cute little Nellie, who is learning the ways of becoming a housemaid from Shirley. They all move into Sir Joseph’s lodge, an old place with cobwebs and mystery. The mystery plays an important role here.
One day Shirley gains access to one of the forbidden rooms in the estate to deliver Sir Joseph his meal. She discovers the secret that occupies his time for the most part, a large machine assembled with glass tubes, dials, and levers. He calls it the Eden Engine. It’s purpose: to harness the energy of the pure world and repair all the imperfections that currently exist in our world. Shirley becomes his assistant after this moment, allowing her access to many of his books on biology, physics, philosophy, and other sciences. She also witnesses his experiments first hand. There’s a scene involving a deformed pig that will make you gasp and moan in shock and sadness, as well as cringe in disgust, a potent mix. Some other odd happenings are going on around the old lodge as well, haunting things. Shirley soon comes to realize that Sir Joseph Hunting’s radical experiments, despite their ideal intentions, are inviting a presence of terror and pure malevolence. If these side effects are left unchecked, it could be the destruction of them all.
My favorite character in the novel was Shirley Dobbins. It was easy to become invested in her growing empowerment as she began studying science and assisting Sir Joseph in his lab. We all hope for life changing moments that aid our growth and development, and it’s easy to cheer for her as her experiences improve. Shirley is also a respectable character, the opposite of the entitled and petty variety that sometimes surround her, so you can sympathize easily. I loved the sense of adventurous mystery surrounding the laboratory and the descriptions of the Eden Engine and its function. I felt a combination of dread and anticipation as Shirley and Sir Joseph carried out each experiment. Surging electricity, the manipulation of dials and levers, all the moments in the laboratory nostalgically made me think of classic tales like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine.
A couple noteworthy surprises to enjoy: Jack the Ripper is in this tale, and no, he isn’t just thrown in willy-nilly. Rami develops a nice backstory for him with connections to Shirley Dobbins. In fact, some of the most genuinely frightening moments in the novel involve the backstory about Jack the Ripper. Let’s not forget the haunted toilet bowl. Yes, you read that correctly. Rami gives us an up close and personal scene of Shirley Dobbins encounter with the fiend in the toilet. What could such a scene rival? Stephen King’s shitweasels perhaps? I also have to mention I even liked the title of this book. Some other reviewers mentioned they found the title wasn’t catchy enough. The title immediately caught my attention the first time I heard it, motivating me to read the synopsis. The title fits the theme of the book, and rings with a sense of intriguing mystery that makes you think.
Does the novel have shortcomings? There’s a small few. The dialogue technique dealing with nervous stammering was repetitive at times, which made it come across as stilted and lifeless. The climactic showdown disappointed me. There are plenty of surprising, suspenseful moments throughout the journey, but this final revealing seemed to have something missing, or maybe the narration rushed us through too quickly. To sum up, this novel is short and sweet at around 208 pages, and it feels a little too sweet. Maybe we need a little more development about the Pure World, a place suggesting so much fascinating possibilities. Perhaps the novel could have depicted more experiments with the Eden Engine. However, would too much development of the Pure World ruin the sense of intriguing mystery, crossing over from gothic horror into the territory of fantasy? It’s a fine line. Would too many depictions of the Eden Engine become skimmable and boring? This brings to mind another point: we often feel disappointed about the final reveal in horror stories. When the monster unveils itself full-frontal, we sometimes laugh or think, “that’s not so bad.” Horror stories aren’t about the monsters, though, are they? They’re about the people reacting to the monsters, and the lives of Shirley, Lucinda, Nellie, Sir Joseph, and Griffin are changed forever.
I award The Pure World Comes by Rami Ungar a 4 skull rating. You will be drawn into the fascinating Victorian world he creates. The many hauntings that fill the novel will keep you hypnotically turning the pages. Happy reading.
RATINGS: TDS rates all books based on the dark content and how well the reading experience lends itself. Of course, author craft, storytelling, and mechanics are considered, as well. For this purpose, we use skulls (💀💀💀💀💀). And explanation of the skull system follows.
RATING: 💀
Boring, not dark, not interesting. Do not recommend.
RATING: 💀💀
Fair plot, not too dark, fairly interesting. Read at own risk.
RATING:💀💀💀
Good plot and mild darkness, good reading experience. Encouraged read.
RATING: 💀💀💀💀
Great reading experience with heaps of dark tone. Strong recommend.
RATING: 💀💀💀💀💀
Excellent prose, tons of dark tone. A MUST READ!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
THE DARK SIRE has paired up with Sue M. Swank, psychic medium and screenwriter, to bring you more fascinating stories in the Reality Meets Fiction series. Reality Meets Fiction started last year, with Barry Pirro sharing his ghost hunting and paranormal experiences with us. Now, Sue will join that tradition by sharing her psychic stories. The first story, Doom and Gloom, will appear on Friday, July 1, with subsequent stories released on the 1st of each month. We sat down with Sue to discuss her psychic gifts and thought this interview would be a good way to introduce you to the woman behind the real-life stories.
TDS: Hi, Sue! Tell us a little about your psychic gift. For instance, when did you discover you were psychic?
Sue M. Swank: I always knew I was different. I first realized my gifts when I moved into my childhood home in Richmond, Virginia. I was seven years old at the time.
While the movers and my mom were trying to sort the furniture, I repeatedly saw the body of a dead woman and her blood all over. Later, at night, the woman returned and revealed to me about how she passed, her kids, and where to find the kids’ toys in the attic.
TDS: Wow. I couldn’t imagine seeing all of that at such an early age. Did you learn anything else from the woman? Anything that might help her?
Sue M. Swank: Several months later, the husband of the dead woman came for dinner. I knew he orchestrated her death and I confronted him with this knowledge.
TDS: You can’t stop there! What did you do? What happened?
Sue M. Swank: As years went on, the woman continued to appear to me and revealed where to find newspaper articles about her death and her husband’s dirty deals. I received the last communication with this woman at the age of 18, confirming that her husband died of a heart attack on his boat in Florida.
TDS: Ah, case closed, I take it. Is this when your psychic career began?
Sue M. Swank: Yes. Since then, I’ve committed to giving sessions: tarot, psychic, and mediumship.
TDS:That’s fascinating – and reality! And speaking of reality, this series is called Reality Meets Fiction. So, do you mind telling us what attracted you to collaborate with The Dark Sire Literary Journal and what Reality Meets Fiction means to you?
Sue M. Swank: I’ve known Bre for some time now on social media, and when she posted about submitting non-fiction to the magazine, I messaged her. And, to me, Reality Meets Fiction is when something so unexpected and seemingly “unreal” happens in real life and in person.
TDS:I definitely agree with the “unreal” happening in reality. And that brings up my next question: How do the movies (and TV) get psychic abilities right and/or wrong?
Sue M. Swank: Sometimes, the movies are accurate, but they are usually wrong when they claim that psychics know everything about what they see and feel. For example, I only see parts of an event, not the whole thing. Once I saw a man bleeding from his stomach but had no idea what happened or who the man was. Another thing that movies get wrong is that psychics use all of their senses when they are having a vision. Personally, I can smell, see, and hear events. When I saw the vision of the bleeding man, I could taste the blood and smell metal every time I closed my eyes. Oh, and my ears and eyes exploded. The whole experience is an ordeal, one that you don’t expect, can’t control, and don’t always understand.
TDS: That sounds like a lot to happen all at once. The story about the man, will you be sharing it with us through Reality Meets Fiction?
Sue M. Swank:As a matter-of-fact, it is. Bre asked me to include it.
TDS: Great! I can’t wait to read it. Before I forget, do you still receive visits rom spirits, like you did when you were a kid? If so, what are their usual motivations for appearing to you?
Sue M. Swank: Yes, I do – quite often, actually. In most cases, the spirits want to relay messages to others.
TDS:Oh, that’s cool. I thought they might have stopped when you were 18, but it was actually the start of many more visitors. Do you feel that others you meet are receptive to the spiritual world and psychic phenomena around us? Is it something you believe anyone can develop in themselves, or is it just for those special few?
Sue M. Swank: To answer your first question, mainly yes, people have been receptive to my abilities. Though, there have been a few that asked for my services and then later said I was going to hell. And to answer the second question, I truly believe that all of us are psychic on some level, but mediums are born with the gift, as well. I don’t feel it is something that can be learned… discovered later in life, yes… but not learned.
TDS: Thank you for the opportunity to chat with you. One last question: How do you think the real experiences you’ve encountered can inspire writers, artists, and photographers? Have any of your experiences inspired your screenplay work?
Sue M. Swank: Good questions! Reality overall, whether it’s the news media, social media, neighbors, can or should inspire writers. I hope my work can spark the imaginations of writers to create stories that will entertain readers. For my own work, I actually wrote my first self-published book, Through Jade’s Eyes, which I also wrote as a 5-season TV episodic series, with many of Jade’s experiences coming from my own psychic mediumship experiences.
We look forward to hearing Sue’s stories unfold in explicit detail. Don’t forget, her first article titled “Gloom and Doom” will be released on July 1 at 11 AM (EST). Then join us again every 1st of the month for more fun-filled eeriness.
Those inspired to create gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism short stories, poems, and art should consider submitting their work to THE DARK SIRE for publication. Works based on the “Reality Meets Fiction” series will be given special consideration.
If you have any questions for Sue, or would like to talk about your own psychic interactions, please leave a comment below. And, if you’d like to connect with Sue, visit her on Twitter (@sueswank) and Facebook (Sue M. Swank).
Dee Espinoza has been a beloved part of the Dark Sire family from day one, her photography appearing in both issues 1 and 2. The following issues 4 and 5 introduced us to her writing, works such as the poignant and compelling poem Come Back. Most recently, she has entertained us with a new work of photography, a spooky image of a descending cave wall titled Depths, suggesting all kinds of haunting possibilities for the observer’s imagination. It was a great pleasure chatting with Dee and learning more about this amazing and versatile artist.
TDS:Tell us a little about your background, Dee. When did you get into photography and writing? Was there an aha! Moment, or was it a gradual progression over time?
Dee Espinoza: Hello Allen. I am currently working in Behavioral Health and taking classes to further my career in Alcohol and Drug Prevention (counseling). I have four grown children and five grandbabies. I have been with TDS since issue 1. During the first TDS awards ceremony, my photo titled Guardian won the reader’s choice award. My poem Come Back won in the poetry category during the second annual ceremony. I have loved photography for as long as I can remember. My sister took a photography class many years ago, and I was amazed by her work, so I asked if she could teach me. This began my passion for photography. I started with a primary point and shoot or my phone. I stepped outside my comfort zone and entered a few photos into our local county fair one year. I was shocked; I was getting blue ribbons. The following year, I submitted again and won best in show and division. I was thrilled. I have upgraded to a more professional camera but haven’t taken many photos since covid. I’ll find my groove and get back to it.
TDS:Tell us about your creative process when it comes to writing poetry or attaining that perfect photo. Are there certain things you do every time when you approach a new project, or is it a different experience for you depending on the needs of a project?
Dee Espinoza: I honestly do not have a specific creative process when it comes to my photos. I shoot whatever catches my eye or things the “average” person wouldn’t think to shoot. I am incredibly partial to black n’ white. I feel it adds more drama and depth to the photos. Also, it’s intriguing and gives the viewer more options for imagination. For instance, my recent photo feature is titled Depths. However, it could be a staircase to a dungeon, a vampire’s lair, or it could be a portal to another world. It’s all in what the viewer sees.
TDS:What’s the best advice you’ve received about writing and photography?
Dee Espinoza: Just breathe and remember the best writers write what they know, and it’s not the camera that takes the perfect photo. It’s the person behind the camera.
TDS: This question’s just for fun: Anything spooky hiding under the bed or in the closet?
Dee Espinoza: Actually, lo, they don’t hide. I’ve been able to see spirits since I was very young. I wasn’t aware of my gifts until adulthood. Now, I embrace it and go with the flow. One resides in my apartment, and I’ve had to chat with him about letting me sleep and stop knocking stuff over. He likes to sit on my bed, pull covers, and say my name. I have a few stories I could tell, but we will save those for another time.
TDS:What other interests and hobbies do you enjoy?
Dee Espinoza: Besides my passion for photography, I love to write and hike and am an abstract artist. I am currently very much into book folding and creating art pieces out of paper. My living room has become my gallery, and my dining room serves as my art studio.
TDS:What else can we look forward to from you in the future? Would you like to give us a teaser?
Dee Espinoza: Unfortunately, I don’t have any teasers for you, but I am working on part three of Self-destruction and Come Back (the funeral scene) and a few different psychologically-inspired pieces. Maybe I’ll write something on my paranormal adventures.
Photographer Dee Espinoza is currently located in California. She is addicted to creating intriguing images that allow viewers to let their imaginations run wild. Dee is a self-taught photographer who uses natural lighting and inspiring places to capture those awe-inspiring images. Black and white photography is her passion. She loves to keep it simple, accurate, and honest.. along with her photography Dee is an abstract artist and writer. She won the TDS reader’s choice award for her photo titled “The Guardian,” which can be seen in issue four and recently won the poetry award for her poem titled Come Back. You can connect with Dee on Instagram (dee.espinoza.5).
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
We give a warm return welcome to Dee Espinoza! Below is her latest feature, an eerie photo of a cave wall titled Depths. What does this image suggest to your imagination? A doomful descent into a dungeon? Is it a mysterious entrance to a monster’s lair?
Featured Extra!
This is a haunting image that was perfect for the dark tone of TDS. We had to ask Dee what inspired her to take this photo.
TDS:What was your inspiration for taking this photo?
Dee Espinoza: I love photography, and anytime I can get a great shot I take it. This, in my opinion, is a great shot. Dark, spooky, and allows the viewer to imagine all sorts of possibilities.
TDS:What’s the story behind this photo? What led you to this place?
Dee Espinoza: This photo was taken at Pinnacle National Park, located near Hollister. My sister and I are adventurous and love exploring new places.
TDS: Is there a creative process you use when preparing that perfect photo?
Dee Espinoza: I find that most of the time the most random shots tend to be the best. There is never a rhyme or reason to my photos. I just shoot what I like. I am very partial to black and white; I feel it gives the photo great dimension.
Photographer Dee Espinoza is currently located in California. She is addicted to creating intriguing images that allow viewers to let their imaginations run wild. Dee is a self-taught photographer who uses natural lighting and inspiring places to capture those awe-inspiring images. Black and white photography is her passion. She loves to keep it simple, accurate, and honest.. along with her photography Dee is an abstract artist and writer. She won the TDS reader’s choice award for her photo titled The Guardian which can be seen in issue four and recently won the poetry award for her poem titled Come Back. You can connect with Dee on Instagram (dee.espinoza.5).
What do you think of Dee Espinoza’s photo? Let us know with a comment. And…you can look forward to our Creative Nook series Saturday, May 28th. We took the time for an in-depth conversation, and learned so many fascinating facts about this amazing artist.
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
TDS has always championed serialized fiction. From Issue 1, the pages of our magazine-turned-journal housed small parts of longer works that spanned over time. So it’s no surprise that we’d update our serialization platform to match the new aesthetic of the TDS brand. But, how does the new branding affect the serializations and, more importantly, what’s changing? The answer is simple: EVERYTHING.
Monthly Release
In the beginning, TDS was a quarterly magazine, which means that serialized stories were only updated every 3 months. Now, however, our serialized fiction will be released monthly, similar to manga-style magazines. On the 9th of every month, readers can visit the serialization section of The Dark Forest to find new chapters of their favorite titles.
Chapters
Now in chapters (rather than parts), authors will write their stories in digestible chunks that not only engage readers but also give them a reason to return the following month. The chapters will be approximately 500-3,000 words, depending solely on story and individual author style.
On-Going Run
Originally, our serializations were limited to 3-4 parts for a short-run of 3-4 issues. Now, however, we are looking for LONGER works to serialize over an ON-GOING amount of time. This means, readers can expect stories to run for months or even years – and for stories to turn into a series filled with multiple well-developed character and story arcs. When a story turns into a series, subsequent sequels will be called seasons.
That said, TDS Serializations will still publish shorter works with limited chapters. No matter the length, TDS wants to publish high-quality serializations. The difference, then, is that we used to exclusively look for short-run fiction, while now, we publish both short-run and long-run serializations.
Completed and In-Progress
We now feature stories that are either completely written or currently in-progress. Before, stories had to be finished, ready for publication in full (beginning to end), but not anymore. TDS now accepts works in-progress; meaning, the author is working on the series as it’s being published. Again, this idea comes from manga-style magazines where editors work with authors on deadline. By accepting both completed and in-progress stories, TDS provides readers high-quality fiction while also supporting the different creative preferences of writers.
What’s Next?
On May 9th, TDS Serializations will officially open! As a celebration of the new platform, we’re bringing back the 3 original serialized stories that appeared in Issues 1 through 7. Each will begin with a prologue, with subsequent chapters released on the 9th of every month. Be sure to visit and bookmark: darksiremag.wordpress.com/serializations.
The 3 original serializations are as follows:
VAMPYRE PALADIN by Brenda Stephens Matthias Kade is a vampire paladin, a traveling doctor who uses his expertise to heal victims of vampire bites. He and his assistant find an underground blood ring that ensnares young children. Matthias vows to stop the vampires – but to do so, he must face his own past, fears, and demons, which force him down the same path of the fiends he so despises. (First three chapters of novel appeared in The Dark Sire, Issues 1-4 & 7).
KYUUKETSUKI by S.M. Cook Shizuka, a member of the Senshin Warriors, is a vampire who seeks the Blood Ruby, a weapon that can control the human race. Her mission is to find the Ruby and return it to the vampire council, who will then lock it away from evil hands. But as she gets closer to finding the Ruby, she falls into the twisted underworld, where she must grapple with her past and the reason behind her transformation. (First three chapters of novel appeared in The Dark Sire, Issues 1-6.)
THE LAST SUMMER by Frances Tate During a long, hot summer, a Tudor vampire meets Mercy, a girl who can manipulate his visions, see through his deceit, and overpower his mind control. He only has three options before his master’s hell breaks lose. It’s a race against the evil if he and Mercy are to survive. (Full story appeared in The Dark Sire, Issues 4-7.)
More serializations are to come, with new titles added when available. Mark your calendar and reserve the 9th of every month for the all-new
AUTHORS: Do you have a gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism story you’d like published as a TDS Serialization? We want to read it! If it’s completely written, SUBMIT it now. If it’s not completed yet – or is just the idea for a story, email the EIC (darksiremag@gmail.com) with as much info as possible (i.e., synopsis, outline, any already written chapters).
We are proud to announce two calls for submissions: Dark Summer and Gothic Summer. Let’s start with…
DARK SUMMER IS BACK!
For those who don’t know, Dark Summer is the only themed issue of TDS. While most other TDS issues celebrate gothic, horror, fantasy, and psychological realism in all their splendor, Dark Summer specifically celebrates the dark and horrific bumps in the night that allow the monsters and creatures to truly rule the darkness. Think of Dark Summer as Halloween… in July.
Yes, the monsters, creatures, horror, frights, and scares do not stop just because the weather breaks. Oh no – in fact, the heat just makes the nightmares more dangerously delicious. Beaches, lakes, camping, picnics, long drives and so many more summer activities beg to be the backdrop for dark adventures centered around vampires, werewolves, serial killers, ghosts, possessed objects, witchcraft – and that’s just the beginning!
What does Summer look like, feel like, taste like for the creatures of the night? Answer that call by crafting a short story, poem, screenplay, or piece of art that declares summer as the domain of the nightwalkers.
Let’s all celebrate Halloween… in July. And remember: We’re called The DARK Sire for a reason. The scarier the story, the better.
NOTE: We do not accept Cosmic, Weird, or Sci-Fi works.
Selected authors, poets, and artists will be featured in The Dark Forest (blog) from July 6 to August 13, 2022. Each feature comes with FREE promotion of the work and its creative, which includes promotion across the TDS platforms, author interviews, author readings, and more.
But this time, it’s a contest to end the celebration of Halloween in July.
Every year, GOTHIC SUMMER: A Writing Contest is opened for writers, poets, and artists to compete for $25 in prize money and publication in TDS. The winner of the contest is also eligible to join the Horror Writers Association (HWA, horror.org).
This year, we’re doing all that and adding a FREE professional consultation with our EIC, Bre Stephens, a professional editor, publisher, and owner of BSC Publishing Group.
Much like Dark Summer, GOTHIC SUMMER examines what traditional gothic and modern gothic-horror looks like, feels like, tastes like in summertime. Think: lake houses, forests, ocean/beaches, hot summer evenings, graveyards, hauntings, and scares. Gothic literature and art are the heart of TDS, so be sure to pull inspiration from the master himself, Edgar Allan Poe. We want to see your best gothic tales, poems, and artworks come to life through your masterful creation. And yes, ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, and vampires are welcomed as staples of the genre, as are all other creatures of the night.
The winner will be selected August 1, 2022 and featured in The Dark Forest on August 10, 2022. Prize money will be sent via PayPal. All creatives (domestic and international, alike) are eligible to enter. LGBTQ+ and creatives of color are encouraged to submit.
NOTE: This contest is for traditional and modern gothic works only. No other genres will be accepted.
Lisa Rose’s short story Swelling Ashes was featured in The Dark Forest on April 27, 2022. It tells the story of a girl named Ainsley who is abandoned by her caretakers as a ravaging plague encroaches upon them. Alone in a desolate place, she awaits for their return, but what shows up is something far more disturbing.
I loved her story so much that I wanted to talk to her more about the story, her work, and the horror genre in general. I decided to conduct a live interview with Lisa for THE DARK SIRE’s Creative Nook, which aired on DARK SIRE RADIO (Twitter: @darksireradio) on April 28, 2022 at 6pm (EST).
I enjoyed the pleasure of chatting with Lisa.. We not only talked about Swelling Ashes, but we also talked about the horror genre in general, what attracted her to it, and why readers seem to love it so much. This last part is always an interesting discussion, especially with someone like Lisa who’s courted the horror genre since childhood. And of course, Lisa shared her writing process with us and even her background in editing.
As part of the talk, Lisa shared some advice for emerging writers, which included to read everything. Although Lisa loves horror (and the horror films of the 80s), she is well-read in a variety of other genres, from fantasy to non-fiction. According to this very talented writer, the more you read—and the greater variety of reading experience, the more tools you will have in your toolbox.
Before the end of the interview, Lisa read a portion of her story for us, and she told me a little bit about her inspiration behind the fascinating monster portrayed in her story. This was the most beautiful way to complete our discussion.
I absolutely enjoyed talking with Lisa Rose and getting to know more about her work. This is one interview you wouldn’t have wanted to miss!
Did you miss the live interview? No worries! Listen to the full conversation on Dark Sire Radio until May 28, 2022:
Lisa Rose is a long-time educator turned emerging author. Her short story “Snow Globe” won Best in Fiction in a SJ Center for Literary Arts writing challenge, and her nonfiction has been published by ScaryMommy. Lisa has an MA in English Literature and works as an academic copy editor. She lurks between the trees in the PNW. You can connect with Lisa Rose on Twitter (@WordsRose) as well as her website (www.writeroseediting.com).
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
When they tore from the hospital, fleeing panic-stricken from the encroaching darkness, when they unplugged the oxygen and tucked screaming infants under their arms, they slammed, locked, and boarded the doors. In the sick rooms and long empty hallways they left only terrible, echoing silence. And Ainsley.
She stood on her toes, clinging to the rough-hewn wood that blocked her path. A twisted nail protruding from the haphazard blockade of busted furniture and broken planks scratched the back of her hand and drew blood. “Marta! Mother Marta!” Ainsley held up her injured hand for the woman on the other side of the windowed door to peek through the crevice from her place. Ainsley glimpsed the gold-brown eye, wet with tears, through the cracks in the wood.
“Yes, yes, girl,” Mother Marta called. “I am sorry! Believe me! I am so, so sorry! Some day, I will come back to you! Stay inside, Ainsley. Stay inside no matter what!” Tears dampened the bloodied collar of her disheveled habit.
She wasn’t opening the door. Ainsley’s heart iced over and then thundered through her veins. She screeched and pounded her fists on the boards. “Let me out! Where are you going! Let me out!”
She could see the nun’s dark form retreating now, away from the building’s bright fluorescent lights, into the growing dark.
Ainsley screamed. She screamed until the rage and fear blinded her and the mucus and tears choked her into quiet sobs. She slid down onto the cool vinyl floor and wiped her face on the back of her sleeve. At least Mother Marta was not here to scold her for that. The thought made Ainsley’s shoulders shudder with another sob, but she had exhausted herself and couldn’t cry anymore. Instead, she lay there for a long time and stared out into the emptiness.
She listened for any voice, any sound, of anyone left. She whimpered. Waited.
Silence. No beeps, no alarms. No buzzing chatter. Not even a groan. The silence reached down the halls and clawed into her chest, taking hold there. Alone.
Ainsley wasn’t sure how long she lay there in that silence watching the last rays of light fade into fiery crimson and then purple and black. Her arms and legs ached, and her skin started to itch unpleasantly. A light cough escaped her lips, and the sound reverberated down the abandoned hall.
She dragged herself to her feet, wobbling a little from exhaustion. Her sneakers seemed to pull her down, and when she picked them up to take a step, they seemed to stick to the floor.
The lights were still on, at least.
She inched forward, chilled by the quiet. Breathing in and wiping her face again, Ainsley started forward to search. She would look in every room and under every bed. Surely someone else had been left behind.
She found corpses. Some still warm. Those too sick to escape—their machines had gone quiet. No beeping, no suck and squeeze of air through the endless tangled tubes draping like morbid decorations over their beds. The wires lay like ripped umbilical cords, strewn in the blood across the floor. Some of the others had pillows covering their faces. Ainsley did not disturb them.
She followed the blood.
She knew where they kept them all this time. In the past, straining from her bed to peek out the window, she had caught glimpses of the ones they had wheeled out to burn. Ollie had said their blood boiled black in the flames. But Ollie had left with Mother Marta.
Now, wandering the austere corridors, Ainsley smelled the charred flesh. The smoke. She traced the blood, splattered and muddied with ash, spread along in scattered shoe prints. The ties dragged from her sneakers and wove labyrinths in the dark, wet red.
Mother Marta and the others had boarded this door too, closing up the whole wing before setting the fires to try to burn out the last of the sickness. She wouldn’t be able to see them after all.
A wail pierced the heavy silence. A cry from the other side of the door.
At once, Ainsley raced to find something, anything to break down the door. She scrambled up and down the hall and eventually settled on a discarded hammer. She began attacking the barrier between her and whatever made that cry. Hurriedly, she pried at each nail, yanked and shoved and kicked and screamed again. The wailing intensified.
“Hello?” she shouted as she worked. “Hello? Are you there? Hello! Please!”
She cracked at the wood with the back of the hammer and felt the sweat soak her back. Too long. Whoever it was would suffocate from the smoke before she could reach them. They would abandon her, too. They would die or escape and run out into the night through a broken window, leaving her alone again.
“I’m coming! Just hang on! I’m coming!” Ainsley screamed with every swing of the hammer.
At last, she broke through. She kicked open the doors. Hot choking ash and a storm of smoke.
Something small and black wriggled on the ground. Ainsley screeched and jumped back. Then it wailed again.
“A baby?” She scooped it up and tucked it against her chest. She tried her best to shield it from the smoke, coughing again. The baby cried shrilly. It clung to her. Ainsley raced back through the door away from the scorched hall. Away from the charred bodies and the ash and smoke and embers. She kicked the door shut again, shoved a wheeled bed toward it, and ran.
On the other end of the hospital, once more sitting beneath the door that Mother Marta had run through, Ainsley wrapped the naked infant in a striped blanket and cradled it in her arms. “Shh, shh,” she cooed at it. She cleaned the little face with a wet washcloth, gently scrubbing away the soot and grime.
The tiny thing was unharmed as far as Ainsley could tell. No burns. No bruises even. “I’m here now,” she said, remembering what Mother Marta told the little ones in the room next to Ainsley’s when she checked on them at night. “Everything’s alright, angel.”
The baby had finally stopped crying. It closed its eyes and cuddled against Ainsley’s shoulder. She kissed the top of its head. “You’re not alone,” she promised.
Ainsley didn’t remember falling asleep, still cradling the baby, but she remembered when she woke to the crack of the wood and the spray of shattered glass, and she instinctively tucked the baby deeper into her embrace to protect it.
The door opened. Just a fracture. Dark spilled in.
Long white arms reached through the blackness, pitch black night that had consumed everything, toward Ainsley and the baby. Ainsley jerked away, but a sickle claw caught her arm, needling through skin and muscle and bone. The pain ripped through her, too intense. She collapsed, losing her vision momentarily and stumbling. Darkness reached for her, but she caught her footing and the adrenaline found her instead. She recovered from the pain, threw every speck of effort into making her body move–and started to run.
The clawed hand still held the baby.
Ainsley stopped when she realized the child was no longer in her arms. She breathed in her fear and the cold wash of horror as she glimpsed the hand that held the squirming babe. On the other side of the door, standing there in the dark, stood something that resembled a man.
The silhouette of a man. But its shape was all wrong. Its body too tall, its limbs too long. It was grotesque…but strangely alluring, and its eyes seethed a liquid light that burned into her and sucked her closer. Ainsley found herself drawn to it in the same way she was drawn to the horror in Mother Marta’s features when she spoke of the closed-off wing, or when she snapped at Ainsley for asking to see the bodies burned, and the breathtaking terror when she told Mother Marta she had admitted to brushing her fingers against the dripping ooze that seeped beneath the door marked with ash.
“Stop!” Ainsley commanded the creature, though it did not move. It held the baby still. It tucked the child into the crook of its arm and then—almost lovingly— against its chest. Ainsley’s voice was a hesitant squeak. She tried louder, “Give…give me back the baby and go.”
“This child is ours.” Its voice was the sickening sweet pitch of sugared death.
“Then…” Ainsley started, unsure of what she said but believing in the pulsing depths of her heart that she would not be left alone. “Then am I not, too?”
The creature blinked its moon-white eyes at her.
“Mother Marta said I’m infected,” she said quickly. “With the thirst plague.” She glanced at the baby in the too-long arms. Wrapped so snugly in the blanket, held against the hollow chest in the night. The baby was unharmed. No wounds. A giggle erupted from its little pink mouth, and a trickle of greasy liquid. Ainsley told the creature hurriedly, “Mother Marta–she said she would come back for me, but I had to stay here for now because I’m infected.”
The creature tilted its head.
“I’m sick,” she explained further, panic rising. It simply hadn’t heard her. It didn’t understand. She clutched her injured arm where the creature had struck her. She felt hot blood flooding over her hand. She told the creature, “They left me. They left me because I’m sick with the plague.”
The creature considered. A black tongue extended slowly from between sharp teeth and slipped across its own claw to taste Ainsley’s blood.
Ainsley said again, so sure, “It’s the plague.”
The creature said simply, “It’s not.” It turned toward the night.
Ainsley reached toward him suddenly, demanding, “Wait! Wait, wait!”
The creature examined her for a moment. He studied the small cut on the back of her hand. The blood clotted bright red.
Ainsley scrambled to get out, to get past it, to not be left alone again in this place.
“Wait! Wait!”
The door closed. She punched the wood, driving splinters into her hand. She watched the creature carrying the baby away into the night. Alone again.
Lisa Rose is a long-time educator turned emerging author. Her short story “Snow Globe” won Best in Fiction in a SJ Center for Literary Arts writing challenge, and her nonfiction has been published by ScaryMommy. Lisa has an MA in English Literature and works as an academic copy editor. She lurks between the trees in the PNW. You can connect with Lisa on Twitter (@WordsRose) and her Website (www.writeroseediting.com).
Featured Extra!
TDS:What was your inspiration for writing this piece?
Lisa Rose: This piece started when I read a prompt about abandoned places. A few of my writer friends and I decided to write some short pieces based on this idea. We also made a rule of no abandoned houses to challenge us away from cliches, too. I started thinking about the wider concept of abandonment and what that could encompass. I tried to weave a few levels of abandonment into this story. Fear of abandonment is one of those visceral universally human fears and perfect for horror. From the beginning, if we find ourselves abandoned, we cannot survive. What does it mean to be abandoned by your friends or family or anyone, especially when you need them most? What does it mean for your physical and psychological survival? Hospitals are a common setting in horror for good reason since they are so often a place of life and death.
TDS:What was the writing process you used when creating this story?
Lisa Rose: I like to look at images for inspiration when I am still shaping my story. I throw some words into an image search to get a feel and mood for what I might want. “Abandoned hospital,” “creepy hospital,” “empty hallway horror,” etc. After that, my process is usually the same no matter what I write. Do a mini outline of sorts that gives me a big picture to focus on, draft as much as possible in one sitting, and then go back and edit, edit, edit. I used to teach essay writing, and I’ve worked as an editor for several years—I think my approach is kind of mechanical, but it works for me. The hard part for this story was figuring out the end and keeping it focused. I was excited by the possibilities of the setting and had to reign it in.
TDS:Who influenced you as a writer?
Lisa Rose: I was born in the 80s, so I was fortunate to have a plethora of spooky media to consume. I read a ton of YA and middle grade fantasy (e.g. Tamora Pierce) growing up, but I’ve also always had that relatively darker side, and again I feel lucky to have been able to grow up consuming Anne Rice, Tim Burton, Jhonen Vasque, Courage the Cowardly Dog, etc. I was probably channeling some Silent Hill and Resident Evil vibes in this piece too. I also have degrees in English Literature, so I can’t discount the Romantics. I’m frequently inspired by and look up to contemporary authors like Hailey Piper, Sylvia Moreno Garcia, Erica LaRocca, Cassandra Khaw, and many authors whose work I read in anthologies and magazines.
What do you think of Lisa Rose’s story? Let us know in the comments below. And… If you want to learn more about Lisa’s creative process and works, tune in Dark Sire Radio on April 28 to learn more about this fascinating author!
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to Submit.
The forest. It’s a setting that has made numerous appearances in various forms of art. The forest is a place of inspiration and exploration. Yet there’s definitely something sinister about the forest, too. Sometimes a darkness dwells there, and Keegan Milano gave us that perfect dark and disturbing twist in his poem Crimson Sap. Keegan made the forest the monster. I enjoyed the pleasure of chatting with Keegan. In this interview you will learn fascinating facts about Keegan’s creative mind, influences, and creative process.
TDS:Do you remember the particular moment when you realized you wanted to become a writer?
Keegan Milano: I always knew I wanted to do something creative when I was young, but I didn’t get into writing until the end of high school and as I started college. My biggest inspirations can be drawn from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and the Souls Series video games by FromSoftware. They’re very different mediums and genres, but they are both so captivating in their own universes that I always wanted to be able to create a world as rich as theirs.
TDS:What attracted you to the Gothic and Horror genres, and what would you say are your favorite books and movies amongst them?
Keegan Milano: I used to be terrified of anything remotely within the horror genre as a kid, but as I got older, I grew to enjoy it more and more. One of my favorite horror movies is Lake Mungo, directed by Joel Anderson. It is a documentary style horror movie that stands apart from traditional movies of that type. It is able to keep you scared through tension and suspense as opposed to the jump scares found commonly in these type of movies. You can explore so many avenues with horror; life is scary and everything can be horrifying in its own way.
TDS:What do you find to be the most difficult task when approaching a new project?
Keegan Milano: I struggle with the distraction of other ideas. If I’m still in the beginning phases of a concept, and I think of another idea that I enjoy, it’s easy for me to drop the current one and go to the next. That cycle might repeat itself for some time, but I’ve gotten better at seeing these ideas through and resisting the siren’s call.
TDS:What’s the best advice you’ve ever received about writing?
Keegan Milano: Do not be afraid to take things. If you liked how a certain movie executed a scene, how an author delivered dialogue, or how a game seamlessly trickles in their exposition, don’t be shy and make it your own. Use techniques from those who you see are successful, and put them under your toolbelt. In any practice, others will learn from the successful and adopt their techniques. There’s nothing wrong with doing that in writing, as long as you make a fun and unique story.
TDS:How do you feel your personal beliefs influence your creative projects? Any fascinating experiences or ideas that become infused in your creative work?
Keegan Milano: I’m really into philosophy. In the projects I’m currently working on, I try to incorporate philosophical ideas with the story. If a story makes you think outside of reading it, not just of the story, but the concepts and ideas brought up within the story, that is a good way to know whether the writer did a good job or not. Specifically, I enjoy existentialism and whether or not we are autonomous in our motives, decisions, and the significance of that within the bigger picture of our lives.
TDS:Do you believe in writer’s block and, if so, what methods do you use to combat it?
Keegan Milano: One hundred percent. I deal with writer’s block a lot, and it’s not an easy fix. I try my best whenever the smallest idea comes into my head to jot it down, no matter the time. If I save all these little blurbs of thought onto something I can look back on, I’ll look through them and either use one idea, or a combination of them, to help continue my work, or to come up with something new. Watching new movies, reading new books, or playing new games helps. Emphasis on the new. Watching the same movies doesn’t always produce new ideas for me, but watching something I’ve never seen before will have me thinking of things I never would have thought about without that experience.
TDS:Other than writing short stories, what other creative outlets do you enjoy? What are some of your other interests and hobbies?
Keegan Milano: I’m a big Dungeons & Dragons nerd, and I love homebrewing all kinds of things for my games. One of my big aspirations is to put out content for others to use in their own games, and the horror genre is definitely a fun route to take tabletop games. I can create horrifying monsters and places for players to feel that looming terror lurking in the shadows.
TDS:Thank you so much for your time. One last question: Do you have anything new you’re working on right now? Would you like to give us a teaser?
Keegan Milano: Currently, I’m working on short horror stories that take place in a science fiction setting. The goal is to keep it as grounded as the genre can be in terms of technology. What types of horrors can we expect when we eventually set out and expand beyond earth? What are all the ways it can go wrong, and how would we deal with it? I’d love to make these horrifying stories not about monsters, but from our own failures and ambitions.
Keegan Milano is a creative writing student at Columbia College, Chicago. His interests are within fiction and game/narrative design for tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons & Dragons. Genres that interest him are Horror, Fantasy, Sci-fi, and everything in between. Would you like to connect with Keegan? You can find him on Instagram (@keegz_mgee).
TDS is always seeking talented creatives to uplift and promote. If you craft fiction, poetry, art, or screenplays in the subgenres of gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism, don’t hesitate toSUBMIT to us.
In blood soaked soil, plants grow with pulsing veins
and sensitive roots, to feel the vibrations of those who lost their group.
The trees shift, confusing their prey.
From their bark, crimson sap leaks,
glowing bright,
capturing curiosity to draw in the prey.
The tall grass tastes the flavor that awaits.
The bramble moves, preventing escape, yet they hope it tries.
The thorns quiver in anticipation,
barbed and dried.
Thirsty and impatient.
The rustling leaves cry.
The roots rise from the ground, grasping the Feet. The Feet shake loose, and attempt to flee.
The bramble shakes excitingly, as it’s coiled branches catch the Torso, the Arms, the Legs.
The brush embraces the Flesh.
The trees sway.
The leaves emit a cacophony through the violent wind,
deafening the Screams.
The roots extend, wrapping again. The Feet squirm.
The roots tighten. It pulls.
The thorns tear streaks of skin. Blood spills onto the soil.
The earth opens beneath the Body. It pulls.
The Body sinks into the pit. Decaying corpses embedded in its walls.
The earth closes, the Body is gone.
The leaves sigh with the breeze as the bramble recedes.
The trees lie still.
The night is dark.
Keegan Milano is a creative writing student at Columbia College, Chicago. His interests are within fiction and game/narrative design for tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons & Dragons. Genres that interest him are Horror, Fantasy, Sci-fi, and everything in between. To connect with Keegan, follow him on Instagram (@keegz_mgee).
FEATURED EXTRA!
We loved CRIMSON SAP and had to know more about the poem and its creator. So, we asked Keegan Milano some quick questions to learn more about his writing and creative process.
TDS:What was your inspiration for writing this piece?
Keegan Milano: The original idea came from a subreddit prompt simply put as “monster,” but you couldn’t use the word monster, you had to convey the idea. I thought about having a monster in a forest and eventually transitioned to the idea of having the monster be the forest. From there, I thought about how each individual plant and their parts could be used to assemble a monster.
TDS:What was the writing process you used when creating this poem?
Keegan Milano: I tend to throw all of my thoughts out at once. If the idea comes to my head, I put it on paper as soon as possible, so I don’t lose the original concept. After that, I move everything around to where I think it fits best and adjust accordingly. I originally was going to have a specific person in mind fall victim to the forest. While moving stuff around however, I found it more compelling to have the victim remain anonymous to allow the reader more freedom with the scene.
TDS:Who influenced you as a writer?
Keegan Milano: I take huge amounts of inspiration from the games I play. When it comes to horror, I specifically take inspiration from games like Bloodborne and Darkest Dungeon. I hope to achieve the heights of Hidetaka Miyazaki in FromSoftware with my own writing. The sense of horrific awe from Bloodborne has always stuck with me, and I aim to get that same feeling across with my own work.
What do you think of Keegan Milano’s poem? Let us know in the comments below. Be sure to come back to The Dark Forest on April 23 at 11:00 AM (EST) to read an extensive interview with our featured poet. It was fascinating learning about the writing advice Keegan found most useful to him, along with many other interesting topics we discussed.
As always, if you’d like your gothic, horror, fantasy, or psychological realism work featured, be sure to SUBMIT to us.
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