‘Rest for the Wicked’ – Original Short Story by Gloria McNeely

*This story was first drafted in a creative writing class headed by Dave Rudden. I was given the prompt of ‘Fairytale’ and this (in a much more raw form) is what appeared in my mind. I hope you enjoy.*


She stole through the darkness of the trees, her long cloak, edged with lace, catching here and there on twisted roots and jagged thorns. But she was too eager to notice. She emerged from the edge of the trees to a thin back alley behind the row of houses, a sickly streetlight casting a weak glow halfway along. She lifted the ruined fence at her usual spot, more cautious now of her frayed edges. Like a black cat with an unlucky mouse caught between its teeth she loped across the dusty alleyway with her offering, striding confidently through the back-garden gate of a house that wasn’t her own, and laying down the carefully wrapped gift on the back step. The glittered wrapping paper shone in the glow from the kitchen.  

Inside was the skull of a new born deer. Avril would love it.  

She made it back through the trees that separated their estates without issue. Pausing in her back garden she pulled back her long hood to gaze up at the windows of her own home. A home that recently had felt less and less inviting to her. Most of the windows were lit up. She saw her mother’s shadow scurry through her parents’ bedroom, could see her father shuffling around the kitchen looking for something, his shirt untucked, giving him an uncharacteristically messy look.  

Her heavy boots flattened the close-cropped grass, where her father had been spending most of his energy the past few months. Before she could slide the glass door open, her father caught sight of her through it and jumped, dropping the glass of water he was holding, shattering on the tiles. 

“Jesus, Tabitha! You scared the life out of me!” he said breathlessly, clutching at his tie.  

“Sorry!” she winced as the door slid closed with a bang behind her. She dropping her bag on the counter and stooped to gather the pieces.  

“Don’t use your hands,” he said, reaching under the sink for the dustpan and brush. “You’ll cut yourself.” Tabitha dropped the larger pieces she’d already gathered into the dustpan and let him sweep up the rest. They were both still hunkered down on the floor when her mother swept into the room in a long maroon coloured dress, her hair pulled into a fancy updo. She looked so different without her glasses on, younger somehow.   

“Brian, have you found it yet?” she asked, her tone frustrated. Her heels crunched on scattered shards. “What’s this?”  

“The grim reaper here gave me a heart attack. Dropped a glass,” her dad explained. Tabitha made a face and caught sight of her reflection in the kitchen window. Dressed all in black, cloak inches off the floor only due to her new platform boots with all the shiny silver buckles, she could see how he was startled at least. She didn’t mention the actual sickle shaped stud earrings hidden behind her long dark hair.  

“It’s called fashion Dad. You wouldn’t understand,” she teased. But he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was stooped down sweeping in front of her mother’s hesitant feet. She moved back across the divide to the living room where the carpet would hide any missed pieces. While he was doing that, she began shifting the cushions of the couch. 

“What did you lose?” Tabitha asked, already glancing around.  

“Your father misplaced the car keys and if we don’t find them, we’ll be late for our reservation.” Her words were grunted as she balanced precariously on her knee across the arm of the couch to reach the other end. Tabitha looked at her father, his mouth tightened but he said nothing.  

She pulled off her cumbersome cloak and laid it over her bag on the counter. Glass tinkled into the bin, cushions smacked back into place as she headed for the clothes basket in the utility room off the kitchen. It took her less than a minute to find her father’s trousers which her mother would have swept off the bathroom floor while he was in the shower. They were both too distracted by being annoyed to think of it.  

She slipped them into her father’s pocket and tucked his shirt halfway in as well. He looked at her startled and she raised an eyebrow. “I found them!” he called to her mother, giving her arm a squeeze as he turned, finishing the tucking himself.  

“What?” her mother popped up from the couch, stray hairs flying from her carefully sculpted bun. 

“Come on, Caroline. I’m waiting for you!” he feigned impatience at her startled look.  

“Where were they?” He didn’t answer just grabbed his jacket from where it hung on the stairs and left the front door open as he left.  

“Have a good night, Tabby cat.” he called, over his shoulder.  

Still nonplussed, her mother hurried to Tabitha who for a second thought she was going to offer a hug, but she was just grabbing her clutch bag from beside the fridge. “I left you some dinner in the oven okay? You just need to heat it up.” She moved to spin off like a beautiful twister but Tabitha caught her by the arm, tucking the stray hairs back into their moorings. 

“Mum?” she asked, her tone light but serious.  

“What?” she replied, already worried, her hands gripping Tabitha’s elbows.  

“It’s date night. You’re supposed to enjoy it. Have fun with each other.” Their eyes met, understanding dawning. Her mum did pull her into an embrace then, the tension in her shoulders melting away.  

“Thank you. I’ll try,” she whispered. She paused to squish her daughters face in her hands one last time with a worried look before leaving her with a warm lipstick mark on her cheek. They worried about her, and no doubt her and her new ‘fashion’ choices would be a topic of conversation over their starters. What was so bad about a little black lipstick? What was so offensive about a few dozen pentagrams? She really didn’t get it.  

The front door slammed shut, the whirlwind of her parents leaving a silent vacuum now. Tabitha breathed a sigh of relief. She often looked back on her childhood memories, wondering if this had happened when she was younger and she had just been oblivious. Now, at seventeen, it was impossible not to see the strains and the distance between them. They didn’t act like a couple anymore. Divorce didn’t scare her as much as it once had as a tiny kid wondering who’s house she would have to spend Christmas at, but she still didn’t want it for them if they could avoid it.  

She pulled the oven open to find a plate piled high with her mother’s famous spaghetti and meatballs tucked in with a blanket of foil. Suddenly she was ravenous. When was the last time she’d eaten? She’d spent most of the day wrapping April’s present, etching good luck spells into the brittle bone; she couldn’t remember. She slid the plate out and unwrapped the foil – the microwave was much faster than the oven.  

No sooner had she pressed start, the heavy meatballs spinning on their wheel, than the doorbell rang out, startling her. She pulled the door of the microwave ajar, just in case she told herself, and went to answer the door. Had they lost their house key as well?  

But it wasn’t her parents who stood under the porch light, far from it. A handsome man, early thirties at most, the type of man who went to the gym for fun was standing with one foot on the step below him, enticing her with a crooked smile. It was Mr. Henley from down the street. The new neighbours 

“Hi?” she said, more of a question than a greeting.  

“Tabitha isn’t it?” he asked, reaching to shake her hand but thinking better of it. He shoved them in his pockets instead.  

“Can I help you with something?” Her heart beat now, not because of his too-obvious good looks, but because he was a strange man who knew her name, an older man who would have seen the empty spot where her parent’s car normally sat. She glanced down the street and saw a scattering of porch lights on, television LEDs behind net curtains and took a calming breath. But he was a neighbour. They had good neighbours on this street. She was too like her mother sometimes. 

He kept his tone apologetic to match his expression. “I’m so sorry to call on you this late and with such short notice, but I was given your number by Mrs. Jones at number twelve? She said you were the streets resident babysitter and I should call you anytime I needed someone to look after the kids. She gave a glowing recommendation.” Tabitha’s cheeks flushed. That had been the case, especially when Mr. Henley had moved his wife and two kids into the last house on the row. She’d made a tidy sum looking after the neighbourhood kids while their parents went to movies, dinners, and the occasional concerts, but the calls seemed to be thinning out since she’d started looking like one of the monsters they checked under the bed for.  

She smiled awkwardly at him, holding the door tight to her side for support. “I do a lot of babysitting yes,” she told him. He gave a curt nod then whipped his head around as if he’d heard something. As he did, her eyes flickered to the line of his neck, his muscular shoulders – but they were held by the white collar of his shirt. He turned back to her too quickly, but she was sure she’d seen a drop of blood there, blooming across the fibres. Had he cut himself shaving?  

“I’m really sorry to do this, but it’s a bit of an emergency. My wife and I need to rush off but the kids are already in bed, they won’t be any trouble.” He was bouncing on the ball of his back foot now, eager to get away. Her pale makeup didn’t seem to bother him. “Could you come now? We’ll pay you double what your normal rate is? You’re not busy are you?” She opened her mouth to tell him no, to say that her parents wouldn’t want her to go, to say that she was really busy with school work, but the sharp look of desperation in his eyes cut her.  

She’d watched them move in months ago. He was the handsome husband, his wife a porcelain doll. Avril had said she would’ve looked like a fifties pinup if she just had the pointy bra and the curls, and Tabitha hadn’t disagreed. She’d seen the children too, a little fair-haired girl and a white blonde boy, maybe seven and five years old at a guess. Avril couldn’t guess, she said they all looked the same to her, but it was easier when you were around kids a lot. They looked sweet, but so did cooking apples before you took a bite.

She shifted her weight away from the door. “No, I’m not busy. I’ll just grab my bag and I’ll be right down,” she told him. His hand curled into a fist and for a second her heart stuttered in her chest, but he just held it up in the air in triumph.  

“Thank you so much, we are so grateful for this!” he called over his shoulder as he hurried back to his house. She closed the door and gathered her things, wishing she’d got a better look at that mark on his collar. Maybe it wasn’t blood, maybe it was lipstick. She almost laughed at that thought. They wouldn’t be the first couple on the street to pay Tabitha so they could sneak off to a hotel room.  

“You are so paranoid,” she said to herself as she grabbed her bag and cloak from the kitchen counter. She stopped to pack her laptop and notebook – spellbook – before she left but paused in the hallway. The scent of garlic and tomato, just beginning to warm, wafted from the open microwave, the dome of tin foil still upturned on the stove like an open flower. She went back for it. Normally she had free reign over the refrigerator in any house she stayed in, but nothing was as good as her mother’s meatballs.  

She stood on the outside of her closed front door, wondering whether she should call her parents and tell them. The street was quiet but not silent. The sound of cars off on the main road still reached her. There was dance music coming from the open upstairs window of number six, flashing lights to match. There were people here, people she knew. There was no reason for her to worry and no reason for her to worry her parents either. Let them have their date night. They needed it.  

She pulled the hood up on her cloak. The full moon peeked out from the clouds above her, making her feel safer as she walked. All she needed was a light to guide her and a cloak to shield her. She wished Avril was here to get a picture of her. 

Mr. Henley’s house had high hedges, overgrown from the last occupant leaving and something he clearly hadn’t got around to trimming yet, no doubt potent fuel for the gossip mill. She rounded the ragged and reaching branches and found his car idling in the driveway, the brake lights giving a red glow to the living room window. The back-passenger seat was open, a large bag slumped across the backseat. The front door of the house was open too.   

As she stood there staring, the emptiness in her stomach turning to worried butterflies, he appeared in the light of the hallway, hurrying down the driveway with his wife in his arms. “Is she all right?” Tabitha asked, alarmed. He didn’t answer as he bent to heave her onto the backseat of the car. Wide eyed Tabitha couldn’t unsee the snow-white colour of her skin, the red kitchen towel pressed to her face with a shaking hand. There was more than just a spot on his collar now.  

“She’ll be fine. We shouldn’t be long.” He grunted as he slammed her door shut and slipped into the driver’s seat. “I’ll have your money when we get back,” he called through the window, but she was too startled to pay attention to him. She was still looking at the frail form of his wife laid out on the back seat. She was propped against the bag, barely enough strength to keep her head up, but she had her hand stretched out towards Tabitha, her glassy eyes telling her she had something important to say. But her husband was in a hurry to leave, pulling out of the drive just as the strength finally failed in the hand that clenched the towel.  

Her mouth hung open, blood still dripping down her chest from the ragged tear that had once been her tongue.  

The car sped off up the street, no head visible in the back seat anymore. Tabitha’s hands shook on her plate, rattling the loose foil around the dinner she wasn’t so excited about anymore. In a daze she turned back to the house, the front door still open, an ordinary hall with an ordinary light. No ominous red to light up the face of it anymore. The hedge snatched at her as she stumbled past as though to keep her there. Somewhere an owl cooed softly.  

She hadn’t seen it. It was a mistake, a trick of the imagination.  

She listened for tell-tale signs of little feet or whispered voices but the dark landing at the top of the stairs showed nothing. Her skin felt too warm, her fingers crinkling on the tinfoil in her hands. Something was off and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Dropping her bag on the living room couch among the myriad adorned couch cushions, she headed straight for the kitchen. Everywhere she looked there was sparkling glass and polished marble. She could have fixed her makeup in the mirrored shine of the toaster but she wasn’t bothered by her smudged lipstick right now.  

Her mind was swimming. Her phone buzzed in her bag, making her realise as she hurried to answer it, that they hadn’t left a number for her to contact them on in an emergency. They were too distracted by their own. “Hey, thank you so much for the present! I love it! Where did you get it?” Avril chattered excitedly. Tabitha shook her head to get her thoughts straight. She wasn’t feeling faint yet but she was prone to it if she let her blood sugar get low. She made a beeline straight for the microwave.  

“Ah, I have my ways. Don’t worry, it was ethically sourced,” she said, her tone flat, emotionless, her mind frozen elsewhere. 

“What’s wrong?” Avril asked, always in tune with her moods.  

“Ah,” Tabitha uncovered her dinner and slipped it into the gleaming microwave. She watched it revolve behind the glass, tried not to see it as the back-passenger window of a car. “I’m not at home right now…” she started. Avril listened with rapt attention as she tried to get the story straight in her own mind. They’d both ogled over Mr. Henley even as their attentions turned to boys with dyed hair and eyeliner, envied his beautiful wife, their lovely house. Too perfect, Avril had said. She didn’t mention the injury she thought she saw, unable to form the words with her own tongue.  

Tabitha finished her story and leaned back on the counter, chewing at her chipped nails. “I don’t know what happened, but I don’t like it. It feels weird here.”  

Avril let out a breath that crackled through her end of the line. “This is crazy Tabs, I think you should make some excuse and leave. Get out of there.”  

“How can I? They didn’t even leave a number for me to call if the kids need something!” She threw up her free hand in exasperation, half turning back to the microwave but she stopped. Something in her peripherals caught her attention, something darker than the sparkling white tiles on the kitchen floor. 

Just like her own house, the kitchen led onto sliding glass doors and a back garden out there in the dark, the woods standing guard at the bottom. They had their utility room in the same spot beside the glass doors, and right now the off-white door was closed. But spreading out from the bottom, through the crack between door and floor, was a dark stain. She was vaguely aware of Avril still buzzing in her ear. “Hang on Avril, there’s something here.”  

Her stomach didn’t exist now, there was nothing but empty space in her middle, nothing to even make her feel sick. Slowly she pushed open the door, motion sensor lights reflecting dully off the already drying pool of blood. There was so much of it. Smeared and spread across the floor, like something had been dragged there. This is where he found her.  

Her breath stopped and in the silence she heard a creak from upstairs. “Avril, I have to go. I just found a pool of blood in their laundry room; I have to clean it up before the kids see it.”  

“Wait, what! You can’t clean it up! What if it wasn’t an accident? What if you’re cleaning up a crime scene?” She stopped; her pale face reflected in the sliding doors.  

“It doesn’t matter,” she decided. “If the kids wake up and see this…” she shook her head. “Look, I’ll call you back in a minute.” Before she could protest further Tabitha ended the call. She glanced towards the hallway to make sure she was still alone before she bypassed the child locks on the cupboard under the sink and started pulling out bleach bottles. After some searching, she found a drawer full of kitchen towels, all pale pastel colours that made her feel sick but she wasn’t sure why.  

She didn’t think she could stomach cleaning everything properly, but if she could just keep the utility door closed, they wouldn’t go in there. If they even did wake up. She used the towels to soak up most of it, found a pair of dainty Marigolds to protect her from the bleach, but she couldn’t stop the questions. Was she helping clean up after an abuser? She couldn’t be done for helping him, could she? She thought of his wide grey eyes, his big pleading hands. She didn’t even know if he was really taking her to the emergency room, maybe he was taking her… somewhere else.  

She had only just tossed the last soiled towel into the sink when she heard a familiar another creak, this time from the hallway. Two little hands were curled around the banisters, two doleful eyes boring right into her. 

“Where’s Daddy?” the little girl asked. She was just as pretty as her mother. 

Tabitha pulled her hands behind her back and tried to cover the squeaking of the bloody gloves with her voice. “Hi there! My name’s Tabitha! Your Daddy had to drive your Mummy somewhere so they asked me to come stay with you for a little while. They should be back soon. Is that ok?” Her fingers grappled with the too tight gloves, snapping against her skin.  

“Will you read us a story?” Her brother appeared beside her, his face squished between the banisters like he was trying to get his whole head through, his eyes grey like his fathers. The little girl watched Tabitha carefully; she knew something wasn’t right but she didn’t ask any more questions.  

Tabitha smiled as warm as she could. That was something she could do. “Sure. Just the one. You go pick it and I’ll be up in a second.” The little boy raced to get there first, crawling up the stairs on all fours like a spider, but his sister stopped, sniffing the air, her button nose twitching like a bunny.  

“Why are you cleaning?” she asked.  

A drop of liquid that she didn’t want to identify slipped inside the wrist of her glove, making her nose scrunch momentarily. “I just spilled something and I didn’t want to leave a mess. You go on up and get the book and I’ll be up in a second.” Hesitantly, she followed her brother up the stairs. The sounds of their fighting over which book to read drifting down the stairs, the springs as they bounced on their beds in anticipation. Tabitha pulled the gloves off, her skin, red and marked where it clamped on her wrists and cut off the blood flow. She washed her hands, not looking too closely at what was swirling the drain. Her stomach grumbled at the smell of warm, lovingly made met seeping from the microwave. She hadn’t even heard it ding. 

Her phone buzzed on the counter, a message from Avril. ‘You dead yet?’ she asked. Tabitha ignored it and headed upstairs, thinking that if she could just get the kids back to sleep, she could decide what to do then. Call the police or her parents, anyone else who could actually handle this. Noting absently the bloody fingerprints on the front door.   

The kids had already tucked themselves into their beds, still whisper arguing as she came in, but they hushed up quickly. Their room was split almost perfectly down the middle, half green on his and half lilac on hers. In contrast to the perfect order to the rest of the house there were stacks of clothes and toys all around the room, shoes piled up on either side of the built-in wardrobe at the back of the room. That, she would not be cleaning up.  

She sat cross legged on the floor between their beds and grabbed the book they’d chosen off the table between them. She had always been a pro at reading bedtime stories, it was one of her favourite parts of looking after kids and something that every kid, no matter the background, loved hearing. She didn’t flinch as they moved down their beds to lie on their stomachs so they could see the illustrations.  

But this book didn’t look like a kids book; it looked like a collector’s item, something a literature professor would have on their shelf for reference. The cover was ancient and scuffed, a muddy green leather, the pages had the musty smell of a church on them. The story inside was Hansel and Gretel.  

She opened the front cover and started to read, soon engrossed herself in the detailed illustrations. The drawings were ink artwork, cross hatched to hell, dark, shadowy, and creepy. As she turned each page, they grew more and more gruesome, the image of the witch in the ginger bread house setting her heart racing but the children were utterly still and silent, fascinated by them, and she seemed to have put herself under the same spell, reading the story more to herself than them in the end, her stomach forgetting to rumble.  

Eventually Tabitha arrived at her grand finale with a customary flourish. “… and so, Hansel and Gretel, lived happily ever after.” Her fingers ran down the cover. Avril would have loved to see the pictures in this book. She closed the weathered cover softly, hoping when she lifted her eyes from the cover, the children would be fast asleep. Instead, two sets of vivid eyes met hers. 

“That was a great story, wasn’t it? Bedtime now!” She said with quiet excitement. She laid the book on the tiny table between their beds and stood up. 

“That’s our favourite story,” the little boy said, snuggling down into his Paw Patrol blankets. 

“Because we’re in it,” his sister agreed, her small hand reaching out to take the book and place it gently underneath her own pillow. Now that the story was over, her spell broken, Tabitha was starting to feel light headed. She turned out the light, leaving the door open just a crack. “Good-,” she hadn’t finished before the question started.  

“Are there real gingerbread houses?” 

“Is there one in our forest out back?” 

“Do witches only eat children or do they eat sausages too?” On and on, without breath or pause. Tabitha tried to break in but they talked over the top of her, drowning out her voice, until her stomach rumbled louder than ever. She laid a hand across her belly, embarrassed. The two kids looked at each other.  

“Do you think our parents would abandon us? Like in the story?” Her heart skipped a beat at this.  “Of course not, she said, “They love you. It’s just a story.” 

They looked at each other, eyes wide and worried.  

“Do you think they’d leave you alone like that?” she asked. 

“They already have,” the little boy said slowly, his eyes still locked on his sister’s. He spoke with absolute unwavering confidence and certainty, the way only a five-year-old could.  

“That’s not true,” she pressed, “Your parents’ll be home soon. Your mummy just had an accident they need to fix and they’ll be straight back.” She could still smell the bleach on her sleeves from all of the blood she’d cleaned up and wondered if she was lying.  

“They won’t be back,” the girl said. She looked down at her in her bed, tiny hands clasped on the bedspread, her innocent brow furrowed. “Once Mummy can talk again, they won’t come back for us. Not after what we did. They have to leave us with the witch.”  

Not getting the joke, she shook her head, a cold feeling of dread beginning to drip into her empty stomach. “I’m not a witch guys!” she chuckled, plucking at her crushed velvet skirt and fashionably torn sleeves. “Is it because of how I dress? I just like how this looks. I’m not a real witch.” She wasn’t about to tell them about the spells and hexes her and Avril had tried, the skull she’d left on her back step just that evening. The boy looked at his sister, but she just stared hard back at Tabitha.  

“You are a witch.” 

Tabitha shook her head, irritation starting to crowd into her mind. She was going to have to break out her stern voice and she didn’t like doing that. The boy looked sceptical but the little girl face hadn’t changed. She knew what she knew. “Look you need to get to sleep now, come on.” She tried to close the door again but they cried out in unison.  

“But the monsters! The monsters!” The little boy jumped to his feet on the bed and frantically pointed a finger towards the closet at the back of the room, as though clawed hands were already pushing their way out through the slats of the wardrobe doors.  

“All right, all right,” she said pinching the bridge of her nose; she knew the drill and was too tired to argue. The tiny handles on the doors were shaped like stars with rounded points. Little safe pentagrams. Tabitha pulled them open and gestured at the void in the back of the closet that was bare without the clothes that were scattered all around the room. Part of her wanted to ask why it was empty, but a larger part just wanted to get it done. “See. No monsters in here. Nothing in there.” She went to close the door but the boy shook his head violently.   

“You have to get in! Daddy always gets in and knocks on the back three times to scare the monsters away!” She turned to see tears in his eyes, enough fear to make her heart stutter for him despite her annoyance. Would his father be coming home tonight? Would his mother? She had to stoop to fit through the door, her platform boots causing her to bend almost double so she could turn around and peek back out at them. The bottom of her cloak hung loosely out the bottomThe little girl slipped out of bed and stood by the closet door, watching closely to make sure she did it right.   

“Go away monster!,” she called out, “You’re not welcome here.” She cupped her ear to the silence that followed and waited. “Happy now?” She turned to look out at them and the door snapped shut on her face. She pushed it. It didn’t budge. She pushed again, hard this time, and a crack of light came in before the door sprang back into place.  

“Guys, open the door. This isn’t funny.” She kept her voice low but loud, driving the point home. Little feet pittered and pattered back and forth like cockroach. Hushed whispers met her ears but there was something off, something missing that made her blood run cold.  “Guys! Let me out, right now!” There was silence. No tiny feet, no hushed operations. Blood rose to her cheeks.  

Frantically she worked her fingers through the slats and tried shaking the door. From the sliver she could see through, bedside light was still on but the room was empty. “Kids? Kids you need to come back here right now or you’re in big trouble!” she yelled as loud as she dared. It was getting harder and harder to control herself in her weakened and frazzled state, and that feeling of cold dread in her stomach was spreading. Had they gone to find the blood? She hadn’t even been told their names so she could scold them properly. She listened hard over her own frantic breathing for the utility room door opening.  

Something heavy hit the stairs with a thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Entranced by the drumbeat she watched the door. She could just hear their little voices again arguing. She tried one more time to put her weight against the door but nothing moved. It was solidly built. Built by their father no doubt, built to last. She didn’t say a word as they came through the door, too busy trying to see what they were dragging. And then it hit her, the sounds that were missing; There was no laughter, not a single giggle escaped them, just tiny voices and angry whispers. It wasn’t right. It took another moment for her to compute what she was seeing, another for her nose to catch the pungent sweet smell of petrol on the air. 

“What is that? What are you doing?” She demanded. They ignored her, using all of the strength in their tiny arms to push the canister to the bottom of the door, liquid sloshing uneasily against hard plastic. That smell didn’t belong in this fluffy lilac and green room, the smell of death and danger wasn’t supposed to exist in hands so small and soft. Tabitha shook the door, kicked the bottom corner with her boot but it held, not even room for her to pull her leg back. “This is really bad guys; you can’t be doing this.” 

The children stood back as it soaked the carpet, their faces set and serious. When it had emptied enough that they could lift is again, they worked together to swing it at the wardrobe door, splashing further and further up. Drops slid through the wooden slats. They worked like they’d done this before, practiced even, their faces scrunched up in concentration. Tabitha fell back as it hit her face, the sour taste making her wretch.  

“Where is it?”  

“You have it!”  

“You were supposed to get it!”  

On her knees, Tabitha grabbed at the slats again, now at their eye level. “Guys, what is happening? Let me out right now or I swear!” It was like she wasn’t there, liked she’d stopped existing. The little girl handed something to the boy that glinted in the light. Tabitha’s vision was beginning to blur, but she knew what it was even in double vision. 

“Don’t. Please,” she pleaded.  

“Come on do, it!” the little girl pinched her brother’s arm, making him wince, but he didn’t cry. He used both hands to turn the wheel of the plastic zippo, taking four tries to strike up a yellow flame. He took a step forward, his eyes mesmerized by the fire in his own hand for a moment before they finally met Tabitha’s. He hesitated. 

“She’s a witch!” The little girl screamed in his ear. “They left us here to get eaten by her! They won’t come back for us after what we did to Mummy, we have to burn her like the story said!” The little girl’s voice filled the room, filled her brother’s ears, filled the space between the lines in the story book, the white corners of the illustrations. Coughing, Tabitha kept her eyes on him, desperately trying to pull his attention to her.  

“This is dangerous, you know that. This is REALLY bad. Just put the lighter down and we can have another story ok? We can do whatever you want if you just let me out. You can still be a good boy!”  

Something in the boy shifted, something in her words tipping him over the edge. His eyes glossed over. Her gentle pleas turned back to screaming and cursing, threats that she would follow through on if she only got her chance. His fingers let go. 

The flames spread quickly, jumping from the door to her clothes, running a line from the hem of her cloak to the fat filled flesh of her skin in minutes. They watched the witch burn for as long as they could, fear over ridden by fascination at what they’d done. They watched until the screaming lapsed into a choked silence, until the heat and the smoke became too much for their little eyes and tiny lungs to take, then they ran, leaving the sliding doors open.  

Hand in hand, the woods swallowed them up.  




Caroline was still buzzing from the house wine as they pulled back into the estate her hand warm in her husband’s for the first time in… she couldn’t remember. Red and blue lights flashed across her vision, the fuzz of her brain blown away like mist in hurricane. A fire engine silhouetted against blazing flames that reached for the dark sky.  

“What’s wrong?” she asked, straining against her seat belt. Brian squinted out the windscreen with his tongue between his teeth, his head shaking slowly. He slipped his hand from hers to stop the car. It seemed like the whole street was out in slippers and dressing gowns, kids in pyjamas as they clung to their parent’s legs and watched with pale faces as fire fighters fought to quench the flames at the end of the street. Caroline pressed a hand over her heart and said a silent prayer as she saw their house outside the semi-circle of worried faces.

Whatever was going on, Tabitha was safe.  


‘Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real’ by Steve Grogan – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*


From the beginning of my life, I knew what purpose I would serve. Clarity hit me the second my father’s sperm pierced the shell of my mother’s egg. Yes, that is how immediate and obvious the truth was. 

Mother gave herself to him that night completely. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his entire body to fuse with her so they could become one. As I got older, I was raised to believe that a woman offering herself in this was to a man was a special occasion, but over time I discovered none of my peers held the same belief. They had hollow caves where their hearts should be. Since they had no problem sharing this treasure with whoever happened to be around. Some would use excused for this promiscuity (like constant horniness, alcohol, or drugs), but I was not blind to the truth. Mine was a generation of misfits incapable of loving themselves, more prone to loneliness and alienation than even the Beats. 

I was unique among my peers because I understood love. Ironically, this meant I was lonely as hell because in their minds I was this weirdo who wanted a serious commitment instead of just empty sex. Over time I came to embrace my individuality/ I wore it like a badge of pride. My problem proved to be its own solution. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

As I was saying, the purpose of my life became clear to me very early on. One might be inclined to thin I am exaggerating, but this realization came to me while I was still hovering in the womb. I was meant to fulfill one role: the underdog, the loser, the one who has bad luck or no luck at all. 

This was the trajectory my life was supposed to follow. Someone or something had already chosen it for me. Into the fluid of the life-giving sac I screamed inquiries and profanities of all sorts, lashing out with my feet when the lack of answers frustrated me. 

Months passed. My development was the same as any other embryo. They physical traits, however, were where my similarities to others ended. I had already gained a realization that I would be different. There would be no one quite like me. 



Synopsis (from Goodreads) –

He was lost, directionless, unable to find his identity.

He thought he found it in her, which was good because he was teetering on the edge of madness.

She had no way of knowing her actions would push him over the edge.

This is a story about the dangers of depending on others to give you a sense of self-worth, taken to the extreme. It is a graphic, dark story not meant for the faint of heart. The graphic content makes up only 15% of the prose, but it is some of the most harrowing writing ever committed to page.


Thoughts –

Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real is the fantasy of an ‘incel’, and I didn’t enjoy it. It certainly is horrifying the way that some people think, especially men who hate women as much as the main character in this book did, but there needs to be more than a glamorized description of their fantasies from their perspective – men hating women for the fact that they are women isn’t interesting, it’s depressing.

As you can see from the quote above, the book begins by the protagonist describing that he understood society and relationships while he was still in the womb and that can basically describe his entire personality. He constantly monologues about how people treat him so terribly because he’s actually so interesting and intelligent, and how women hate him but yet he has multiple girlfriends who he has loads of sex with and breaks up with amicably – there’s inconsistencies here with his account and obviously he’s an unreliable narrator but he’s much too unreliable for the story to work. And nothing comes along to test this guy, no characters try and hold a mirror up to his character, there’s no actual conflict for him that I read until the bizarre final scenes which should never have happened and to be honest I skipped over most of the gore as I could tell where it was going – rape and torture of a woman who did nothing wrong.

The story ends with a scenario that makes no sense – his girlfriend breaks up with him only to invite him to small gathering where she gets with another guy? Why would she do this? To further the plot of course and lead him on a graphic rape and murder spree, why else.

This isn’t a pleasant story to read, and I know it was never meant to be, but when I read a story I want there to be some character or scene or something to cling on to so that I can still believe humanity is not a complete dumpster fire – I didn’t get anything like that from this book. Hearing from a misogynistic murderer why they hate women and want to kill them isn’t interesting especially as the reason is ‘because they’re women’. Killers are only interesting for the stories of the people trying to fight them off, to get away from them – essentially for the humanity and fight for survival that they bring out in others.

Maybe the Dream Knows What is Real is a short and uncomfortable read that holds a niche audience.


About the Author (from Goodreads) –

Photos Unavailable

Steve Grogan has published several collections of poetry and short stories. This is his first story of extended length to be published.


Links to Buy and Review –






How do you feel about horror stories from the killers perspective? Does there need to be some accountability in their stories? Does exorbitant violence turn you away from a book?

‘Vultures’ by Grant Palmquist – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*


At ten o’clock, Trent Sable grabbed the revolver, shoved it in the back of his pants, slipped on his latex gloves, and took the black balaclava from his duffel bag. He stepped out into the humid June night, and sweat rolled from his pores like wax down a melting candlestick. Mosquitoes buzzed around him. One of them landed on his forearm and sucked at his skin. Trent pulled a Marlboro 100 and chrome lighter with Trent etched into it from his pocket, lit a cigarette, breaking his two-a-day habit, and brought the cherry to the mosquito on his arm. It curled into a dry, dead ball and rolled into oblivion, then Trent made his way down the stairs, the wood creaking beneath each step. He could see the light of the Stop ‘N Shop sign by the moonlight, its fading yellow background flickering off and on.

Almost closing time.

The parking low was empty, and the man who owned the place was probably busy cleaning up inside. Trent looked up and down the street to make sure no cars were coming, and he gripped the balaclava tightly in his clammy hand, ready to draw it over his face. He reached the edge of the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath his feet. The smell of exhaust still hung in the air. Trent spotted puddles of gasoline near the gas pumps and dragged on his cigarette as he passed them, imagining someone drenched in fluid, begging Trent fore help, only to find himself ignited in flames a few seconds later.

Trent laughed to himself.

Synopsis –

Heath is a family man with a nine to five job, a wife that he loves, and a teenage daughter going through a breakup and the

Trent is a sociopathic killer intent on proving himself a god and uprooting the laws of society. Trent picks Heath and his family as a target and stalks them relentlessly. What happens when chaos targets a middle class family? Can they survive the violence?

Thoughts –

I found a fun thing to do with this book! Here’s a drinking game you can play while reading. Drink when

– eyes are referred to as orbs

– you see the word phantasmagoria

– some ‘gets acclimated’ to sudden light or dark

– a random snake shows up

– Trent seems aroused but then blankly states that he can’t get aroused

– Victoria ignores blatant and immediate danger

– someone is clearly being followed but just shrugs and carries on anyway

– Trent swings ‘up and down’ on the swing

(Please be aware that if you play this game you will die because at least four of these happen in every single chapter)

First of all I would like to say that the general writing of the book is well done, Palmquist has a voice and he uses it and the sentence by sentence structure is well done. It was an easy book to read and if you are interested in synopsis of the book, I would say you should give it a try, however there were a few things that stuck in my teeth like a popcorn kernel, but I wouldn’t say this is a bad book, just possibly a confusing one.

So Vultures sets itself up as some kind of stalker story and I actually got the impression that maybe the family would be held captive in the house by the sociopath and that would be the majority of the novel. I’m not entirely sure where I got this idea from, maybe because Trent wants to destroy their ‘home and family’, so that assumption is on me. However, I did expect more to happen in the actual book than what did.

Without spoilers, there are two deaths pretty early on and this gives the impression that the story will ramp up to something, but the energy fizzles out very quickly after the second woman is brutally killed. I’d like to also point out that Heath the family man with a lovely wife and daughter, doesn’t seem to like women very much. He had a vendetta against Gloria (personally that hurt to read) at work and seems obsessed with hating her, and when he is blackmailed for the murder of another woman who’s body he wakes up beside, he never gives a single thought for the life of that woman. He never even thinks ‘that could be Yvonne or Victoria’, nope, he only cares about his own reputation which doesn’t fit with the character, or at least what we are supposed to believe about the character. Not to mention when Gloria goes missing, it seems more like he’s missing the conflict rather than actually concerned about her well being.

Heath as a character is completely caught up in his own insecurities and anger. Throughout the book he completely leaves his wife in the dark even after it would be far more beneficial to tell her. When it is one hundred percent clear that a verified killer is stalking your family, you tell your wife and daughter, you don’t leave them alone in the house, and you don’t let them leave under any circumstances. Heath just kind of… worries, without telling either of them. And Yvonne, his wife, is characterised as a submissive, loving but unquestioning wife even when her husband disappears for forty eight hours and is acting the weirdest he’s ever acting in their entire marriage. She’s basically not there for the entire story.

Victoria is, for the most part, is an ordinary seventeen year old. Trent tries to seduce her and it’s believable that in her fragile emotional state that she would fall for him, if it weren’t for the fact that he is completely devoid of any charm whatsoever. Serial killers, historically, are known to be very charming but Trent is just boring and mean and Victoria’s obsession with him is unbelievable to me as a reader. There are sermons scattered throughout from the family going to church, the book that I will be honest I mainly skipped because I did my time in church and the first few it wasn’t relevant to the plot of the story. At the end of church one day, for seemingly no reason Victoria declares that her goal in life is to have children. ???? Like, fine if you want to have children, but it was unprompted and told to her father, also at the beginning of the story she says she pledged her virginity to her father (promises her father she won’t have sex until she is married) which is uncomfortable to say the least.

But obviously the family aren’t devout Christians as Heath doesn’t seem to care about the deaths of the women around him. And a main theme in this book is masculinity and what it means. Trent believes he is a true man because he murders, and Heath feels emasculated because he doesn’t? Like you can’t be masculine unless you are violent. And you aren’t truly feminine unless you give birth?

There’s a lot of following but no reacting, there’s a lot of overlapping text conversations that didn’t need to be repeated. What could have been a great standoff between an average man protecting his family and a crazed sociopath hellbent on ruining societal norms, ended up being a strange squaring up that lasted way longer than it needed too, ironically showing two people who are too caught up in stereotypes about masculinity they forget to act out those very violent stereotypes at all.

Vultures is not badly written, but a confused book that is aspiring to greater themes than it displays. There are confused statements about masculinity and femininity and there isn’t as much of a showdown as was promised. Also a lot of ‘society are all zombies who don’t feel anymore’ talk which gets old quick.

About the Author –

(Picture not available)

Grant Palmquist is a writer of dark fiction and horror writer who doesn’t have any bios online that I can find.

Links to Buy and Review –




Do you like serial killer horrors? What’s your favourite stalked family story? How do you feel about blatant societal narratives in horror?

‘Nomad’ by Jamie Nash – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*



I’m drowning in blood. 

My brain screams. My feet sprint beneath me, but I go nowhere. I’m paddling, flailing, in a red stew that burns my eyes like an over-chlorinated YMCA pool. 

Chemicals. Fuck. I’m breathing chemicals. 

My arms slam something hard and cold. I’m inside a box, or a closet, or a cage. It’s curved and smooth. Glass. Thick glass. I’m trapped in a bowl like some stupid tropical fish in an orthodontist’s waiting room. My feet scrape against the floor. It’s grilled. A vent. Or a cheese grater. 

I scream, then gag. Something is lodged deep inside my throat. A long, leathery finger stretches past my tongue and worms deep into my airway. It’s a snake. Shit. There’s a snake in my esophagus. I claw and grab at the thing. It slithers in my hands as its rubbery body worms across my windpipe. Its head hisses and flails deep inside my lungs. I keep pulling, digging. Ten inches of rubbery hose spool out. I fling it away. It dances in the bloody murk, blowing a plume of bubbles from its tip. It’s a tube puffing air, a respirator – the very thing that’s been keeping me alive, and I just tore it out. 

Great work, genius. 

My lungs clench, begging for breath. The crimson liquid floods my mouth, coats my cheeks, clogs my nostrils. The foul liquid burns on my tongue. I wretch. It’s gasoline. I’ve siphoned it before. I remember a cousin getting me to do it. Or was it a brother?

Everything’s fuzzy. My thoughts are like a London fog. My memories…

My memories

Where the hell am I?



Synopsis –

She wakes up in a tube, encased in liquid, drowning. No name, no memories, and apparently on a spaceship hurtling through space – and there are others too. But escaping the pods was only the beginning and there’s danger around every corner of the spaceship. Our protagonist and her rag tag new friends must survive the next few hours while trying desperately to figure out what is going on and who they can trust. And on top of that there’s someone else on the ship intent on killing them all.


Thoughts – 

Waking up with no memories and on a spaceship that you didn’t know could even exist is a fear that most people can relate to. For this novel, Nomad,  it’s a reality for our merry bands of random young people and while there’s definitely horror and violence from the outset, our protagonist has the sense of humour to deal with it.

My one and only peeve for this novel, and I do understand why this was the case and it does help the story, it’s just a pet peeve of mine is – there are no chapter breaks. There are no breaks whatsoever bar one or two little star breaks. I imagine the reason for this is because there are no real time jumps until the sort of epilogue at the end, it’s just a continuous present moment narrative which keeps the pace fast and the action coming and the absence of breaks absolutely works for this, however I personally just like to have clear breaks where I can put the book down for a break particularly as I’ve never been a bookmark person. Works for the book, just not for my tastes.

Jamie Nash is a screenwriter for horror movies and family films, and this definitely comes across in the writing of Nomad, but rather than bring out you out of the novel medium, it keeps the break neck pace of the story. This is an exciting and enjoyable novel to read, but you can also see this working absolutely as a television series or even a movie. Yet, it isn’t all about action and visuals, there’s exposition and character development, there’s mystery and a spotted backstory that helps to merge novel with screenplay perfectly.

Our main character (who at one point christens herself Dorothy) is a funny, awkward, and brave protagonist who brings the reader through the story in her unique perspective. In the few hours of her life that you spend with her, she makes friends, loses friends, realises that not everyone can be a friend and is a likeable and comfortable character to head the story of Nomad. Her dark humour is a great contrast to the very real horrors that are happening around her.

Nomad is an adrenaline fueled  sci-fi horror survival story of a woman trying to piece together her past on an alien spaceship. At a pace that will pull the skin off your skull, you’ll tear through this book.


About the Author –


(Taken from the book) Jamie Nash has written for films like V/H/S/2, Exists, Lovely Molly, and Altered. He’s worked on the Nickelodeon movies Tiny Christmas and Santa Hunters. He’s the author of the middle-grade book The 44 Rules of Amateur Sleuthing and the co-author of Bunk! He Lives in Ellicott City, MD. You can see more of Nash’s work on his website jamienash.net and can follow him on Twitter and Facebook.


Links to Buy and Review –






How do you feel about continuous time in stories? Do you need chapter breaks or some kind of breaks in the writing or are you fine with continuous prose? What is your favourite sci-fi horror story?

‘Various States of Decay’ by Matt Hayward – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*


A businessman outside the house at two in the morning made sense in the city, but William lived in the country,  and that made the passerby ever so curious. William parted the curtains slowly, just enough to avoid attention, and breathed through his nose to lessen the condensation on the window. As the man passed the streetlamp, a purple tinge highlighted his suit, and his gait was that of an elderly man with the skin to match. Like a raisin wearing a dollar store three-piece once owned by a pimp. 

The gentleman paused at the mailbox, and William held his breath, letting the blinds fall to a slit. And yet, the businessman (if he could be called such – William imagined that cheap looking briefcase contained blank A4s and half-eaten apple cores opposed to actual documents and contracts) paused and stared at the house. 

William cocked his head, frozen. If the man approached his home, should he rush out and meet him halfway, just in case? But just in case what? The odd timing and strange location surely weren’t enough to justify thoughts of danger, were they? Besides, the man looked old enough to fall asleep standing up, never mind getting a punch to the face. Oh, and that face, like a peanut dropped and covered in fluff from the underbelly of a couch. Still, the gentleman stared at William’s home, and as he did, his shriveled lips curled into a grin. 

Gooseflesh crawled along William’s arms.


William plucked the letter and worked his nail along the seal, greeted by the subtle scent of perfume. He made his way back to the living room and fell onto the couch, throwing away the envelope as he shook out the paper. 

Dearest William. I’d like to talk to you about our Lord and Savior – Philip. Seven AM, today. I’ll see you shortly, and I should hope for decaf. 

Various States eBook cover

Synopsis –

A collection of no less than twenty stories, including the Irish Short Story of the Year-nominated ‘Intercepting Aisle Nine’, Various States of Decay moves steps comfortably from stories of advertisements invading our dreams, Irish folklore in a modern setting, killer furniture, and the horrors of an early morning Dart journey. Dealing with themes of grief, shame, loss of reality and the overwhelming fear of not being believed, this is a collection that any reader can find themselves in.


Thoughts –
First of all, can’t stop staring at that cover design, the colours, the subtle details, and the fact that the upside down bleeding reality of it fits the collection it contains so well. Also, I just fucking love trees.

There are a few stories in particular that stood out in this collection for me for a variety of reasons. One story that gave me a bit of a Hellboy vibe was Rodent in the Red Room, a story that brings some Irish folklore to a modern world and one I personally hadn’t heard of before but was thoroughly unsettling in it’s insidious nature. Another was titled Knock, Knock simply for the bizarre absurdity of it – a businessman shows up at your countryside home at 2am to preach the word of… Philip? Already terrifying.

The stories in this collection are not repetitive but there are similarities in theme and tone, much needed and often overlooked when putting a collection together. There’s also a few that seem to be linked by a single corporate giant that isn’t exactly ethical. But each story stands on its own, complete and satisfying, and most of all memorable.

In the foreword written by Kelli Owen she states that Hayward’s strengths lie in his settings and I would have to agree with that. You never dip your toe in a Hayward story, you plunge flat footed into the deep waters of whatever world he wants you to be in. From dystopian futures to only slightly left-field modern day Ireland, you are right there with the characters and the reality that they can see melting right in front of their eyes.

But Hayward is far from a one-trick pony and though his settings are enthralling, his characters are the anchors that really hold you in the story. Gritty, emotional, and flawed, the protagonists of Hayward’s stories are too real not to be believed. Tired, worried, confused, and in various states of pain as we all are, you get locked into their journeys with them unable to change the trajectory but also unable to look away from the drop there are about to barrel over. All you can do is thank the gods that it isn’t you.

Various States of Decay is a generously thick volume of stories that explore the nature of fear and what it’s like to have your reality turned absolutely upside down. With universal themes of loss, confusion, and the naïve belief that reality is fixed and immutable, Hayward’s writing brings the reader down inexorable paths to devastating ends. For such a long collection I can’t say that there was a miss in the lot, and I’d highly recommend picking up a copy of this today.


About the Author –

Matt Hayward


Matt Hayward is a Bram Stoker Award-nominated horror author and musician from Ireland. You can find Hayward on Twitter at @MattHaywardIRE and can find his books online at the usual places, I would recommend giving him a go.


Links to Buy and Review –





What’s your favourite short story collection? What’s more important to you as a reader enthralling setting or relatable characters?

‘Brothers of Blood’ by Tristan Drue Rogers – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*


“Belle!” hollered Beau within the darkly lit hallway leading into the living room. “Belle” What the hell… where you at?” He stumbled against the wall as his hands were wet and his eyes held no contact lenses, nor glasses atop his nose. 

The television screen glared a spasmodic juxtaposition of non-complementary colors onto the young child. Beau glared his own shade of hazel her way. “Didn’t you hear me? Did you hear anything?” 

She laughed, not at her big brother, but at the cartoon pie character’s actions that she loved so. Beau engulfed a deep breath while walking with deliberate silence near the sofa, where Belle had set up camp. As he set himself near her frame, she became uneasy. He reached his not so steady hand outward toward the remote controller. She noticed a dry redness on a fingertip or two, the residue sinking into the controller’s glob-like buttons as he unexpectedly raised the volume to cover up his speech. “Listen up, kid. We gotta talk.” Beau’s grinding of his jaw was a machine wrought with the law of the world.

“Okay,” said Belle.

“Now, I know we’ve all been going through some… craziness, but I think I’ve found an outlet for our frustrations.”

“What?” Belle was still transfixed to the cartoon hero chasing a baby known as Minion for a midnight snack while its mother was too confused to react. 

“Let’s kill some people.” 

Belle turned to her eldest sibling, looking up into his nostrils. 

“Now, hear me out-” 


Silence was the sound. The television was filler at this point. 

Belle turned, breaking the spell, continuing on to watch the screen. Beau chewed on his cuticle; it tasted new, yet familiar whilst tossed back and forth from one side to another. He swallowed. Belle coughed, which’d enticed Beau to behave as he should before they both behave as they should not; he jumped onto her roughly and began to noogie her noggin. 

“Stop it!”

“Never!” Beau challenged, laughter ensued. 



Synopsis –

Belle is in her final year of high school and is the leader of a gang. To give them some real memories to keep, Belle decides to combine a kill list from her other gang members and have it finished before the year ends. But, the reappearance of her older brother Beau, back from his stint in prison for murder and now a man of God, throws a spanner in the works. Can they convince Beau to take up his violent mantle again? And can Belle keep control of her members?



Thoughts –

Brothers of Blood starts off with a precocious young girl, Belle, and her older brother, Beau, developing a liking for murder. Where this idea came from is never really explained as you ca see from the quote above – that’s pretty much it. Nor is it explained why both of them at completely different ages are not in any way affected, consciously or otherwise with taking the lives of other people. This requires quite a bit of suspension of disbelief to get through the whole story.

The beginning of the book should be interesting and a quick read, but the obnoxiously verbose language makes each page a struggle to get through. Writers often fear dumbing things down or being too simplistic, but you get the same reactions when you use a thesaurus for every other word – alienating the reader, and reducing the chance that they’ll have the energy or momentum to keep turning the pages. This language bleeds into the dialogue as well swinging wildly from 19th century phrases to modern slang, it’s jarring and confusing when dealing with a teenage boy and his young sister. Murderous gang members asking each other for ‘huggles’ is a little bizarre to read.

As the story progresses and the older brother goes away for his crimes, time is hard to pin down in some scenes. You’ll be imagining characters talking by moonlight and in the next sentence they’ll be walking into a just opened bank. I found myself disorientated more than once, and this is actually a book that pulled me out of my reading schedule because it was such a difficult one to get through with all of the off putting language issues. I was never quite sure if it was daylight or nighttime, if it was 1819 or 2019.

This is a story of children murdering whoever they want. The children don’t show any other signs of being unhinged (not that that in itself isn’t enough) and carry on ordinary teenage lives. There are no signs that they see other people differently or that other people react to them differently. They just happen to be brutal murderers, no biggie. But this actually takes away from the killings. There’s nothing interesting about them, I don’t feel for the murderers or the victims and I couldn’t figure out what the point of the whole thing is. No one gets punished, and there are no consequences for the people who deserve them, even for the things they do outside the murders. Conflict is sorely missed in this story.


Brothers of Blood begins with a confused narrative voice that is somewhat cleared up  by the middle of the book but not soon enough for the reader to enjoy the story, if this is a story one can be said to ‘enjoy’. Characters seem to face little consequences or conflict to do with the vile acts they commit and the novel feels more like a fever dream than a glimpse into the life of Belle and her brothers. Read with caution, perseverance is needed to wade through the thesaurus heavy writing, and don’t expect a satisfying ending.


About the Author


Tristan Drue Rogers has had his writing and poetry featured in literary magazines (such as Vamp Cat, Genre: Urban Arts, Weird Mask, and more), and horror anthologies (such as 100 Word Horrors Book 3 and Deep Fried Horror). His debut novel Brothers of Blood is available now. Tristan lives with his wife Sarah and son Rhett in Texas.


Links to Buy and Review






What are your feelings on murderous children in fiction? Do you now of any black humour horror stories shedding a dark light on murder? Let me know down below!

‘Urntold Tales of Horror and Dread’ by JB Lovet – Review

*Disclaimer – I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.*


I can’t sleep yet. The gap in the wall is howling quietly again. That large tree in the garden is making sharp, creepy shapes on the wall. Kris always likes the curtains open. 

The howl from the gap starts to rumble and becomes a low growl. I freeze, my eyes fixed on that corner of the room. From just under the covers, I see it. 

Long, shadowy arms emerge from the dark gap. It’s fingers splayed and strained as it clings to the wall. Those arms hauled a tall, thin, bald man in a black suit out from that dark place. Horrendously elongated in every aspect. Every aspect except for his head, which is so massive and circular it’s a wonder his emaciated frame can hold it up. His eyes are a pure white; glowing even.

I watch him as he stoops to avoid hitting the ceiling. Despite his awkward form, he moved slowly. Effortlessly. His arms and hands searching the room and clinging to pieces of furniture as he glides towards us. All of this done in near silence. Only the gentle creaking of floorboards and furniture as he moves. 



Synopsis –

Marketed as 13 stories when actually its more like 15, Urntold Tales of Horror and Dread is a well curated collection of short stories and flash fiction that range from deranged psychopaths to creeping dread filled monsters.


Thoughts –

Urntold Tales of Horror and Dread (and yes that spelling is correct) started as online uploads of fiction stories from author J.B. Lovet, the positive reception of which pushed them enough to publish them as a collection. Described as 13 Tales, when in fact number 13 is actually an explanation for the inclusion of the next few, in actual fact you are getting 15 dark stories in this slim volume. I guess 13 just feels like a much better number to have for a horror collection. Lovet also states, quite honestly, that they don’t believe the stories would be read otherwise, so why not include them? This honesty is refreshing and endearing and though I feel the subsequent stories would have fit fine with the collection proper, I understand the hesitation and hey – extra stories!


I felt the rush of water into my ears, for a moment nothing but that boom of noise as it hits your eardrums. Then I could hear wailing. Wailing and screaming. Screaming out of anger. In the water I swear I could see faces. Tortured, violent. Through the barest glints of light I could almost make out these arms tightly wound around me, the pressure of their vice-like hands. 


Ranging from subtle psychological dread to violent and unhinged psychopaths, Urntold Tales of Horror and Dread shows the value of a well-crafted short story and the impact a flash fiction piece can have when the dread runs deep. I liked this collection not only for the fact that I had an excuse to use all my extra teeth in the photos, but also that the concepts for the stories were unique and often so unsettling that they are still running around in my mind. ‘The Milkshake Man‘ is one of the creepiest weirdos I’ve read about and the story of ‘The Gap in The Wall‘, where I took the first quote up there from, genuinely made my skin crawl when I read it, and this is not a usual thing for me when reading fiction. I love to read dark stories, but I mainly just smile at the skill, I rarely get goosebumps or the urge to look over my shoulder – I made sure my wardrobe doors were firmly shut after I read that one.


Noise exploded as every telephone in the office began ringing. They wouldn’t stop. It was deafening. A reverberating siren in his ears, like standing next to a car alarm. The row of light at the far end of the office turned on. No one was there, but Rob could’ve sworn he saw a flicker of a shadow for a split-second. 

“Hello? I-is someone there?”



Urntold Tales of Horror and Dread is a collection you should absolutely have on your shelf. Whether you are a reader, a writer, or both, this is a concise collection of skillfully crafted stories. Trimmed down to the bare essentials, there’s no fat on the bones of this collection, and those bones are dreadful.


About the Author –

(As written at the end of this collection)


JB Lovet began writing horror stories to share with online communities.

But it doesn’t matter too much who wrote all this…

Frankly if this lazy son of a gun can bumble through a dream of having stories in print, you can achieve your dreams, too. So go do it.


Links to Buy and Review –





Are there any collections or novels you love that started on the internet? Do you prefer short stories or flash fiction? What is your favourite short horror story? Let me know down below!