Novel: Occult Adventure
Taken down for publishing
horror
She’s at the Window
Drabble: Horror
“Daddy, she’s at the window again.”
I open my eyes to see Arty standing next to my bed. He points to the window behind me and I lift my head to look. There is a dark figure sitting at the window, watching the snow fall outside.
I open my eyes. It was just a dream. Arty isn’t in the room, and the figure at the window…
I roll over. She’s there, sitting at the window. She begins to turn to me.
I open my eyes. Just a dream. But I can feel her eyes on me, watching. I roll over…
Down for Submission
Short Story: Horror
Down for submission.
The Fallowing – Interlude II, Part III
Or: Sawicki Still Has Writer’s Block and Puts a Spider in the Room
Novel: Occult Adventure
Taken down for publishing
The Recording
Drabble: Horror
He stopped the tape and rewound it, the buttons making a loud KA-CHUNK sound in the stillness of the room.
He had let the cassette record for an hour straight, intending to catch some hint of ghostly conversation or howling, or even just any sound that he hadn’t heard during the time of recording. Some proof that the house was haunted.
He pressed Play, eagerly waiting to hear what the tape had recorded. He didn’t have to wait for long before he heard:
“He stopped the tape and rewound it, the buttons making a loud KA-CHUNK sound in the stillness…”
The Fallowing – Interlude II, Part II
This part also works as a stand-alone piece
Novel: Occult Adventure
Taken down for publishing
The Fallowing – Interlude II, Part I
Or: Sawicki Gets Writer’s Block and Gives Faye a Cake
Novel: Occult Adventure
Taken down for publishing
One A.M.
Flash Fiction: Horror
It’s one in the morning, cold, ink-dark. I don’t feel the chill, but I do feel the blackness of the house, creeping into what was once my bones. I drift through the rooms, searching for you, aware of your heartbeat and your warm breaths. I sense them everywhere – all the easier for having neither myself – but can’t place them. It infuriates me, makes me heavy with impatience. My footsteps begin to echo the halls. Can you hear me, like I hear your breaths? Your life? There’s residue in every room: the sweat, the smell of you. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand you in this house. My house. Another door opens before me, squealing on unoiled hinges, and there you are. You’re sitting upright in bed, knuckles tight where they grip the sheets. Gasping for breath, that same hot breath, every breath scraping against my mind. Red hot. Burning. Can you see me? Or are your eyes as empty as ever in the dark?
I scream, I leap, I claw at you. But nothing connects; you don’t move and my hands pass through you. Your breaths cover me and your heart beats around my arm in your chest. I can’t touch you. You only shiver from the cold, from the air or from my own touch I can’t tell. I scream again, this time in defeat, and run from the room, the door creaking shut behind me.
My Phobia
This is not a story: this actually happens to me.
It’s been raining today. My wipers were going on the way to work, and at some point I noticed a streak on the windshield as if something were sticking to the wiper. So when I got to work I lifted up my wiper, expecting a bit of leaf or clump of dirt.
Instead, I saw the long twig-like legs of a soaking wet dead spider.
Now you, like any sane person, are thinking Well at least it wasn’t alive.
No, I would prefer it had been alive.
I have a severe phobia of dead spiders.
September
My take on the Wendigo story.
Short Story: Horror
“Nene!” Mabel cried, running to her grandmother. No one had ever instructed her to call her grandmother Nene. It had just come about in the way spring follows winter, in the way she had grown to walk and talk. When she had first called her grandmother Nene it had stuck. So she ran to her Nene now and was gathered up in strong arms and hugged tight.
“Oh it’s been an age,” Nene exclaimed.
“We were only gone four weeks,” Mabel laughed.
Nene kissed Brad on the cheek and hugged him as best she could with child in her arms. Mabel was pressed between them for a moment and giggled at the warmth.
“How was Alaska?” Nene asked.
Smeared Black Ink 