Damned Words 22

Drabble — a work of short fiction around 100 words. That is what we did, except, well, you know, horror. Come and embrace the work of all the Damned on this edition of Damned Words 22. One picture. Eleven stories. All to scare you into a constant pee-pants state. At least you’ll be as cool as Miles Davis. Billy Madison FTW.

A group of horror writers sworn to their eternal suffering...

The Forever Burden
Lee A. Forman

Only at night could the tower be seen—a spectral fortress alive in darkness. Under the sun the site was an open field, but when the moon rose from its resting place, the stone went up as far as any lantern could illuminate. It seemed to touch the stars. They gathered there each midnight to offer their sorrows to the Lord. He who would cast vengeful death upon them from above. One living soul for one living day. The bargain had been set for as long as any could remember. An unending deal with an unseen God. Their forever burden…

Veronica Magenta Nero

I silence my jagged breath and press myself flat against the cold stones. They chant my name as they jostle flaming torches in the night, boots stomping, their malicious song churns in my stomach. When I close my eyes I see…

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Christopher A. Liccardi brings “Crone” to this weeks Pen of the Damned. It’s an in-your-face sort of tale with a fast tempo and raw characters. There is a subtle element of humor in the beginning fold, one that fits believable terror of the mind so well. Embrace the Damned and give a nod to Chris for this excellent read.

A group of horror writers sworn to their eternal suffering...

That crazy bitch said seven.

Seven of them, but she didn’t say which seven. She didn’t say where they were or how to find them!


Why did everything have to be so damn cryptic? He hated all the mysticism and bullshit.

Peter recalled that conversation, the last normal conversation he’d had. “Seven Devils, boy. You have to kill them all at once, or they come back.” She laughed, sticking her bony finger in his face.

“What the hell are you pointing at?” He slapped at the finger, but she was too quick. Old age had taken nothing but her looks away from her.

“I can see them,” she cackled. The last three teeth in her head were black. The urge to strangle the life out of her was overwhelming.

“I can’t see them. How can I kill what I can’t see?” he spat back at her.

“No, you…

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Sweet Ophelia

Ghost stories are best when they haunt the mind. “Sweet Ophelia” by A. F. Stewart, does just that. Anita digs relentlessly with chilling realism and exceptional pacing. I’m a parent, one that honestly loses sleep over stories like this. Come, embrace the Damned. Free horror, restless nights, all brought to you by today’s best in modern horror.

A group of horror writers sworn to their eternal suffering...

Daddy, Daddy! Look! It’s snowing. Can we go out and play?”

Ophelia giggled and pressed her face close to the windowpane, staring at the flakes descending from the sky. She traced her chubby finger along the frost touched glass, waiting for an answer.

It never came.

Her silent father only sat in his high-backed chair and gulped another mouthful of Scotch. He stared into the flames crackling in the fireplace, ignoring anything else. When he drained the glass, he poured himself another drink.

Impatient, Ophelia sighed and climbed down from her window ledge perch. She glided out of the room in search of her mother. She found her in the kitchen washing dishes.

“It’s snowing, Mummy. Can we go play in the snow?”

Her mother never looked at her, simply kept at her task, and Ophelia sighed again. “No one pays attention to me anymore.” She tried stamping her…

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Nina has an ability to summon a wide range of emotions from a reader with her elegant horror, and in this weeks Pen of the Damned, she strikes awe in my eyes with her piece “Waves”. I look up to writers likes this, who can keep it short and vivid and vast and longing for more. Her prose, illustrious skills with words, paints the mind so well. Enjoy, friends!

A group of horror writers sworn to their eternal suffering...

Trapped within this bubble, I feel nothing of the arid landscape that surrounds me. I sit in subjugation, offered scraps to feed upon; amuse-bouche for the soul, or so I imagine. Apportioned morsels to sustain me, but never more than your callous ego will allow. Yes, I have licked the plate and the tang has seared my tongue, left a residue of shame that will forever taint my palate. I once soared with as much grace and majesty as the prey that circles overhead – a dangerous companion to adopt, folly perhaps, as I know what it awaits.

Freedom, such a simple thing, stolen from me by destiny’s choice; a truth mourned beyond measure. I was vibrant once, as vibrant as the now desiccated tree before me. I see its brittle limbs, its exposed bones; the crack that foretells of the next fractured moment. I live that moment with…

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