Shadows will breathe
"Careful. Evil has a way of making friends with the good and dragging them into the darkness." ~ Dr. Al Robbins
Monday, July 31, 2017
Tales of Mystery and Imagination
I never heard of this album until a week ago. (Thanks for the info, Matt.)
I've been listening to it and it is quite the tribute to Poe.
Two thumbs up, Alan Parson Project. Well done.
Any Creepsters out there know this album?
#MusicMonday
#RockOn
#CreepOn
#SharetheDarkness
#EdgarAllanPoe
Friday, July 28, 2017
Thursday, July 27, 2017
When There's No One To Help You...
This flash fiction piece is one of the first I posted to this blog.
I'm very proud of it - not only because it can stand on its own, but also because it led the way to greater stories and paved the way for scarier tales.
I also favor it because of this line -
"I don't know how the trouble got it."
My Gram said that to me once, years and years ago, and for some reason it stuck with me.
It resonated somewhere in the recesses of my mind and fought its way back to the surface and into this story.
I hope you enjoy this little narrative of the macabre.
Hit the Like, Love, or Creep button below to let me know what you think.
Uninvited
The amount of blood was impressive.
Roger laid in a fetal position, coughing up clots and trying, with all of his might, to remain brave. He reached for his cell, pulled it out of his back pocket and slid the unlock icon, seemingly unaware of the massive surge of light it cast into the dark hallway. His fingers dialed the magic numbers, leaving red smudges across the phone's screen.
It rang four times.
"911. What is your emergency?"
His voice shook out a whisper. "I don't know how it got in."
"Hello? Sir? Speak up. What is your emergency?"
He spat another clump of blood onto the hardwood floor. "I don't know... how the...the trouble got in..."
"Sir? Are you okay? Is someone in your house?"
"Not someone...something," he choked.
"Sir? We don't take kindly to pranks-"
"-this isn't a prank," he interrupted. "Please...help me."
"Sir. Are you hurt?"
He stared at the pool of blood billowing around his body. In shock, and unable to believe his fate, he tried to speak. Swallowing hard, Roger cried out, "Oh, God. I am."
The operator giggled. "Sir. God is your only hope right now."
A loud crash boomed from the next room. A shadow emerged and filled the door frame ~ its silhouette large, ominous and shifting; its eyes were the only feature Roger could make out. And he tried not to stare into them; into those blanched eyes that burned white hot into his own.
"Please," he spoke to the dark figure, raising his bloodied hand as a feeble move to defend himself. "Please," he whispered into his cell to the operator on the other end.
"Please," the operator mocked him in a childish tone and chuckled. "Roger. Be strong. This will all be over in another minute."
The cell phone went dead.
Then, the light from its screen shut off.
The pitch blackness was back and all Roger could make out were those eyes.
Those white hot eyes.
And they moved towards him.
He mumbled a half of a prayer, wondering if God would hear him; would even know him.
Those malicious white eyes were level with his own now and he could feel the heat that radiated from them.
A tear slid down his cheek and landed at the corner of his mouth. He welcomed the salty taste.
Roger closed his own eyes.
He drew one more breath.
by: Deevious
Wednesday, July 26, 2017
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Secrets to Keep
There are some nightmares that I cannot -I will not put to paper because they are just too terrifying - too horrific - too evil. I won't put them into words for fear these would breathe a life into them and they would walk off of the paper and into the world;
And I would be to blame.
I would be responsible for all that destruction - all that pain - all that blood.
And I would be to blame.
I would be responsible for all that destruction - all that pain - all that blood.
~Deevious~
Monday, July 24, 2017
99 Days Away...
It's never too early for some great Halloween ideas...
Follow the link below for 20 different killer makeup opts
that are perfect for a variety of costumes.
#8 is my favorite.
#15 blows my mind.
and #19 makes me cry...out of fear.
Creepsters, which one is your favorite?
 |
Friday, July 21, 2017
What Are You Reading?
Happy Weekend, Creepsters!
And Happy reading...
 |
| Find image here |
Need some book ideas?
Check out: Evil's Library.
Looking for some scary short stories?
Check out these: Nightmares.
#ReadOn
#CreepOn
#SharetheDarkness
#NightLightsCastShadows
#Booknerds4Life
Thursday, July 20, 2017
When the Dream Becomes Real...
This story came to me one day while I was driving my car. I used to pass an old schoolhouse on my way to work. I'm talking one of those tiny red-brick buildings - smaller than your garage - that you see in rural America. A structure so distraught with age that it longed for days past. Every time I would drive past it, I would think about what it looked like inside and if it had deteriorated with age as mush as the exterior? Were the walls crumbling? Was the floor peeling? And what had it looked like back in the day? New? Colorful? Inviting? I let those thoughts fester and form until the following characters were created and this story emerged...
Unbearable
She would've recognized that house anywhere, just as sure as she would her own reflection.
It was the exact two-story building she had seen in her dreams – the faded red-brick casing; the boarded-up windows; even the crumbling gray sidewalk was broken in all the same places.
And just like that feeling in her dream, she knew she shouldn’t be here.
She wasn’t invited.
Or was she?
Was she to believe that this was some sort of coincidence? That after years of awakening from the same dream she finally became its reality? That being here, out-of-state and visiting, she just happened to come across a replica of her dream? No. This wasn't an accident. It was a sign.
She had to see it up close and touch it; see what was inside of it.
“Stop the car,” she yelled at her husband.
Startled by the urgency in her voice, Mark slammed on the brakes, throwing the couple forward with a jolt. A pick-up truck swerved around the car’s rear bumper; its driver laid on the horn, screaming an obscenity out his window.
“What the hell?” Mark barked.
“Pull over, honey,” she ordered.
Mark pulled the car over onto a gravel clearing. “You can’t do that while I’m driving, Emma. I don’t know the area and-”
“Sorry, hon,” she cut him off, grabbed for the door handle, and hopped out of the car.
“Where are you going?” he asked the empty passenger seat. Killing the engine, he fell in behind her on the crackled sidewalk. “Emma. What are we doing here?”
“I just have to see it,” she said.
“See what?” Mark asked.
“This house,” she answered, looking up to him with child-like excitement. “This is the exact house as in my dream. Remember the one I told you about? That dream that keeps coming back to me over and over again?”
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, eyeing up the decrepit mass. "It looks more like a shack than a house."
"Oh, It's identical," she replied. “It is so crazy how it stands here - right before me - beckoning me to come and visit."
Mark looked at his watch - a watch that he hardly ever wore, except for special occasions like weddings and funerals and - if he remembered to - Sunday mass. Today, he busted it out for the family wedding. “We better go, Emma. Maybe we can stop back here and check it out after the reception.”
“We have to check it out now,” Emma demanded.
“But people are expecting us. We cannot be late.”
Emma strutted up the chunky sidewalk. “I’ll just be a minute.”
But Mark could tell by her tone - and after ten years of marriage, he knew just about all of her tones by now, and this one said that she’d be more than a minute. And after a decade with her, he also knew that no amount of arguing was going to make a difference. Still, he tried. “Come on, Emma. It’s getting late.”
Ignoring her husband, she took the three steps up to a wooden door. As if on cue, a gush of wind whisked through the air, paused to play with her hair and hit against the decaying door. It pushed it open.
Emma paused, turned around to look at her husband and began to giggle.
In that moment, Mark realized just how she would’ve looked at seven years old. And he knew that in this one moment, he could never love her more.
She gave him a big, goofy smile and scurried through the open door.
“Don’t go in by yourself,” Mark yelled, running after her. He took the steps in one bound and grabbed for the door handle, just as it slammed shut behind his wife. “Emma!” He pounded his fist against the door. “Emma!” His voice was strained. “Open up!”
Inside, she couldn’t hear a thing. She didn’t hear the door slam behind her or the rustle that came from the upstairs bedroom. To her, there was only an awkward silence. A hush so quiet it was deafening.
The empty room she stood in was spacious. Her feet met a hardwood floor, brittle with age and covered with a thick layer of dust and grime. Yellow, peeling wallpaper hugged most of the room and the only light was a single beam that shone in through the boarded window on the far left wall. A dilapidated staircase hung on the opposite wall, most of the steps rotted away and looking like sink holes. The banister was overrun with glossy spider webs. The place looked to be hours away from caving in on itself.
Emma stood in awe.
“So beautiful,” she breathed out, unaware of the decaying mess about her. All she could see was a house well kept; a sitting room fully decorated with glass tables and an antique hutch, lush brown carpeting and posh furniture, thick gold-encrusted curtains, and a dangling chandelier that cast the most beautiful shadows about the white walls, like the way a diamond ring catches the afternoon sun.
For a brief moment, Emma was at peace, admiring the house and all of its charm that she had so often visited in her dreams - unable to believe the good fortune she had to stumble upon it. But her respect for the place was fleeting.
In the next moment, she stumbled about the room like a drunk, trying to keep herself from falling over. She caught herself on the sofa, but it disappeared. She fell to the floor, smashing hard against the splintered wood. It was if she was being thrown about by some invisible force.
Next, she was gathered up and tossed against the front door she had just entered. She gripped the handle for support, but it wouldn’t be enough. She was strewn again and ended up near the staircase, her head hitting off the banister; her hair now adorned with those silver webs.
“What the hell?” she mumbled, the blow to the head finally jolting her out of her daydream. She stared about the room with what seemed to be a new set of eyes, now aware of its decay. She forced herself up and scrambled for the door.
She needed to get out.
She needed Mark.
The feeling of immediate danger swelled up in her throat like the thirst for water. She knew she had to get out of this place.
As she fumbled with the doorknob, a sharp pain grabbed hold of her. It was like someone took a screwdriver and lodged it right up under her jawline. Emma screamed out. She could hear a faint knock on the opposite side of the door, and wondered for a brief moment if it was Mark; if he would be able to save her; if they really were going to miss that wedding reception. She would give anything for a stiff whiskey sour right about now.
Emma screamed out again as another invisible jab hit her neck. Her knees buckled.
The pain was excruciating and overtook her body, just like a seizure. What started out as a dull ache - like a tooth festered with infection - grew, spreading throughout her body like a warm heat, intensifying with each passing second. Emma writhed in pain, smacking the back of her head against the door, pounding her fist into the rotting floor boards and releasing a howl, like that of a wild coyote. It was as if she was being slaughtered from the inside out. A deep cry erupted from her diaphragm as a mix of saliva and blood slid out of her mouth and dribbled onto her chin.
The pain was unbearable.
She finally understood why some people would welcome the end; why some people overdosed on pain medication; why some craved death over life.
Everything was happening too fast and it was too much for her body to take. She wished for the reaper to come for her. She wished for it all to be over.
Actually begged for it.
Begged for relief.
Begged for death just like some would beg for life.
And - as if reading her mind - a rustle from the staircase roused her attention.
She looked up and beheld the most frightening creature that any horror movie could ever conjure up. A shadowy figure that was made up of raw meat, dead body parts and lost souls began its decent down the stairs - its gaze never wavering from Emma’s. Its skeletal face housed the most wicked smirk. Empty black holes that masqueraded as eyes looked down upon her. The figure moaned a deep, endless wail, as it glided towards her.
Emma whimpered with fear. A small pang of desire arose within her; an instinct to live. She mustered up all of her energy and fear and bundled them into strength. She grasped at the doorknob again, her one last attempt at life.
It wouldn’t budge.
The creature made its way closer and closer; an awful stench - like a mix of urine and fish - radiated from its form.
Emma screamed out again.
And again
And again.
Outside, Mark was screaming back at her. His fists bloodied to a pulp, trying to beat down that rickety wooden door that wouldn’t budge. “Emma!” he cried out. “Emma, baby, just open the door. Please. Just open the door...”
The End
Unbearable
She would've recognized that house anywhere, just as sure as she would her own reflection.
It was the exact two-story building she had seen in her dreams – the faded red-brick casing; the boarded-up windows; even the crumbling gray sidewalk was broken in all the same places.
And just like that feeling in her dream, she knew she shouldn’t be here.
She wasn’t invited.
Or was she?
Was she to believe that this was some sort of coincidence? That after years of awakening from the same dream she finally became its reality? That being here, out-of-state and visiting, she just happened to come across a replica of her dream? No. This wasn't an accident. It was a sign.
She had to see it up close and touch it; see what was inside of it.
“Stop the car,” she yelled at her husband.
Startled by the urgency in her voice, Mark slammed on the brakes, throwing the couple forward with a jolt. A pick-up truck swerved around the car’s rear bumper; its driver laid on the horn, screaming an obscenity out his window.
“What the hell?” Mark barked.
“Pull over, honey,” she ordered.
Mark pulled the car over onto a gravel clearing. “You can’t do that while I’m driving, Emma. I don’t know the area and-”
“Sorry, hon,” she cut him off, grabbed for the door handle, and hopped out of the car.
“Where are you going?” he asked the empty passenger seat. Killing the engine, he fell in behind her on the crackled sidewalk. “Emma. What are we doing here?”
“I just have to see it,” she said.
“See what?” Mark asked.
“This house,” she answered, looking up to him with child-like excitement. “This is the exact house as in my dream. Remember the one I told you about? That dream that keeps coming back to me over and over again?”
“Are you sure about this?” he asked, eyeing up the decrepit mass. "It looks more like a shack than a house."
"Oh, It's identical," she replied. “It is so crazy how it stands here - right before me - beckoning me to come and visit."
Mark looked at his watch - a watch that he hardly ever wore, except for special occasions like weddings and funerals and - if he remembered to - Sunday mass. Today, he busted it out for the family wedding. “We better go, Emma. Maybe we can stop back here and check it out after the reception.”
“We have to check it out now,” Emma demanded.
“But people are expecting us. We cannot be late.”
Emma strutted up the chunky sidewalk. “I’ll just be a minute.”
But Mark could tell by her tone - and after ten years of marriage, he knew just about all of her tones by now, and this one said that she’d be more than a minute. And after a decade with her, he also knew that no amount of arguing was going to make a difference. Still, he tried. “Come on, Emma. It’s getting late.”
Ignoring her husband, she took the three steps up to a wooden door. As if on cue, a gush of wind whisked through the air, paused to play with her hair and hit against the decaying door. It pushed it open.
Emma paused, turned around to look at her husband and began to giggle.
In that moment, Mark realized just how she would’ve looked at seven years old. And he knew that in this one moment, he could never love her more.
She gave him a big, goofy smile and scurried through the open door.
“Don’t go in by yourself,” Mark yelled, running after her. He took the steps in one bound and grabbed for the door handle, just as it slammed shut behind his wife. “Emma!” He pounded his fist against the door. “Emma!” His voice was strained. “Open up!”
Inside, she couldn’t hear a thing. She didn’t hear the door slam behind her or the rustle that came from the upstairs bedroom. To her, there was only an awkward silence. A hush so quiet it was deafening.
The empty room she stood in was spacious. Her feet met a hardwood floor, brittle with age and covered with a thick layer of dust and grime. Yellow, peeling wallpaper hugged most of the room and the only light was a single beam that shone in through the boarded window on the far left wall. A dilapidated staircase hung on the opposite wall, most of the steps rotted away and looking like sink holes. The banister was overrun with glossy spider webs. The place looked to be hours away from caving in on itself.
Emma stood in awe.
“So beautiful,” she breathed out, unaware of the decaying mess about her. All she could see was a house well kept; a sitting room fully decorated with glass tables and an antique hutch, lush brown carpeting and posh furniture, thick gold-encrusted curtains, and a dangling chandelier that cast the most beautiful shadows about the white walls, like the way a diamond ring catches the afternoon sun.
For a brief moment, Emma was at peace, admiring the house and all of its charm that she had so often visited in her dreams - unable to believe the good fortune she had to stumble upon it. But her respect for the place was fleeting.
In the next moment, she stumbled about the room like a drunk, trying to keep herself from falling over. She caught herself on the sofa, but it disappeared. She fell to the floor, smashing hard against the splintered wood. It was if she was being thrown about by some invisible force.
Next, she was gathered up and tossed against the front door she had just entered. She gripped the handle for support, but it wouldn’t be enough. She was strewn again and ended up near the staircase, her head hitting off the banister; her hair now adorned with those silver webs.
“What the hell?” she mumbled, the blow to the head finally jolting her out of her daydream. She stared about the room with what seemed to be a new set of eyes, now aware of its decay. She forced herself up and scrambled for the door.
She needed to get out.
She needed Mark.
The feeling of immediate danger swelled up in her throat like the thirst for water. She knew she had to get out of this place.
As she fumbled with the doorknob, a sharp pain grabbed hold of her. It was like someone took a screwdriver and lodged it right up under her jawline. Emma screamed out. She could hear a faint knock on the opposite side of the door, and wondered for a brief moment if it was Mark; if he would be able to save her; if they really were going to miss that wedding reception. She would give anything for a stiff whiskey sour right about now.
Emma screamed out again as another invisible jab hit her neck. Her knees buckled.
The pain was excruciating and overtook her body, just like a seizure. What started out as a dull ache - like a tooth festered with infection - grew, spreading throughout her body like a warm heat, intensifying with each passing second. Emma writhed in pain, smacking the back of her head against the door, pounding her fist into the rotting floor boards and releasing a howl, like that of a wild coyote. It was as if she was being slaughtered from the inside out. A deep cry erupted from her diaphragm as a mix of saliva and blood slid out of her mouth and dribbled onto her chin.
The pain was unbearable.
She finally understood why some people would welcome the end; why some people overdosed on pain medication; why some craved death over life.
Everything was happening too fast and it was too much for her body to take. She wished for the reaper to come for her. She wished for it all to be over.
Actually begged for it.
Begged for relief.
Begged for death just like some would beg for life.
And - as if reading her mind - a rustle from the staircase roused her attention.
She looked up and beheld the most frightening creature that any horror movie could ever conjure up. A shadowy figure that was made up of raw meat, dead body parts and lost souls began its decent down the stairs - its gaze never wavering from Emma’s. Its skeletal face housed the most wicked smirk. Empty black holes that masqueraded as eyes looked down upon her. The figure moaned a deep, endless wail, as it glided towards her.
Emma whimpered with fear. A small pang of desire arose within her; an instinct to live. She mustered up all of her energy and fear and bundled them into strength. She grasped at the doorknob again, her one last attempt at life.
It wouldn’t budge.
The creature made its way closer and closer; an awful stench - like a mix of urine and fish - radiated from its form.
Emma screamed out again.
And again
And again.
Outside, Mark was screaming back at her. His fists bloodied to a pulp, trying to beat down that rickety wooden door that wouldn’t budge. “Emma!” he cried out. “Emma, baby, just open the door. Please. Just open the door...”
The End
written by: Deevious
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
A Basket Full of Darkness...
I love this artwork by the talented and legendary artist, Fred Einaudi.
I would love to have this piece hang in my house.
It would definitely motivate me to do more housework...or laundry...or evil doings.
😈
 |
| Image, info and artist, Fred Einaudi found here |
Monday, July 17, 2017
Book Club Business
Have you seen this month's pick for the Night Lights Book Club?
Here it is again, just in case you missed it the first time around...
The Girl With All The Gifts by M. R. Carey is my July pick.
It captured my attention in the book store (thanks for the nudge, Kim) and it captivated me from the first word until its last.
They have recently made this into a movie so you can always check that out too.
Let me know what you think of M.R.Carey's novel by sharing your thoughts and comments below.
 |
| Thanks for the pick, Kim. You were so right about this one. |
My rating for this masterpiece? It is nothing short of = 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤
#ReadOn
#CreepOn
#NightLightsBookClub
#BookNerds4Life
Friday, July 14, 2017
Beach Scares?
I stumbled upon this great article and thought you'd like it too.
This is for all my Creespters out there who are beach bound this summer.
(*That Jack Skellington bathing suit is spooktacular!)
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Night Lights Book Club Pick
Because I am spending so much of my time writing these days (novels take focus) this month's pick for the Night Lights Book Club is only now coming at ya. It's a good one though. Nope. It's a GREAT one. The Girl With All The Gifts by M. R. Carey is my July pick. It captured my attention in the book store (thanks for the nudge, Kim) and it captivated me from the first word until its last. They have recently made this into a movie so you can always check that out too.
Let me know what you think of M.R.Carey's novel by sharing your thoughts and comments below.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
The Dark Side
Lost in the darkness
Saved by the light
Hold on to your madness
With all your might
 |
| Find image on giphy.com |
Sometimes it's all you have left.
Monday, July 10, 2017
POLAROID - Official Trailer
I think this might be one of the good ones, Creepsters.
(Well, actually, one of the evil ones.)
Not to wish the summer away, but I am really looking forward to checking this movie out at the end of August.
Keep your eye out for this one...
Friday, July 7, 2017
Strange and Talented
Spending my days writing, In my head and on paper.
I have to get the words out...
I have to get them right...
#ProudOfIt
#CreepOn
#WriteOn
Thursday, July 6, 2017
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
Dual Contest
***This contest is officially closed***
This contest has run its course without a winner.
So, the month of June kind of got away from me and before I realized it, July sneaked in.
Today, I am combining two contests into one,
which works out perfectly because the books in our contest are part of the same thread.
Book one, entitled YOU,
is a twisted tale that also just happens to be my pick for next month's Book Club.
After you read it, you'll want to dive right into Hidden Bodies, which is the sequel.
So, Creepsters, want to win them?
Be the first to post below the author of these books and they are yours...
#CreepOn
#ReadOn
#NightLightsCastShadows
#SharetheDarkness
#GoodLuck
And as always, please read the Contest Rules before participating.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Monday, July 3, 2017
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