Guest Post: Short Scary Stories


Scary riddles and stories

Ladies and gentlemen, ever read horror stories that blow your mind with psychological elements?
You have to read it carefully to uncover the deeper meaning. The stories seem normal at first, but trust me.
None of these stories are considered “normal”. Here is one of my favourites. Please enjoy!

Weird kid

I’m not sure if my kid is special or weird. He’s got a habit of pointing at faces.
Sometimes in a picture, sometimes on the TV. But I call him a weird kid for a another reason.
A while ago, I learned that whenever he points at somebody like that, they’re going to die within a week.
I don’t understand why he never points at someone directly. The victims all seem to die naturally.
I feel as if something complicated is going on.
But I kept it to myself. What if people don’t believe me, and think I’m a liar?
Or what if other people think he’s a weird kid as well.
Today, when I turned on the TV, my son was pointing on the TV screen.
There was our president, talking about civil rights. This will be worldwide news. I wonder how he will die.

Random TV

 

 

It wouldn’t be scary if the kid predicted the president would die.
But unfortunately he wasn’t pointing at the president.
He was pointing at the TV reflection, at his mother.
The feeling and thrill at the moment you find out the meaning, is in my opinion truly marvellous.
I hope to share this excitement with all of you.

 

More at Short scary stories

Special thank to Armand Rosamilia for this short post! :)

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Guest Post: Adra Janean


Adracomp

An aspiring and talented actress named Adra Janean is competing for an extraordinary chance to meet legendary Casting Director Lindsay Chag and gain career boosting exposure. With our help, she has a great shot at achieving this.

 

She performed a #HolidayJournalEntry monologue written by author D. R. Acula for https://www.tentsquare.com and did an awesome job.

 

Your view count will help her video rise in TentSquare ranks, securing her spot in the top 10 performances. Any help, such as viewing or sharing the video, would be very helpful. Then on December 13th, members of TentSquare will be able to vote on their favorite performance every 24 hours, and the winner will get a chance of a lifetime:

 

$200 cash, consultation with Lindsay Chag, two actor badges for the TentSquare Fest™ where the monologue performance will be played or performed live if actor chooses, entry to TentSquare Awards™ in NYC 2016.

 

 

See Adra’s video performance here:

https://www.tentsquare.com/adra-janean-fenstermaker/submissions/dear-santa-by-d-r-acula-by-d-r-acula-2

 

Adra Janean’s Twitter Handle:

@AdraJanean

 

Adra Janean’s IMDB:

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm6657154/?ref_=fn_al_nm_1

 

  1. R. Acula’s Twitter Handle:

@WriterDRacula

Eric A. Shelman Guest Post for #WinterZombie2014


Eric Preferred Author Pic_Cropped

DEAD HUNGER VIII: PEACE, LOVE & ZOMBIES

SPECIAL PROLOGUE PREVIEW FOR THE

WINTER OF ZOMBIE BLOG TOUR 2014

 

 Dead Hunger VII_The Reign of Isis

My name is Nelson Moore.  Despite all odds, I’m a content resident of Kingman, Kansas.   The year is [redacted from this excerpt to prevent spoilers].

I was a little surprised when Gem sat me down and told me that I should write the next chronicle.  Hemp has started calling them our “Dead Hunger Chronicles.”  That’s what they do, after all; the dead hunger.

I didn’t figure I was the best candidate to write this because I’ve never been a writer.  But Gem said my good memory will be a big benefit, and to just put the words down.  She also told me not to leave everything that happened to me between the day most everyone we knew became monsters and the day I met her and the others.  That was the day I found my Gramps, too. 

Then Gem said she wants me to catch you up on what’s happened since we met the bad dude outside of Kingman.  Tough times, but lots of good stuff in there, too.

About my earlier story, I told her I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back there.   I didn’t know what good it would do for anyone to know what happened to me.  You know what she said?

“Sit your ass down and write, Nelson.  I want to know.”

Exactly that.  I see a hug coming from Gem when she reads it.  She’s that way.  She’s a hugger.  She’s gonna get all emotional and tell me how much she loves me, and I’m probably gonna cry, too.

I admit I avoided talking about all that stuff because it just didn’t seem important, and I had it running in my head like a movie anyway.  A horror movie that I watched one time, didn’t like at all, and now have to watch for the rest of my life.

So, yeah.  I love Gem and the others and they love me and my family, so I’m gonna tell the story.  All of it.  Even the part before I met everyone.

Here goes.

Wait.  Not yet.  A little background first.  I’m not sure if anyone outside of Kansas really gets it, but I just want to let you know that pot pretty much grows on the side of the road here.  It’s probably not necessary to tell you how quickly I had Flex pull the truck over when I spotted it for the first time.  As it turns out, it’s got bud but it’s not potent.  Luckily I had some stash of my own when we got there and my seed stock is like gold.  I’ve kept them for a long, long time now and I replace them with each new harvest.

So anyway, I got sidetracked.  That happens to me occasionally.  I didn’t start writing this to tell you where to find wild bud, but you might as well know I partake.  Some dudes get all fuzzyheaded when they’re high; not me.  I can laser focus, but folks have always told me that they don’t get that by lookin’ at me.

I’ve got long, blonde-gray hair that comes about to my lower back.  Don’t like haircuts.  Never did.  My hair’s always been thin like me – I’m kind of a beanpole – but it’s me, so I keep it.  When the beginning of this story took place, it was pure blonde.  I’m older now.

That’s good news.

Anyway, the beginning of the bigger story is how I met Flex’s girl, Gem.  It’s pretty funny.  If you read the other chronicles – particularly the fourth one where everybody kinda told the story – you’ll remember meeting me, and you’ll remember my first encounter with Gem.

Anyways, from my spot hiding behind the building I’d slept in the night before, I saw a woman doing something in the parking lot of a gun store that I considered amazing.  My protective instinct kicked in because I could tell Gem was alive, you know?  But the thing she was walking up on wasn’t alive at all.

It was one of them; the zombies.

As I crouched there, one of my best stainless steel stars in my hand, there she was, whispering something in a zombie’s ear.

The amazing part?  The zombie wasn’t biting her.  Wasn’t even trying.  Next thing I know, I found myself tossing one of my Ninja stars and I took the rotter out.   I had to know, though; I had to understand why this beautiful woman with long, brown hair and a stance that spoke of sheer confidence believed she could talk to something dead.

Dude, they’ve never listened to anything I tried to say.  Never.  Not even once, and not even for a second.

So I took her captive using my Subdudo, and maybe a bit of my hippie stoner charm.  That disarms people quicker than any bravado stuff I’ve ever seen anyone try, either in movies or in real life.  So, while we may be living in a messed-up fiction-like world right now, it’s real.  Not a nightmare and not a cartoon.   There are things so rotted out there you couldn’t believe they could even stand up – but hell if they don’t come after you.

They’re relentless, they never get full and they never sleep.  They seek us – the living – out, they try to kill us and eat us.

Back to my meeting Gem Cardoza that day.  If you know anything about her, then you know she can hold her own in a gunfight.  If you know anything about me, and if you’ve read the chronicles that Flex, Gem, Hemp, Charlie and Dave wrote, then you know I created Subdudo as a way to take people out of commission for a few moments without hurting them.

I admit it.  I’m a pacifist.  At least I was.  That’s changed a lot, because I guess I tried to fool myself for a long time before I hooked up with this group.  My family. 

That’s who they are now.  I can’t even tell you how much.  They’re more of a family than I’ve ever had, except for my Grampa Jim.  People call him Doc Scofield, mostly.

Anyway.  I’d die for anyone in this group.  I almost have, a few times.

That’s cool.  They’ve almost died for me, too.

So that day I met Dave Gammon, Gem Cardoza and Charlie Chatsworth, we had some trust issues to work out before I could learn why she was talking to a zombie. 

As it turns out, she was kinda fooling around.  She wasn’t actually having a conversation with the thing; she was just getting sort of cocky, telling the thing she was bout to dust it.

I beat her to it.  The rest got pretty funny, but you already know it.

So now I’ll go back to Sunday, June 19th, 2011, when the dead started walking.

Needless to say, I was stoned.

 

*   *   *   *   *

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The stench of frozen rotted meat is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2014, with 10 of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

 

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser… and pick up some great swag as well! Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them! #WinterZombie2014

 

https://www.facebook.com/events/1524813084430035/?ref_notif_type=plan_user_joined&source=1

 

AND so you don’t miss any of the posts in November, here’s the complete list, updated daily:

 

http://armandrosamilia.com/2014/11/01/winter-of-zombie-post-list-winterzombie2014/

 

Jack Wallen Teaser for #WinterZombie2014


jack

Cry Zombie Cry

 

Jack Wallen

chapter 3 | exit light, enter Rizzo

 

“Oh my God, turn that fucking thing off!” Joshua shouted over the Obliterator.

“What’s the matter, tough guy?” Morgan chided.

Jamal leaned forward, his head between the front seats, to address Josh and Morgan. “Tell me you have an ETA on your unit.”

“Aren’t you having fun? It’s like Camp of the Damned.” Joshua laughed at his attempted humor.

“Yeah, I’ve seen that film; it doesn’t end well—at least not for us.”

Morgan leaned over and smacked the back of Joshua’s head. “Stop being such a goofball, Josh. Tell the poor man how soon the cavalry will arrive.”

Josh laughed and glanced at his watch. “They should be here any minute.”

The distant sound of moans wafted up from the darkening sky.

“Please don’t get dark yet,” Echo whispered, as if to hide her plea. I wrapped my arms around her tiny frame and pulled her into me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let anything hurt you.”

The words took me back to broken promises from the past. Susan—another young girl I’d promised to protect. That failure would eat at my heart for eternity. The only thing to be done was to finally make good on a similar promise and ensure nothing happened to Echo.

So far, so good.

“By the way, what’s the plan once we’re gassed up and on the road?” Jamal spoke softly. I loved that about him, how he always knew when to effect peace in a room—one of his many gifts.

“The plan hasn’t changed,” I started. “We hunt down and kill the Zero Day Collective and reclaim Jacob.”

Echo shuddered. “Jesus, when you put it that way it makes Jacob seem more property than prophet.”

The sentiment cut sharply. The thought that Jacob would ever be seen as a commodity to be tossed back and forth between enemy lines was insane. He was my baby, my joy, my hope for life. The idea threatened to spiral me down into emotional withdrawal. I had to change the subject before I reached critical psychological mass.

“Speaking of which,” I added, as I focused my attention back to the laptop, “I need to see if the tracker has any hits.”

It has always been rumored that technology would eventually be the ultimate demise of man. The singularity would occur and machines would take over. The tiniest fragment of my intelligence begged me to consider it possible the singularity had finally arrived—in human form. The lowest common denominator had won out and would overtake the planet with predictable stupidity and greed. Ignorance and power were the new currency.

I propped the laptop back on my lap and minimized the Obliterator application. In its place came the tracker. The application ran in the background, collecting tons of data from the network at large. Any time specific suspect words were captured, traveling across the global network of connected computers and communication satellites, a flag would be raised and the data packets logged. Once the tracker had collected enough data, I could sift through the information and begin piecing together the location of the Zero Day Collective and Jacob. It was only a matter of time before they appeared on my radar. The NSA and Sherlock Holmes had nothing on me.

As soon as the tracker window was open, Jamal peered over my shoulder, his eyes wide and his mouth agape. I could feel his warm breath on my neck as my eyes ripped through the information. A pattern started to develop.

Mobile unit.

Biologist.

Zero Day Collective.

Jacob.

40.0176 degrees North.

105.2797 degrees West.

“Bethany,” Jamal whispered, “that’s Boulder, Colorado. But what does it mean by “Mobile unit”?”

“Well, Jamal, I would assume it means that whoever is sending out these communications happens to be on some sort of mobile Zero Day Collective biological unit. In other words, it’s moving.”

Jamal sighed. “So getting a fixed location isn’t likely.”

I nodded.

Jamal grinned. “Yes, but…if you get a number of consecutive coordinates, you can at least predict where the unit will be at a given time. Of course, that would require knowing what type of unit and at what speed they were traveling.”

Before Jamal could continue, I silenced him with a palm to the lips.

“Joshua, how quickly can you get us to Boulder?”

Josh laughed. “At this rate it’ll take, oh, forever!”

Again, Morgan smacked Josh across the back of the head.

“I’m just fucking with you. We get back up to speed soon, and I can have you there in a day…tops.”

“B, what do you have in mind?”

Before I could answer Jamal, a soul-destroying roar ripped through the truck. The prehistoric release was followed by the shattering of glass and a pale arm reaching into the truck. Dirty, blood-soaked fingers tangled deep into Echo’s hair and yanked hard. Echo released a cry that was almost too high in pitch to hear as the arm pulled her head toward the shattered glass.

“What the hell? The Obliterator is running strong.” Josh shouted, as he gave the volume knob for the Obliterator one last turn.

“Oh my God, look at its ears,” was all Morgan needed to say.

Blood was caked around both ears. A thick, viscous liquid bubbled from the holes on the side of his head.

“The fucker cracked his skull on the cement until he went deaf,” Joshua added. “Perfect immunity to the power of the Obliterator.”

The beast gave another tug that pulled Echo’s head nearer the shattered window. Echo’s arms flailed outward to thwart the thing’s attempts at commandeering her skull.

 czc_cover

*   *   *   *   *

 

The stench of frozen rotted meat is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2014, with 10 of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

 

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser… and pick up some great swag as well! Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them! #WinterZombie2014

 

https://www.facebook.com/events/1524813084430035/?ref_notif_type=plan_user_joined&source=1

 

AND so you don’t miss any of the posts in November, here’s the complete list, updated daily:

 

http://armandrosamilia.com/2014/11/01/winter-of-zombie-post-list-winterzombie2014/

 1926759_10202903482088672_4630710665427646186_n

Why are we so worried about failure when it’s so common?


Armand Rosamilia:

Robert Chazz Chute preaching the Indie word… again

Originally posted on C h a z z W r i t e s . c o m:

I’ve been reading another round of articles from the usual suspects saying how much indie books suck. I ran into a reader who said one of my masterpieces was pretty good “for an indie book.” Yeah, well, piss on that. He only knew I was indie because I told him so. I now have two questions to wrestle: why am I still reading these biased articles that rely on old news and nostalgia? And why do I bother telling anyone but other indies that I count among their number?

We live in a post-empire world.

Indie and niche is a great place to be now, but the bias of what was once true still carries the heavy weight of lazy inertia. I have had lots of jobs, but it wasn’t until I became a writer that people started asking if I was making any money. (Kinda rude, huh?)

Yet myths continue to…

View original 556 more words

Change Jar Books, Snowflakes And #ASOT2015


ASOTChangeJar

This is why I love Change Jar Books… and why you need to find a little mom & pop independent bookstore in your area and buy from them and keep them around… 

Suzanne and Craig have always been great to us local authors, giving us a nice section in their store and letting us do book signings and pretty much whatever we want. They even have a nice display of my Flagler Beach Fiction Series books on their counter. Book six just released, which is set right in Change Jar Books. Yeah, I love the place. 

I’ve been very lucky because when I started doing Authors Supporting Our Troops in the beginning of 2014, they were very helpful with ideas and took care of all the shipping. I simply dropped off the many, many boxes going to the soldiers and they streamlined the shipping and paying for me so I didn’t have to stand in lines at the post office or have any worries. 

All throughout the year I’ve shipped sporadic books, even when the event was technically on hiatus. Whenever I filled a couple of boxes I’d drive down to Flagler Beach and they’d be shipped. Nice and easy. 

On top of that, they also put a jar on the counter and asked customers to donate to the cause with their spare change. And the book buyers of Flagler Beach always amazed me, because every week or so when I went in there was not only a pile of coins but singles and fives (and sometimes even bigger!) stuffed in the jar. Truly a Change Jar… see what I did there?

So, when I was in Change Jar Books (in their huge new location at 319 Moody Blvd, Flagler Beach, FL 32136) yesterday to ship out five boxes to three soldiers and collect a full jar of donations, owners Suzanne and Craig hit me with a great idea…

Snowflakes for $1.00.

Like you see in many businesses, instead of just collecting a donation, we were going to ‘sell’ a snowflake for a buck and you can proudly write your name on it. Change Jar Books will post them around and show off that you care about the soldiers. How neat is that? 

They’ll kick it off tomorrow and collect until they run out of room to post them! And with all the love I get from Flagler Beach and their customers, it shouldn’t take long…

If you’re in Flagler Beach, stop in and see the new Change Jar Books and say hi to the owners. Buy one (or three) of my books, and donate to the Authors Supporting Our Troops event as well! 

ASOTCraig2

Joe McKinney Guest Post for #WinterZombie2014


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Why I Write the Dark Stuff

 Joe McKinney

 

 

In my day job, I’m a patrol supervisor for the San Antonio Police Department.  I work the west side of town.  The police officers who make the calls, who make the arrests, who keep the peace in the busiest part of the city, they work for me.  I’m the one they call when they have major crime scenes that need managing or when something just doesn’t look right.

 

What that means is that I have to see a lot of dead bodies.  And I mean a lot of them.

 

Like last week.  One of my officers called because he had a decomp (police parlance for a body that’s been rotting in place for a good long while) and he wasn’t sure if it was suicide or homicide.  So I showed up to the apartment and there was the dead guy, seated on the floor (or almost on the floor, his butt was about two inches off the carpet).  He had a noose around his neck, though you could barely see it because his skin was so bloated and gummy with rot that it had sort of oozed over the rope.

 

“So, what do you think?” the officer asked.

 

“Suicide,” I told him.

 

“But he’s sitting down.  Wouldn’t he have rolled over or something when he started to choke?  That’s like an instinct or something, isn’t it?”

 

“No,” I said.  “What you’re looking at is an act of will power.  If you want to do something bad enough, you’ll see it through.”

 

He looked from me to the body and shook his head.

 

“Besides,” I added, “look at all that medication in there in his bathroom.  Those drugs are for hepatitis and cancer.  He did this because he was hurting pretty bad.  And look up there.”  I pointed to the ceiling where our dead guy had nailed the rope to the rafter.  “He did that because he didn’t want the rope to slip off.  And look at where he chose to do this, here in the bedroom, so his relatives coming in the front door wouldn’t have to see him.  I bet if you look around here, you’ll find a note.  Probably in the other room, out of sight of the bedroom.”

 

The officer nodded.

 

We both stood there, staring at the body.  The apartment didn’t have air conditioning, and it felt like standing inside an oven, even though it was the middle of the night.  The smell was really bad.

 

The officer kind of chuckled and said, “So, Sarge, I guess this is one for your next book, huh?”

 

I offered him a bland smile.  Cops develop their gallows humor long before they learn that it’s actually a defense mechanism against the horror of confronting your own mortality, and this officer was one of the young ones.  He still had a lot to learn.

 

“Go look for the note,” I said.

 

He stiffened.  “Yes, sir.”

 

When he was gone, I found myself looking at that dead man’s face.  Suicides always get to me. Something about standing in the presence of someone so desperate to take control of their pain and their emotional devastation that they would resort to this makes me feel numb.

 

In the other room, the young officer was clumsily knocking around.  Something fell over and broke.  I almost called out to him to be careful, but held my tongue.  You see, my mind had drifted from my day job to my night job.  I was thinking about what he’d said about my next book.  So many people seem to have that opinion about horror, and about zombie fiction in particular.  To them, a book about shambling dead things eating the living must be nothing but gratuitous violence and gore.  What else could it be?

 

Well, I take exception to that.

 

I started writing because I was scared of the future.  My wife and I had just gotten married.  Then we had a daughter, and the world suddenly seemed so much more complex.  In the wink of an eye, I went from a carefree young cop—a lot like the one in the other room knocking stuff over—to a man with more responsibilities than he could count.  I had obligations and commitments coming at me from every angle.

 

I’d been writing stories for a good long while at that point, starting sometime in my early teens, but never with the intention of doing anything about them.  I would write them out on a yellow legal pad, staple the finished pages together, and leave them on the corner of my desk until the next idea came to me.

 

Never once did it occur to me to do something with what I’d written.  I just threw those stories away and forgot them.  But then came adulthood, and parenthood, and I found myself groping to put the world in order, to regain some of the control I felt I had lost.  I realized that writing could help me with that.  I realized that I could focus my anxieties and make something useful of them.

 

And so I started writing a science fiction novel.  It was a big space opera epic, and it was pure trash.  Every word of it was awful.

 

The reason?  Well, it wasn’t authentic.  It wasn’t me.

 

The real me, the kid who sat at his desk filling up yellow legal pads rather than going out bike riding with his friends, was a horror junkie.  I was crazy for the stuff.  Horror was my first literary love, and I figured, seeing as love was what drove me to return to writing, that I should write what I love. I was feeling like the world was rushing at me from every side, so I wrote a zombie story about characters who had the living dead rushing in at them from every side.  That’s when things started to click.  That’s when it all made sense.

 

But it wasn’t just that simple.  You see, I sincerely believe that fear is the most authentic, and the most useful, emotion available to the storyteller.  It is as vital as love, and indeed, gives love its profundity, for what makes love, and family, and everything we treasure so valuable but the fear that it could all go away in the blink of an eye.  For me, fear goes far beyond monsters.  It is the catalyst for my creative process, and without that creative process, I’m afraid I would wither up inside.  I’m not saying I’d end up like that suicide I just told you about if I couldn’t write anymore, nothing that melodramatic, but absence of that creative outlet would be a hole that nothing else could fill.

 

So that’s why I write the dark stuff.

 

Joe McKinney

San Antonio, Texas

September 11, 2012

Plague of the Undead

*   *   *   *   *

 1926759_10202903482088672_4630710665427646186_n

The stench of frozen rotted meat is in the air! Welcome to the Winter of Zombie Blog Tour 2014, with 10 of the best zombie authors spreading the disease in the month of November.

 

Stop by the event page on Facebook so you don’t miss an interview, guest post or teaser… and pick up some great swag as well! Giveaways galore from most of the authors as well as interaction with them! #WinterZombie2014

 

https://www.facebook.com/events/1524813084430035/?ref_notif_type=plan_user_joined&source=1

 

AND so you don’t miss any of the posts in November, here’s the complete list, updated daily:

 

http://armandrosamilia.com/2014/11/01/winter-of-zombie-post-list-winterzombie2014/