Tag Archives: horror

Bristol: A Woman’s Reform


After the battle of Feints, Bristol stood in ruins. The Constables of Justice, rapists and thieves every one, had much to fear and citizens, many of them women, castrated officers in the streets. They dragged the Viscount Selworth through Clifton’s shopping centre where crowds stabbed at him with whatever came to hand. There was precious little left by the time he was hung from the Bristol Bridge, precious little that could be identified as human, anyway. Those few who evaded this regrettable, yet understandable, mob justice fled the Wall and took their chances in the Southern Wastes. Perhaps they sought solace in the freeholds of Bath or Clevedon? None made it to London, either way. I doubt they made it five miles before a denizen of that barren land caught their scent, made a meal of their soft insides and a bed from their ravaged flesh.

Bristol: A Woman’s Reform, General Lucy Gibson.


Memoirs of a Journeyman


The first surrendering Orthon damn near killed me. She had three extra arms sown into her back, moved like a crab and came out the woods in a scuttle. My dugout was a real tip by then. I’d been in it for weeks. Been drinking rain water for days. Thank gods for British summertime, eh?

Anyway, out she came. And I see her. And I grope for my rifle. Only it’s damp from the rain. So I try to clear it, but there’s no time. So I go for my blade, but by then she’s already at the dugout, twin mouths hissing and spitting, making all kinda nightmare sounds. And I think, Benny, m’boy, couldn’t even get your knife out of its sheath. What a way to go. Then I realise she hadn’t attacked. Not one bit. And the noise coming from her mouths are like words, but I had to listen real careful to make out what she said.

I surrender. Surrender. Surrender.’

Turns out she wasn’t alone. A monstrous thing, twin heads, no eyes, came crawling out after her, butt-naked. Then two more. And pretty soon, I had a whole unit of surrendering Orthons. A crowd of about thirty sat there, as if I knew what to do next.

Truth was, nobody knew what to do next.

Private Benjamin Harold Lee, Memoirs of a Journeyman.

Somerset Sunrise – author unknown


We’d heard rumours, of course, who ‘adn’t? Just no one believed ‘em. Occasionally, a horror would shamble in from the Wastes, but with the 10th Legion camped on our doorstep, we thought it didn’t matter. We thought we could sleep at night.

It were Devlin that woke me, his hands cold, his eyes wide. “Papa, Papa, wake up, wake up.” And as I tried to shake my ‘ead clear of the evening’s cider, I heard somebody at the backdoor, rattling its frame. Footpads and burglars had become bold as brass since the police force collapsed and it were each family for itself. But that weren’t a problem, either. I’d taken the liberty of stealing Miss Blunder from the local Night Watchman. He no longer needed it. Strung up on the street corner, as he was, trousers around his ankles, kids stabbing his genitals with sticks and whatnot – why, I was doing the world a favour keeping it out of harm’s way.

So I tells Devlin to get under the bed, I do, and I sprinted downstairs to the kitchen. In the shadows, I could see something big bashing against the doorframe. Stupid bastard was drunker than a whore on payday. But I’m no cold-bloodied murderer so I say, “On yer bike, before I put two full rounds into you from Miss Blunder ‘ere.” And to prove I meant business, I clicked on the ‘ammers.

If I’d expected him to run, tail between his legs, and try some other unfortunate then I was mistaken. He redoubled his efforts and threw himself upon the door until the whole thing come down.

And the man that shambled in, weren’t no man at all. A massive slab of muscle on legs. That’s what it was. Two heads on stalks that grew where its nipples should be. One arm was black, the other white, legs too small and it constantly tottered like it were a baby learning how to walk.

I’m not ashamed to say I screamed, what man wouldn’t, and gave it both barrels, close up like, point-blank range, threw the fucker right off his feet. And across the corn fields awash in brilliant moonlight, I could see others. Hundreds of them. If not more.

The one on the porch, the one with both rounds rammed through his heart, clambered to his feet and groaned from both his heads. And then . . . then I knew I was in trouble.

Somerset Sunrise – author unknown.

Death: The New Frontier (2nd edition) John Brandywine, 1819


We distinguished the corpses by their freshness, not so much the manner in which they died. The new, as in to say the recently departed, were put up front for collection. The priestesses saw to that. Anything else was left to rot by the gates. Sometimes for weeks. I don’t think Ogilvile slept the entire time, maybe that’s what killed him. He was always an unsteady man. Too much rum, and in those final days he was never without a bottle. He’d seen too much, I reckon. Had enough of this world and fancied a stab at the next. Still, a job was a job and with Ogilvile’s death it meant the cemetery passed over to me. Gods know I needed the money. My first job was to drag his still warm body outside, and the priestesses took him without a word.

I saw Ogilvile again, as it happens, staggering along Piccadilly at Ravan’s military parade, failing to find step with the Orthons – drunk even in undeath. He passed right by me and didn’t even stir, not so much a flicker of recognition or anger in his eyes. Seems they haven’t got much use for emotions in the next place. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Death: The New Frontier (2nd edition). John Brandywine, 1819.

Wind Walker


Rather pleased to announce that Wind Walker is now available exclusively through the Kindle. Follow the extended link below.

Ithaqua summons his children home.

Ithaqua summons his children home.


Something stirs beneath the ice-locked tundra of Snowdonia National Park. An ancient force of unspeakable evil scrabbles at the boundaries between worlds. Its servants creep from sunless caverns and crave the taste of warm human flesh. Ithaqua summons his children home. A new age approaches. Gibbering monsters and nameless horrors await and a blend of man and beast is needed to show the Great Old Ones the way. Dwellers in the deep. Fields of quivering flesh. All await the children of the Wind Walker . . .

Includes the BONUS STORY Everett Smiles.

Sheila is coming . . .

The sky is brushed through with copper. The land is a frozen ruin. Aliens have slipped through the space between spaces to consume humanity with their endless obscene desires. Rifts in the fabric of the world bleed suggestion. My son waits out there beneath a curious orange sun.

I . . . I have to find him.

Sheila is coming . . .


Guest Book Review by Carrie Buchanan



lucky's girl

I bought Lucky’s Girl by William Holloway for a number of reasons, but mainly because I’m in love with the High Moor series and Lucky’s Girl has been produced by the same publishing house, Horrific Tales. It has been a long time since the bad guy in a book was anything more than a troubled soul, whom should be in receipt of therapy, yet Lucky’s Girl achieves way more than that. Clever, twisted and creepy, but most of all disturbing. Touches of Cthulhu with a Wendigo style that is utter brilliance.

Set in a small town called Elton upon Grove island, Lucky’s Girl centers around three main characters: Lucky, who thinks himself a prophet with a personality like silk, Kenny, who is attempting to be the family man, and Sheriff Jerry, a recovering alcoholic. Beautifully scripted and the scenes are perfectly executed. Add to this wolves, wendigos and ancient gods and you’ve got a solid, excellent read.

Don’t read it in bed alone, seriously creepy!

There is a fabulous interview over on Ginger Nuts of Horror with William Holloway giving insights into what makes him a great author – and that, I can assure you, he is.

Carrie Buchanan: the voice behind Everett Smiles, Waiting on the Road to Palladium and an upcoming cthulhu radio play, Universe.

The Arkham Cycle (update)


I’m currently writing for Stormblade Productions a three-part radio play, based on the works of H.P Lovecraft and his Cthulhu Mythos. The Arkham Cycle, episode one, goes on commercial sale later this year. But in the meantime, I’ve provided a small sample of our work this morning. If you like what you hear, give us a share and let’s see if we can get this ball rolling. 🙂





On the Edge of Forever


Work continues over at Stormblade Productions on our short story audio range.  The second in the ‘Short and Scary’ series, ‘On the Edge of Forever’, is free to listen to on Soundcloud or download and share with your mates.