First Anthology
MACABRE AND MONSTROUS: Engage in eldritch horror, monster terror, and a forest of fright with short stories by the trio of We Aren’t Dead Yet.
EMILY ARMSTRONG, MISTRESS OF HORROR
Fell Plumes
Space truckers Lark and Mech think they have scored the payday of a lifetime when they agree to transport mysterious crates to a remote facility at the edge of the known cosmos.
“It began with a whisper, a spectral voice from the abyss, as a sinuous tendril, slick with foul mucus, manifested from the substance of the lake.”
“Lark could feel the monstrosity’s malevolent presence wash over her like a frigid, suffocating mist. Invisible fingers reached into the depths of her soul, probing and peering into the most vulnerable corners of her being. A shiver ran down her spine. A creeping sensation of dread eating away at the marrow. She knew that the entity was aware of her presence, and it beheld her with an inscrutable hunger.”
Salvagers Loop
Veteran salvaged decided to make one last scrapping run when he boards a derelict starship deep in uncharted space. He soon discovers the ghostly void-lost vessel is caught in a nightmare outside of time.
“He had heard tales of these horrors, whispered stories of cosmic malevolence that defied reason and sanity. But this was something beyond those grim legends.”
“Whatever emerged from or lay beyond that nightmarish rift sensed the Intrepid’s encroachment and reached out greedily across the gulfs beyond reason to consume it whole. Now there was only stillness and a pristine relic spiraling through the darkness.”
K.S. BISHOFF, GAMEMASTER
Harvest Of Horror
A malevolent tree hungers for morsels, replacing its victims with doppelgangers grown in the old gourd fields. As suspicions rise in Rookery Hollow, tongues wag about a bogey hidden among them. Tenya races against time to discover the truth beneath the boughs of the sister tree before the imposters feed them all to the tree.
“Wh-what are you?” She backed away. “Your blood. It-it’s green.”
“We are coming.” He intoned, his voice calm and bland through the lisp caused by his broken face.
SAPHA BURNELL, MAESTRO OF MYTHPUNK
The Lamia
Caleb Mauthisin runs magic-less and wounded through the streets of Vancouver while being hunted by a Lamia, a half-snake, half-woman monster with a hunger and lust for the damned.
“A long fang slopped into his palm, soaked in the life blood which should have been inside of him, pumping on its marathon circuit around his heart.”
“Elysium would feel as pleasant as the warmth flowing from his stomach onto his fingers. Too bad the Truce would have far too much to say about any afterlife. Heaven wouldn’t be so bad, the music should be good… “You didn’t take the door.” The Night, his great-grandmother said. Rain pelted his back. He sunk into the sod. The venom’s rattling burn sank into his chest. “You want to die lying in mud? What kind of Viking are you? Die fighting, at least then I can call you one of mine with a straight face.” The Night shone nebulous and obsidian, thrumming in the chords of a mother’s aria to the body harmonic, the only body who would hear her.”
Whiskey and Sinner’s Blood
The origin tale of Carolee, the Fae Queen’s assassin. How did she go from mother of one to murderous assassin of the unworthy in the Judge of Mystics Saga?
“You… you had the Faerie Queen fix my son?” Carolee’s hand fumbled onto the counter, fingers hitting the handle of her kitchen knife.
“Colm O’Riordan parallel parked his pristine and ostentatious blue truck, fiddled with the iron cross at his neck, and kissed a crumpled photo for luck. Running his hand over his unruly mop of mahogany hair, he fished deep for courage and came up empty, but for a bottle of local brew. Hand on the door, he halted. Purging the iron cross, COlm threw it across the cab and climbed the steps to an insurance agency. The emptiness within held cavernous promises, stale air, and cubicles.
“Be locked. Be locked.” He put his hand on the door. It clicked. Sucking in a stiff wince, Colm pushed the door open and went inside.
“I find tardiness a dismal offense for someone about to beg for his life.” A female voice resounded across the cold metal desks and half-filled water coolers. Shutting his eyes from the spike in glow around him, Colm gripped his keys and stumbled into the middle of the room. The door slammed shut of its own volition.”
Dare to read this collection of short fiction which will unsettle, frighten, and terrify… then lead you through the darkest part of the night to the dawn.
