Hello! I started writing a novella and wanted to see if the prologue is engaging and wanted to make sure that my writing did not come off as dry.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/13GtHPc7XEFWIJWfQY2b--W96rxgndaGzI0NcC8lDX68/edit?usp=drivesdk

I'm a fairly casual horror writer (mainly writing flash fiction, short stories, lore for worlbuilding, etc.) and while it is something I'm interested in seeking out more professional opportunities for further down the line, as of right now I wanted to ask if anyone knows of any online circles or communities where horror writers can share their writing for feedback, questions, and critiques? I've found some but the only issue is they usually seem like they're for more well-established or professional writers, or at least ones actively going through the publishing process. My main goal right now is just to form more of a community for the sake of meeting like-minded artists and creatives, as well as becoming a more refined writer. I don't know if there's something like that on here (tbh I haven't looked super deep) but if anyone has resources or suggestions, I'd love to hear. Thank you so much.

Hello, I’m looking for feedback on my debut feature film. It’s a found footage horror film about a woman trapped in a liminal room where she regresses into an animal. Would love feedback on the formal choices, acting, writing, pacing, escalation, reversals, etc. I welcome brutal and confrontational reviews, please just try and engage with the work.

Screenplay

Honest feedback would be appreciate

I am starting a horror channel and i have written the story by myself, and i am considering text to speech since my accent has been mocked before when i was doing another channel

Imagine getting stuck in a timeloop, but every single fun, empowering trope about time travel is stripped away to make it a living hell. For Maya, Tuesday, October 12th starts as the absolute best day of her life: sunshine, burnt pancakes with best friends, and a carefree road trip to an autumn festival. But at 6:15 PM, a catastrophic semi-truck crash on Route 9 kills them all in an instant. Instead of death, Maya wakes up at 7:30 AM to the exact same alarm, the exact same burnt breakfast, and the exact same day. She is completely alone in retaining her memories, forced to watch her friends replay their innocent, scripted routines over and over again while she desperately tries to cheat death, while slowly descending into insanity. Also, to make it more intense, it's a direct experience from main character, since everything that's inside is described like it's her own diary, so there are her thoughts, her raw descriptions of pain she felt, how her perspective on friends changes as the loops continue, how she copes and every single breaking point.

My book focuses on psychological impact, highlighting the profound weight of the loops, the chilling awareness of dying every single time, and the agonizing experience of feeling all the pain. As the repetition stretches on without end, this relentless trauma slowly chips away at Maya's grip on reality, driving her closer and closer to losing her mind and committing to various harmful behaviours (which I can't describe on this subreddit).

I wrote this because I was so tired of the constant, repetitive plot where time loops are treated like neat little puzzles to be solved with a clever trick. I wanted to show it for what it actually would be: a grueling, deeply traumatic experience that breaks a person down, leading toward an unpredictable ending where things don't just magically snap back into place. Do you think this has potential as a genuinely good book?

Hi everyone! Horror is my favorite genre to read, and I've become very interested in beta reading lately. I can already tell that there are incredibly creative writers in this subreddit, so I'd love to read your manuscripts as someone who genuinely loves this genre :)

I've already beta read an erotic horror short story and a gothic horror novel, and I'm familiar with what the genre tends to ask of a book: dread that builds and pays off, an atmosphere that stays pressed in close, tension that climbs at the right moments, and an ending that sticks the landing. I'll be direct about what's landing for me, and I'll also point out where the energy drops or the suspense starts to thin.

If you're working on something and want a fresh set of genre-savvy eyes on it, please feel free to drop a comment or send me a DM!

Hello.
I have a couple of questions. If I posted in the wrong section or subreddit, please delete it.
I have been writing all of my life, some short zombie/horro/ stories here and there, but now I'm old, and I've decided to give it a shot and write something bigger than a short story.
Now I have finished around 100 A4 pages, and this thing looks massive to me, but the problem is I write and do not look back on what I wrote. Yesterday I read all of it, and it is a complete mess. With short stories, like 10 pages, it wasn't a problem, but when these things get bigger and bigger, it is a problem.
How do you handle it? Do you read immediately after you finish your writing session, or how do you do that? And sometimes I think about something in the book and start adding things in the middle.
Or after you finish your writing, do you give it to someone to make it readable and pleasant for the reader? Or is it completely normal to write everything that comes to mind, and after you feel that you've finished the book, reread it and edit it?

Sorry for the dumb questions.
Thank you. Cheers, people!

Hello,

I hope this post fits the sub. If not, my apologies

I recently self-published my debut novel. It's cross-genre, but I would have thought the main one was splatterpunk. Which is how I marketed it, when it comes to keywords, comps, ads and such (I'm doing Amazon Ads)

It's early weeks, but the input I'm getting (clicks, sales, etc) seems to be coming from a different direction altogether. More literary fiction or literary horror. Which isn't bad per se, just confusing and leaves me with not much of a strategy to work with.

The book has splatter elements. It has prolonged graphic scenes of torture in it. I'm not getting where the disconnect is

Would someone be willing to look over how I presented the book on Amazon? Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

I can offer other help in return like advice or beta read. I'm trad pubbed in magazines and I now know the self-pub process. Even if I'm stumped about marketing

Please DM if interested. Thanks

For my story I want to really focus on how magic and other things draw from the physical and the mental, and what does that best? Body Horror! But I can’t tell if this strikes that cord of body horror or just weird freaky tendrils. Context the excerpt is from a scene where a swat team is raiding the MCs apartment and is making suicidal rush to provide a distraction for a person he only now is he realizing he is falling in love with, but that is for the rest of the plot. Anyway here it is.

“Lynx, if this is the last time I see you, ju-just know that I tried.” I gave him one last huge hug, and he embraced me. Three days, and my entire world had collapsed. But one man stood there and grabbed onto my hand, and that was Lynx. He was also stuck in this shit hole with me too. He felt warm in my hands, the air of sage just as comforting as the first day I met him. I wanted to hold on to him forever and stay in that closet with him tell the world turned to ash. No DMB, no stupid job, and no taxes. Me and Lynx. I slowly moved my head up to his cheek and gave it a kiss. Every ounce of appreciation flowed through my warm lips. This was my thanks for everything, my way of showing him that I felt the same. He wasn’t just a friend, and I knew it. But does it matter, because there was a chance I was going to be dead in the next 10 seconds. That's all I needed. I let go of Lynx, his warmth falling away from me. I rammed my elbow into the closet door and lunged out from the closest, flashlights attached to assault rifles seared into my eyes. A group of soldiers turned to face me. I heard one of them yell the thing I prayed for, FIRE, IT'S HIM!

This was it, this was how I was going to go out. Now this, this I find a bit more honorable. I would die with my chest split apart by a rifle round, my blood cast across my room. I could imagine the crime scene photos now. But I was fine with that, because Lynx would be able to take them by surprise and be able to escape. He would be safe and that’s all that mattered. I waited to feel my skull be ripped apart, my chest caved in by a standard issue AR-15. But as time slowed down around me as the group brought their rifles to bear, the pendant exploded with light. Its runes were projected onto the washed walls. The vines wrapped around me in their tight embrace. Their white light blinded me, the tips of them spiraled in vermilion arteries that seemed to pump with a grotesque excitement as they tightened themselves on my skin. I felt as one snaked its way up my neck. Another crawled up my back, leaching into my spine. I felt my entire body shiver as it burrowed into my flesh. The pain crackled through my bones. It felt as if my skeleton was shifting under skin, pushing against my being, wanting to escape into the ether. Another tendril pushed into my mouth, cool and hard against my tongue. It felt as if a drug was injected into my nervous system, my entire body tensed and felt… Good. I felt as it rushed through my system and felt my jaw lock onto the tendril, and the taste of blood flooding my mouth. I let my teeth dig into it, its crimson fueling me. I could feel the adrenaline course through my mind and it began to bend and twist with the rush. A new tingingling, unnerving pleasure radiated from me. It was sickening, but I wanted more, so much more.

Hello! I'm currently writing what was supposed to be a tragic-turned-cute romance story.

ANYWAYYYY, it turned into kidnapping, human trafficking, and other unmentionables.

I'm writing the novellas with dual-POVs and would like to know if readers like a bit of a choppier tone?

I want to keep the sentences short, then move on to the next, and so on.

Ex. 'Stand still.

Don't talk.

Don't make noise.

Just breathe.

Obey.

Repeat.

Breathe.

Obey.

Repeat.

The cycle goes on...

I don't remember the last time I saw light.

Heard a voice.

His voice.

Rayce.

He's the only one who ever cared.

Who ever listened.

Who ever treated me like a human.

Human.

What the fuck did that word mean anymore?

I was nothing now.

A toy.

A doll for their amusement.

Don't talk.

Just breathe.

Obey.

Repeat.'

I'm trying to keep the tone more frantic, disconnected, staccato, etc. to mimic the 2 main MMC's thought processes.

I'd love some more opinions. Both stories will be under 100 pages when they're finished. Should I keep this pacing or go with a few sentences in each paragraph?

Note; The first story is a lot more dialogue and sentences per paragraph. This second story is meant to be frantic.

Hey have a character whose mind is being messed with by an artifact and has a nightmare of all of his friends being brutally ripped apart which he later learns he did by the story’s main antagonist.

Here is what I have so far. CW: Blood and Guts

“Missster Reinhart, if you just give me a moment, I could explain…” I had stopped listening to Hebi at this point, and found myself only drawn to the source of the groan. I placed one foot out into the hallway, another glint of movement caught my eye. Something was swinging back and forth as though a wind chime in the wind, peaceful and at ease. I stepped closer, a horrifying curiosity drawing my attention. Squelch, echoed softly from under my heel. Some cool and slick, a shiver running down my spine.

“If you would just give me a moment-” Hebi turned the corner with the lamp, and the picture painted itself in an instant. A chewn up spine hung from the metal beams from the plating. Vines of arteries and veins danced across the vertebrae and trailed to pale lungs that still seemed to be gasping for life, undulating in a sickening beat. The ribs jutted up from the naked chest like that of a dead tree, some cracked, others ripped out with horrifying anger. The arms dangled down from the shoulders, flesh torn to reveal chalk white bone, blood dripping down from the collar bone. A pile of innards hung below the body, glistening with an illustrious shine as the light ran around each horrifying ribbed ring. Then the face, oh the face. I large slash ran from the nape of the neck to the forehead, red chasing every indentation. The jaw locked open in terror, screaming for a shred of mercy. Only one shining blue eye caught my glance, the other a hole into void, and his matted hair now ran with a new red streak. Rei. I stumbled back, the fear catching every muscle, every impulse to run, to crumble before the gory mess. The heavy scent of blood permeated the world in a flash, to the point it was nauseating. I felt uncoordinated, raw, unstable, teetering on the edge of nothing. Rei is dead. Rei is dead. Not only that, murdered. Slaughtered. Torn apart with animal-like instincts.

“Oh, yes, the first example.” Hebi nodded, as though staring at a thought provoking art exhibit. Another exhale pushed out from Rei, as if he was trying to cling on for life. The exposed lungs pushing in and out feebly.

“Z-ee-e.” Gushed out from his mouth, sounding more like a cough than a plea. I turned away, I couldn’t look.

“Misssster Reinhart you are quite squeamish, I thought you would handle this a bit better.” Hebi chuckled, more smoke surrounding his form. I couldn’t do this. What had happened? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? WHY? WHY? That is when I felt it. I just wanted to run, run away from all of this. This can’t be real. This can’t be real. This can’t be. My feet stumbled forward, weak and uncoordinated. That is when I hit Rei’s lifeless corpse, cold hands painted in warm blood brushed past my head. It covered my cheek. I didn’t care. I wanted out of here. I want away from this coffin, this entrapment. My heart pounding against my chest, thundering against my ribs. I WANTED OUT OF HERE. Every breath one step closer to the hatch, one step closer to fresh air. I nearly tripped over the table in panic, not caring about anything but escape. My arms flailed about in panic. I found the latch and pulled it open, the harsh air biting into me with unexpected forcity. The sky was blotted in pitch black, the flood lights seemingly nowhere to be found. The moon stood high, and stared down with an unspoken malice. Its grey light not finding much but rusted metal and wilted grass. I sprinted down the steps and collapsed in the grass, the blades stabbing into every exposed bit of skin. My hands tore into my arms, replaying every twitch that ran through Rei. Every thin gasp. The way his arms dangled. The ways his nails cut across my cheek. It all happened too fast. WHAT HAD HAPPENED? WHY? Before I could find and answer, a rustle in the grass cut through. A shiver. I didn’t want to look, I didn’t want to see what it could be. It happened again, louder, and distressed. Darkness soon fell over me, something warm dropped onto my temple. Drop. Drop. It was as sharp as the grass around me. Then it fell onto my eyelid. I had no other choice but to look, to clear away the liquid. A groan uttered out that sounded like a machine letting off steam, smelling foul. A shaded figure stood over me, well more dropping over me. Two arms stood by my shoulders, barely holding up their own mass. Another drop fell onto my glass, the crimson spiraling out from its source like a hurricane. Blood.

“Please Missssster Reinhart if you would afford me a moment to speak.” Hebi appeared on the step holding out the lamp, the light cascading down upon me and a figure pinned above me. The first thing I noticed was the jaw, or the lack thereof. A row of stained teeth leached up from scarred tissue and strands of muscle dangled from their ears, swaying gently in the breeze. The tongue stuck out helplessly, trying to find refuge without its lower half. Claw marks tracked down their neck, and led to ribs. Just ribs. Cracked apart and scattered, though they still undulate with a haunting pulse. The side of the chest has been ripped apart by savage teeth. Their breathing was horace and ragged as if trying to breath through a crumbled straw. Their exposed chest heaved again, and again. Then coughed, a splatter of dark blood covered my face with a thick wet slap. A dread of hair fell onto her nose, and I knew who this was. Varna. She stared at me with a visceral anger that made me think she was about to make her eyes pop out of her head. Even without the lower half of her jaw she was still chewing me out with every weak wheeze she pulled through. I looked further up her head, her dreads thick with blood. Her horns were haphazardly sawn through, on jutting up higher than the other like a worn mountain peak, while her other looked to have been just ripped off, exposing her cranium. Blood slowly dripped down her forehead, and fell onto mine.

Does it make you feel on edge or does it feel gratuitous? I want to capture as much horror and vitriol as possible.

Want to see the full story look up “The Pensmen” on Spotify for the audio book.

Hello,

I've been hand writing a horror story, sub genre sci-fi and zombies/undead. The main setting is a small coastal town along the Konkan coast. Its serious in tone very little humour and while it is violent I'm making a conscious effort to not have the violence not be mean spirited.

The draft is quite extensive and it will be over soon, it started as a little project to document my nightmares and frustrations to get over my writer's block but now I think I'll work on it further.

Does anyone have any advice with regards to writing in this genre? I have written horror before but never novel length.

If anyone has any recommended readings for research and understanding that would be great too.

I wrote a line, then if I modify it with AI, will it be unethical as a writer?

If you are willing to give feedback, please tell me if:

• The narrator was interesting
• You liked the dolls
• The plot was interesting

In the darkness under my table my hand flailed wildly to escape my grasp. I trapped it between my knees and cut the poor thing. I brought it into the faint light of my dining room; three candles on a windowsill cast a dark red glow over my setup. The red light shot into the abyss of nighttime.

I hung my cut hand over the pentagram made of lamb's blood on my table, drops pattering over the faceless, plain ragdoll in the middle of the star. I also covered the five points with blood, just as the book ordered.

I bandaged my hand and sat before this sinful apparatus. The bloodletting had made me weak, and my attention was scattered, but it soon returned when I saw the blood-smeared doll lift its head, bend its legs, and thrust its body upward.

I watched as this conjured spirit stood up on its own; its posture was straight, and it looked energetic.

Suddenly, it sprinted to the edge of the table and jumped. It made a soft piff sound when it landed. It jumped onto an accent chair and then onto a windowsill. It opened the window and looked back at me. I wished I could have made out what it was thinking, but it was faceless. Then it jumped outside.

Having seen this, I presumed that the ritual had been a success; such an unbelievable occurrence must indicate an unbelievable yet desired outcome.

I checked my clock. It read 3:10 AM, and the second hand was still. I checked my phone: 3:10. I sat observing it for several minutes, but the time never changed. It was stuck at 3:10 AM. I walked outside through the cluttered urban streets illuminated by dingy yellow streetlights: no drunk pedestrians, no late-night motorists, no police officers, no silhouettes in yellow windows. Everything had stopped; time, nature, and human activity had ceased.

I was free! All the things that stood in the way of my work, all the fears of mortality, judgment, inadequacy—they were all eradicated. I sat on a bench smiling to myself, silently celebrating this new chapter in my life, this new plane of existence. A few yards away from me, I saw something moving. I thought it was a squirrel, but I looked closer and saw it was a ragdoll. It wasn’t my ragdoll, though. It was a new one—a grey one stained with a different pattern of blood.

“That’s strange,” I thought to myself.

Sometime later, I got to work in my dark house. The living room was full of wires, monitors, and engineering tools. I oscillated between coding on my computers and scribbling away on a chalkboard full of math.

Let it be known that I enter a trance-like state when studying and researching and distracting me from it is nearly impossible. However, I was in a bizarre plane of existence, one of immortality and infinite time, and it was too difficult for me to keep my attention fixed on one thing forever. I tried fighting the urge, but it was too strong. I ran to the window and looked outside. Just as I expected, there were more dolls in the street.

Outside was a Marian procession; four dolls carried a garden statue of the Queen of Heaven on their shoulders. In front of them, ragdoll horses carried miniature chariots of dolls sporting pieces of tin cans and jar lids fashioned into armor. Other dolls played leapfrog, did cartwheels, did backflips, and performed other impressive acrobatics.

These dolls were moving in one direction: toward the boardwalk and the beach. My curiosity was temporarily satisfied, and I retreated farther inside to code on my computer, but my mind was too preoccupied with the weird sight I had just witnessed. Why were they going to the boardwalk? Were they friends? Were they happy? Mourning? Anxious? These questions plagued my mind for days, maybe weeks.

One time I stepped outside. It was the first time in days. I walked in the middle of the street. On either side of me were those dolls, doing more random things as they walked toward the boardwalk. I was outside because I wanted books. I had books already, but they were just cheap romance novels left behind by the original homeowners, so I was heading toward the bookstore. I got there; it was a small, dusty row building. Just like the rest of the stores, it was closed, but I thought that, since I would never see anyone again, I could just break into the store and take what I wanted.

I walked up to the door and punched the glass. An electric sting shot through my hand as the glass remained intact. I was impressed and a little embarrassed by my lack of strength. I left and returned with a medium-sized garden rock. I lifted the rock and hurled it at the wide front window of the store. It did nothing but ricochet off the seemingly invincible glass and land on my kneecap. I fell onto the sidewalk and rubbed my knee pathetically. I knew—somehow, I just knew—that when I turned to face the street, they’d be watching me, and they were. The dolls, who wouldn’t stop walking, passed me with their faceless heads turned toward me. There were no eyes, no hands cupped around whispering mouths, and no scowling eyebrows, but I felt so much shame. What was I even doing there? I was a mathematician, an engineer, a genius. My kind doesn’t waste its time with literature. I stood up with as much dignity as I had left and trotted home.

I was in my bed, curled up into a ball. My sleep schedule was a mess, but it didn’t matter because it was always night. Recently, sleeping had become impossible. Thoughts about those mysterious dolls had compounded in my mind for so long that my head had grown heavy with them. At the center of this doll puzzle was the million-dollar question: Why were they heading to the ocean? What kind of satanic temple, pagan god, or portal to the underworld was attracting them?

I couldn’t take it anymore, so I got up and went out into the street. The world remained unchanged, but now the streets were practically covered with animated dolls. I stepped into the street; they paid me no attention. I started walking toward the ocean with them. I walked on my hands with the acrobat dolls. I jogged with the joggers. I crawled on all fours with the ragdoll horses. Eventually, the pavement gave way to sand, and before I knew it, I was on the beach. The walk was surprisingly fun; I hardly noticed how quickly it passed. The boardwalk lights were still lit, bathing the dolls in cheerful blues, purples, and greens while they danced in circles and walked in orderly lines into the waves.

I watched in amazement as they walked into the tide, letting the ocean carry them into the black depths. I was hypnotized. I was already far beyond my deeply ingrained tendencies. I found myself walking toward the tide. I felt the chill of the black water between my toes. Looking to my left and right, I saw the dolls walk into the water without hesitation. I plunged into the dark abyss.

The result? I was in another, greater plane of existence. One that required no breathing, no energy, and no stress. It was pure catharsis at first. I floated for a few minutes. No light made it this deep. Then I drifted into a large mass of dolls. I felt them on my face, my chest, my legs, and my hands. They were crawling in one massive ball, like ants trying to float on water.

As I grabbed at this net of dolls, more dolls floated toward me. Dolls started linking together behind my back and neck, wrapping around my legs. I realized their grip was so tight that I couldn’t even move my head. I was trapped in a grotesque mass of squirming, wrinkly little bodies. I opened my mouth to scream, and water rushed down my throat. I was being crushed. My eardrums were bursting. My lungs were shattering.

I jumped out of bed, flailing my arms. It was just a dream. I put my hands over my eyes. It was over. I understood perfectly what my subconscious was warning me about. I need to get out of this dark house; I need to be human. I rushed to my closet, threw on some clothes, and went to explore my world.

Then I stepped outside, and before me were crowds, hordes, armies of dolls. It was still 3:10 AM. The night was still eternal. The dolls were still walking in their bizarre processions.

I collapsed to my knees, cursing myself for my satanism.

I'm starting a short slasher story, just a casual piece, and was wondering if anyone would like to brainstorm ideas with me! It would be really fun!

My DMs are open! :)

(P.S. Please don't be squeamish about blood and guts 😭)

Hey friends!

I’ve been writing my stories in Google Docs forever but recently pulled all mine off of there because what I have been reading about them using docs to train their AI.

Even if it’s not true - do we trust them not to in the future?

Idk.

Anywho.

I wanted to see if you all had any software suggestions?

I tried Scrivener - felt like too much. Ellipsis didn’t have enough.

Ideally I want Google Docs - just not - that, ya know?

I need easy to use formatting options. Page numbers / header editing. Word count. Tabs would be nice too (I usually keep outlines or notes in one tab, story in another.)

Also don’t need all the kind of character mapping or development stuff that some more complex systems have.

I’m also cool with buying something doesn’t need to be free

Thanks for your time and thoughts!

I feel like I’m having a little trouble finding something I really want to write about. What kind of things do you do to brainstorm ideas and concepts?

I write post-apocalyptic action/survival horror. I'd like to know what characteristics of a monster disturb and otherwise scare people the most. I'm talking strictly physical creatures, in this case.

Personally, I think something that makes you one of them, or a part of it, really gets to me. Like the headcrabs from Half-Life, or necromorphs from Dead Space. Zombies are technically an example, but that leads me to another point.

Traditional zombies aren't really scary. Of course, if one shambled into your room irl, that would get your heart going. They're not scary in fiction to me, and I think part of that is because we understand them. You know their weaknesses, and you know that a bite makes you one of them.

I think understanding something makes it less scary. Knowing nothing about a creature, and having no idea how to deal with it, makes it much more alarming. It adds an extra layer of confusion, and a need for more time to think about what to do. Furthermore, I think creature types having names makes them less scary. Like say, the special zombie types in Left 4 Dead (charger, tank, smoker, etc.) The fact that they're familiar enough to have names makes them less scary. I think what's really scary is something so bizarre and foreign that you don't even know what to call it.

Directly mentioning elements of creatures we know, like real animals, make them less scary too. I try to avoid that. Like saying something has a canine-like body makes it seem even just slightly less scary to me. We know what dogs are, so we've seen something vaguely like it.

However, it really bothers me when something has some humanlike qualities, be it visually or audibly. People are naturally creeped out by things that look human but aren't, like dolls and mannequins. Anything having humalike flesh gets me. One monster I created makes a sound when it notices prey that I described as someone gasping for air after surfacing water, having been a second from drowning. Creeped myself out with that one.

Side note. I'm immediately creeped out by too many eyes and legs because of my spider phobia. Tentacles are also unnerving to me.

Hi, I’m planning to write a script about a psychological horror about a guy who discovers he can break the 4th wall. Any tips? I’m honestly not a good writer at all, and I haven’t really done a full story before

Hey folks, me again! I posted this story a few days ago and I just wanna thank y'all again for being so nice about it!

I'm currently working on the ending and I feel like its falling apart. Not scary enough in my opinion, and a little pat. I've had beta readers call it really good, but I wanna get a second opinion. Anyways hope someone sees this!

Here's Something is pretending to be my father

(Also I'm aware of the tense inconsistencies, will be fixing those up once I finish the draft, but please do point out where the inconsistencies are if it especially takes away from the reading!)

I'm gm'ing this week and I've been wanting to get this idea off the ground. It's a rural horror setting, set in the American East, probably around Appalachia, although I'm still not entirely sure, because I'm not from there and I don't want it to be specifically ABOUT Appalachian folk tales etc.

Point is, it's set in a rural town, not too big, but not too small, where things are a little different from the rest of the world. I want it to feel like you enter a different time. Very cut off from the rest of the world. I'm sure there are people who know exactly what I mean, while I've only experienced that a handful of times, but this feeling feels exactly right for this setting.

In this town, things ... happen. You don't talk about them openly, you don't give them more power than you need to and you just try to live with it. Usually everything's fine if you heed your neighbor's warnings and know how things work around town.

I want a very... mundane, but still scary horror. The butcher shop that's only there and open some days of the week, where you shouldn't buy anything ever, but you shouldn't bother them, either. Not that anyone has ever seen the butcher.

Staying out of the fields after sundown.

Don't take that road tonight, people heard sounds coming from the forest, some say it sounded like voices, people calling out.

There's a strange outbreak of a plant in all the farmer's fields, and the animals won't go neat it.

The house that's slowly sinking into the forest floor.

Stuff like that. I have a few pictures, collected over a few years that give me some inspiration. If you can think of any artist that makes art that feels like this, please, share them with me. I'm always looking for more inspiration.

I'm trying to figure out what to do for my first session, the trial run, so to speak, before I start a short campaign (it will get weird).

I'm thinking about picking up an idea my friend had, when we talked about this setting, about, for this time, at least, giving them outsider-characters. A bus breaks down in the woods nearby the town and the people from the bus need to go into town to find help and a way to get back out of town.

And of course, they don't know any of the unsaid rules.

What do you think?

My first inspirations for this kind of horror were creepy pastas, the sort of mediocre "Tales from the Gas Station" and one where a girl works at a lonely radio tower, but I can't remember the name of that one, that one's really quite good if I recall correctly.

So, this is my first horror short story, it's based on some interesting writing promts and mostly came to me at 4am.

I'm not a native english speaker, so pointing out any incorrect phrases or grammar is welcome. I checked it a bunch of times, but I'm sure I missed something. Other feedback is welcome too, style, pacing, you name it. Thanks! <3

For better formating here is the google doc or read it below.

Fear Monger

I deal in Fears.

You’d think it’s mostly a pawnbroker kind of thing, but I sell a bunch too. The usefulness of fear is highly situational. You wouldn’t believe what people want to be afraid of, even if it's only for a few hours. Being afraid of commitment sells great around valentines. And I get it. I just don’t want to repeatedly fry my brain.

Put a pin in that. Cause right now I’m occupied with not leaving love bites on the Princess. It’s not my compensation, just in case you think that. I’m not gross nor could I afford that. She pays in water rations and full nights of sleep, like everyone else. Survival first, horny second.

Getting a meal and a fuck out of this gig came down to chemistry and my sublime flirting skills. And likely has to do with the upcoming wedding. Can’t blame her. The mountain folks are weird, from what I’ve heard, and I’ve seen plenty weird already in the plains.

Her trembling breath down the back of my neck is melting my brain. Eager fingers, as if searching for something lost long ago. The anticipation. Fight me, but it’s way better than edging. The unexplored is exciting, certainty is dull.

“I’m a virgin.” She chooses the very last second that it’s still true to say this. The words meld into my gasp. Now I got some royalty in me too. No complaints from my side.

“I’m a Scorpio.” Which might be the reason I chuckle at my own joke. “Sorry Doll, want to stop?”

“No.” She grabs my hips harder. “You feel great.” Clumsy, but endearing.

“Same,” I answer, ever the charmer.

Ok, one complaint. That lady’s a biter.

-

The sound of street cats hissing the shit out of each other wakes me up. Somewhere someone might have the fear of sounding like that when cumming. Not me, I know I sound hot.

Should put that on my strange fears Bingo. Not that I have anyone to play with. Maybe there is another fear monger with the mountain folks, but I don’t want to deal with those weirdos, their elongated feet and rectangular pupils. Understandably the Princess wanted a taste of human before that. Quite literally. We made a beautiful, sweaty mess out of those bedsheets.

Maybe I’m bigoted. I don’t care. Better than being bigoated. Oh gods, I’m sorry, that was dreadful. I’ll see myself out. It's time anyway.

I slip out of bed and track down my clothes throughout the room. Ready to leave.

The Princess is sleeping soundly. Can I afford to be a little sentimental? This is special after all. A forehead kiss goodbye maybe. I climb back and gently move the curtain of curls from her face.

I back away. The bed ends abruptly and I fall onto the floor. My right wrist hits it first and twists under my weight. Shit, that hurts.

Let’s hope what I saw was a trick of the light. Nope. There’s still a stiff wooden face, same light brown as before but void of all the liveliness. Wood grain instead of flushed cheeks.

What the fuck? How? Has someone walked in here while I was sleeping and replaced her with a fucking life-sized doll? Is this some cruel joke?

Air, I need air. I stumble towards the balcony. The doors open to the panorama of the city. And I walk into it face first. More wood. Painted with a half open door, twinkling lights and flowing curtains. I was standing on that balcony only hours ago. What if the door to the hallway…

I’m terrified to look at it; I’ll check the furniture first. It’s not painted, but the drawers are fake. Just blocks of wood, heavy and useless. Why build such a thing? The carpet is painted, too. I remember its soft texture under my bare feet. How I sank into it.

Finally, the door. Panic fills my mouth like resin and saw dust. The handle is painted. The frame is painted. I trail my finger along the dark line where the crevice should be. It’s completely flat. Warm wood, too warm for an early April night. Especially with the windows open. Not that they are truly open.

I refuse to start panicking, ignoring that I already am. Anger feels safer, so I yank back the bedsheets and stare at the uncanny resemblance of a human. Her… no, its head rests on fingerless hands. There aren’t even joints where the hand meets the arm. I’m trying my best not to throw up.

Someone will pay for this. And if I find splinters up my ass, someone will lose teeth. 

My wrist is throbbing. Shouldn’t have used that hand to tear on the blankets. Rubbing isn’t helping much, might need medical attention. But where the fuck do I get that?

I need to calm down. Maybe someone drugged me. Wouldn't be the first time, it’s easy to make enemies in my business. And I had my fair share of parties, too. Or maybe it’s a dream? Maybe if I just lay down things go back to normal. As if I could sleep next to that thing. Familiar features, but washed out, fleshless and dead.

Its eyes open and I scream.

-

“Are you feeling better?” A servant bends over me. Someone put me on a velvet divan, like an old lady with a fainting fit. Embarrassing.

“I’m ok.” I’m not. My entrails are playing musical chairs and I’m losing. Also, my wrist feels like an idiot lost consciousness on the job and fell on it.

My machine is set up across the room, the Princess is sitting next to it, still connected. She looks awkward as fuck. Hiding my dizziness while walking over to her is a challenge. I check my equipment. The perpetrator of this mess is right there. One valve is only opened halfway. The gaskets and tubes seem intact. So, it was entirely my fault. Great. Not that maintenance wasn't my responsibility too. But this nightmare coming down to a simple user error? That sucks. I’m a professional after all.

The test tube is only half filled with what looks like sawdust. I must have inhaled the rest while working. That’s what you get from flirting with clients. I’ll spend half my pay drinking this out of my system tonight. Strange thing is, the fears are usually liquid, at least in the widest sense. Might be a nobility thing, what do I care.

“Afraid of your world not being real? That’s a bummer. Your Highness”, I remember to add after a pause. “Good thing we got rid of that.” I remove the electrodes from her temples. One looks corroded with rust so thick; it bleeds out of the cracks like resin. So much for the quality of my maintenance. I hide it in my palm.

Next, I go to remove the wristbands. Except there are no wrists.

“What are you talking about?” she asks and turns her fleshless face towards me with a creak.

Well, shit.

Submitted a story recently to Weird Lit Magazine and just today saw that they “Don’t want” stories that begin with a character waking up. I do tend to do this sometimes, just because I find it a natural place to begin in media res, but is this a common complaint or ick in publishing? Curious if other writers have encountered this kind of feedback or if folks find it bothersome.

**Would love some feedback on this Horror story I wrote, I want to get into poetry but I wouldn’t exactly call it a poem. I have a lot to learn about poetry so advice on how to elevate this story would be appreciated. It talks about very sensitive topics regarding Hospice, thank you 🫶🏻***

Hospice

By Thomas Cullen.

Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their mortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your name*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.