What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine

by Piers Anthony

  one is home. The tidal wave of blood reaches them and their flesh boils

  away. From the epicenter, shockwaves emanate as a grotesquely colossal

  arm bursts out. It grabs anything living and drags it under.

  Soon no life remains. The disfigured arm retreats beneath the soil

  and the riders melt back to blood, coating the planet and staining

  the Earth red. It floats now, empty and barren, with no memory.

  About Emon Anthousis

  Emon Anthousis is currently enrolled at the University of South Florida finishing up a degree in Creative Writing and considering dual majoring in a field outside of English. He decided he wanted to be a writer after finishing Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which is currently his favorite book of all time.

  His hobbies include watching movies with friends, reading and writing.

  Emon doesn't want to limit himself to one form of written work and is currently beginning work on a fantasy novel and a comic book series about his take on the superhero genre.

  http://www.facebook.com/Greekcheeze

  JASON'S LAMENT

  by Dennis Bagwell

  Now you listen to me Rita!

  I appreciate all you've done for me, but as my agent, you owe me this

  I know George Clooney is being considered for this role, but I have given the best thirty years of my life to this industry and it owes me, too

  You say fans expect me in certain roles and they don't want to see me in a chick flick, but I want this romantic comedy

  What have I been doing for the last twenty years but making comedies, Rita?

  Jason in space? Do I look like a Goddamn astronaut to you?

  Freddy would never say this to your face, but he was just as disappointed with Freddy vs. Jason as I was

  You said it would be the ultimate slasher bromance. It stunk, Rita!

  What's next? Abbott and Costello meet Jason?

  I appreciate the fans, but let's not forget it's the fans that have type-cast me

  Every time the screenwriters kill me off, I think, "Great! Now maybe I can try something on Broadway"

  Maybe DJ in some clubs for fun

  Then you negotiate a higher salary for the next piece of crap slasher, making it difficult to say no

  Well, this time I'm putting my machete down!

  Can't you even get me spot on Dancing with the Stars?

  I mean, have you seen some of the celebrity hacks they get on there?

  Not even a guest spot on Law and Order?

  It's time to expand my resume to include some more high profile roles; how about a musical? Have you ever heard me sing?

  You know, I took this part when I was young and I had only been in Hollywood a few weeks.

  I needed the money and I was excited about being in a "Big Hollywood Production"

  If I had known I would be wearing a hockey mask for the next thirty years, I would have passed on it, Rita!

  I have a daughter who is older than the kids I kill in these movies!

  Half the time I can't even find my hockey mask because my son borrows it to play hockey!

  Kevin Bacon was in the first movie and he's gone on to a pretty lucrative career

  When does Jason Voorhees get his moment in the sun?

  I had lunch with Michael Myers at Spago last week and I poured my heart out to him like I am to you now

  You know what he said, Rita?

  Absolutely nothing! His silence spoke volumes and we share the same pain

  I wouldn't be surprised if he moves back to Haddonfield

  Leatherface already went back to his ranch in Texas. Freddy is working with kids

  I can't wait for the day when I can wash the blood from this crummy, unforgiving town and retire to Camp Crystal Lake

  I mean, I'm in great shape, but how much longer am I supposed to still be young enough to hurl an axe with robotic precision across a room?

  I'll be fifty years old next month, for Christ's sakes!

  You can't possibly have any idea how hard it is for an angry, hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, psychotic, serial killer to pretend he's an actor portraying an angry, hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, psychotic, serial killer

  I've learned to manage a lot of my anger, but I can only take so much of this crap before the bodies start piling up

  My therapist says this lifestyle isn't conducive to my mental well-being

  Rita, how can you just lay there and say nothing?

  Don't look at me with those glazed-over eyes!

  Dammit, Rita, say something!!!

  BUGS (for Diana)

  by Dennis Bagwell

  Bugs in the vents

  Bugs in the drain

  Bugs in my bed

  Driving me insane

  Bugs in the closets

  Bugs in the kitchen

  Eating my food

  Without my permission

  Bugs in the phone

  Bugs in the halls

  In the kids room

  Behind their dolls

  Bugs in the bathroom

  Bugs in the garage

  Following me around

  Like a creepy entourage

  Invading my home

  Like unwanted guests

  Hiding in the corners

  Like filthy little pests

  I hear them in the walls

  Buzzing in their nest

  While I lay in my bed

  There is no quiet rest

  Laying in the dark

  Sweating with fear

  Perhaps while I'm sleeping

  They'll nest in my ear

  Or drag me away

  To their burgeoning hive

  Becoming their feast

  While I'm still alive

  My home is now seething

  With bugs in every space

  I'll grab a few things

  Then I'll leave this place

  I think I hear them laughing

  Their torture goes undaunted

  A home without people

  Is all they really wanted

  PRAYING FOR THE DAWN

  by Dennis Bagwell

  The sun is almost down, the fog rolling in

  The moon will rise and mock me from the safety of its celestial perch

  The creatures of the night will screech, scream and hoot their ugly nocturnal symphonies

  The vampires will awaken from their earthly graves

  The undead will shuffle from the woods behind my house

  The werewolves will howl to signal the beginning of the night's festivities

  The hounds of Hell will sniff around my porch and mark their territory

  I will be waiting quietly in the dark

  Waiting for some or all of them to get into my house

  Praying I live to see another day

  Praying for the dawn

  About Dennis Bagwell

  Dennis is a thirty-something, politically incorrect, mad at the world, X Generation, heathen, musician, poet and writer from suburban Orange County, California. Dennis moved to North Georgia in 2007 and is quietly preparing for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. He has been writing in one form or another since high school. His warped rantings and observations about the cesspool of a world we are surviving in keep his spiraling descent into madness at bay.

  Dennis has had his poetry published by the League of American Poets, The American Poets Society, 63Channels, Black Petals, Death Head Grin and Word Salad Poetry Magazine. He has released two spoken-word CD's, A Random Litter of Thought (2006) and Paid in Full (2007) on Batteryface Records. A short film of Dennis' poem Hollywood was made available to coincide with the release of Paid in Full.

  http://www.dennisbagwell.weebly.com

  THE GHOUL

  by John T. Carney

  The tombstone wall was gray and cold,

  Like a corpse's flesh left in some nameless morgue.

  I could almost touch you; feel
you; hear you as in life,

  Though your soul was trapped in the eternity of the grave forever.

  I placed both hands to caress the faded words on the slab,

  My fingers slipping along the rain-drenched granite,

  Like a mountaineer losing his grip.

  Maybe I was losing mine.

  Raindrops fell amongst the lonely tombs,

  As I lingered there, unsure of what to do,

  Where to go next.

  Finally, I moved on to the next crypt,

  Placing my hands firmly on the niche,

  With a soft caress,

  A gentle touch for the dead.

  Yet I was losing my grip,

  Slipping along the edge of the stone,

  Losing my way on the ascent up the incline.

  The rain continued to fall,

  And I moved on to the next grave,

  Staring, transfixed, at the withered stone,

  The stone stared back, unmoved.

  So like Death, aloof; indifferent.

  I stared blankly at a statue of St. Michael in the distance,

  A blackbird rose from amidst the stones and soared high in the air.

  My hands slipped clumsily through the stones,

  Groping, seeking, finding nothing but tears,

  Amongst the dirt and rocks of the incline I faced.

  I had lost my way, forgotten the route,

  Left the path.

  A steep mountain of graves loomed in the distance,

  I knew I could never leave.

  You would never allow it,

  Your love had bound me here,

  Amongst the tombs and stones of this lonely ascent.

  An ascent I would never complete,

  Until I returned here for the last time,

  And found my place amongst these lonely stones,

  On Death's summit with you.

  KINGDOM OF SHADOWS

  by John T. Carney

  Rushing shadows storm the endless night,

  Washing through an endless sea of space,

  In this void these shades find dark delight,

  The King of Shadows rules this darksome place.

  Here, where Styx rolls fat and wide and still,

  As in some drugged and hazy, lurid dream,

  The fate of souls flows where it will,

  One often hears the sorrowful souls scream.

  These pause along the vast, unholy shore,

  And beg for coins to pay the ferry man,

  Else to linger there forevermore,

  Or lurk wherever Death is damned.

  They whisper through the ancient veil of time:

  Drink not so vainly Life's luxurious Wine.

  MEMORIAL DAY

  by John T. Carney

  A solitary mourner stood lingering by an open coffin,

  The corpse laid in state in the mausoleum before the open niche,

  Awaiting internment.

  For more than an hour he stood staring,

  As if waiting for the eyes to flicker; the muscles to twitch.

  Finally, he turned his face to me with a strange, stiff smile,

  His bared, sharp fangs coldly gleaming,

  And slowly approached.

  Behind him, the stiff, pale corpse rose from its rest,

  Stared, palely, at his back,

  And clumsily followed.

  I fingered the shaft of my own fangs and grimaced.

  My master slowly approaching with bloodstained lips.

  It was Memorial Day at Cedar Grove,

  And the day had only just begun.

  About John T. Carney

  John T. Carney was born in San Francisco in 1960 and has lived most of his life in the Bay Area. He graduated from Moreau High School in Hayward, California, in 1979 and from The University of Pacific in Stockton in 1985. He has had several poems published by the International Library of Poetry in their various anthologies and has also been published in small college literary magazines.

  His favorite horror short story is "The Red Lodge" by H. Russell Wakefield. His favorite horror movie is The Shuttered Room, based on a story by H. P. Lovecraft. Estronomicon.com (Screaming Dreams) has agreed to publish two stories of his, the first called "The Lake People" and the second, "The Curse of the Leper."

  John has published a book, available on Amazon, titled The Vampire Sonnets. It is a novella combined with sonnets about vampirism.

  https://sites.google.com/site/johntcarneybooksandmusic

  THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR

  by Teresa Ann Frazee

  We, the pale children of our time

  Slide homeward across a hundred years

  Into the darkness where shadows fly

  Tonight we'll play with our living peers

  While the contented sleep dreaming

  We roam about our old dwelling place

  Where sweet memories are kept alive

  Bartering innocence with time and space

  Sweat pours through astral bodies

  Dripping into sockets of cloudy eyes

  Like faded pipers stirring boyish days

  Of long hot summers catching fireflies

  Or riding wooden horses that go round

  Reaching to grab shiny brass rings

  And the smell of tiny cakes rising

  While lost in play on old tire swings

  But dawn's light muzzles our laughter

  In a world of nothing all day

  Imagining these things to come

  With stiffened postures we lay

  Our hearts are filled with dust

  Icy breath trapped in the lungs

  Only when the golden daylight falls

  Can words roll from our tongues

  Yes, speechless until we're midnight born

  Confined daily under roofs of stone

  At night we join our small glowing hands

  But we never seem to feel a bone

  Like flaming rockets in the dark

  When our sparks and lightning mingle

  The jolt of life ignites our souls

  And our imaginative senses tingle

  Then up the black staircase we ascend

  Cradled in a whoosh of rising air

  Plunged through the light under the door

  To our old room with its new heir

  Will the living child accept us

  Or will his hair stand on end?

  We're young and not certain

  If our true natures will blend

  Right near him now we hovered

  He smiled then blew a hollow flute

  Played us an ancient melody

  A tune that had long since been mute

  We danced on our vacant beds of rust

  Once again moved our cold feet

  And swayed the body in its way

  To youth's wild frenzied beat

  Away from our monotonous rest

  Flung our day clothes all about

  Stomped on those lifeless things

  And shook the world with our shout

  Tumbling adrift toward anonymity

  In a slow motion race against our curfew

  As we played freely and left our print

  On the same toys we never quite outgrew

  Suddenly dawn waved high her magic wand

  As we scattered around she counted heads

  Then swiftly caught us all with one hand

  And gently tucked us in our daybeds

  THAT STRETCH OF ROAD

  by Teresa Ann Frazee

  That stretch of road lies between home and somewhere

  Celestial light slices through the mahogany sky

  Lured by ancient shades of boundless galaxies

  Which hold the power to charm the mortal eye

  Neglected on the map of transient dreams

  The road takes on dimensions of infinity

  Right on course into the passage of fate

  As the span of time monitors obscurity

&nbs
p; Onward we travel toward our destination

  Through miles of air the road approached a hill

  Trees rustle among us like whispering kings

  And in the hushed black of night they're reigning still

  THE ROADSIDE ROSE

  by Teresa Ann Frazee

  Amid the glow of haunting flares

  A rose blooms there in the night

  She stands against a boundless sky

  Charming the last shards of light

  She cradles the sweet breath of Eros

  In each sultry curve of her petal's fold

  Velvet thorns blush behind bursting buds

  According to the ancient legend told