Blood Bath


It’s a lovely spring day here. I wish I could be outside, but like most writers I’ve fallen behind on all my projects and today I’m trying to play catch up. Since embarking on my horror journey, I have been creating and writing more steadily than I ever have, so I can’t be too hard on myself. And so far, I’ve made some great friends along the way.


In this week’s photo, the blood red bath water was created using the Blood Bath Bomb from Ghoulish Delights Bath Shop. The bath bomb smelled amazing and made my skin so soft. It was the most pleasant photo shoot I’ve done yet! Ghoulish Delights Bath Shop just recently launched and carries awesome horror themed bath products. I’ve gotten to know the creator of this company through my short time spent in the horror community, and I have such respect for her and what she does. Check out  and help support an amazing, woman-owned small business!

And now, another installment of “The Cockroaches Waltz At Midnight.”

With Screams and Axes,



The Cockroaches Waltz At Midnight (Cont.)

Art began to run. He didn’t know what that thing was or why it knew his name, but something told him not to wait and find out. He ran back the way he had come, towards the lights of the gas station. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t call out for Duke. The woods seemed thicker somehow, forcing him to slow down and try to walk quietly. It also seemed that he had run deeper into the woods than he thought. The lights in the distance seemed so far away. Art was unsure how he had been able to run that far.

By the time Art got back to the gas station there were two police cars out front, and he could see his manager standing there with his arms crossed, watching Art shamble towards the scene. Duke was sitting on the ground having a cigarette. His eye looked swollen, and his nose was bleeding. Art laughed for a moment, thinking about Duke getting the shit kicked out of him.

“What are you doing?” Art’s manager demanded as soon as he was close enough to scream at.

“What?” Art was confused.

“Why did you leave the store?” His manager asked again.

“To help Duke. We were going after a shop lifter.”

“Yes, Duke was going after the shop lifter.” He looked at Duke and frowned. “Which is against company protocol and he knows it. What I don’t understand is why you left the station unattended when Duke ran out to chase the thief.”

“Well, I…”

“Because when you left, the shop lifter’s buddies, who must have been watching, came in and made off with the whole god damn register!” A vein in his forehead pulsed and Art didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry.” Art began.

“You’re sorry? Well, you’re fired.” The manager waved him away.

“But, but…”Art tried to come up with an argument in his defense.

“But nothing. Get out of here.” The manager turned his back and went to go speak with a police officer.

Art walked home in the dark, wondering how he was going to be able to pay his rent for the attic room now. Maybe his parents were right, maybe Marta was right. Maybe he should have just gone to college.

Art opened the door to the Steven’s house as quietly as he could. It was 4:30 in the morning, and he didn’t want to wake them. But as he entered the living room, Art found all the lights on and the Steven’s sitting at the table, having what looked like dinner. Mrs. Steven was cutting a slice of meatloaf for Mr. Steven, who himself was stirring a large bowl of mashed potatoes. They were wearing matching pink sweat suits, Mr. Steven had several large gold rings on his fingers, and Mrs. Steven was wearing a clownish amount of makeup. The way she had drawn on her eyebrows, thick and dark, gave her a bewildered expression. They both looked up at Art as he entered the room, surprised to see him.

“Art, my lad!” Mr. Steven boomed. “Sit and have dinner with us.” He motioned him towards the table. Art felt it would be rude to deny him, plus he was very hungry. So without asking questions about why they were eating dinner at 4:30 a.m., Art sat at the table and watched Mrs. Steven slice a piece of meat loaf for him.

Easter Bunny

Easter Bunny

Happy Easter!

I had quite a busy day visiting family and sitting in traffic. I hope everyone else out there had lovely Sundays as well.

This past week, I was contacted by Creepy Elliot who asked if he could read some of my fiction in one of his videos on his YouTube channel. That sounded like a wonderful idea, so I readily agreed. You can check out Creepy Elliot’s YouTube channel and his narration of some of my short fiction pieces here:

I also want to take a moment to show everyone the awesome shirt I just received from Terror Threads.


Look at that zombie action. You can check out this shirt and more of their awesome collection here:

And now, without further ado, part 2 of “The Cockroaches Waltz At Midnight.”

Thank you for reading.

With Screams and Axes,



The Cockroaches Waltz at Midnight (Part 2)

Art left his guitar leaning against his desk, and let himself fall onto his bed. He stared up at the slanted wood ceiling and listened to the creaking of the elderly house. Without meaning to, he fell asleep. Art dreamed of the attic. He was on his bed, just as he was. He felt something shaking the metal bed frame, a rumbling from underneath him. Out from under the bed surged thousands of cockroaches, little legs scurrying at super speeds, all hurrying to Art. They covered him completely head to toe, smothering him with their tiny bodies.

Art woke up choking. He coughed and coughed, and finally hacked up a cockroach and spit it out onto the floor. It righted itself quickly and hurried under the bed. Art breathed heavily and put a hand to his throat, as his mind experienced a new depth of disgust. Quickly he lowered himself to the floor, deciding to chase the offending cockroach that had tried to choke him. That roach had to die. Art reached under the bed, but instead of swiping up the cockroach, his hand touched a large round object. Pulling it out from under the bed, Art found himself looking over a strange object he had never seen before.

It was a crudely formed figure of an insect. Its abdomen was made out of a dried dirt clod and wrapped in twine. Its legs and antennae were made of sticks, its wings made of leaves. It smelled of rot and as Art held it, he decided that it had definitely been made in the image of a cockroach. Art wondered how such a thing had found its way under his bed. He wondered if it was some eccentricity of the Stevens. They seemed like they’d be into weirdo folk art.

Art put the cockroach figure on his desk, assuring himself that he’d ask the Stevens about it later, and that he’d also talk to them about hiring an exterminator. But now, Art had to go to work at the gas station.

The Cockroaches Waltz At Midnight


The week after vacation is always hard. All you can think about is how wonderful being away was! I definitely felt sluggish this week, but I was still able to submit three new stories to horror magazines and write up a storm!

It’s still been too cold for me to get some pictures outside, which has been kind of frustrating. I’m getting tired of trying to be creative and come up with new concepts in my small apartment. One day, far, far away, I’ll have to get some kind of studio space.

I picked up a bunch of new masks this week though! And hopefully that helps spark my creativity.

This week I’m going to give you the first section of the story “The Cockroaches Waltz at Midnight.” I hope you enjoy it. Thank you so much for reading.

With Screams and Axes,




Art felt a tickle on his arm and saw a large cockroach scurrying down his bicep. He brushed it off and watched it fall to the floor and scamper away. He didn’t even bother trying to kill them anymore, there were just too many. Having lived his entire life in a large, professionally cleaned home, the shock and awe of seeing his first cockroach had filled him with disgust. Now he saw them every day, and their presence was merely a nuisance and only subtly distasteful.

Art lived in the attic of Mr. and Mrs. Steven’s house, and gave them 100 dollars for rent a month. The Steven’s were old and the house was even older, but he tried to remind himself that there were worse places he could live, and at least this roach-infested attic was affordable. He sat at his desk trying to tune his guitar, listening to the wooden creaks and groans of the house, and watching the roaches scamper. Art’s guitar always seemed to stir up the cockroaches in the attic. He didn’t imagine cockroaches were music lovers. He strummed the strings gently, trying not to be too loud for Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. He wondered how good their hearing was at their age. Art figured they certainly couldn’t see very well, considering the shape they allowed their house to be in.

Having just graduated high school, Art had chosen to move out of his parents’ house, and try to make a go out of being a musician on his own. His parents had wanted him to attend college at Duke like Arthur Sr. had, but Art had no interest in going to college. When Art asked his parents how they felt about him attending a school for music, they laughed and said studying music wasn’t a career. So Art had moved out and started working part time at a gas station. He told himself that all this would make a great story to tell once he was a successful and his talent was recognized.


The only thing that Art really missed was his girlfriend, Marta. Well, now his ex-girlfriend. They had started dating last summer. Art remembered sitting in the grass in his back yard, gently strumming his guitar while the sun played on the purple streaks in Marta’s hair. She was a painter and a sculptor. She wore colorful clothes that were always spotted with drips of paint, and she wrote him poems and drew him cards covered in crazy cartoons and sketches. Right before graduation, Marta had explained to Art that she felt their lives were going in different directions. She was going to art school states away and he was going to be here, in an attic, playing his guitar. Art understood her reasons, but he couldn’t help feel the sting at the loss of her.


Art had celebrated his 18th birthday alone in the attic room. To mark the occasion, he had received a plain, printed card in the mail from Marta, and a phone call from his parents that turned into a lecture about college. “There’s still time to reapply!” They shouted. But they couldn’t change his mind. He ended his birthday by hanging up on them.


Wedding Day



Hello My Dears! I’m back from my vacation and I’m happy to report that it was an amazing week. It’s so important to take time for yourself to recharge and relax. I feel like my creativity has been reignited and I’m ready to create and take on loads of new projects.

I have a lot more stories that I’m currently outlining, and I have a collaboration with another artist in the works that I think will blow all your socks off!

For this week, please enjoy these photos with my lovely new mask from Another Face Studio on Etsy ( ) and my new horror story “Wedding Day.”

With Screams and Axes,




Ingrid’s wedding was planned for Saturday, November 7th. In the early hours of Friday, November 6th, her fiancé left her a note on her dresser, under the corner of her jewelry box, apologizing for what he was about to do. He committed suicide by jumping from the River Way Bridge a few hours later.

The first time Ingrid read the note, she didn’t believe it. Then she read it again, and again, and again. Then the call came and it was all real. She went back to bed that day and stayed there, firmly dug in under the covers while her mother and aunts whirled around her in confusion, answering phone calls, crying, and trying to cancel wedding plans. Instead of Ingrid’s wedding, they held a funeral instead.


After his funeral, Ingrid didn’t know what to do. She blamed herself for everything. She gyrated between bleak and profound grief, dizzying anger, and a tingling numbness. She quit her job as vet tech, and moved out of the apartment they had shared. Before the wedding, Ingrid’s parents had given her the the family’s cabin up in the mountains. It was to be a wedding present. The papers had all been signed, and the cabin was legally hers. So against the advice of her parents and everyone that cared for her, she loaded a few suitcases into the trunk of her car and headed for the mountain retreat so that she could be alone. At a gas station midway on the trip she bought a pregnancy test. In a McDonald’s bathroom down the road, she took the test and watched it turn positive.

It took her two days’ worth of driving to get to the cabin. She had driven fast and almost recklessly. The trees on the side of the dark highway seemed to reach out for her with long jointed limbs. When she became too afraid, she had spent the night in her car at a rest stop with the doors locked and one eye open. After slowly driving the car up the winding, dirt road that cut through the forest, she parked in front of the dark cabin. It looked just like she remembered it. She hadn’t visited in five years. The cabin had always seemed so far away. She brought her suitcases in, turned on the electricity and the heat, made a bed, and quickly collapsed down onto it. She didn’t want to do anything, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She didn’t even want to sleep. She just wanted to lie on her bed, and breathe in the musty woodsy air in a place that she had known since childhood. This cabin had been the seat of such fond and loving memories. She regretted that she had never brought him here. She had always meant to.

Her mind went back to the pregnancy test in the fast food rest room. She knew that she should tell someone or do something about it. But she told herself that she had time, and that this issue could wait like all the other issues she was ignoring. She needed to rest now.

She fell asleep on the bed with her suitcases still packed and with all the lights on. She dreamed of him. He was dark and shadowed and he was weeping. Behind him stood an army of leafless trees, branches twisted and gnarled. But then they weren’t trees, they were arms. They were coming for him. She cried with him and reached out to hold him, but he slipped through her fingers like smoke. He was sorry. He loved her. She was sorry. She was angry. She was betrayed. She still loved him. Many long fingers took him away, dragging him back into darkness.

She woke up slowly as the sun beamed through the gauzy curtains. She stared into the light for a few minutes before she rose to change her clothes, and get a glass of water. As she unbuttoned her blouse, she gasped as she looked at herself in the antique vanity mirror that had been her great grandmothers. In her reflection she saw her stomach had grown. Where it had once been lean and flat, there was now a small mound. She knew babies didn’t grow that fast. She put a hand on the round stomach to feel it and convince herself that it was really there. That’s when she heard a faint whisper. Like the sound of children playing outside half a mile away. It was faint and high-pitched, a sound she could have convinced herself she hadn’t really heard.

“I hear you,” she announced to whatever it was. Still holding her stomach she went to the kitchen for her glass of water, too tired to be afraid or take offense. She understood something had begun to happen that was outside of her control. Like everything in life, she was just going to have to wait and bear it.


He had been in therapy since they met five years ago. He had always been honest with her about his struggles with his mental health. She stood by him through his ups and downs, through medication changes and constant adjustments. She told him every day that she loved his mind even in its imperfection, even when it seemed to be malfunctioning or misfiring. When he had proposed to her it had been during a stretch of time where he seemed to be the healthiest he’d ever been. He had seemed like he had finally found and peace and happiness within himself. Seeing him like that had made her overjoyed. She had such hope for their future. The day before he left his note had been a simple, happy day. They had taken a long walk in the park, sat on a bench and drank coffee and talked. She couldn’t even remember what they had been talking about, but it had been warm and sweet. She had trouble accepting that she lost him at a time like that. She couldn’t understand why after all he’d been through, that he had given up when things had been so good.

She sat at the kitchen table with her elbows resting on the worn wood. A full, untouched glass of cool water sat in front of her, but she had her eyes closed. Even getting herself to drink water was a struggle. She was thirsty and hungry, and she told herself that she was most likely dehydrated. But the effort needed to care for herself was too much. She wanted to be thirsty and hungry. Let me die of thirst, she thought, staring at the water glass.

“Drink,” something seemed to whine in a whisper from far, far away. She didn’t question the voice, but rather snickered at its demands. She wasn’t going to listen to anyone. Then she felt something in the mound of her stomach, a churning feeling, or rather a stirring. Something was happening. It frightened her. She drank the water quickly in big gulps, and then shuffled to the front door. She thought it might be nice to sit on the front porch and look into the forest that surrounded the cabin.

She had never wanted children. He had never spoken about them or seemed too fond of them either. She had worried what bringing a child into their relationship would do. At times, she felt that his sanity and his health was a fine balancing act, one she had become skilled at maintaining. She didn’t want a baby to come tottering in, knocking everything to ruins. Ingrid wasn’t sure what he would say to her if he were here, if he’d be happy about her pregnancy or if he would be anxious and afraid. She told herself that she should feel more about it. That she should start deciding things for it, caring for herself so as to care for it, this last little remnant of him.


The trees were tall and they seemed to go on forever. She sat outside on the porch without a sweater even though it was cold and the wind was blowing. She thought that she could smell snow on the air, and wondered if everything would be covered in white tomorrow. She sat in a rocking chair that had been a fixture in the cabin since before she was born. She wondered how many babies had been rocked to sleep in it. She wondered if she would rock her baby to sleep here.

She stared out into the trees until her eyes grew still and heavy. She couldn’t hear the wind anymore or feel the cold. Deep in the woods, she saw the darkened figure of a man. He began to walk closer, raising his arms. As he got closer, she realized that he was growing taller and taller, as though he was being stretched. And what she had seen as his two arms were actually many arms, fanned out at his sides. She put a hand to her stomach as something told her he was coming for her. Not taking her eyes off the dark figure cutting through the trees, she retreated back into the cabin and locked the door. She sat in front of the door, too afraid to move and catch sight of what might be just out the window by now.

She began to doze off in front of the door, and eventually dragged herself to an old wicker love seat and allowed herself to fully fall asleep there. She dreamed about him again. They were in the black forest with the darkness all around. But this time she was able to touch him, hold him, kiss him. They began making love, even as the darkened trees seemed to grow closer and loom nearer and nearer. Then it wasn’t him anymore. The dark man from the trees was thrusting deep inside her. She began to feel the blood pour out of her as he went harder and harder. His many arms wrapped around her tightly and began to constrict so that she could no longer breathe and couldn’t scream. She woke up coughing and gagging.

Laying on the wicker love seat, with the early traces of dawn outside the windows, she felt a rumbling from her stomach. Looking down she saw that it had doubled in size. What was once a gentle mound was now a mountain. She ran her fingers over it. She looked like she was seven months pregnant. She struggled to push herself up from the love seat. Closer than it had been before she heard a voice whine, “Eat. EAT!” It was a high, muffled sound. As the voice chanted and chanted, instructing her to eat, she realized that it wasn’t one voice, but rather a chorus of many.

She had always harbored a secret fear that she would lose him to suicide. It was something that she was constantly ready to ward off if she could. He had spoken about it with her countless times as something he struggled with. But while they had been together, it had never been something that reached critical mass. She struggled to understand why he had chosen this time, this moment to end his life. Why he had let it all go now. His note had given little insight, leaving her with no other reason than: “this is what I must do.” She wondered if maybe that he did it because he had finally found true happiness. Maybe after struggling for peace his entire life, when he finally acquired it, he knew it would be fleeting. Perhaps he wanted to die perfectly happy, instead of waiting for the eventually down swing of sadness to drag him back down. Maybe this was all Ingrid could have given him.

She found two cans of soup in the pantry that weren’t expired and began to heat them both up. The little shrieking voices began to get louder, all speaking at once, so that she couldn’t decipher what each one was saying. As the soup heated, they seemed to grow louder and shriller. When she finally ate, they were happy. She could tell. Something inside of her started to feel warm. She felt a tinge of enjoyment at being able to make them pleased, whoever they were.

Ingrid thought perhaps she had lost her mind. That perhaps this wasn’t a pregnancy. Maybe it was an incredibly fast growing type of cancer and now it had spread to her brain. Maybe she was possessed by demons or ghosts. She looked down at her large, protruding belly and realized that she was the mother of darkness, impregnated by grief. She laughed.

That’s when the pains started; sharp pangs that radiated from her stomach to all over her body. She fell to the ground and waited for another wave of cramping stings and nausea. She resigned herself to whatever was happening to her now. She couldn’t control anything, she never could. The voices were screaming inside. They shrieked in a high pitch cry, telling her they were frightened. Then the birthing began.

Contractions took her by force and she found herself pushing in spite of herself. With each push her body began to release tiny black spiders. They scurried across the floor as they found themselves free of her. Hundreds and hundreds of spiders poured out of her. She cried when she saw them, and they began to crawl all over her, little black legs tickling her skin. “Mother,” she heard a thousand voices cry. “Mother.”