Memoir by Carole Gill

He saw the journal, why he had ever begun opening drawers, he had no idea it was impolite to the say the least but he had been too curious to resist.

He smiled as he ran his hand along the rich blood-red leather cover. There was no name on it, just the word in gold leaf ‘Memoir.’

Now, making certain that his chamber door was secure, he at last sat down finding himself excited in a sexual way for he hoped he would discover something which had not been intended for anyone to read but the diarist.

There was exhilaration for him sitting there, holding an object that might hold titillating secrets.

And then he began to read—

I come from another place, another time. From East of here were magic is the norm and superstition the custom.

My father was a merchant, my mother long dead by the time he arranged a marriage for me.

But when I saw who my own father had chosen for me, I wept. You see he was old enough to be my father and then some and coarse in his ways although he was nobility. Yet this was the man I was betrothed to!

“He is acquainted with the Emperor! He calls him friend! How dare you refuse?”

Needless to say, the wedding took place at the appointed time, held in our city’s greatest Cathedral.

At last it was over and the kiss I did dread was given me. “Not too long now, my petal.”

His coach bore us to his home—my new home, a veritable castle, sprawling and richly furnished.

The servants greeted me quietly, we then had some refreshments, he continually leering at me and saying rude things.

I was not surprised to find he had no regard for my virginity nor did he have any respect for my person.

He forced himself most cruelly on me. I must have passed out for when I woke he was dressing as I pretended to sleep, but he knew:

“I know you are awake, just remember. What I have done is nothing compared to what I shall do, you are my wife. And as wives are chattel and nothing more, you are just another object that I own!”

I shuddered at the slam of the door and just lay there, feeling sad and tainted and broken.

I wept for myself and for the hopelessness of my present situation fearing I would have to die by my own hand as I could not bear to remain with this monster.

And so I fled. But he sent soldiers to find me, for such was his importance.

“You she devil! Do you think I will permit you to disgrace me or my fine name?”
I begged for mercy, but there was none and I was taken to be slaughtered. For slaughter it was.

While his men held me, he did run me through with a sword. “Die you scheming bitch!”
And so I died, passing from life into death in an agonizing pain-filled moment—but I did not sleep long for I was awakened by a voice commanding me to open my eyes:

“Awake thee and walk once more upon the earth, for one so young shall not be left to rot!”

It was then that I beheld his face, this handsome being. The face of one I would always love—the face I would adore forever-!

And so--

The young man gasped and stopped reading for he had heard a noise and turned.
There standing behind him was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.

“You have been reading my journal,” she said. But she didn’t say it in anger and he smiled, for she was smiling too. “I hope you don’t mind me coming here. I wanted to see you before my sisters, for they are truly like sisters.”

The young man smiled sheepishly but his smile soon faded when he beheld the beauty’s own smile growing ever wider.

“Your teeth!”

She shook her head. “Do not fear handsome young man, as my teeth sink into your soft flesh for I will show you worlds you cannot imagine—dreams you dare not dream, pleasure beyond any pleasure you have ever known or thought of.”

He gave himself up and just as her teeth began to sink in, the door did open and Dracula’s two other brides came in, floating like mist.

How they smiled and giggled—for they were eager to taste his blood.

And as they all converged upon Jonathan Harker they suddenly stopped when they felt their Master’s eyes upon them. He, Dracula was standing in the doorway!

“Forgive us, please. Do not be angry.” They begged.

Harker watched as Dracula admonished them. Yet even as he did, Harker saw a fearful light in the Count’s eyes, a light that bespoke sensual love and pleasure beyond comprehension.

And Harker knew so much in that instant for he had glimpsed another world—the world of endless night where sin and corruption live but death does not.

“Come,” Dracula said. “Come and share that which can be your fate.”

But Harker did hesitate whereupon the brides turned toward him, their eyes blazing and their mouths ready to taste that which flowed through his veins—that which they coveted.

At last Harker smiled and lay back to await their touch and their teeth and the sweet pain that would soon disappear…

© Copyright 2010 Carole Gill. All rights reserved.
Carole Gill has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.


Carole Gill is a talented author who makes the world of vampires breathe with a chilling atmosphere. You can get more of Carole's powerful style in her blog, Demon Vampire Horror at:

http://demonvampirehorror.blogspot.com

Battle of Wills: Defeating a Psychic Vampire

Only when you realized you were duped, do things finally get clearer. – The Book of Tortured Souls

A high school teacher receives his students. As they sit in their assigned seats, the teacher notices a change in the atmosphere. He feels as if someone peeled off the ceiling and allowed the sun to roast his body. Vertigo sets in prompting him to sit in his chair. He grips his desk, scanning the students one by one until he arrives at the source of the problem. Out of twenty-three students, only one is watching him, his hands on the desk, fingers pointed towards the teacher.

“Good morning, class.” He manages to barely get out the words. Some students answer, others stare at him.

A bright female asks, “Mr. Winters are you alright? You look pale.”

The exhausted teacher weighs his options. Change the atmosphere and give his class outside of the room, or send the cause of his woes on an errand. He nods assurance to the worried student, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket. He scribbles something on a piece of paper and staples it. “Jason, can you take this note to the librarian?”

“Sorry Mr. W, but I’d rather stay here.”

Mr. Winters notices Jason’s scowl of superiority. The drained teacher wants to take the student outside. If he had full strength he’d push the evil teen down the stairwell. Nevertheless, he recognizes the situation and decides to fight back. “Everyone, please turn to page 43 in your textbook.”

While the sound of page turning goes on, Mr. Winters pictures an invisible shield surround him. He then sneers at Jason who hasn’t taken his eyes off him the whole time. With his right hand the teacher makes a fist and with the left he points at the teen, careful to keep his hands resting on his desk. After a few seconds, Jason fidgets and breaks his stare.

Mr. Winters fights off a grin when he feels a reversal of energy as it takes place. Jason leans back on his chair, wipes sweat off his brow, and talks to the student next to him.

The teacher regains enough strength to proceed with the class, all the while grateful for having experience when dealing with psychic vampires.

**

I wonder why more writers do not take the time to explore the modern day vampire. It has been reported that psychic vampires favor night to day. Some spend much of their day soaking in other people’s psychic energy. The modern vampire stipends bits of energy from various individuals to avoid detection. Also, they enjoy being the life of the party. They tend to consume information and eventually pass it as their own. There are other interesting tidbits of information at our disposal about the psychic vampire. In the right hands, the modern day vampire may rival the mythical creature.

I leave you with this thought: there are dangerous creatures walking among us in the daylight hours. Not all evil breeds from darkness.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Burning Love

I sat on the bed in our hotel suite not sure if I wanted to cry or jump off the terrace. Surely my choices had to be better than this. Sam Collins, the man I swore was my Mr. Right, turned out to be an assassin for hire. He sat on a leather chair, facing me, waiting for my decision.

“Let me get this straight.” I said, pretending not to understand, stalling for time. “You’ll let me live if I marry you?”

His eyes hid behind dark shades. An obvious ploy so I couldn’t read his face. Nevertheless, his grin reminded me of a cat just before it swallowed a canary.
“Can you at least tell me why those people had to die?”

I had caught him in a nearby suite as he stood over the body of an elder statesman. To my right I had spotted a woman’s corpse sprawled on beige sheets. A blotch of blood surrounded her torso. Under normal circumstances I suppose screaming was in order, but the shock left me numb. My lover practically carried me back to our suite.

“Candy, the less you know the better.” He sounded calm. I never once picked up a fast heartbeat when he had lifted me in his arms and my breast rested against his chest.

“I need air.” I stood up, but pretended to lose my balance. He lunged and held me in his arms. I wondered if he knew I was stalling.

He slipped his sunglasses off. His face was dry. His gaze made me feel safe. He brushed my hair aside and whispered, “Marry me and you won’t regret it.”

His warm breath brushed against my neck as he leaned closer, nudging his nose on my cheek. I told myself to focus. This was insane. My prince turned into a black Knight. “Sam, do you only kill for money?”

“A man has to live.” He planted kisses along the left side of my neck, to the center of my throat, and up my chin until his lips reached mine.

I pulled back. Images from my childhood brought tears to my eyes. I sighed, “Before I answer your proposal, there’s something you should know.”

His face softened. His ability to change his facial expressions distracted me for a moment. I marveled at how fast he went from ruthless killer, to serious businessman, to lusting lover, to caring soul. I cleared my throat and said, “My uncle Fabian molested me when I was eleven.”

Something sparkled in his gray eyes. His glare increased in intensity. I expected for him to interrupt me, or show sympathy. Instead he waited for me to continue.
Tears escaped my eyes and my heart pounded, “I want my uncle dead.”

Sam pulled me to him until our lips met. I pushed my tongue against his, recognizing that I needed to have him, needed to make love to my Mr. Right. When we stopped kissing, he said, “You need closure. It’s best you kill him yourself.”

I was about to utter my objection, but he threw me on the bed. He pinned my arms with his strong hands and brought his lips close to mine. “As my wife, you’ll have to learn to defend yourself. I’ll teach you.”

We kissed again. As I ripped off his shirt, I said, “Yes! I will marry you.”


- 561 words

TO BE CONTINUED… This scene is dedicated to my friend, Poppet, since I based it on her suggestion. Readers, feel free to suggest the next journey our lovers should take.

©2010 Nomar Knight A Knight Chills exclusive.

The Thrill of the Chase: A Glimpse of Shadow Walkers

A good chase scene can raise the adrenaline of the reader. The most affective chase scenes occur on the big screen in movie land. The reason they make an exciting impact is because of the musical score which enhances the action. Unfortunately, writers don’t have the luxury of including music with their work, although technology is making strides in that area. Perhaps one day a fancy computer will create computer generated characters to automatically follow our stories. Characters loosely based on our descriptions will act out the action in the settings we create. We’ll even have the ability to suggest what music plays in the background. In other words, the skill of reading prose may erode to the point that video will rule.

For anyone who loves words like I do, the above scenario is a complete nightmare. While it’s always fun to see actors perform in a world we create, there’s no replacing the art of showing a scene through words. Yes I know that pictures are worth a thousand words, but I’m a purist and many would agree that certain movies failed to entertain as much as the novels they were based on.

Now there are two basic choices for the point of view in a chase scene. Some writers may opt to write from the character being chased. The adrenaline rush brought on by extreme fear may be an initial focus point. How the character reacts to his surroundings, including how he deals with obstacles, other character reactions, rough terrain, among other things is crucial to creating a good chase scene.

Another point of view could be through the hunter’s eyes. Sure adrenaline will kick in, but most importantly, what motivates the hunter to catch his prey? Let’s create a small example of the thrill of the chase through one of my fictional characters. Keep in mind, like a magician I love to use sleight of hand.

Sometimes the chase doesn’t have to be fast or rushed as evident with my character, Hunter Colby. Hunter’s an ex-FBI agent following what he thinks is a terrorist into the New York City subways.

Excerpt of Chapter 1 of my unfinished book, Shadow Walkers

**

From a safe distance, I studied the stranger’s deliberate movements. For a man of average height and portly build, he moved with uncanny stealth. I had to utilize my skills as a hunter not to lose him again because he had a knack for disappearing in a blink of an eye.

For hours, I shadowed the terrorist as he roamed the subways in search of the innocent. His pale complexion indicated he preferred nightlife which undoubtedly allowed him to escape the attention of peacekeepers like myself.

The night air chilled everything in its path, turning the subway into a meat locker. I studied the bomber while he eyed a petite beauty. As the express train roared by, a glimpse of drool fell off his chin. No, not drool, but blood; from biting his lips. His demeanor exuded confidence. He walked with his chin up, shoulders straight, and never did he look behind.

He bowed to the female and said something inaudible from my position. I could tell by the way she leaned toward him, that the scoundrel possessed convincing oratory skills. Taking into account what I knew about relationships, there was no way the older man could be her type. Nevertheless, the terrorist entertained the girl, her short spiky hair, crimson, alluring, outright sexy. She laughed at his advances but her gaiety soon changed to hypnotic wonder.

I admired the predator’s style, but found it difficult to erase a smirk from my face as he gestured for her to accompany him to a spot where darkness ruled. Recalling my own attempts at dating, her apparent interest in the stranger left me stunned. Was she letting his fine gold jewelry blind her from his sly smile? My jaw dropped upon witnessing the ease in which she hooked her hand through his arm and walked off with him.

Careful to maintain a safe distance behind the odd couple, I wondered why a well dressed man needed to get cheap thrills in such a rancid environment. Didn’t he have the resources to take the broad to a motel?

I ventured into uncharted territory, reaching deep into the tunnel. Yellow spotlights scattered throughout the darkness providing a gloomy glow which lasted ten paces until a vast void extinguished the light. Time appeared to stop as I walked for hours in that tunnel of death, yet somehow; the pair had eluded me. My sudden isolation, accompanied by a stiff breeze, tightened a knot in my stomach. Just when I was about to give up and return to the safe haven of the crowded station, my eyes, already adjusted to the darkness, spotted the terrorist standing before me. He gestured to his left. Another yellow light lifted a veil of despair creating the illusion of a halo surrounding the young lady. She sat slumped against a wall. Her eyes were closed, prompting me to withdraw my Glock nine millimeter pistol.

"Why are you following me?" His voice, not what I expected, echoed an ancient tone, powerful and eloquent. "What do you want?" he asked.

"The bombing, a couple of nights ago, are you responsible for it?”

His dark hypnotic eyes stopped time. He stared at me, much like a toddler studies a cockroach before he eats it.

With only my hunting skills as a child to fall back on, I declared, "I know what you are."

Instead of concern, he sighed as though relieved.

I continued, "I know you're a terrorist."

He grinned and said, "Look again."

Afraid to take my eyes off the stranger, my sweaty palms made gripping the firearm a challenge. It took great effort to maintain the weapon steady. My heart pounded as I stared into his ebony pools of menace. The wind which had earlier cut through my skin, abandoned the tunnel, leaving us standing in a vortex of humidity. I glimpsed back at the girl. My eyes watered when she reminded me of hunted prey.

"Open your mind to me." His voice beckoned though his lips did not move.

In a flash, images of his attack on the girl bombarded my mind revealing her willingness to be taken.

Out of sheer necessity, I squeezed off one, two, three rounds, but when the smoke cleared, he had not flinched. The terrorist opened his mouth, revealed his true identity, and towered over me. His thick vampire lips caressed my bare neck, followed by pure darkness.

**

Strange chase scene, since the one doing the chasing was actually the victim. I hope you enjoyed one of my versions of a chase scene.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Ritual by Biola Olatunde

I introduce to you Knight Chills Poet of the Week - Biola Olatunde

Ritual
By Biola Olatunde

She wore red
midriff across her breast
and took the path
that led to her nest

The crickets sang
a melody to the breeze
Jasmine scented night
Moonlit kissed sky

They stood hidden
amongst the brambles
machetes gleaming

She sang along the path
thoughts of loved faces quickened her steps
they moved one pace closer too
the owl screamed a warning
lady you are led
to a fiery slaughter

The moon dipped
they jumped out
incantations galore
faces smeared with terror
one pinched scream
then a whimpered silence
the march to the grove
of the ancestral spirits

Now her red is spattered
with the red of her blood
it is the ritual of ignorance
danced by dead and living
In the eerie market square.
As they danced
her head impaled
on the grimaced mask
of dead ancestors
and her children
wait for her return.



Thank you Biola for your extraordinary contribution.

You may click on Biola's name above to go to her site or copy and paste this link: http://biola-ephesus-ephesus.blogspot.com

Ambush by Tania Walsh

AMBUSH
By Tania Walsh


Danil’s stare fixed on the dusty path where the two roads intersected and no trees grew close enough to cast a heavy shadow. Overgrown grass stalks swayed in his vision and he resisted the urge to flatten them. The sun was suspended at high noon and heated the back of his pants to a sweltering level. He released his hold of the Nikonov assault rifle, shifted the weight of his torso somewhat to the right, then burrowed his hand under his stomach and retrieved a jagged rock. He shoved the stone not far from where he lay.

His gaze slid back to the rifle propped against his other arm. Over three hours had passed since he arrived at the field with Ruslan, his sniper comrade. Danil’s fingers released the pistol grip and wriggled them to release the stiffness in his hand. Sharp edges on the gun snagged at his flesh and blood glided into the creases of his hand. Danil’s mind ignored the crimson and concentrated on the mission at hand – shoot anyone who crossed the junction were the instructions he received. He peered around the perimeter, viewing a tranquil, worn meadow.

Tugging at the front of his helmet, he rubbed his brow. Aside from overheating in summer’s warmth, nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

“The Ghost Field,” was what other soldiers called the countryside. Within the infantry, rumors spread about the government performing unusual experiments. Danil refused to speak to his superior on such matters. Every unit dispatched to the fields was moved to another afterwards. Ruslan’s last words of caution about the place lingered in his mind. Conflicting beliefs strayed within Danil. He refused to accept the military would send out two of their snipers on a suicide assignment. The idea soured his mood.

The hot wind shrilled against his face and with the current came a faint, but distinctive sound of grass crunched underfoot. Danil swiveled his head to the right and glimpsed flashes of Ruslan amongst the high grassland. His companion’s appearance reminded him of his own broad jaw line, thin lips and stubby nose. Too often the men were mistaken for brothers.

Amid the dancing grass he watched as Ruslan gave him twin nods of confirmation that he heard the same noise. He saw the other sniper sweep his outstretched arm, and point toward the road ahead of them.

He grasped the rifle with both hands, pushed the front of his shoulder into the buttstock and lowered his head into position for precise firing. His eyes caught glimpses of an empty road through the gaps of foliage.

Danil heard what sounded like rushed, laboured breathing from behind. His upper body arced round to see a small black wolf, the size of an oversized puppy. With its head bowed, the animal encroached closer through the stems of grass and sniffed the air.

Danil’s panic settled. He jabbed his leg at the canine in hope to scare it away, and turned toward the road. Still clear, he thought.

His head swiveled around to see the brave wolf sitting next to his feet.

“Shhoo,” he whispered and regretted making a sound.

The animal raised its square head. Solid white eyes, unlike any he had seen met his stare. Ears pointed upward, as if it heard a sound. Danil feared the distraction might put their position in jeopardy. He gave another kick, short of striking the creature, and twisted to face the road.

Danil’s concentration faltered. The wolf’s unusual eyes remained on his mind. Again, he curved his head for one more look. Perhaps, the heat was playing tricks on his vision.

The animal remained close and raised its snout into the air like it might gasp for air. He stared at its bony chest just before a brash howl burst from the wolf’s mouth. Without thinking, Danil swung his body at the animal and grabbed it into his arms. His hand clasped around its muzzle. The wolf struggled in his grip, thrusting its legs against him.

The sound of multiple howls surrounded Danil. He froze. All around him, he observed wolves rising from the grass lands, like the dead climbing out of their graves. They staggered upward. Black matted dreadlocks of fur bounced against the animals’ bodies when they stirred. On all fours, they reached at least to Danil’s chest. Frozen white eyes glared at him. They were no ordinary wolves. He dropped the pup to the ground and turned to Ruslan with fear grating along his skin.

Danil’s heart quickened at the sight of two wolves springing from the pits of earth itself. The pair pounced on top of Ruslan and ripped his life away faster than he could yell for help. Danil ignored the blood splattering across his uniform and pieces of flesh thrown into the air like popping corn.

Instead, what concerned Danil were the four giant wolves circling him. His hand scrambled through the grass for the rifle, but instead he found the pebble he drew from beneath him earlier. Scrapping his backside along the ground, he hoped to edge closer to the weapon. The wolf to his left snarled and snapped its jaw in his direction. Slobber sprayed into the wind and washed over his face.

Colorless eyes surveyed Danil, and he knew time was running away. Within the cloud of terror in his mind, the sniper guessed the beasts were the result of a government experiment. Uncertain how the men in charge planned to control such a beast, Danil’s attention altered to the rifle beneath his hand.

The sniper swung the weapon about. Glad the rifle remained in full auto mode, Danil aimed for the wolf straight ahead and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the animal in the side of the head and threw its body backward into the long grass. The spent case ejected.

Danil rocked his aim to the left just in time for the second bullet, which fired into another wolf’s back leg. The beast slumped over to its side, whimpering.

At least twenty wolves from across the field froze in their position and turned to Danil. He pushed himself upright and pulled the charging handle.

“God damn wolves, I’ll kill every last one of you.”

Danil surveyed the area. Wolves surrounded his position. A single wolf, larger than the rest, moved forward. Refusing to wait, the sniper fired a bullet into its chest. At first the animal staggered, but stood on its legs. He held his aim at the animal for the second bullet and aimed for the head.

The wolf crumbled to the ground and his fall incited the rest of the animals into a frenzy. The commotion of wolves tearing around him and snarling, gave the sniper little advantage. With the ferocity of a vehicle, a wolf smashed into his side and an agonizing pain tore through his waist.

Danil was flung to the floor, before more wolves encroached and gnawed into this body. He lost count of how many animals snapped and tugged at his flesh. The pain soon vanished, replaced by nothingness. Something Danil welcomed, knowing his comrade Ruslan awaited.

1, 187 words

© Copyright 2010 Tania Walsh. All rights reserved.
Tania Walsh has granted Knight Chills, non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Tania Walsh is a new writer from Australia. She is a spinner of spine tingling horror with a supernatural edge. Her dark stories can be read on www.writing.com under the name Taniuska. She also has a website http://www.freewebs.com/taniawalsh/

Heart of a Hunter

The thrill of the hunt is a sure way of boosting adrenaline. It could be something as safe as shopping for a particular item online, or hunting game for the purpose of sport. The more at risk during the hunt, the more powerful is the onslaught of emotions coursing through the hunter’s veins.

The tendency to use the point of view of the victim when writing horror may provide a sympathetic perspective for the reader. Perhaps we’ve all done things in our past against permission: things like take an extra cookie from a jar or visit a forbidden location without our parent’s consent. Maybe we’ve tried smoking or drinking alcohol behind their backs. Couples may have cheated on each other. While perpetuating risks, the possibility of getting caught can bring about physiological changes in our bodies. So the tendency to write what we know and gain our readers’ sympathy is enticing, even personal.

Of course, I prefer to delve into the mind of the hunter. What does it take to kill for a seemingly legitimate reason? Perhaps your character is a hunter forced to bring food back to his family, or risk one or all of the family members perishing to malnourishment. The very essence of survival is what vampire creatures are about. However, we’d expect the modern vampire to be less predatory. There should be modern blood donors, and a vast network originating from slaughter houses. The blood of animals raised for food has to go somewhere.

Over the years there have been many concepts involving hunters where they do their best to control potentially destructive emotions. A successful hunter must remain driven to succeed and can’t afford to sympathize with its prey. In essence, the hunter should be ruthless.

A good horror story should have realistic elements, but should also include the element of surprise. Twists breathe life into a story. There’s something special about taking stereotypical characters and forcing them out of their comfort zone.

Horror allows the writer to add supernatural elements to interact with typical characters thereby providing entertaining plot opportunities. So perhaps if we take an old adage where the hunter becomes the hunted and add a supernatural creature, we can provide some heart pounding action and bring a frightening experience to life through fiction.

Do you have the heart of a hunter?

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Death's Reflection

Billy woke, tied to a chair in his studio apartment. Aware of having soundproof walls, he knew yelling for help would be a waste of energy. Everything seemed to be in its place. The window blinds were drawn. He heard someone turn off the water faucet in his bathroom. “Who’s there?”

His identical twin brother, Blake, entered the room, drying his hands with a towel. “Good morning, Billy.”

“Is this a joke?”

Blake pulled over another chair and sat in front the sequestered twin, turning it so the backrest faced forward. “The door is open, Billy. The dreams started again.”

Billy tried to bend his wrists which were tied behind his back. He needed to loosen the knot. “Can we talk about this dream stuff like civilized men?”

Blake had a strange look in his eyes, much like he did the time he sliced open a toad while it was still alive. “Three nights ago, I dreamt that I was at work and a window washer fell to his death.”

Billy frowned. He recalled watching the news report. He wanted to challenge his brother, but he knew Blake’s honesty tone well. Nevertheless, he watched for telltale signs of lying. Maneuvering his arm just right, a mechanism he had rigged in his sleeve released a knife. He felt a sting in his fingers as he worked the tip of the blade against the rope. He was grateful his brother was focused on his story.

Blake continued, “Two nights ago, I dreamt a man was pushed onto the tracks as a train approached.”

Billy recalled watching that news report as well. He remembered having a sudden migraine. As a matter of fact, he recalled feeling the same stabbing pain in his head, around the time the window washer fell.

Blake leaned his chair forward until his nose almost touched his brother’s. “Last night I saw you die.”

Billy felt the rope loosen. He suspected with one final pull, he’d be free. He said, “Did you tie me up so I wouldn’t go to the location where you saw me die?”

Blake shook his head. “Nah bro, I saw you die in this room, but I figure, if you’re tied up, I can’t kill you.”

Billy sighed, “In this dream of yours, how did I die?”

Blake leaned his chair back, then forward, back and forward. “I couldn’t tell exactly, but you fell on me and somehow I had a knife in my hands.” He raised his empty hands and grinned.

Upon leaning forward the leg of the chair snapped. Billy’s natural reaction was to catch his brother. In one motion he broke the rope, but held on to the knife. Tears rolled down his face as the blade penetrated his brother’s abdomen.

The look of betrayal in Blake’s eyes hit Billy as if his worst enemy pounded a sledgehammer on his chest. The newly freed brother set his injured twin on the wooden floor. Blake’s blood gushed over Billy’s hands.

Blake whispered, “But it was you I saw die.”

Billy pressed his hands against his brother’s wound. They both shed tears. They both felt the intense pain dwindling to a subtle discomfort. Billy’s head ached again. He said, “The only part of the dream I had, showed me smearing blood on your face.”

Blake lifted his left hand and caressed his brother’s cheek, leaving bloody fingerprints, until his body went limp.

Billy cried, knowing he tried to stay away from his brother. He wondered if he should have left the country. He had no idea Blake would sequester him.

Billy wished dreams would reveal the complete story. He wished they could tell each other apart in the realm of nightmares.


- 618 words

Ruminations about Dreams

I wonder what the odds are when dreaming. Is it a fifty-fifty chance you will fall into a nightmare? If we have happy dreams, does it mean our lives are going great? The realm of dreams involves manifestations of our daily experiences. There are interpretations for all the elements, all depending on how we use those elements in the dream or how they appear. Water has many interpretations based on the situation itself. Here are some examples provided by Dream Forth:

“The waterbed is an indication that you have begun to accept some aspect of your inner self that you have previously struggled with. The waterfall is a symbol of release. Whatever you have been holding in during your waking life will soon be released. The waterfall is a physical representation of your life’s desires and goals. Clear, cool waterfalls indicate a new lease on life.

If you dream of a waterfall cascading over you, consider your emotional state. Are you feeling overwhelmed? Have you been holding back your feelings during your waking life? Face your feelings and your emotions as a step towards finding peace.”

There are countless scenarios involving the elements. Each interpretation depends on the person’s waking environment. While most of us want to know what our dreams are telling us, some of us would prefer to stay in a prolonged, if not permanent, dream state. Wonderful dreams of fantasies being fulfilled are desires we may want to have cross over into our reality. Sexual fantasies, accumulation of wealth, and perhaps newfound youth are all desires we may wish to come true. However, one must be content with leaving some desires in the world of dreams.

I’ve heard of stories where people act out on their sexual fantasies only to contract dreaded diseases. Money can’t buy happiness or good health for that matter. And of course, who doesn’t want to either go back in time, make time stop, or be young again, preferably with the knowledge we’ve accumulated. Oh what damage we would do!

If good dreams can turn on us in reality, then nightmares should remain in the dream world under lock and key. No one wants their nightmares to come true. Unfortunately, this world is loaded with opposites, so it stands to reason horrible dreams can come true. In fact, they may even come for you.

Let’s try a simple remedy. Before you sleep, place a key under your pillow and if your dream is a nightmare, then lock it up. If it’s something you want in your waking life then don’t use the key. I’m sure the chances of your dreams coming true are not fifty-fifty, but however small they may be, be careful what you wish for.

May your dreams come true, but not all of them. ;-)

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Chasing Shadows by Poppet

Knight Chills welcomes Poppet. She's a talented author who writes excellent nonfiction articles and spine tingling dark fiction. She is our first Poet of the Week.

Chasing Shadows
by Poppet

Palpitations chase me as shadows ensnare my vision
Running over cold rock, the sounds envelop me
Scurrying, hundreds of patters chase my flight
Looking about I see nothing, invisible beings feeding my fright

Rushing through the veil of night mist, I chance a twist
Swirls of vapour part as the hulking darkness whisks forward
Stones tear soles, as the hunted runs from the scream
Wake up, wake up now, it's only a dream

Buzzing of voices run at my side, how do they hide?
Why can't I see them, but hear them all around?
Chancing a glance, the shadows rush closer, catching my distress
Launching into nowhere, I fall, fall fall, flapping my dress

Hair snakes about me, strangling out my breath
Screaming I call for 'help'... help... help...help
The echoes mock me as I wait for the impact of bone on stone
Falling faster, wind sucking out the last of my breath, so alone

Alarm snaps eyes open, I spy the darkness descending after me
Many mouths flex with ghastly laughter, cackling at my demise
Snapping awake, moisture tracing my nape, inhaling cold air in gasps
I watch the shadows recede, my veins ice when I hear the nearby rasp

Trembling limbs bravely creep out of bed, and sneak to the sound
Juddering arms, weakness and fear, I stalk the noise that's so far yet so near
And come across the dog's bed, in the corner at the fire place
Snoring and gasping, collapsing I hug him with relief, tears bathing my face


You can get more of Poppet's amazing talent at blog http://poppetsplanet.weebly.com/poppets-blog.html

No Escape

“I couldn’t awake from the nightmare that sucked me in and pulled me under, pulled me under. Oh that was so real.” – Jeff Buckley

Shirley went to bed expecting nothing special. Life brought with it the usual problems. She was raising two kids by herself since her husband walked out on them. She could handle it. She told herself she didn’t need a man. At least her bills were paid and she provided for her children. Life could’ve been worse and she knew it. Nevertheless, she slept without expectations, without thinking about herself.

The dream began innocent enough. She explored an immense garden. Vibrant yellows and whites lay near purple and reds. Birds chirped. The sun shined but didn’t burn. Her escape from reality pleased her. Then without warning, the sun disappeared behind menacing clouds. Lightning flashed across the sky as thunder pounded within inches of her body. Shirley jumped. She thought a bomb had exploded near her feet. Her heart raced so she did what most people do, she tried to calm herself. “This is my dream. I’m in control.” She looked up at the sky and ordered the sun to return.

Another clap of thunder roared in defiance. She covered her ears. The auditory distraction rocked her equilibrium. No, she didn’t lose her footing because of the noise. The ground cracked underneath her feet. A gaping hole came to life. A vacuum of hot air wrapped around her ankles, pulling the terrified dreamer. Her thin fingers slipped along wet soil. She screamed, “No!”

At first the free-fall terrorized her psyche. However, as decline into oblivion continued, she figured sleep would end just before impact. Shirley tried to convince herself, the nightmare would soon be over. She landed in a pool of water. Breathing became difficult. She sealed her mouth and did her best not to inhale from her nose. She desperately swam toward the surface. A spec of orange light served as a beacon to freedom. She hoped.

As her hands cut through the surface, her lungs burned. A desperate gasp for air hindered her ability to maintain afloat. She flailed her arms, trying not to go under again. When at last she maintained her balance, the glimmer of light appeared as if miles away. “When will this nightmare end?”

Her words echoed throughout the black void. A cold silence added to the misery of being trapped in the dream. Control. Shirley needed to control the outcome more than ever. She tired of feeling helpless. She begged for mercy.

As she waited for a solution to arise, a pair of powerful hands dragged her under. She kicked and flailed, helpless to escape. Her body was dragged deep into the liquid coffin, choking any semblance of hope. Shirley prayed, but it seemed her words fell on death ears. Her life force began seeping away. Her final thoughts brought forth images of her loving children. Death was moments away.

Shirley gasped. She sat upright in the bed, her eyes stung with the orange glow of the rising sun. When at last she gathered her breath she whispered, “Oh that was so real.”

She went to the children’s room and saw her little angels sleeping. Deciding to make coffee, she ventured into the kitchen. A nervous energy pulsated throughout her body. When she finally calmed down, the house shook. The floor opened, and a pair of grimy hands pulled her inside her never ending nightmare.

**

There are some dreams that feel real to us. There are also dreams which shatter the fabric of time, entrapping us in a world of insanity, locked within our own subconscious. My favorite dreams are the dream within the dream. I hope Shirley will awaken from her nightmare and discover a wonderful revelation. I hope we all can learn something about ourselves from her experience.

Sweet dreams my friends and I’ll see you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

The Dead Communicate

Dreams are an essential mechanism used by the dead to communicate with the living. While people dream, their conscious awareness is no longer restricted to the constraints of reality. It’s like crossing over to another dimension full of wonder, where gravity can be manipulated and the word “impossible” gets obliterated. In dreams, humans can fly, senses may heighten, desires breathe life, and fears open doors to horrors never before witnessed by man.

Many authors are aware that dreams are a place where they can swim in a lake of creativity. Writers of horror travel to the land of dreams hoping to experience nightmares which may leave them paralyzed with fear. Of course, they also hope they can remember as many details as possible. If they forget what they dreamed of then what is the point of travelling to the mysterious realm?

Of all the possible scenarios that can take place in a dream, the supernatural phenomenon of dead people communicating with the living, tends to leave us questioning religious philosophies which eliminate the possibility of life after death. When the line is crossed from dream to reality, the impact of such an encounter may leave us thirsting for concrete answers.

Here’s an account, claimed to be of true events.

**

Henry’s dream was interrupted by his grandmother who the previous month, had passed away. She died of an embolism in the hands of her youngest daughter, Sheila.

The grandmother said, “Henry, I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a problem and I think you may be the only one who could help me.”

Henry wondered why she was genuinely apologetic, almost as if she was ashamed for entering his dream. “What’s wrong grandma?”

He noted that although she looked at least forty years younger, the concern showing on her face seemed to take away from her glowing vitality.

“Sheila is grieving too much for me. I’m afraid if she doesn’t stop, she’ll get gravely ill. Can you tell her I’m alright?”

Henry tilted his head and asked, “Why don’t you just show her?”

Her eyes beamed. He could tell by the change in her facial expression, she pondered the suggestion. She said, “I’ll see if I can do that.” With her last word, she vanished.

Henry awoke that morning to a phone call. His aunt Sheila, who lived miles away in another state, wept. Through sobs she said, “Henry, I just had the most amazing dream. Mother told me she’s never been better. She showed me a beautiful garden and she was with my dead brother. They looked vibrant and happy. She said it was your idea for her to show me she’s okay.”

An electrical sensation ran through Henry’s body, lifting the hairs on his arms. His heart pounded faster with excitement.

Aunt Sheila continued, “Thank you.”

Henry was at a loss for words. He tried to fight off tears of joy, but alas he couldn’t. They spent several minutes on the phone, crying together. They were both grateful for the connection they made in the land of dreams.

**

The next time you venture off into the magical realm of dreams; pray you remember your adventure and that it touches your reality in a most profound way.

Dream well, my friends.

See you on the dark side.


Nomar Knight

Knight Chills Wins Strange Blog Award

One of the talented Ladies of Horror, Carole Gill, bestowed upon me a special award. "The Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits" award, originally created by author Cate Gardner, was given to Carole by Christine Purcell. Here's what it's about and this is from Christine's own blog:

"The ‘Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits’ award is given to only the strangest of folk, and as the recipient of such you are deemed very strange, indeed.


"Congratulations.


"I honor those who are strange, as they have always been my favorite people, so if I am passing this award on to you, you are one of my favorites.


"You are my favorites among the many strange people I follow."

The award began with Cate Gardner who is celebrating the pre-release of her book, Strange Men in Pinstripe Suits. Recipients of the award also qualify for entry in a contest where Cate is giving away cool prizes.

Carole Gill gave Knight Chills among four other blogs this award "because these are highly original blogs and deliciously strange and enticingly different, stop by and see!"

And so, it’s my turn to nominate other strange folk for the exact same reasons.


Some rules:


1. Add the logo of the award to your blog post.


2. Add a link to the person who awarded it to you (http://laughing1wolf.blogspot.com/)


3. Nominate other blogs, telling why you think the recipient is strange enough to deserve the award.


4. Leave a message for those nominated on their blogs.


5. If you email catephoenix(at)gmail(dot)com and tell her you’ve received the award for your strangeness, she’ll enter you in the biggest kick-ass Strange Men competition, ever.


Details over at strangemeninpinstripesuits


My award winners of this presitgious award are:

Carole Gill

Kelly Rhiannon Mills-Shrewsbury

Seduced by Evil

A FLASH FRIDAY STORY

Something evil lurks while you sleep.

I watched him prepare for our encounter as another day ended. He built his relationships on lies and false hopes. His success with tramps armed him with a smoky self confidence that his small mind blindly accepted. During the day, he was a control freak, but by the witching hour, when he entered my realm, his nightmare, disguised as fantasy, became my reality.

Entombed in the world of dreams his arrogance masked his vulnerability seducing me for yet another night. My identity, obvious yet obscure, haunted his fabricated chamber of love.

"Who are you?" he asked.

His curiosity coaxed me to abandon the shadows. At first, he smiled, thinking that I would bend at his will. His sapphire eyes glowed in anticipation of another victim falling for his shallow charm.

The image I projected of beauty beyond words weakened his knees. I caressed his smooth face, puckered my lips, and with tenderness, planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Is this real?" he asked.

Lulled by a false sense of reality, he allowed me to stroke his curly hair, nibble his lobes, and plant kisses along the back of his neck.

My loins burned with desire and I smiled in anticipation, delighted at his naïve nature. The young made such easy prey.

As soon as he opened his heart, the distortion, which my spell cast, lifted with slow, deliberate malice.

"Huh, what are you?"

The new illumination brought forth by darkness revealed my true identity. Panic enshrouded his face and a cloud of fear seeped from his soul. The rude awakening sent shock waves through his body, empowering me even more.

In my domain, surprise became my biggest weapon. His jaw dropped when I plunged the dagger into his chiseled abdomen. He shrieked--gripped with terror, not knowing what to do as his adrenaline intoxicated me with delight.

"Scream my Sweet, for in the realm of dreams I am the only one who can hear you."

Somehow, he gathered the strength and shoved me aside, only to trip over his own feet.

"Trying to leave?" I whispered, "We're just getting started."
This time I lifted the blood-coated dagger above my charred face and listened to the rhythm of his heavy breath as it blended with my favorite beat.

Drip. Drip.

Again I struck, slicing his outstretched palm, creating the symphony of my demonic lust.

Drip. Drip.

"Please," he begged, "let me wake up."

He reminded himself as if reciting an incantation that this was just a dream, just a dream.

By now he moaned in his sleep and turned over in his bed.

I hovered above him in the throes of orgasm as I sniffed his blood. Its intoxicating scent filled my mind and fed my hunger. I licked his wound allowing our intimate interlude to seal our union. With the essence of our precious liquid infused together, I lapped up every single drop, cleaning the blade. The delicious ritual left me breathless and him weak.

Aware that I must not allow my slave to wither away, I disappeared into the shadows, releasing him from my bond. I smirked as he awoke confused and disoriented. Satisfied, I let him be, counting the hours until our next rendezvous. I beamed with devilish delight, completely aware that soon he will be foolish enough to allow me to take another piece of his soul and claim it as my own.

-566 words

The Horror of Time Travel

The evil that men do is beyond the boundaries of time. Hostile behaviors fester in societies that embrace violence. An attack against an individual may be met with vengeance, while an attack against a nation usually implores a call for war.

Our planet is riddled with nations at war, people in power signing off on atrocities against their kin, and hatred of other races fueling crimes against peace. When will the madness end? Will time heal all wounds?

The aspect of time in itself may play a major role in the future of our world. For example, if or when time travel becomes possible, what kind of society will be waiting for daring explorers? If we follow the law of the land and assume that only the strongest survive, then it may stand to reason the future will belong to the species with the best advantage to adapting to their current environment. Since humans usually act like giant locusts, consuming anything gratifying to them, the possibility the planet may become nothing more than barren land is a horrific thought to fathom.

Stephen Hawking claims that time travel will someday become a reality but that we shouldn’t expect to go back in time. He explained that we may only go to a point from where the machine (spacecraft) is invented and forward towards the future. He went on to provide specific numbers, claiming one day in the time spacecraft will be equivalent to one Earth year.

As an author I enjoy speculating as to what the future will be like. Will mankind learn to put their differences aside and strive together to explore new worlds in the hope of providing a long future? The one constant we have to go on is that time will always be there and our planet continues to change. The surviving creatures will no doubt adapt to their environment.

Perhaps our children’s children will be alive long enough to travel to the future, but I wonder: if the trip will be one way, then how can the mystery that is the future be unveiled? At this point in our lives we are faced with more questions than answers. As technology continues to thrive, I hope the mystery begins to fade and a new clarity leads to a realization that mankind can indeed work together, eliminate prejudice and solidify its future for all, regardless of race.

But then again, maybe the future will belong to zombies born through mankind’s ineptness in dabbling with biological chemicals. Another possibility may have humans utilized as cattle for blood drinking vampires. Since nature tends to be hostile, why not agree with Mr. Hawking as he said on Stephen Hawking’s Universe, "If aliens ever visit us, I think the outcome would be much as when Christopher Columbus first landed in America, which didn't turn out very well for the Native Americans."

Speculation is indeed a writer’s best friend.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Fall Into My Darkness

Fall Into My Darkness
By Nomar Knight

Come, shed the light and embrace my darkness.
Drop your inhibitions and be free, like me.
Clouds dampen your spirit surrounding you with
Gloom while intoxicating shades clutch your breath.

Fear not the tender cloak of invisibility
For at night dreams are born.
Daylight suffocates creativity and roasts
Inspiration originated by solemn reflection.

Darkness empowers the imagination, creating
Magical possibilities until life itself
Reveals a fire of burning questions dangling
Within your reach, lifting your soul.

Come, pick the fruit of knowledge.
Spurn the erosion of sunlight and dare to
Share with me immortal vitality by
Springing one sweet tender kiss.

My talons, I swear are but a tool to
Slice through burdens created by
The light's distorting reflection.
Fall into my darkness and forever be free.

Unexpected Visitor

Houses are not haunted. We are haunted, and regardless of the architecture with which we surround ourselves, our ghosts stay with us until we ourselves are ghosts.- DEAN KOONTZ

The mere act of being unprepared for the unexpected can leave us lingering in an alternate reality so disturbing we fail to recognize its significance. The material world weighs people down with problems and worries, but when something out of the ordinary happens, a person is left mystified by the inner workings of the mind.

**

Leo, a musician, drove on a poorly lit road in the dark hours before sunrise. Although pleased with the evening’s work, he worried about future finances. The popular trombone player listened to his own concerto, pleased with his musical talent. As the road straightened before him, the coastal outline stood to his right, a veil of blackness served to lull him into a hypnotic stupor.

Leo enjoyed his moments of solitude even though he did too much thinking for his own good. Sudden movement caught his attention. He peered to the passenger side seat and saw a young girl, sitting with her feet under her legs. Her white nightgown clung to her frail body. She tilted her head, making an awkward, unnatural movement.

Leo prayed under his breath. He hoped she did not notice his glance. Grabbing the steering wheel tighter, he slid his body closer to the door, wondering why he accepted that shot of tequila.

The girl leaned close to his face. Cold splashes of air lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. His right cheek felt as if an ice cube rubbed against it. He fought hard to maintain his cool, to keep his focus on the road. Alas, curiosity or perhaps survival instincts took over and he met her eyes.

The ghost girl scowled, and then giggled. She pressed her nose against his neck and sniffed.

Electrical impulses threatened to damage his exploding heart. He leaned against his door as far as he could. Lumps of wet hair brushed against his soaked skin. His sweaty palms made handling the steering wheel a challenge. Thoughts of stopping quickly evaporated for the dangers of running on a stretch of highway could lead him to his doom. He had no choice, but to continue his journey home.

Leo estimated she couldn’t be more than ten-years-old. He’d heard about people communicating with spirits, but he didn’t believe any of it. He kept reminding himself. Ghosts don’t exist.

The girl settled back into the chair. Her wide grin coupled by her pupil-less eyes sent more chills through Leo’s body. He drove onward; his mind on the brink of madness till he reached his home. When he locked the doors to his vehicle, the ghost was gone.

Sleep eluded him for much of the morning until exhaustion got the best of him. He didn’t recall falling asleep, but when he woke his heart almost stopped. The child ghost floated above him. Her white-eyed face hovering above his. Her soaked hair draped around them. He felt her loneliness. Something inside his head pleaded with him for help.

**
I wonder how many variations of Leo’s ghostly adventure have actually been experienced around the globe. Ghosts remain a fascination for many, including this writer.

If any of my readers have an anecdote you’d like to share, feel free to leave a comment or email me at knightchills@gmail.com

See you on the dark side.


Nomar Knight

A Night With Mr. Right

A dark heart has no conscience, no morals, and no real sense of culpability. – The Book of Tortured Souls

Imagine meeting the man of your dreams. He’s easy on the eyes, yet in a crowd would be difficult to distinguish among others. He attends to your needs and pays special attention to how your friends and family treat you. He’s self sufficient in every way. Could he be the perfect man? Could he be Mr. Right?

The gentleman takes you to dinner and lavishes a fine meal and diamond jewelry. You convince yourself he can afford it; after all, he’s a consultant. You despise he has to travel all the time, but this time he’s taking you with him. Vegas, the destination you heard about will become a reality and you can only imagine what erotic wonders he has in store for you. Could it be the scene he chooses to propose marriage?

You spend a small fortune on negligee designed to showcase your luscious features. You will have him begging for mercy once you’re through with him. You picture the first evening together. After a dinner and a show, you go back to the suite. Once there, he shows you the time of your life.

The moment of truth arrives and you notice his attention span is shorter than normal. He rarely looks you in the eyes when you talk. At dinner he spends time glancing at another table, a couple. You wonder if he’s paying attention to the young floozy or the distinguished gentleman. At last you can’t stand it any longer and blurt out, “Honey, do you know those people?”

For the first time since you’ve known him he seems to change his facial expression to one you’ve never seen before. His lips smile but his eyes remain cold, distant. You debate with yourself about pushing for answers, but something in your gut tells you to drop it.

Almost as if you are with two distinctively different people, your man, the one you recognize takes you back to the suite and falls under your spell. He makes love to you like no one else. The night is going according to plan except something happens. You wake not remembering having fallen asleep. You see his side of the bed empty.

You put on a gown and go outside. The suite directly across from yours has its door ajar. You don’t know why, but curiosity leads you to shove the door open. There you see your perfect man fitting a revolver to a corpse’s hand. You barely recognize him as the man at the restaurant having dinner with the floozy. You spot the woman on the bed, blood on her chest, blank eyes staring at the ceiling.

You gasp and he leaps to you, grabbing your shoulders. You stutter, but somehow find a way to ask, “Why?”

“Don’t worry darling. It’s just business.”

Behold your perfect man. He’s a cold killer with no conscience, no morals, and no sense of culpability. You think he’s going to kill you too, but he surprises you.
“Now that you know what I do. Will you marry me?”

Not the proposal you’d hoped for. Although he doesn’t elaborate, the choice is clear. Deny the assassin and become victim number three or marry the monster and learn to live with a real grim reaper.

If faced with this scenario, what choice would you make?

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Feed the Beast

By Nomar Knight


Joe Garcia sat at the kitchen table in his modest apartment, reading the day's front page headline. LITTLE GIRL VANISHES. His bald head sparkled from the overhead lamp's illumination. He wore gray slacks and a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He scratched his forearm while examining the article.

His wife, Cynthia, sat on a black sofa staring at the blank television screen. “I’m hungry.”

Joe stopped reading the paper, turning his attention to what appeared to be a small insect bite on his forearm. He scratched at the red spot and loose skin. He peeled a layer off the surface and a tiny amount of pus oozed out. The itch annoyed him to the point he decided to scrape the sore with a blade.

As he took the knife to it, black bits of hair exposed themselves from the inside out. Curious, he pinched the skin and peeled it back further. Instead of red blood, a green fluid seeped out onto a pink linen cloth releasing a musty odor.

Joe scowled as the itch took on a life of its own. A high-pitched sound buzzed in his ears. He found it annoying but maintained his concentration as he continued to peel, poke, and prod his wound.

With every pinch of his insides, he pulled back more skin revealing a red layer which he smoothed away with a dishrag. Instead of pain, curiosity ruled the moment. More hair surrounded the gash as if it grew in defense to what he did. Fresh green fluid leaked out and spread across the table cloth.

The high-pitched humming reached an unbearable level. Joe shook his head like a golden retriever shaking off excess water from his coat. With every increase in decibel, his desperation grew. He expunged some of the meat and plunged the knife into his arm, expecting to hit bone. A clang of metal striking metal drew a whine of confusion. He pulled out the knife, mystified that the tip had broken off and remained stuck in his arm.

Anguish loomed across his face as the rest of the green gel-like substance wobbled on the table. He grabbed a rag and polished deep inside until the base of his arm revealed a strong golden metal alloy.

His wife awakened from her hunger-induced trance. She smirked, “I'll call the Fixer."

Joe lifted his golden arm and asked, "What's happening to me?"

She ignored him and reached the fixer by phone. "Come quick. Joe peeled himself, again."

Joe whispered, "Again?"

She hung up shaking her head, "Why do you insist on getting out of your suit?"

"What am I?" He slammed his alien arm cracking the table. "Oh no; I'm not human."

"Yuck! Why would you want to be one of those inferior creatures?"

She twisted her ears off and placed them on the table. Then she stretched her chin, pulling skin up over her hair until revealing a bronzed head with two plastic mosquitoes for eyes. Her coiled nose slithered in a constant circular motion like a centipede. She opened her mouth and a slew of steel tarantula legs flickered, stabbing the air.

The thing, known to humans as Cynthia, spoke in high-pitched clicks just like the humming Joe heard before. This time it didn't bother him because he understood her.

He said, "I'm sorry, dear. Sometimes when I'm starving, I forget who I am. Please forgive me."

The doorbell interrupted them. As usual, little Jessica Peterson snuck out of her apartment and wanted to play with Joe. The poor girl's drug-addicted mother must have passed out again, leaving the child to fend for herself. They both smiled, grateful that humans were not good at finding missing children. Cynthia swooped the items off the table bagging them in the stained cloth. Then she hid with the contents in a closet.

Joe rolled down his sleeves, covering his golden arm, and let the adorable little six-year-old inside. He licked his lips for the month long dry spell of needed nourishment was about to end. He beamed upon seeing the beauty before him. Her golden locks twirled like a scrumptious snail’s shell. Jessica's inquiring eyes glowed with the realization that Joe and Cynthia always had a tasty treat for her.

"Hello, Jessica. Would you like to play a new game before we eat candy?"

The innocent child jumped for joy.

Joe said, "It's called feed the beast."

"Sounds like fun.” She flashed a dimpled smile. “How do we play?"

Joe led her to where a salivating Cynthia waited.

"The game is in the closet, honey. Go ahead. Open the door."

Little humans were so delicious and tasty.

- 777 words

Shattering a Paradigm: Creating a Bad Good Guy

Since the beginning of time, the devil's minions hide in plain sight, chameleons of faith, and executioners of hope. - The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight


Watch out for the bad good guy! Sometimes it’s difficult to discern bad guys from good. In real life the identities aren’t always clear. It may be a trusted servant who turns against his master by torturing what’s most precious to him—his child. Perhaps a popular teacher, who’s entrusted with educating children so their trek into the world of academia could be smooth, goes beyond the call of duty and educates the student by crossing boundaries which may lead them both into moral dilemmas.

One of the most horrifying antagonists is the chameleon of faith that hides in plain sight. No, he doesn’t lurk in the shadows waiting for an opportunity to strike. He befriends his victims, constantly painting himself as the good guy who exudes righteousness, making him the envy of all unsatisfied with their own imperfections. Priests or men and women of the cloth were considered people who sacrificed personal comforts in order to serve others. Most perform their jobs well and maintain their authentic good guy status, but a few undermine the fabric of the prestigious position. So while it may be common place to hear about charges being filed against a Catholic priest or a pastor who got caught soliciting or performing “special services” deemed by their own religion as unacceptable moral behavior, fiction may illuminate the few infractions and cast an illusion that they are all enemies of society. Such a false assumption can leave many to brood about in the dark halls of ignorance.

What are sinners to think if their leaders fall to temptations of the flesh? The mere acts of betrayal to all they preach serve to remind their flock how week humans are. The power of temptation can bring the strongest of the faithful down to their knees, but not necessarily in prayer. The vulnerability of falling to the enemy can put a damper on hope.

Real life horror sometimes serves to inspire fiction. Writers enjoy tantalizing readers by mixing true events with unbelievable possibilities which may go beyond entertainment. Keep them guessing is a great formula for spinning a yarn. Another technique which may entertain is the art of illusion. It’s fun to lead readers to a logical conclusion and then pull the rug out from under them. Ah but one must be careful, for writers should not punch holes through their hypnotic bubble. Instead, they should try and immerse their readers into the worlds they create so when authors make the giant elephant disappear, readers may accept the twisty outcome as something amazing, yet wonderful and plausible for that specific world of fiction.

Betrayal of the most sacred kind when used properly in horror, may add an emotional dimension your characters can draw on to pack a powerful, realistic punch.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Queen of Darkness Ambassador of Light

Today I pay tribute to the talented Anne Rice. She created two characters which embodied opposites. Louis, a beautiful soul trapped in a vampire’s world, fought hard to hold on to the beauty of humanity, in spite of his terrible circumstances and the relentless education his maker, Lestat, forced upon him. In this poem I co-wrote with the talented Mr. Daman from California, we witness an exchange that epitomizes a battle of ideals as they clash to defend who and what they are.

Love should be passionate and as you sink your fangs on this offering, know that we spilled our blood, defending our positions. Mr. Daman became Louis and I breathed in Lestat’s life force. The end result we called the Guiding Knight, not to pay homage to me, but to demonstrate how Anne Rice’s creation of Lestat in essence gave rise to a new generation of dark Knights. Her vampire Lestat accepted what he was and in essence embraced the darkness.



The Guiding Knight

By Mr. Daman and Nomar Knight

Louis

Arising from the silk of my caskets cocoon,
life’s light extinguishes in the west. Sunsets blinding beauty
of purples hue, scalding my retinas. Deaths eyes will
regenerate, but I still hope for redemption of my soul.



Lestat

While you wallow in your prophylactic coffin
daylight convulses and inevitability surrenders to
night’s embrace. Life's faint pulse enlivens dark wonders,
comfort not such melancholy folly for your soul is dead.


Louis

Soul! Cold death flows bitter and sticky in this black heart.
An undead soul entrapped in desire, the light nourishes
life. It is its heat that we suckle, love is its blood drained
warm in the throat. Never quenching our lustful hunger.


Lestat

Better a cold death than a frosted life, relying on the hope of
finicky creatures that welter in daylight's self professing glory.
Our nocturnal reality overshadows the illusion brought forth
by the sun's blinding clutch.


Louis

Darkness’ unfathomable depths weighs heavily of despair.
A black heart seeps black blood, light reflects the glory of red.



Lestat

Daylight suffocates nocturnal passions, invoking fallacies to the sun.
Only an honorable black heart can deliver ye from de profundis.


Louis

Madness! Driven by delirious instinctual desire,
chaotic grim, midnight confections of insatiable bloodlust.
Nothing more than evils appetite dining upon torn flesh.
Sinking tooth to vein, sinking soul in vain, sinking depths insane.


Lestat

Shake off dementia and rise above diminutive morality, for turmoil
festers deep within the bosom. Cling unto my blood and allow
its godly power to immortalize our cohesion. Raise from death's despair,
raise above pettiness, raise allegiance to our consanguinity.


Louis

Darkness lays claim to arrogance denying remorse.
As Lucifer denies his bastards love, instilling only instinctual
blood lust. God will embrace his children of the night.
Death eats life it is the very sustenance of your suffering.


Lestat

Daylight squanders opportunity, festering hope.
As God denies His ignorant followers, Satan bows to my will.
No deity will sustain your blood-lust. Death feeds upon the living,
solidifying our promenade with greatness.


Louis

You can feel the festering now can't you? The hunger?


Lestat

Don't ignore what you've become, a princely predator.


Louis

We can't ignore the emptiness, while you prey... I'll pray too.


Lestat

Sentimental fool, we are one, we are ambassadors of darkness.





*Note- While I understand Anne Rice is a true, wonderful soul who embraces light, she demonstrated her ability to reach into the darkness and provide us with heavenly lessons. Her work speaks for itself and this author feels her newest novels about the Christ are brilliantly written and offer readers an educational, if not entertaining spin on the wonder of the Jesus of Nazareth.

Thank you, Anne Rice, for sharing your talents with the rest of us and for proving to me that one can live in the darkness for awhile and not get lost.



Nomar Knight

Crazy Love

When love is not madness, it is not love. ~Pedro Calderon de la Barca

Interrupting my thoughts she said, “I’m crazy about you.” Ebony hair hung over her right eyebrow. “This love is intoxicating. I almost can’t breathe.”

As we rose to our feet and sauntered to a tree, Krystal hugged her bag describing what we had as suffocated love. Leaves sprinkled the scene with red, brown and yellow, some floating on our sneakers. – Excerpt from my story Suffocated Love published at Lit Fest Magazine

I do believe there’s a fine line between love and insanity. Obsession is one of my favorite forces that drives a good story line forward. I don’t believe in doing things half way. If you’re going to do something, give it your all. I suppose when you look at falling in love, in the beginning you may see things through rose colored glasses. We may easily overlook our mate’s imperfections, whether physical or mental, potentially opening up a window into deep trouble.

To truly know what’s inside the mind of our lover is to explore with open eyes all they have to offer. Sometimes we get caught up in the euphoria that is love and we risk drowning in a sea of surprises. As we all know, surprises are like coins, each side may represent something wonderful or painful. Imagine if a lover reveals an obsession which latches on to a terrible secret. Imagine if she will go through amazing lengths to answer some of the most intriguing mysteries of life and without your consent, drags you into a world where darkness animates terror into a heart-pounding reality for which escape is impossible.

Join me as two young lovers’ journey into a realm never before seen by man. Through Krystal’s lover, Alex, we discover just how far love transcends the limits of mortality and its intoxicating power which can reach beyond the intricacies of reality. Read this love scene from a dark angel's point of view in my book, Darkness Roams, here, and swim in the madness that is love.



Nomar Knight

When Vengeance Is Good

Uncertainty breeds contempt so if you must get even; do it quickly. The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight

Ah, vengeance is a powerful catalyst capable of stoking the flames of horror. Here’s a definition of vengeance: “infliction of injury, harm, humiliation, or the like, on a person by another who has been harmed by that person; violent revenge: But have you the right to vengeance? (Dictionary.com)

I found it strange that the people who define vengeance thought it necessary to throw in a moral disclaimer. Not to worry, I’m not going to delve on the moral aspect. Instead I’d like to briefly examine vengeance as a motivating factor for either a protagonist or antagonist. A good horror story shines when one of its main characters utilizes unique methods to get even. Many of my stories involve payback of horrific proportions because I’m someone who loathes unjust actions. There are times I feel the justice system is blind to its victims.

The Saw series grew its origins from the notion that justice must be served at all costs. Director James Wan utilized gruesome visual tactics to make the initial movie a picturesque show of macabre proportion. I believe not all horror involving the execution of vengeance need be a bloody display. Sometimes the best vengeance is to destroy a character’s psyche before feeling the need to do physical damage. Of course, the movie Saw accomplished bringing much anguish to its characters, so in essence, it covered all the angles.

I know I stated that if one must carry out vengeance to do it quickly, but in fiction—the only venue where I feel vengeance should be carried out— it’s best to drag things out, building suspense as the plot thickens until eventually quenching the reader’s thirst for justice.

So the next time you find yourself searching for purpose to write horror, think about the sweet screaming sounds of payback and just maybe, you’ll have a bloody good time.

Nomar Knight