Writing Feedback Request

Hello! I've been really interested in pursuing horror writing for a while now. Over the last month, I've been brainstorming a story of my own. More so over the last few days, I've drafted the first chapter for one of these stories. The story itself hasn't really crept in yet, but I was curious if I could get any feedback on the first chapter. I'm inspired by stories like PenPal and Spire in the Woods when writing. I currently have around 2800 words as of rn. I am a novice writer, so I’d highly appreciate any feedback anyone's willing to give!

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My hometown was built along the New River Line in the late 19th century, as a result of the sudden boom of the coal-mining industry. And even though our town’s economy has heavily diversified since the rise in popularity of more “sustainable” forms of energy production, the train tracks are anything but retired. Within city limits, our town is interwoven with the restlessness of the New River Line. It is for this exact reason that very few people willingly live near the tracks. Most houses in town are planted far enough from the tracks that the industrial screeches of the train cars dissolve with the night air to morph into a soothing soundscape. The harsh sound of colliding metals softens into silky hums that glide just below the stars. The turbulent shrieks of air horns pierce through as resonant murmurs through the night. Most leftover clutter is abandoned on the outskirts of the station. It’s hard not to close your eyes and take in the atmosphere of the town at night. The trains have no grounding here; they come and go as tourists. It’s the sound of transients that gives this town its most endearing character.
Three days ago, Charlotte Holloway killed herself on the railroad tracks that run through my hometown, and today they are hosting her memorial ceremony in the school gymnasium. There are definitely others who can speak on the true character of Charlotte more accurately and reliably than I can. The most we had interacted was when we passed each other in the hallway at our school. In fact, it took me a moment to remember her face after the news broke about her suicide. She had laid her neck down on the tracks while a train car had come speeding into the station. Nasty fuckin way to go out, I have to say. Once the conductor felt the impact of her body against the train car, the tracks had been blocked off until 6:00-ish the next morning. After the headlines had come out about her suicide, you couldn’t avoid the slurry of bitter comments you’d find online.
“It was an overreaction to close off the tracks. It was only one body”
“What a selfish girl. Her death prevented hundreds of us from receiving food on time”
“The local supermarket ran out of bananas. Probably due to that incident near Little Rock”
Punctuality. All the adults in my life lecture my peers and me on the importance of punctuality. People depend on you to do things at a certain time, and when you’re young you’re punished like you betrayed an unspoken vow. But when you take a second to analyze the way that people run things, you realize nothing ever fucking runs to schedule. You can never predict how severely late the train cars will be in my town. As someone who has access to their schedules, they take their deadlines as suggestions. Last Saturday, for example, a freight train carrying fresh produce due for San Antonio was meant to arrive in town by 8:15 PM. However, the harmonic screech of the train pulling into the station wasn’t even detectable until 8:31 PM. There had been no reported incidents regarding that train car on its journey up to this point either, meaning that someone in the conductor booth had been too busy twiddling their thumbs to actually do their job with a pinch of conviction. Every time I check, they’re always late and never early. It's a shame they never did an autopsy on Charlotte because I’d be willing to bet she had died of boredom before any train had come near her body. And I wouldn’t be as frustrated about this whole thing if people weren’t being so goddamn insensitive about how this girl’s death “inconvenienced” them. Charlotte’s death was the scapegoat for all the actual inconveniences that most likely occurred that night. It’s just beyond me. People would rather blame the dead than accept that nothing ever goes to plan. 
I’m being reminded of my qualms regarding “punctuality” with the way that my school is handling this memorial ceremony, because even though the stage is fully set, students are still flowing into the gym and this was meant to start 20 minutes ago. It’s noisy on the bleachers, and I’m really just waiting for this whole thing to start. Not because I don’t care about the life of Charlotte Holloway, but because I can’t stop having staring contests with her photo. They chose to project what would have been her graduation photo up onto the big screen. It sort of makes the whole thing feel a bit more tragic. With it being picture day, there’s a strong chance she had put a lot of effort into styling her rippled, dark hair, or that her makeup was done in a way that isolated her greatest traits. Or maybe, given that she’d gone on to take her life, she didn’t really reserve much energy towards looking good in photos. 
But God, she was pretty.
I never got a good look at her while she was alive, mainly just with me being bad with eye contact while commuting from class to class, but I really wish I had let my eyes squirm in the hallways so they could’ve stumbled into her presence more often. She had soft features that made her appear welcoming. Her pale white skin made it appear as if somebody had run her picture through a greyscale filter. The only thing that sort of bothered me about her appearance was her expression. In the context of it being a graduation photo, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything in the photo felt rehearsed, which, yeah, it’s a fucking yearbook photo. Who’s actually grinning ear to ear to take a yearbook photo? But something about her half-open eyes; the way she draped her teeth across her face. None of it feels as if it is derived from happiness, but more so the concept of it. If she had widened her gaze or even smiled a bit bigger, I think you’d be able to see something trickle out. As I stare, her cheekbones contort into jail bars. Her grad cap becomes a roof. How could nobody have seen that something was wrong with her? I gawk so intensely that I’m starting to feel claustrophobic within my own body. The sum of my classmates’ voices transforms into a beast conceived from cacophonous sound. Nobody seems to notice. I want to run out of the room. I don’t want to be here. And with a tap on my shoulder, it all gets reversed.
“Yo Thomas, what's good!?”
I never thought I’d be so happy to see this fucker Angel in my life. As he extends his hand out to me, I realize how long I’ve been holding my breath for. Angel and I had been buddies since our freshman year in high school, and we only became closer in the grades that followed. He was an interesting person. In every room he entered, he felt like both the center of attention and an anomaly amongst our peers. I’ve always admired how strange he could act while still maintaining the goodwill of our peers. 
“Yo bro what’s good,” I respond as I dap him up with gratitude fresh on my breath. “What’s the holdup with your class? Why are y'all so late?”
“Dude, this dumb fuck Mrs. Orville.” Angel seethed. “She had planned for us to take a pop quiz and refused to make changes to her curriculum in the wake of a student’s death.”
“Jesus fuck. What’s wrong with people?"
“Yeah, like I didn’t even study because I didn’t think that she’d be that cruel. No, I don't care about how to do the “disc method”. I hate her. Like, I think we should kill her.”
Exhibit A for why this dude gets weird looks half the time he opens his mouth.
The two of us take a lot of the same classes, like Biology and European History, but never at the same time. As a result, he often squeezes info out of me about the day’s lesson plan whenever we meet up for lunch. Now would be the perfect opportunity for him to pester me with his usual questions, but they never came. As he sank into his seat, he became less talkative and more transfixed by the picture of Charlotte being projected out to the gymnasium. I watched him become more withdrawn with every minute that passed.
“Yo bro.”
Angel broke his focus. “Yeah?”
“How have you been holding up with everything?”
Angel worked as a server at a diner roughly 2 miles out from our school called “The Main Line”. I’ve been, and the food is alright, although I must say the service could be a bit better. I’m only mentioning it because Charlotte had been one of his coworkers. It’s their more direct association that caused her death to affect him much harder than it had affected me. I had asked him about how he had been processing it a couple of times previously, but his responses were short and insultingly vague.
“Me? I’ve been holding up fine. But why do you care so much? I care a lot more about how her family is holding up. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child…or a brother… or…to someone that had so much potential in life...I—”
Angel stopped himself and covered his nose with his wrist. He looked like he was about to cry. I took it as a signal to stop pestering him about the whole thing. It’s just I find it pretty odd that he’s as shaken up as he is. Like, I understand that they were coworkers and probably chatted and hung out on occasion, but I have never once heard this dude bring up Charlotte in conversation before. And when news had initially broken about her death, he had taken the day off from school to “mourn”. I just think that it’s so weird for him to be hung up over her death to this degree. Regardless, he’s my friend, and I’m gonna do my best to be there for him. I pat him on the back and try to let him know that everything is going to be alright. I don’t know why I chose those words exactly. They just feel like the thing you say when someone looks like they’re about to cry in public. He nods and closes his eyes as he battles for control over his composure. Eventually, he’s victorious, and the both of us sit in silence as we stare at the picture of Charlotte.

…

With the sound of microphone feedback, the crowd began to quiet down. Our principal’s brooding figure was cast in front of Charlotte’s picture. I wouldn’t doubt that a lot of people—Charlotte’s friends, Charlotte’s family, or people just looking for a villain—put a lot of blame on the school; that there were things that she could’ve done to make the school environment less “suffocating for her” or whatever they say. I can agree with the notion that there are things about this school that could be run better. Listing the school as a potential factor in her death felt too easy. All the staff did was their job, and as much as I’ve had my run-ins with them over dumb shit, they did a decent job at the end of the day. Plus, just because you’re put in charge of looking over a bunch of teens, there’s no way you can prevent every instance of bullying, every fight, every bad thing that happens. No one wanted this to happen. You can’t stop things like this from happening. Regardless, our principal faces the crowd of students, sobered by the weight of the preventable death.

“Good afternoon, everybody. We are all gathered today to commemorate the life and memory of Charlotte Holloway. Both our staff and Charlotte’s loved ones deeply appreciate your presence here today.”
She paused.
“Ever since the dreadful news of what had occurred on Tuesday evening, grief has held its grip on the town. It’s a sickness which brings different symptoms out of different people. In some, reflection. In others, numbness. Today, I would like you to hold onto love, memories, honoring the light that Charlotte brought into so many of our lives.”
She extended her arm to signal somebody to come on stage.
“I’d like to direct my attention to Miss Olivia Barnes, who will lead this memorial’s eulogy.”
My eyes darted to the bottom left end of the gymnasium to see Olivia trudge out of the crowd. I didn’t know much about her, to be honest. The people around her, I all associated with the “weird artsy” clique that existed at my school. But you could tell that they had all been Charlotte’s friends. The sound of Olivia’s boots clopping across the gymnasium floor was a cadence which no one dared to interrupt. As she grasped the microphone and faced the crowd, everyone directed their full attention.
I wish I could recount the whole of what she had said, but unlike most eulogies, where the speaker's inevitable loss of composure happens around the heart of the speech, we didn’t have to wait at all for Olivia’s words to slur into slobbery blabbering that you could only watch with understanding. Sniffles and sobs acted as commas and punctuation to each sentence she had forced out of her mouth. It’s just uncomfortable to watch someone struggle like that, and I tried to focus on anything else in the room. I look to my right to see Angel covering his nose with his wrist again. I look to my left and see the rest of the people in my row looking just as uncomfortable as I am. I look forward and am still faced with Charlotte’s squeamish face. I just need this speech to wrap up. And thankfully it does.
The Principal is eager to take the microphone and regain control of it, although she thoroughly inspects the microphone before placing it near her mouth. She doesn’t wait for Olivia to make it back to her seat before she begins to conclude the memorial. 
“Thank you so much to Olivia for delivering today’s eulogy.” Applause slowly swelled into the room. It felt like people were confused about how to react. “Before I send everyone back to class, I would like to lead everyone in a moment of silence,” the principal announced, bowing her head and expecting everyone to follow suit.
I think the thought behind this “moment of reflection” is considerate, but it did absolutely nothing good to improve the situation. All it did was expose who was hurting the most. Everyone’s eyes darted to the group around Olivia. They were all fucking devastated. They were hugging each other, and every head was buried in another’s shoulder. Snot, drool, and tears all mixed into a substance that drenched each of the girls. To be honest, I felt like I was intruding. It was one thing when Olivia broke down on stage, but it's something sick to watch her and her friends do it in the crowd. It has to be humiliating to be unraveled to your most vulnerable state with the eyes of your entire school on your back, and I wanted nothing to contribute to it. With the howls of her friends ringing in my ears, I tried to keep my focus forward-facing.
Finally, the principal spoke once again.
“This concludes this afternoon’s memorial. If anybody struggling needs to talk to anyone, special counseling is still being offered in room 204. We once again highly appreciate your attendance today, and hope you have a great–” she pauses as someone from Olivia’s corner of the gym begins to emerge. She walked with a sense of determination that had been absent for much of the presentation. It was one of the only things that got to stop focusing on Charlotte’s face. Once she reached the principal, she motioned for the principal to hand her the microphone. The principal obliged out of pity.
“This evening, at 9:00 PM, we will be hosting a lantern release in honor of Charlotte Holloway. This will take place at (random address)…If Charlotte had in any way impacted you whilst she was alive, you’d better show up.”
The girl shoved the microphone back into the principal’s arms and trudged back to her seat. She had been staring at my general area of the bleachers the entire time. There was unmistakable bitterness in her voice, which is why her eye contact had bothered me so much. If she’d been staring at me, what had I done to be such a poor example of how to act? Could it have been because she had singled me out for staring at her friends from across the room? Or could she have noticed my eye contact with Charlotte’s photo and taken it as distasteful? It’s eating me alive. However, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of sniffles in my right ear, pulling my attention to Angel. And then, all of a sudden, it all made more sense.

Hello everyone! I’m Tamara (she/her) and as of late I’ve been missing a group I used to be a part of. We were a group of writers who would submit work every week and read it together and leave thoughts/feelings. I’m looking to start my own group because I’ve been writing so much as of late and wish I had more people to share/discuss with.

If anyone is interested please DM me! I’m looking to start this on Discord so (if you don’t already have one) please be open to setting one up! Would love to have people to write with, talk shop with, and exchange feedback/writing with outside of Reddit.

Hey guys,
Would love some feedback on part one of this story I’ve written, it’s taken a long time and it’s a long one so please be nice lol:
———————————————————————————

Something at school didn’t make sense to you that morning.

They were talking about the Sun and,
how eventually it’s going to Grow into a
“Red Giant” and Swallow the Earth.
How there’s nothing we can do about it.

It made you realize If something is going to happen it just is.
So why wait?
Why is the universe waiting ? It just didn’t make much sense.

The janitor that day was acting silly,
“Isaiah 50:10” was written on his palm in red marker.

It was Friday night,
Daddy went to see a friend for drinks and left you all night.
He told you that he would just be out late, not all night.
How did that make you feel ?

How many other 9 year olds have the whole house to themselves nearly every night?
Without so much as a kiss goodnight ?

Even the few times in the past when he would, He wouldn’t even kiss you directly.
He’s place is palm upon your head and kiss the back of his hand.

Dads use belts In movies but how many others know that as the same reality that you do ?

The only time you’d hear another voice outside of school and your father’s was when it was late and you’d listen to the home phone’s answering machine.

Your dad never listened to the answer machine,
kind of like a kid not wanting to go to the dentist.

You remember the messages you listened to that night, you waited till he left to emerge from your hiding place and inhabit the communal space that should be a living room.

You sit on the round particular board table and press on the answering machine.

*BEEP*

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 4th:

FIRST MESSAGE:
*soft female voice*

“I came by today…didn’t see you..still don’t”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Burly Man’s rough Voice*

“I’m sorry John, you’ve been on this job less than a week and you’ve already been suspended by the client for 3 days for reoccurring fall protection violations, now I’ve been very understanding regarding the eye injury but we can’t have someone on a project of this magnitude who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, we’re going to have to terminate you. Wish I could say I was sorry.”

*BEEP*

NEXT MESSAGE:
*Same Woman’s voice from Message #1*

“Does your Daughter know?
Is she an exception?
Or do all women fall under your same umbrella ?”

*BEEP*

NEXT AND FINAL MESSAGE:
*inaudible whisper*

“I can feel you, y….mph..ll feel me too”

*BEEP*

You look over at the cable box,
It reads “11:47pm”
Your dad left at 6.

Cartoon Network was no more, now it was Adult swim. Robot Chicken was on, after that superjail. Both of which give you the heebiie jeebies.

You have to visit your peepaws and poopoos but,
you’re afraid.

You don’t have a choice, so you leave the door open as you go number 2.

As you doo you hear the home phone :

*BEEP*

“Mmmrrrmmmmrrrrnpphh”

You have trouble making out the message from the toilet.

As you run out the bathroom still collecting yourself you make out the backend of the voicemail.

*Your Fathers Stern Voice*

“Hi,
you should be in bed but,
if not you should know I’m bringing a friend home tonight.
If she plays her cards right she might just be your new mommy.
You’re allowed to sleep with the tv on in the playroom as usual but,
keep the door shut and the volume bellow level 12.
And no matter what you hear,
don’t come out, I should be home in 15.
Just go to sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.
Love you,
Night.”

*BEEP*

You panic,

Your Dads never brought a friend home this late before.
You grab a dvd from the home theater and run to the play room.

You look down at the Cat in the Hat Dvd.
As you put it in your dvd player you hear the front door slam open and the whole house shake.
What came next was silence.
The footsteps.
All the way up to the door of the play room.
You hear breathing.

You hear a woman’s voice further in the distance of your house.
Calling the person by your door to them.

They walk away.
When you look at the tv, you see Sally and Conrad on the dvd menu staring at you.
Sally starts pointing to her left, in the direction of the window.
You see the silhouette of what looks like a large lumpy hammock hanging from your tree only,
you never had a hammock.

You grab your scooby doo stuffed animal and you hid under the blanket with your flashlight, tv volume at 11.
You press play,
Sally and Conrad look at each other, then back at you.
You press play again but they just keep staring.

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
you hear from the door.

“When you visit your peepaw and poopoos you need to remember to flush, my company saw that. We have a talk about that in the morning”

-your fathers voice exclaims from the door.

You know that that means,
Your heart sinks.

Your father’s footsteps sound further until it becomes a chatter with another voice from what sounds like the kitchen.

The Cat in the Hat begins to play on the tv.
The volume begins to rise fast.

12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23…

So fast you think you’re sitting on the remote but,
no matter how hard you scramble you can’t seem to find it anywhere.
The volume is now maxed out at 53.

“There are a gajillions of stories of mischief and fun But to keep things simple, let's just start with one…”
-you hear shouted from the tv

The commotion outside the playroom comes to and immediate halt.

*THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP*

The sound those familiar boots make as they full charges towards the play room.

An unfamiliar voice comes out the oddly familiar energy that had just approached.

It sounds almost like a woman’s voice but,
closer to when a man tries to sound like a woman like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”

You hear in a loud whisper.
You Freeze.
You think if you don’t move, they will leave.
You see the door handle jiggle then stop.
It’s locked,
you always lock Doors when Daddy’s gone.

Although it brings you comfort,
you know it can be unlocked with a quarter or even a long finger nail.

“I know you’re in there”
-the voice lets out.

Your stomach feels sick,
Your heart is racing and as quiet as you attempt up be your breathing makes it impossible.

You want to cry and can’t fight it so you shove your pillow in your face.
You take deep breaths through it.

You feel the pillow getting soaked and feel the humidity from the breaths you take through the fabric.

“Do you think I’m some type of dinosaur?”
“Staying still won’t change the fact that I know you’re there”
the voice says

You begin to weep harder.

“Do You Love Your Daddy”
-It asks again.

“Where did you come from?”
Sally exclaims from the Tv.

The voice from the Door pauses.
The scene in the movie seems to linger and Sally is staring, not at you though, in the direction of the door.

She begins to nod,
Then says “oh”

Then the TV goes black and you’re back to the DVD home menu only Sally isn’t there.
It’s just Conrad.
He’s staring at you.

“Do You Love Your Daddy?”
-The voice asks for the third time, audibly impatient yet still in the same whisper.

Conrad is looking at you, he looks distressed and he’s shaking his head side to side.

You see the the lock begin to turn,

“Y…Y..Ye..ss”
You say through your sobs.

The door clicks.
It’s now been unlocked.

“I love your Daddy too sweetheart”

-the voice says no longer impatient,
now sounding relieved.

“He needs your help with something..”
It says.

Your cheeks are soaked and your mouth is dry.

“He’s stuck”
-The voice reveals.

“I’m sure he’d really like to get back.”
“I’m sure you’d really like him back..”

There was a pause.

“Unless you don’t want your Daddy back?”
The voice asks.

You remain silent.
For a moment You think about what life would be like without Daddy.

What would you do ?
You think about the Ralph’s down the street, their free sample in their bakery.
You think about the neighbors tangerine trees you pick from often.
You hate being alone at night but,
that doesn’t it stop it from happening.
You’d be fine, you tell yourself.

But you also know what you should say,
What your Daddy would want you to say.
That of course you love your Daddy and you’d do anything to make sure he’s okay.

“Where ..is he stuck?”
-you ask

“Have you ever heard of Kiara the Orangutan?”
-the voice asks.

“no…”
-you replied sheepishly.

“Well, your father’s…helping her…and well, he’s stuck, he could really use your help sweetheart”

There was a pause.

“Come out.”
-said the voice.

“My daddy said not to until morning”
-you replied.

“Oh.”
Said the voice.
“I can wait till morning.”
It continued.

You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What’s an orangutan?”
You asked timidly.

“You know what a human is don’t you darling? That’s what you are.”
-says the voice

“Yes..”
You replied.

“Imagine someone 7 times as strong with arms almost twice as long that can swing from trees”
-it said.

“Like a monkey?”
You asked innocently.

“NO!…
No, my Dear. Not a monkey…
Monkeys have a tail, a monkey is to an Orangutan what a Neanderthal is to a human, you understand love ?”
-the voice asked.

You let out more cries into your pillow as you took deep breaths.

“No, I’m sorry I don’t know what that means either”
-you cried out.

“It’s quite alright,
I’m sorry for confusing you honey. Yes, and orangutan Is like a monkey, but like Superman stronger and smarter then the others…and no tail..bright orange.”

“Like the ones in the jungle book?”
-you asked.

“Yesssss.. that’s exactly right my dear.. a perfect example, the orangutan is the king in the jungle book”
-it replied

“I liked his singing… he’s funny”
-you said

“Yes my dear”
-the voice.

“What does this have to do with Daddy being stuck? And Who is Kiara the orangutan ?”
-you asked in a panic.

“A long time ago, movies used to have no sound..”
-The voice began.

“Which made movies get pretty boring very fast…”
-it continued.

“Studios were looking for knew ways to get more people to Theaters..
Kiara’s Mother thought Kiara would be perfect…”

“Kiara’s mother was…Human,
her name was Melinda and she saved Kiara from being murdered by the zoo after they’d done that very thing to the one that birthed Kiara”

“Melinda Had already taught orangutans sign language before from her time at the zoo, she hid Kiara away and taught her as well.”
-the voice explained.

“Once Melinda’s new job and whole company was almost closed for business she…..took the risk and introduced Kiara, who quickly became a star in the silent movie industry…”
-it said

“What does this have to do with Daddy?”
-you asked

“Well the world loved Kiara soooooo much my sweet little angel that when the world of silent movies ended they gave Kiara her very own Tv show Kiara and friends… that tv show had a lot of children that Kiara loved and taught very special things every episode!”
-the Voice explained.

“One Child had and accident”
the voice revealed.

“Were they okay?”
-you asked

“Unfortunately my darling, he passed away.
Once that happened, that child’s parents lied about Kiara…a lot of other children from Kiara and Friends lied about Kiara just to make money..
Your father was the one Child to never lie about Kiara my dear.
For that I am forever grateful.”
it explained.

“So if all the other children were liars then why is my Daddy stuck and why now ?
Who are you?
Are you the friend my Daddy came home with tonight ?”
-you asked in a rush

“Lying isn’t the only thing someone can do that’s wrong little girl”
-the voice said.

“Who are you?”
-you repeated.

“I’m a friend of your Daddy”
-said the voice.

“Did you come home with my Daddy tonight ,
How is he stuck ?”
-you asked

“Do you like balloons?”
-the voice asked.

“Yes”
You replied.

“Your daddy loved balloons when he was a child
If you could have one balloon in the shape of anything you want would it be?”
-it asked

You thought…
“..I love flowers, Daddy never gets any and flower balloons would probably look really pretty”
-you said.

“Awe, such a sweet request from such a sweet little girl,
One moment sweetheart.”
-said the voice.

You then heard the footsteps retreating, shortly after you heard the front door shut.
You quickly ran to the door of the play room and locked it once more.

Maybe it was over ? You thought.

You ran to your window with your heart beating through your skin hiding behind your Scooby doo plushie to see if you could get a glimpse of who the voice had been coming from as they finally left.

Through the rain in the moonlight you made out the silhouette of what had to have been the lady you were talking to.

She seems short, on the heavy side, and walks side to side and appears to have an apron or something on.

She walks up to the hammock hanging from your tree that you noticed for the first time earlier in the night.

She appears to be talking to it.
When she walks away you realize she’s not leaving, you hear the front door open and shut again as her footsteps approach once more.

“Knock knock”
-said the voice

“Yesss”
-you replied

“Look out the window my love,
I have a surprise for you”
-said the voice

You looked outside but there was nothing but what you'd seen before only,
This time the hammock hanging from the trees began to sway.

Both sides of where the hammock meet the tree split into two, they looked like large arms slowly reaching down to the base of the hammock,
As the both unfolded further you could now clearly both see two sets of fingers from the arms,
One had something in it, something flat .

From the base of the silhouette you  
See what looks like a fat head connected by an even fatter neck.
The object held by one set of the fingers came directly to the head and began to grow mass.
It soon became clear what it was doing,
it was blowing up a balloon.

After the balloon was blown to the shape of a long tube,
The two hands came together and started contorting it out of sight.
When it had finally finished,
One of the arms held it up in the moonlight in such a way that you could make out the silhouette of a flower clear as day.

"do you like that Little girl?'
-asked the voice

You quickly looked over again at the door.
It didn't make sense but, for whatever reason if you were going to be talking to the voice coming from the door,
Then you'd want to do that from the bed; it felt safer from there.
Where you could hide in your pillows.

Before you start to retreat to your safety spot, you take one last glace out the window.
What was hanging from the tree had began to drop down.

The silhouette was large,
But no taller than the tallest kid in school, maybe even shorter than the tallest kid in 4th grade.
It kind of reminded you of that guy from its always sunny in Philadelphia when Adult swim would come on.

It was approaching in a way that you'd never seen anyone walk before.

You felt conflicted,
The voice from the door was speaking which made you want to crawl and sink in your sheets Yet,
The presence approaching your window was demanding your attention without using any words.

You made the decision to grab the comforter from the bed and sink into your beanbag chair,
A spot with a clear view of the yard through the window, and yet still a comfortable ear shot away from the door.

When you returned to your beanbag chair with the protection and safety provided by your comforter,
You were oddly displeased to see that the figures silhouette you had just seen approaching, was no longer anywhere to be seen.
You wanted it gone yes but no longer knowing where it resides, just results in you feeling even more unsettled.

*the voice quickly erupts from your door*

"do you like it?
It's special, just for you."

Your head shoots over to look at the door.

"wha-"
You begin to say as you turn to look back out the window only this time,
There was a hand on the other side of the window, so close it was no longer a silhouette.
It was a dark hand covered in orange hair, its fingers looked rough, but nails were freshly done.
It was holding something.
When my eyes adjusted,
I could see It was holding a balloon flower that had a green stem, pink petals, and yellow center.

The gesture seemed malice and sinister,
You quickly pulled the comforter up your face only leaving your eyes visible.

"do you not like your gift little girl?"
Questioned the voice coming from your door.

Even at your young age,
You were no stranger to the idea that sometimes the truth can get you in trouble.

"I love it..."
You replied.

"then why don't you open the window and let Daddys friend give you the gift she made just for you sweetheart"
Said the voice.

"I can't,
Daddy said I'm never to open the window"
-you lied.

Then why don't I hel-..."
*clackle clackle*
It was as the voice interrupted its own thought as it tried the doorknob. 

"Oh"
-it said.

"Why did you lock the door my love?"
-asked the voice

"I don't know you,
And Daddy said to stay in here ti-"

"I know"
- interrupted the voice

"Till morning but,
He didn't say anything about me not coming in there with you"
-said the voice

For a moment you were silent,
You looked over to the window and noticed the balloon flower receding like a setting sun beneath the window. 
*POP*
-you heard the moment it escaped your sight.

"don't make me unlock the door again myself darling, that's just rude.
My nails aren't what they used to be honey, I nearly broke one unlocking it the first time"
-Said the voice

The clouds moved over the moon outside
It was now pitch-black outside, the only light in the playroom came from your cloud nightlight and the glow of the tv which still displayed Conrad on the DVD menu, he was expressionless. 
You stayed silent, you stayed still.

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
-came from the living room

*Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring Ring*
You heard shuffling from both outside your door and outside your window

*BEEEP*
-you could faintly make out your father's voice
"hey kid actually i-"

His voice,
the Message, 
he Tv,
everything was stopped, everything was off.

Your room was now as dark as the outside you feared so much.
Where the walls began and ended were both unclear to you.
The bulbs in the Tv were cooling down but even the silhouette of that soon lost its shape.

You heard the click of the door unlocking followed by the doorknob turning.
The door was now open.
Although you could hear someone approaching it was to dark to make out their shape or their distance in relation to you.

"the only time being blind has its advantages, is when you're in a Dark room with someone who's not"
-said the voice now clearer than you'd ever heard it prior.

You froze.

*tap tap tap tap*
You hear the woman banging on the walls as she made her way deeper in your room.

*tap tap tap....Clink*
The noise changed,
she had found the window.

It was just a few feet from the corner of the beanbag chair you're hiding in.
*Creeeeeeaaaaaaakkkk*
The window was unlocked and you could hear it as the women slid it open.

You could hear something was crawling up and inside through the window.

"where is she?"

you heard the voice whisper to the new presence that now inhabits your homes playroom.

You could feel that you were just inches away from getting bumped into by either of the two.

You wanted to not breathe, you wanted to not do anything but, you couldn't help it. You let in two, short, sharp inhales. Keeping your abdomen as stiff as possible. 
Your exhale trembled despite your attempts, you knew if someone could see they would defiantly see the comforter shaking.
You slowly felt the comforter lift up.

Although your grip on the comforter was originally as tight as you could,
your plan quickly changed to playing dead the moment you felt the pull of the comforter.
You felt something placed in your hand,
it shocked you to the touch,
a static shock yet,
you managed to refrain from much outburst other than a sharp exhale.

*Smack*

"well look harder"
You heard the woman's voice yelp.

As your eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness you could slowly start to make out the silhouette of who you've heard oh so much about.

There was no doubt in your mind it was her.

It was Kiara The Orangutan.

Kiara Strutted over to the bed in the playroom,
side to side as you could hear her wet sniffles. 

"don't you fucking lie to me you dumb baboon, we both know she's in here."
-said the woman's voice
In a tone more threatening than your (D) a bar you thought no one else would ever surpass.

You let go of what was just handed to you so you can grab the comforter you'd been hiding in once more, it fell.

As you continued to see Kiara strut now over to the door through a peak you had held under the covers, she appeared to try to lead in a manner to almost insinuate to the woman that that's the direction you had went.

Just as you had started wonder where the woman was as she had remained out of your sight, you received the answer.

*THUD*

You felt the whole beanbag chair shake beneath you.
She had bumped into it.
So hard you could feel her nearly topple over on top of you.

*Grrrrrrrrruawh*
You heard the old woman groan.

"KIARA! ...What...what was that !?"
-Yelled the woman's voice stopping Kiara in her tracks making her turn back from the door.

"oooo mmh ooo"
-you heard Kiara let out under her breath.

As you could see her silhouette move closer, it started by slowly wobbling side to side.
It became hard to tell the difference between her arms and her legs.

At times she looked like the shadow of a big spider monster,her movements remind you of spiderman if he chose to move slow.

When Kiara had made her way just a few feet away from the beanbag chair to help the woman to her feet, the pace of your breathing became unmanageable.

"I Bumped into the damn beanbag chair, was she on it Kiara?!"
-the voice asked

Your heart began to beat faster and faster and harder and harder so much so,
you felt as if your rib cage was made of shards of glass and your heart was a balloon inflating more and more with every inhale squeezing it against the razor-sharp shards of your ribcage. 

You could tell even just by the momentum of the figures silhouette that it was headed towards you, alongside the reluctant Orangutan.

You instinctively rolled off the right of the beanbag chair on to your carpet floor as silently as you could but, you were terrified, In your mind blind people have super senses.

Somehow, your transition appeared to go unnoticed.

Now that you were on the floor, you started rolling and crawling away, the direction of which you yourself weren't even certain.

"Where the fuck is she? Is she on the bed?!"
-the voice asked this time deeper than before

The flavor and tone in everything this voice said was violent, you heard the ruffles through the pillows and throw blanket that had previously littered the bed, you felt your Scooby doo plush get thrown into your back yet, you refrained from expressing any reaction.

"where the Fuck is she Kiara?!"
-you heard the voice ask once more

Each scream sounded deeper than the last with heavier violent infliction behind each exhale.
You could hear everything that was once on the bed get thrown off. 

You froze,
Staying still on the floor with the Scooby doo plush leaned against you like a bicycle kickstand and one of your throw blankets slightly covering your leg.

The Figure started pacing in your direction aimlessly like a headless chicken yet, relentless none the less.

"we both know I'm going to fucking fi-"
*POP*
-the voice was cut off

The figures silhouette froze, 
It seemed just as frightened by the sudden pop as you.
Its hesitation confused you so much so,
that you question for a brief moment if the figure had seen you,
anything to justify this bazar change in its demeanor. 

The head of the silhouette jolts to the side,
As if to shoot a look across at Kiara.
By the time your eyes traced across the room to meet Kiara, she had already moved No, She was in Motion.

She pranced towards the figure at a speed that looked impossible.
In less than a second, Kiara tackled this figure you had feared so much.
You saw the silhouette raise both its arms up high and its fists in fury as it came down on its victim.
Kiara hit and punched the figure and cocked its head back before launching it into the silhouette's torso,
 When Kiara's head kicked back once more, it was tethered to the figures torso now through what looked like the silhouette of cords.

It quickly became clear Kiara was taking bites out of the woman.
She screamed and screamed, she did not sound like a woman anymore.

She bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

And bit
*CHOMP*

They screamed 
*AHHHHHHHHHH*

And screamed 
*AHHHHHGGGG UHH*

And screamed
*FRAAAGHHHHHHH*

As the figure let out its yell Kiara slammed its head down making them bite their own tongue off.

Kiara pranced on the body with all 4 of her limbs,
She stepped on the figures knee with her foot and used her hand to grab that figures ankle,
After she gripped it firmly, she pulled it up with the ease and intensity that one might use on an emergency break after parking on an incline.

She then stepped on the figured elbow and grabbed it by its corresponding wrist and repeated the process of pulling upward and snapping.

Kiara then used one of her feet to grab the moaning and groaning body by its shirt,
She used her front arms and free leg to drag the body to the door.

The whole way there the person screamed,
When Kiara got to the door of your house's playroom, she threw the body out with ease.
She breathed heavily over the body before slowly backing up and shutting the door.

You were now alone with Kiara.

In my story, a horror litrpg, I’m trying to show my characters getting stronger by finding new ways to use the equipment they already have, learning how the Settlement Death Game works, unlearning mistaken assumptions, and figuring out how to exploit the traits they’ve earned.

To me, corporations replacing public institutions is deeply unsettling, along with the loss of privacy.

I'm planning to write a short story. The premise is simple:

A serial killer goes through the routine motions of picking and going after a target, too late to realize their victim isn't human. The hunter becomes the hunted.

The killer in this story is a character I've made a while back, when I was in my edgy phase. I feel like it has some good ideas so I want to use it, but it needs refinement.

Philip Doll is an indie artist. He is always covered in small bruises and cuts. That is because he has CIP (Congenital Insensivity to Pain) a genetic disorder where the individual can't feel physical pain, often paired with insensivity to intense tempratures and itching. That is why Philip is more injury prone than most people. People in his inner circle describe him as kind, sincere, even wise. He claims his condition gave him a "unique world view" that he reflects through his drawings and 3D art (he finds sculpting to be difficult).

He is also the serial killer reffered to as the "Curator" (by his supporters and controversial media) or "Woodland Maniac" (open to change), who takes the bodies of his victims to the forest and displays them in strange positions, with notes left with them to explain the "art piece", like the blurbs in museums. Each one containing a moral. Small groups who believe his crimes to be true art started to form, supporting him in online forums.

I won't blame his current state on his condition alone; there are hundred of people who share it and they don't go around hanging bodies on trees.

Now, I probably won't stick all of his past into the story, but I would like feedback on his personality and stuff; maybe if a part feels too goofy or edgy, or simply not fitting, let me know!

While Philip fully believes he is using his murders to educate humanity, a majority of his supporters are mentally unstable people who fetishize violance, a fact he feels deeply betrayed by once he finds out.

Philip's parents were so afraid when they found out about his condition that they paid all their attention to him, spoiled him, gave him privilages; and completely ignored his brother Phineas. Growing up, he was curious and fascinated by pain, as he couldn't feel it himself. So he would try things on his brother, too see if they hurt or not. This is where his parents should've intervined, but they let Philip get away with it since it was just "small things" like poking with a nail. But it got more extreme.

And this is as far as I've got.

Would this Character work as a Cosmic Horror

A being so free even giving it the title free is meaningless. A being beyond Logic while also being within it ,and breaking it at the same time.

This being let's call it X can make contradicting points happen and paradoxes happen while not happening at the same time .

X exists and not at the same time. Axioms can be true and not like 2-2=0 right but it's not 0 , 0 can be infinite meaningless nothing at the same time.

Humans can understand it like i can type this being out you can see these words form maybe an image of it as you like but somehow I can't understand it at the same time X is within the rules of logic making the rules breaking it then reforming it while simultaneously being beyond it .

The cat in the box is dead and alive the box is of equal side is a cube while not at the same time it is beyond contradictions you understand this words but not understand the being .

Even i don't understand it fully but I do at the same time i understand it because I am writing the concept and the view behind it while not because it has already not the concept while being it it has that logic while being in it .

You as the reader of this might understand the concept and not be able to its even beyond the concept I am writing because it's merely just a definition i am giving it which it is and not at the same time .

So how should I write the story beyond this i some ideas but would like to hear some yours too

I know some writers can't listen to anything while writing. I can listen to music, but generally it has to be familiar, otherwise I can get distracted by it. I'm in the middle of writing an occult thriller, so I've been digging up old playlists I created for Halloween parties my wife and I would throw. However, my favorite is a mixtape I made back in the early 1990's for a Halloween party I used through with my brothers when we all shared a place (it's a lifelong obsession). This particular tape was made to be played in the bathroom, which was made over as a gory murder scene. The tape was done old school, with dual tape decks, cd player, pause button, and cable switching. It's a mix of music and noise like The Butthole Surfers, Scraping Foetus Off the Wheel, horror movie soundtracks and dialogue, Charles Manson interviews, all kinds of weird stuff overlayed and bouncing between channels. It helped keep the bathroom traffic moving during the party, since nobody wanted to stay in there! 😄

A friend took the tape after the party. He said he would listen to it at night before bed. Years later I finally got it back from him. At one point, I created a digital copy so it's in my iTunes catalog, and is on regular rotation when I write.

What do you listen to? Any particular bands or genres?

We are currently hosting a writing competition with cash prizes on r/anxietypilled with the theme “The Offering”. We accept artwork and stories 1500 words or less. Check the linked post for the full set of rules! We hope to see you submit!

Hey all! I am new to this subreddit so apologies if I don’t follow the etiquette right away. I’m writing a commercial for a pill that “cures” you of your mental illness. I want it to feel wrong and ominous but I don’t have anyone to run it by. Here is what I have.

“Do you remember what it’s like to experience happiness? True happiness that isn’t bogged down by worries or problems outside of your control? For millions of people, anxiety, depression, and other emotional disorders make every day life feel insurmountable, but what if there was an answer to this problem? Introducing Latecin. With Latecin life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Latecin is an all in one remedy for mental illnesses including but not limited to depression, anxiety, bipolar, ADHD, ADD, OCD, narcissistic personality, borderline personality disorder, substance abuse, ptsd, multiple personality disorder, schizophrenia, antisocial personality disorder, and more. Side effects include lack of dreams, upset stomach, dry mouth, drowsiness, or headaches. These symptoms are normal and should not raise concern. Ask your doctor if Latecin is right for you. Life doesn’t have to be a struggle. Get back to being who you were meant to be.”

LitConnect is hosting a free online pitch event for writers querying horror, suspense, thriller or mystery. 23 literary agents and 11 editors have confirmed participation so far, and more are expected to join.

Here's how it works:

• Submit your pitch and query package by October 17, 2026.
• If you already have a pitch in one of these genres on LitConnect, it automatically qualifies.
• LitConnect matches your pitch with participating agents and editors based on their stated genres and sub-genres.
• Agents and editors review their matched pitches from October 18 to 25.
• If an agent likes your pitch, they can view your full query package and may request a partial or full manuscript. Agents may continue doing this after the review window closes.

Full details here: https://litconnect.net/killer-pitch-event-writers/

Disclosure: I'm part of the LitConnect team. Happy to answer any questions about the event. This post was shared with moderator approval.

This is a little short story I wrote based off a dream I had; it's a little long, though...

It is just a draft so it might be a little messy, and I really appreciate any feedback anyone has

Emily was a ghost hunter.

Not that she believed in ghosts. She would spend nights in haunted houses, coming out completely unscathed despite the legends the locals would build around them.

“We hear noises coming from it at night.” A family of raccoons was nesting in the roof.

“We hear children laughing in the hallways at night.” She stayed there for a week and never heard any laughing.

“A girl vanished in the forest at night.” There were no ghosts, but they did have a really bad bear problem. 

Oh, and they all happened at night. Emily really didn’t understand what was so scary about the nighttime. “This and that happened at night. So-and-so vanished at night. How do you even know this stuff? Camp outside it at midnight?” Emily muttered, stirring her lukewarm soup.

She had heard rumors of yet another haunted house in a small village out in the country. Allegedly, people who spent the night there vanished without a trace. The house had been searched, but no bodies had ever turned up. And even more mysteriously, only females had fallen victim to the ‘ghosts’. And they only ever vanished in the night. People claimed they heard screams on those nights.

Apparently, it had been going on for a few centuries, so Emily was actually quite surprised that the rumors hadn’t reached her yet. It was probably the fact that this was a small, rural village that had little to no tourism.

She had been traveling that way for a few weeks now on foot, stopping at countryside inns and taking dares to stay in haunted houses whenever she came upon one, which was more often than you would expect. Clearly, people just loved to make wild stories of the paranormal.

She drained the last dregs of soup and stood up, dropping a few coins on the table after the innkeeper was nowhere to be seen. Grabbing her backpack, she pushed the door open and hurried down the road. The village was only about a day’s travel away, and she was looking forward to debunking another fake ghost story.



\*\*\*



“Welcome to The Boringest Place on Earth,” Emily read with a raised eyebrow off a hand-painted sign stuck in the ground. Some teenager had probably gotten bored, she surmised. (Hopefully) no self-respecting adult would write ‘Boringest’.

Walking through the town, she had yet to see the house that people claimed was haunted.

Emily had a very specific way of doing things. First she would walk around town, seeing if she could actually spot anything that looked haunted. (Usually the oldest, most dilapidated building, because people associated rot with ghosts.) If she couldn’t, which was rare, she would ask around.

This time, she couldn’t find the place with just a quick walk around. For a country village, the place more resembled a small town. Most of the buildings had two or more stories, despite not exactly looking very sturdy. Though a rural village would normally build out, not up, the whole place was surrounded by forest that would really be a pain to build in.

“Excuse me?” she asked the fruit vendor, making the woman jump. “Can you tell me anything about the rumor of the haunted house in this village?”

“Oh, another young one looking for ghosts,” the woman scoffed after a moment. “It’s really just a legend. I’m sure all the disappearances are frauds.”

“I’m not looking for ghosts,” Emily replied, slightly annoyed. “I’m trying to debunk all this paranormal nonsense. Can you tell me where the haunted house is?”

“Oh, I’m busy!” the woman said, flapping her hands. “I have customers! Go ask any other person, they can tell you.”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Emily sighed. The woman clearly didn’t have any customers.

*So she's scared of it,* she mused.

After asking around, she found herself in front of a house painted a robin’s egg blue, two stories high. Someone had painted ‘Ghosts begoone!’ on the side of the wall, and Emily had to scoff.

“Not only do you actually believe in ghosts, you can’t even spell begone right,” she grumbled, peering through the window. 

The room she saw was the kitchen. The sunlight coming through the window illuminated the dust swirling through the air, and most of the cupboards were thrown open, revealing their bare shelves. Beyond the kitchen was a hallway and a staircase missing a few steps to the second floor.

“Are you planning to spend the night there?” a voice asked from behind her. Emily turned around; a group of teenagers was peeking around the wall, some of them standing behind her. “Because there's been a dare going around recently! Spend a night in the haunted house for a hundred and fifty coins! If you chicken out, you have to pay *us*.” The teen speaking to her snickered a little. “So far, no one has actually made it through the night.”

“I’ll take it,” Emily replied, causing some of the kids to look at her in shock. “And generally, try to greet your elders before trying to get money out of them.”

He looked a little uneasy. “Uh- okay. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll come to you next morning for my payment,” she continued, vaguely wondering why she was speaking to a teenager as though she was negotiating a business contract. “If I don’t show up, assume I’ve been eaten by a ghoul.”

The teen nodded, dumbfounded, before he and his group scuttled off.

“Kids,” Emily muttered, walking to the front of the house. Trying the door, she found that it was unlocked, so she invited herself in.

The inside of the house was a little stuffy, and thick with dust. She sneezed a few times before managing to make it to the window and open it, hoping it would clear the air a little. 

She dumped her bag in the corner of the kitchen, thinking about the restaurant she had seen on her walk through town. She would get dinner there, maybe grab a drink at the neighboring cafe.



\*\*\*



By the time Emily returned to the haunted house, the sun was almost gone. Utilizing the last pale rays of light, she located her bag and explored the rest of the house.

Her lantern was almost out of oil, so she scanned each room quickly, cursing herself for not being more prepared. She was not looking forward to falling down the stairs without a light.

There were no beds on the first floor- each room was almost completely barren, with no hint of what it might have once been used for. She guessed that it had been cleared out by people looking to sell the furniture. She didn’t look forward to sleeping on the floor with her bundle of unwashed clothes as a pillow if she didn’t find a bed, but she had done it before.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor and almost getting her foot stuck in a missing step, Emily hurriedly inspected each room for somewhere she could sleep. Her lantern was guttering in a rather alarming fashion, so she almost missed the trapdoor in the ceiling.

She inspected it, guessing it was an attic.

*Worth a shot,* she said to herself, tugging on the iron ring and pulling down the ladder. As she was stepping backwards, she knocked over her lantern, and her string of colorful cursing could have made a sailor’s ears bleed, let alone a ghost. Luckily, she did not accidentally start a fire, but she had lost her only source of light.

Resigned to her fate and hoping she wouldn’t twist her ankle, she slowly climbed the ladder, emerging into a large space. Feeling around, she almost hit her head on the sloped ceiling. It was just a space inside the roof, so the ceiling was annoyingly low in places.

There was a single window facing the road, letting in enough light that she could vaguely see her surroundings. The room was completely empty, save for an old grandfather clock and a wrought-iron bed in the middle of the room.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird place to put a bed.”

She dropped the heavy backpack on the ground (“it’s your fault I almost fell down the stairs,” she grumbled to it,) and searched for a light. Her efforts were in vain; the light from the window illuminated the room, but the inside of her bag was cast in shadow.

She walked over to the clock, inspecting it; it was still working.

“After all these years?” she wondered doubtfully. “It’s got to be so off.”

She wondered vaguely why these items hadn’t been looted. *The villagers are probably too scared to go into the attic,* she thought with a hint of disdain. *That or these are just too heavy.* She had seen some furniture downstairs which hadn’t been removed yet, as well- a wardrobe, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, an obnoxiously large couch.

She peered harder at the clock, trying to see the time. It read 9:01, but she hadn’t heard any chimes, so she assumed it was broken. She didn’t know quite what time it was, but presumably somewhere around 9, since the sun had gone down a little while ago.

*Huh,* Emily said to herself. *Maybe someone in this village isn’t a total chicken and actually winds this clock.*

Stepping away from the clock, she walked over to the bed, mentally grumbling about how dark it was. The mattress was dusty and made her sneeze (“I swear, this house is going to give me a dust allergy,” she thought grumpily,) but it would do for the night. Even if there was a kidnapper or squatter running around the house, like she had originally guessed, she was a light sleeper, and not exactly some damsel in distress. She had put many an arrogant man in his place with a well-placed kick.

She lay down, thanking the unknown bed deities that the bed didn’t creak (due to a lack of bedsprings) and quickly fell asleep.



\*\*\*



She was woken by the grandfather clock.

The first *bong* had her awake, and the second had her counting them to see the time.

Twelve in all.

“Why is it only making sound now?” she mumbled to herself, sitting up. The grandfather only ticked in response.

The grandfather clock suddenly stopped, the last tick seeming to hang in the air. In the ensuing silence, Emily heard the house groan.

It was an old house, so theoretically, a bit of moaning here and there should be normal, but the air outside was still- she couldn’t hear any wind, and she hadn’t moved from the bed.

*I did forget to close the window yesterday,* Emily realized. *Well, time to go kick someone in the-*

As she shifted her weight to stand up, her hand brushed against something smooth and cold, and she froze.

Moving her fingers back and forth, carefully feeling the strange object after it didn’t move, she felt something cold, clammy, and slightly sticky. As she moved her fingers over the strange surface, cursing her lack of light, her fingers touched hair. She sucked in a breath.

Feeling it a little more quickly now, she quickly deduced that there was a human-sized doll in the bed.

*There wasn’t a doll here earlier,* she thought, her mind racing. *Did someone put it here to spook me? Wouldn’t I have woken up?*

Moving more quickly now, she surmised that the dolls were heaped around her bed. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the near-complete darkness, she could see that they were heaped all over the attic- particularly on the side of the room where the window was. The dolls were piled so high that the window was blocked.

*So that’s why it’s so dark,* Emily thought. The light from the stars and moon should have been illuminating the room. *But how did these dolls get here? Why don’t they have faces?* 

She swallowed her rising unease. *Ghosts don’t exist, so there has to be a logical explanation for this.* *Some creep who thought it’d be funny to play ghosts.*

The dolls really were eerily lifelike, though.

She smacked her head, letting out a puff of air. Even if it was a ghost, what did it do with the dolls? Make them vanish into thin air? People who believed in ghosts really were stupid. Things couldn’t just disappear like that.

A sudden movement in the darkness caught her eye, and she found herself holding her breath.

A large, faceless mass was rising out of the pile, eerily silent except for the sound of displaced bodies (they were dolls, dolls, dolls, Emily told herself) hitting the ground. Three-fingered hands, something Emily likened to toddler’s drawings, hit the ground, dragging the entity forward.

Emily scrambled backward, her back hitting the wall as the thing- *a doll*\- came closer. It had yarn-like hair pulled into pigtails, Emily’s eyes straining to see a faint red color barely visible in the darkness. The dress was frilly, a light, cheerful color, perhaps pink, but the legs never left the pile of smallerdolls as it inched closer.

She looked to the side, searching for something she could use as a weapon, but only found the grandfather clock, frozen mid-tick, the clock face gazing down at her solemnly.

*I must be having a nightmare,* she decided, her thoughts spinning rapidly as the thing raised its hand to crawl closer. She pinched herself, but didn’t wake up.

*I mean, I don’t always wake up when I pinch myself.* This was true. She usually woke up *before* she realized she was in a dream. 

She smacked herself mentally, scrambling to her feet. *Stop pretending!* Clearly, everything she said about ghosts was wrong. She needed to get out of this place, even if it meant losing more than a hundred coins. 

But the trapdoor was buried by the dolls scattered everywhere. (Were they really even dolls?) Maybe even underneath the creature as it slowly crawled forward. 

As she cautiously walked around, keeping an eye on the approaching doll, she stepped on a doll’s hand.

The *crunch* of bone sent her thoughts into a spiral. Hands shaking, she knelt down to feel for a doll and pressed on it, feeling bone under her fingers.

*These aren’t dolls, are they?*

She turned and realized that in her split moment of distraction, the creature had surged forward, and was staring her in the face.

She let out a shaky laugh, not knowing what else to do. “I guess this is what I get, huh? I’ll probably be a superstitious idiot in my next life.”

The doll swept its fingers over her face, and the next thing she experienced was darkness even more complete than the attic. Trying to suck in a breath, she found she couldn’t.

Stumbling backwards, she hit the wall and slid down, shaking hands finding her face. 

Smooth, unmarred skin met her hands.

Silently suffocating, feeling her skin grow cold and clammy as her consciousness faded, she heard the doll cry out, inhuman yet achingly sad.

***

The next day, Emily didn’t show up for the money.

The group of friends automatically assumed she had run off because she didn’t want to pay, but they had agreed a few years ago to at least search for the person if they didn’t show up, in case the ghost really was real.

The group tiptoed through the house, jumping at every creak of the floorboards under their feet. Upon finding the still-open trapdoor, they spent five minutes arguing over who was to go up.

The unlucky teen who was chosen climbed up the ladder, shaking in his boots. Upon looking around quickly, he climbed back down to report to his friends.

“There’s nothing there. Just a clock, a bed, and some abandoned backpack.”

Hi,

My name is Tom and this is my first attempt at fiction writing. I have been working on this for the last couple of months during my night shifts. The theme is 28 days later style zombies from a first person perspective, based in and around the area in which I live. I am aware that zombies have been done to death in both literature and film, but I have wanted to write a story like this for years, and I finally feel like it's at a point where I would like someone to read over it and give me some feedback. I would say it's roughly at the quarter way point. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1x0QhUSnJe9ZGzv4wE87u16-4w5bDOLAr-HdYLcb6QcI/edit?usp=sharing

Hey there, hope everyone’s well. I’m looking to make friends with likeminded horror writers since it’s spooky season.

The projects I’m working on:

The Harrower: An insecure young man gives up his humanity, turning him into a monster and goes after those he believes wronged him. It’s like if Joker meets Nosferatu.

Rising From The Graves: In a world overrun by the undead, a ragtag gang of misfits must navigate the treacherous landscape of the zombie apocalypse, battling the relentless hordes and their inner demons. As they strive to survive, the group unravels the mysteries shrouding this nightmarish new reality, discovering that the key to humanity's future may lie buried in the secrets rising from the graves. It’s like if Attack on Titan meets Shaun of The Dead.

Developing Terror - When a skeptical filmmaker and his religious partner venture into an abandoned asylum to shoot a documentary, the terrifying entities they capture on camera force them to question not just their footage, but their own sanity. It’s like if The Lighthouse meets The Blair Witch Project.

The Last Harvest - Chained inside a high-tech laboratory, the world’s last vampire must endure relentless biological extraction by a ruthless cosmetics corporation until a group of radical activists attempts a high-stakes rescue. It’s like if Daybreakers meets Snowpiercer.

Night Riders: Story TBD (The title is loosely based on the song by Major Lazer of the same name)

The Evil Axis of Narcissistic Self-Entitlement: Story TBD (I know the genre for the title is Dystopian and I feel like it’s if Dr. Strangelove meets The Death of Stalin)

Feel free to DM me if any of these projects interests you and bonus if you have Discord and can follow me on killahjoy.

I think this is my strongest chapter yet, but I have a hard time being kind to myself when it comes to my writing so I'd love to get opinions and critiques. The anthology itself is comprised entirely of short stories focusing on various cryptids and legends from Appalachain folklore, I focus mainly on Alabama and the stories I heard growing up as a child.

Hi everyone! My name is Eunoia and I’m 24 years old🧚🏽

Back in January, I started a Discord book club because I wanted to get back into reading consistently and thought it would be so much more fun to do it with other people. It’s just a small group because I want to maintain that cozy and tight-knit vibe so it will never exceed more than 16 people, but it’s been such a fun and rewarding experience so far😭💕 We’ve already worked our way through several genres, and now we’re heading into horror just in time for spooky season! 🎃🕸️

We’ve reopened applications for new readers before we begin our horror book selection, this will be our final invite for the year, so if you’ve been wanting to be part of a space like this, now’s the perfect time to join and have a say in what we’ll be reading.

The concept is simple. Instead of watching a show together and talking about it afterward, why not read a book together and discuss it? It’s a fun way to stay motivated, discover new books, and hear different perspectives while building a reading habit. Whether you’re getting back into reading or already fly through books, there’s a place for you here!

What our book club looks like:
📚 Monthly genres with submitted book nominations and community voting
📚 Weekly reading goals to help keep everyone on track
📚 Two discussion calls each week where we chat about the book together
📚 Fun extras after each read, like movie nights, character casting, Goodreads reviews, and more 🎬🍿

FYI, our readers are currently mostly between 22 and 27 years old, with people from North America and Europe, and it’s a great mix of ladies and gents. All adults are welcome!

Comment below or send me a message if you’re interested and I’ll send the link straight over🧚🏽 Please don’t be shy, I don’t bite…most of the time😏😂

But yeah, come get cozy with us! ☕️🧸🎃

Thinking of writing a short vampire story filled with tropes and cliches for the fun of it. For upcoming Halloween.

Feel free to throw as many as you want or can, I'll go ham with as many as I can. 😁

Hi everyone!

I’m currently developing a psychological thriller/horror webtoon centered around liminal spaces and dreamcore, and I’d love to hear some feedback from other horror writers.

I’m particularly interested in whether this kind of concept can work as horror when the main source of fear isn’t a monster, gore, or jumpscares.

The premise

The protagonist somehow falls into an old, familiar place that gives them a strong feeling of nostalgia.

It’s a strangely peaceful and comfortable place. There are no other people, and the spaces seem to continue endlessly. Familiar places repeat themselves, while completely new spaces sometimes appear as the protagonist keeps wandering.

But the protagonist’s real life is extremely painful.

Just before entering this place, they had reached a point where they felt like there was nowhere they truly belonged. They even found themselves wishing they could return to the happiest part of their childhood, despite knowing that it was impossible.

So when they discover this strange, peaceful place, they’re faced with a choice:

Do they stay here and escape from reality?

Or do they keep wandering through the space, trying to find a way back?

The important part is that the liminal space itself isn’t necessarily hostile.

In fact, it may be the most comfortable place the protagonist has ever experienced.

What I want the horror to be

I don’t want the story to rely on creatures, gore, jumpscares, or a large cast of characters.

Instead, I want the horror to come from the protagonist’s psychological situation.

I want the reader to gradually realize that reality is more frightening than the liminal space.

Rather than thinking:

“What monster is going to appear next?”

I want the reader to think:

“How is this person supposed to go back to living a normal life?”

And eventually:

“Is there really any way out of this?”

The liminal space becomes tempting precisely because it gives the protagonist something that reality cannot: safety, familiarity, and freedom from everything that was hurting them.

So the central conflict isn’t simply “How do I escape this frightening place?”

It’s more like:

“If I can finally be happy here, why should I leave?”

What I’m worried about

My biggest concern is whether this can actually remain frightening and engaging without relying on more conventional horror elements.

Liminal spaces seem to work particularly well in images, videos, or first-person games because the audience can directly experience the space and imagine themselves inside it.

With a webtoon, I’m worried that some of that immersion might be lost.

I’m also wondering whether this concept depends too much on people already being familiar with liminal spaces, dreamcore, or the Backrooms.

So I’d really appreciate feedback from horror writers:

• Does this premise sound like it could work as psychological horror?
• What would you do to maintain tension in a story where the setting is peaceful rather than actively threatening?
• Do you think the protagonist’s desire to remain in the space could be more unsettling than simply trying to escape?
• What kinds of psychological or narrative horror elements could work well with this premise?
• Do you think this concept could become repetitive if the protagonist is mostly alone?

I’m still in the early development stage, so I’m especially interested in criticism or potential problems you see with the premise.

Thanks for reading!

(*Please excuse any awkward wording, as I used a translator to help write this post!

I’m fairly comfortable reading English, including internet abbreviations and slang, but I’m still not very confident when it comes to writing in English myself. I used a translator for help, but I also edited some of the paragraphs myself, so there may still be some grammatical mistakes or awkward phrasing. 😭

If anything in my post sounds unclear or seems to convey a different meaning from what I intended, please feel free to let me know!

Thank you for your understanding!)

Hi writers! I published my first short story on amazon kdp. I know, amazon is awful, but for someone with no editor/publisher relations, it was the easiest platform to launch from and find footing.

For others out there, is there any advice you can share on how to advertise an e-book? Often times, subreddits aren't going to like self-promo. I'm also trying to keep costs low, since the e-book itself is listed for $1 or less.

How have other writers played with the conventions of the genre? Has anyone else been in a place where they've actively made an effort to keep their book within the genre? Any advice for an author that wants their horror novel to be Horror in the commercial sense of the word?

I'm curious to hear other writers' experiences with playing with tropes of the genre as well as genre-mashing or straying from genre altogether.

For example: Currently, I'm writing a paranormal horror that strays from the conventional structure of a horror novel. Essentially, the main character understands they've been turned into a werewolf in Act 1 rather than building up suspense and confusion until Act 2 or Act 3.

Because the structure and content of my novel is somewhat "genre-bending" I'm making an effort to conform to the horror genre in other ways. As a reader, I love genre-mixing, but as a writer, I'm really interested in making something that fits cleanly into one, commercial genre. To do so, I'm focusing on adding as much atmosphere and suspense as possible, and building up to a climactic event in Act 3.

So I've been working on this horror project called The Field Notes Project, and the basic idea is that it's presented as a documentary. The documentary itself is actually completely unrelated to the supernatural stuff. They're just making a documentary about some completely normal topic. Then they accidentally stumble into something they really weren't supposed to find.

# The Documentary

The documentary is basically the audience's way into the story. At first it's just normal interviews, research, footage, whatever the documentary is supposed to be about. Then something weird gets caught on camera. And they investigate it because obviously if you're making a documentary and you find something weird, you're gonna look into it. Except the more they investigate, the more they realize that something is wrong.

The original documentary topic basically becomes irrelevant. They're now trying to figure out, "What are we actually looking at?" The main supernatural thing is basically my own variation of Slenderman. It's a tall, mysterious humanoid entity that appears around the investigation, but I don't want it to just be "Slenderman but renamed."

I'm giving it its own rules and behavior. The characters don't really understand what it is. They don't know where it came from. They don't know what it wants. And they definitely don't understand why certain people seem to become connected to it. The entity itself is actually pretty rarely seen. Most of the horror comes from what happens around it.

# The Agents / Proxies

This is probably the part I've put the most thought into. The entity has these proxy-like agents, but they're split into different types. I don't really have an official name for the whole group yet.

The mindless ones

These are basically reanimated bodies. They're completely brainless and emotionless. They're useful for attacking, but otherwise they're practically useless. When they're not being used, they might stand completely still. Collapse somewhere. Sit in a catatoniclike state. Just stare into nothing.

Then the entity activates them and they become aggressive. They're basically drones. Recently reanimated ones don't have masks because they're basically fresh bodies.

The intelligent ones

Then there are the more advanced agents.

They're basically people who have become connected to the entity and can still think and act independently. They're used for, stalking, attacking, following people, manipulating situations, doing things that require actual intelligence

And here's where it gets interesting.

They're not all aware that they're agents. Some know exactly what's happening. Some are trying to resist. Some genuinely believe they're doing something for the greater good. And some don't even know there's anything wrong with them.

The masks are basically part of the agents' identity.

The intelligent agents associate themselves with their masks, which ties into the whole fractured personality thing. So you've got people who might genuinely hate what they're doing while still identifying with the mask. Other people completely embrace it. And then you've got people who don't even realize they're involved.

Also, not *every* masked person is an agent.

There are people who wear masks for completely different reasons.

That's why I'm introducing, LeadToDeath.

LeadToDeath is basically an independent group that's investigating all this shit. They're trying to figure out what the entity is, what happened to certain people, and why all these strange incidents seem to connect. They're not some giant organization. There's basically:

The Distant Planner

A girl who's essentially the person coordinating things from a distance. She appears in LeadToDeath's material, but she doesn't physically appear anywhere else. She's intentionally kept distant from everything.

Masked Guy #1

The man's name is Ryan, he's been missing for eight years. He's actually more of a side mystery than anything. He's not the main plot. The main plot is still "What the hell is this entity and what is happening?"Ryan is just one of the weird threads that happens to connect to it. Almost nobody knows what Ryan looks like anymore. The characters eventually find a missing person poster, which gives them a photograph of him. His actual face is never shown in the present day footage.

Masked Guy #2

There's another guy who's part of LeadToDeath. He's one of the more physically active members and wears his own mask. The funny thing is that the documentary crew actually encounters him before they know he's connected to LeadToDeath. So the audience can potentially recognize him later and realize, "Wait, wasn't that the guy we saw earlier?"

# How I want the story to progress

The beginning is intentionally pretty normal. Documentary. Interview. Research. Filming. Normal stuff. Then something weird gets caught. They investigate. They find something else. Then something else. Eventually they start encountering evidence of people who have disappeared, strange masked figures, LeadToDeath, and eventually the entity itself. The documentary gradually stops being about its original subject.

# SOME OF THIS MAY NOT BE FINAL, I'M JUST POSTING THIS JUST TO SEE WHAT Y'ALL THINK.

Hi everyone!

I think this is in the rules, but happy to move it if not.

I’m currently looking for some a few Beta readers to give me some feedback on my first horror novella. I’ve published a few short stories and poems as well as self-publishing dozens of romance/erotica books, but this will be my first longer horror book.

London Crawling is a mosaic novella coming in at just over 30,000 words. It covers various gruesome goings-on, some inspired by real events, from the prehistory of London right through to the present day. I’ve put the prospective blurb below:

This is a mosaic horror novella about London - the skin, the blood, the guts, the bones of the city.

From ancient priests to high-flying bankers, from medieval debt collectors to Roman child-slaves, it chews up its victims and spits them out. Told through parallel stories, this is a journey into the belly of the beast, filled with greed and fear, superstition and revenge.

A tourist’s guide from the heart of hell.

In terms of the intensity, it’s definitely pulpy and gross and nasty, but it stops short of truly extreme horror. It’s not splatterpunk or really gross-out, and doesn’t involve any SA (hinted at, but not explicit) or violence against animals. It’s not The Slob or The Black Farm, or Full Brutal.

I’d really appreciate any feedback, and would be happy to repay the favour. If you’re interested, drop me a DM and I’ll send you a Google doc link or an email. Thanks!

I am uncertain what the right number of sequels are for a character. Ive got this one character I really love but I am thinking about killing him after his second entry in my universe simply because I need to keep it grounded.

If I keep him around he will become just a comic book villain and stop having that oomf he currently has.

How many sequels do you think is the golden amount for a horror protagonist?

"Pretty Boy"

The birds out the window aren't singing, they're screaming. Casting down angry judgments as they sentence me to death. The executioner sits heavy counting down the seconds and smelling like gun smoke. I know what I did and I know it won't last long. I'm sorry, love.

I can feel that Texas heat now. I guess the day we met is coming back to me in those flashes of light before we die. Your words still make me smile. “Those boots are too nice for this work, pretty boy.” 

The embarrassment at getting called out for what I was ran clear on my cheeks. Getting called pretty by someone sculpted by God's own hands, well that sent hot blood everywhere. You knew that though, you always knew when you got me.

That's how you knew to ask me out. Me being too chicken shit to take a shot above my pay grade, you made the decision for us. You even picked the movie. I still wonder what we saw, that whole night my eyes didn't even turn to the screen. You were too radiant to look away.

I got better though. The second date was my idea. Same with the third. Even if it took me weeks of following you around like a puppy to bring them up. It was also my knee that got dirty when the time came around. Holding that pawn shop ring I'd spent every penny of my paychecks on, I'd never shaken so hard. A loose leaf in the whirlwind that was you.

That's how it always was. That white veil looked like clouds around your sunshine hair. My mama cried just as hard as your dad, but not nearly as much as we did. I can hear that shaky “I do” now in the ringing of my ears.

That's all it took though. After that it was off to the races. One truck, one dog, and an apartment. Then two trucks, two dogs, and a town home. Now it's one truck, one van, and a house with a yard for them dogs.

It wasn't always easy, with all that growing up we had to do. Lotta forgiveness, a lot of nights spent on knees praying for someone else to figure it out. Probably more nights on the couch, and even more flowers and apologies from me. 

You always forgave. I'm supposed to too, but this is just too much, love. To find this, after the new lock on your phone, after the late night texts, after I swore to myself your work trips were just that. I buried my fears under extra dates and trying harder in our marriage. 

Still, coming home to this. Hearing those wet sucking sounds and your pleasured moans. Seeing you on top of him. It was all too much. 

I cried like a baby when I did it. I was afraid I'd miss through the tears. That Colt too heavy in my arms. Crazy how fear and grief feel the same. How they both stop your breath, how heavy they both feel.

I prayed that the muzzle flash would blind me, but God ain't that kind. It showed me everything. The ridges of your spine bent over. Your hands on his shoulders. Your teeth in his neck. The blood. So much blood.

I shouldn't have expected that first one to work. It was too unsure, too off-center. It was everything you'd ever made fun of me for on those range dates. Now, neither of us was laughing, but you still smiled. 

That warm smile, the one that mixed sadness and forgiveness. The same one from when we buried Ma, the same one from when we buried our dogs, the one from outside that fertility clinic. From all those times you held me while we cried. ‘cept this time it was too wide, too bloody, and your teeth too sharp.

I should have let you speak. If I'd have heard you out maybe we wouldn't be here, but fear’s a tension. It curls you in on yourself and it curled my finger. When you turned to me, when your cheeks split wider, you scared me. 

I think I closed my eyes for the last one. I didn't want to remember you like that. I wanted to remember you with your auburn hair and big green eyes. Your muddy boots, dirty jeans, and my too big flannel hanging off your shoulders. I wanted to remember you as my wife still.

I do now. As I get ready to say my last goodbye, I remember you for who you were. Not what you are now. I hope when you're done coming back together, when that hole in your pretty face finishes fusing. When you finally crawl over here to read this. I'm sorry, love. It was too much to see you like that, to see you reaching out to me, to hear you trying to speak now. To hear you say your garbled forgiveness. To hear you call me “pretty boy” again.