Thursday, October 1, 2015

Darkness Within Vol. 5- October

Hi all!

I'd like to welcome you to the next edition of the Darkness Within Ezine!! Happy Halloween all!


President & CEO

Vice-President & Cover Artist


Amityville Revisited by Thom Futrell
Lore’s Corner: Black Cats by LM David
The Worm by Carol Tietsworth
The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood Part 3 by Ronald Edward Griffin
Blood Queen by H.K. Taylor
Ohio Stories by Jodie Pierce
Detective Goodson: The Dead Shall Rise Part 1 by Brien O’Raighne

2015 All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction of this ezine in part or in whole.

Voices from the Reaper


A couple and their four children were found shot to death yesterday evening in their expensive Colonial-style home in Amityville, L.I. The bodies were discovered by the couple’s eldest son.

The victims were identified as Ronald J. DeFeo, 43, his wife, Louise, 42, two sons, John, 9, and Mark, 12, and two daughters, Allison, 13, and Dawn 18.

Suffolk County police said they received a call at 6:35 p.m. from Ronald DeFeo, 23, who told them that he had found the bodies of his parents in their bedroom on the second floor.

When police arrived, DeFeo said he also had discovered the bodies of his brothers and sisters in other bedrooms the three-story brown frame house.

This was the story on the front page of THE DAILY NEWS, November 14, 1974. Ronald, or “Butch” as he was nicknamed, ran into a bar a block down from the house and announced to the crowd that he just came home and found his parents dead. Some of the patrons returned to the house and searched it along with Butch, discovering not only the parents, but his siblings as well. All were lying face down in their bed clothes and all were shot. Some in the back, at least one was in the neck. Police were called and the investigation was underway.  At first, the murder weapon couldn’t be found. They even attacked the grounds with metal detectors.
At the trial in 1975, Butch Defoe admitted in gory detail how he killed his family. His lawyer pleaded insanity, but the jury didn’t buy into it and he was given six 25 to life sentences. He was 23 at the time. When he was 34, about a decade later he granted NEWSDAY an interview and told them that he in fact had nothing to do with the murders. His new version had his mother and sister doing the killings before killing each other. He then added that his Mother was shot by his sister, but then shot herself. He also claimed to have a wife and daughter, which there is no record of either event.
To say his newer version is inconsistent would be the understatement of the year. His own lawyer had no idea about the wife and child story, and the former district attorney said this was a new way of getting attention. “What else would he have to do in prison?” DA Sullivan said.
Butch claims he was with his “Wife’s” brother when it all hit the fan.
What follows is Defoe’s new version of what happened at 112 Ocean View that fateful night in November:
DeFeo claims that he and Romondoe were in the basement, playing pool and watching television with the sound turned very low. He left the door open to the upper part of the house. He called Geraldine to tell her they'd be home soon, but Romondoe wanted to stay and watch a war movie called "Castle Keep."

'WE HEARD a noise," DeFeo said, "but I can't tell you it was a gunshot ... We came up and went in the foyer. We stood there maybe two min utes. We didn't hear nothing. So we went back downstairs."

Later, as they were in the hallway, getting ready to leave, he said, they heard a gunshot and rushed upstairs.

"The lamp on my mother's side of the bed was on," DeFeo claimed. "There was a rifle on the floor in the hallway.... My mother is laying in the bed, shot. There is a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson right there, her handgun. She had one hand on her chain, saying, 'Oh, my God, Butch.' I'm looking at my father, see two holes in his back.

"I picked the rifle up. I hit the lever and an empty cartridge jumped out. I shot my mother. My mother was already shot. I was mad. I just went out of it."

He and Romondoe looked into the other bedrooms. "We went from room to room," DeFeo said. "Everybody was dead.... I was sick.There's no doubt in my mind that Dawn killed my father. My mother killed Dawn and the kids."

He said that Romondoe started going throughout the house, picking up cartridge casings and cleaning up evidence. "He was trying to protect me," DeFeo said. "That was the first words out of his mouth: 'They're going to hang this whole thing on you and me, we're going to get electrocuted,' all that crazy stuff."

So what happened on that night? Was it a family at war? A crazed lunatic son? Or was it dark voices playing in Ron’s head? We may never know the whole story.

Author Bio:

Thom Futrell is a horror writer living in Jackson Michigan. He has been in more than sixty publications and has four films under his belt. He writes under the name T.G. Reaper.

Lore’s Corner

Superstition and Black Cats

Black cats and superstition surrounding the folklore varies culture to culture. The Scots believe a strange black cat arriving at your home signifies prosperity. Celtic mythology claims a fairy known as the Cat S├Čth can take the form of a black cat. Black cats are considered good luck in Britain and Japan. And it is believed a lady who owns a black cat will have many suitors. Now that’s interesting.

In Western history, black cats are denoted as symbols of evil omens, being the familiars of witches. So much of Europe considered the black cat represented bad luck, especially if one crossed paths with a person. That meant misfortune and death. In Germany, some believe black cats crossing a one’s path from right to left, is a bad omen. But from left to right, the cat is granting favorable times.

In the UK a black cat crossing your path is a good omen.

The black cat in folklore has been able to change into human shape to act as a spy or courier for witches or demons. When the Pilgrims arrived at Plymouth Rock, they brought with them a devout faith in the Bible and a deep suspicion about things associated with Satan. They viewed the black cat as a companion, or a familiar, to witches. Anyone caught with a black cat were severely punished, or even killed, because they were viewed as part demon and part sorcery. In the Middle Ages, those superstitions led people to kill black cats although no evidence exists that black cats were subjected to wide scale massacres.

The supernatural powers ascribed to black cats, however, were often viewed as positive. Sailors considering a "ship's cat" would want a black one and thus bring good luck. Occasionally a fisherman's wife would keep black cats at home in the hope they would be able to use their influence to protect their husbands at sea. Black cats were favorable creatures specifically to the Egyptian goddess Bast (or Bastet), the cat goddess. Egyptian households believed they could gain favor from Bastet by housing black cats in their homes.

Eighteenth century pirates believed a black cat would bring different kinds of luck. If a black cat walks towards someone, that person will have bad luck. If a black cat walks away then that person will have good luck. The same folklore was entertained in the UK, only if the cat walked away, it took the good luck with it.

If a black cat walked onto a ship and then walked off it, the ship was doomed to sink on its next trip. Black cats have been found to have lower odds of adoption in American shelters. Some shelters suspend or limit adoptions of black cats around Halloween for fear they will be tortured, or used as "living decorations" during the holiday and abandoned afterwards. Or killed in ritualistic ceremonies.

So, it seems, the association between bad luck and black cats date back to the middle of the fourteenth century. It’s not known exactly how and why black cats became associated with the Devil during that time. But the belief was so persistent black cats were all but exterminated during the Black Death pandemic around 1348 A.D. Ironically, killing the cats served to worsened the plague, which was often spread by rodents the cats could have helped kill. Since the 1880s, the color black has been associated with anarchism. The black cat was accepted later as an anarchist symbol. So there is the answer for modern times and the dreaded association of black cats as being an anti christian symbol.

So what do you think? If a black cat crossed your path, would you turn and run? Or think what a load of crap and pick the animal up? Or ignore it. I have a dark burgundy cat that is so dark, it is mistaken for black. My luck has not altered. Bad luck has followed me since high school so the cat has not made a difference one way or the other. Then again, I now have the urge to buy a caldron to go with the book of spells, and arsenal of herbs, I recently bought.

Source Material:

Author Bio:
LM David has been writing stories since Jr. High School after taking a Creative Writing class. Initially drawn to the genre of Science Fiction, a fascination with Paranormal/Urban Fantasy/Romance drew her back into the dark erotic world of vampires. The more she read about the subject of the ‘undead’, the deeper dark erotic wold of folklore and legends of the vampire became. You can reach her at:
Twitter: @LMDavid54

The Worm Farm
By Helen Bishop
Worm Farm

Fire should be an easy thing to start. Fire setting is an old art. No talent is required to start a fire these days. A match, a lighter, the stove-top all make the starting a certainty. But this fire had to be simple as well as difficult. This fire had to burn clean, hot, and completely, its origin had to be undetectable, and it would start with an electric clock.

Actually the setup would be the longest part. The act of filling the room with enough fuel, or explosive, enough to burn everything , enough to leave no trace, enough so the simple act of the alarm clock being plugged in would begin the end. That was the most difficult part.

Then afterward, there would be another part. This part would be even harder to grasp. Not for me, of course, but for the others. I would be there, but not be able to watch the fire, and then not able to enjoy the moment. No smiling, no laughing, after all fire is a dangerous thing, not to be laughed at. People would be watching me, because I would be the center of attention.

This untraceable fire would make me an orphan.

Over the years, from my hidey-hole I had heard the television. It was my endless companion because it was always on. In the beginning I figured they forgot to turn it off, later its droning covered any noises I made when their ‘friends’ came over, not that it saved me-any noises were dealt with as soon as those people left. Sir loved those old detective stories, and then they morphed into those forensic stories. I learned a lot, suspended in my chains, listening through the locked closet door. I learned enough to make a plan.

I had enough of the torment of living with my mother, if that was who she was, and her husband. Yes, he had a name, I had heard her use it, but I was to call him "Sir". Sir and my mother had made it their goal to act as if I was there only for their needs. If something happened to me, so what? I wasn't even sure that I was "her" child, maybe she picked me up in a parking lot somewhere. There were no pictures that I could find of a younger me, no pictures of a baby me, no pictures or history of me at all. She had never taken me to a doctor or dentist or to school. To my knowledge, I had no one other than her, and him, and if this fire accomplished what I hoped it would, any connection to my so- called family would be severed. I was their slave, if I didn't do their bidding, I did nothing. Eating, sleeping, or breathing. I had no rights, and it all could be taken away. It was my choice, and I chose to become an orphan, with their consent, or not. When I was ‘bad’, they would leave me, suspended in my chains, cuffed and gagged, locked in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind. When I wasn’t, they would let me roam around the house, not freely, of course, just enough to be able to work- to run the washer, to clean up after the dogs.

Wednesday nights they always went out. It was so routine that Sir didn't even lock me in my closet anymore. Where would I go? The dogs were in the house, they were in control when he was gone, and they knew it. He pampered them, fed them choice bits of his meal, and he used them to torment me. He trained them to growl and lunge if I made a move towards Sir, or anywhere they figured I shouldn’t be. The old man praised them every time they left me frightened or weak and gasping for air.  I let them have their doggy moments, if all went as planned, they would be out of my life tonight as well.

I went into the bathroom, as soon as they left for the evening. I opened the medicine cabinet and took out all her pills. I knew some of them made her sleep, and some were for other things, but I wasn't sure which were which. I could read a little, that's why I thought I had been someone else's child in another life, but these medical names were beyond me. To be safe, in case the fire didn’t erase all evidence, I took a few out of every bottle. I broke them up with the stick from the plunger, and opened the ones that were capsules. When I had mixed it all together in his shaving cup, I added enough water to make it sloppy, and then took it into the kitchen.

From the refrigerator I took out the dog meat. In a big bowl I mixed the drugs with the meat, then put it all out on the back porch and let the dogs out. I didn't want them bothering me during the setup.

Sir had played at being a hunter. I had been threatened with the guns often enough so I knew where they all were located in the house. I got the rifles, guns and all the ammunition and piled them in the living room for fuel. Our house was rather messy, she was not a good housekeeper, and of course, all the cleaning and chores had fallen to me. For the last few weeks I had let a lot of it go, leading up to tonight. It had earned me a few more punches, but it was less to get ready for the fire.

He had a whole set-up to refill his shotgun shells. I had been taught to use it, so Sir didn't have to spend less of his precious time drunk and watching television. Each time I had refilled the shells lately, I had saved a bit of the black powder out, and stowed it under the rugs and the dog's papers in the living room. Every time the old man fell asleep smoking I didn't know whether or not to hope he would set it off.

I would be free after the fire. They would be dead, I would be alone. But I knew a fire as big as I needed would bring out the locals. Even if it turned out that I was her child, I had never seen anyone else that I could remember. Whenever someone came out to the house, I was quickly put into the closet, bound and gagged. Who were they hiding me from? I didn't know. But I did know that for me to show up unscathed after a fire that left only me would be hard to explain. I would have to be injured, and amnesia couldn't hurt, especially if it was made up.

Someday, I told myself, I would be the one to hurt others like them. No one good or innocent should have to suffer to live. I alone would be the one to make the decision of who got hurt, and how. After, of course, I got rid of these people.

While I was readying the house for its death, I thought about how to injure myself, 'in the explosion' but in a believable way, a way that wouldn't take me all the way out of commission, but would keep all questions at a minimum. More and more to work out, but the work was worth it, if it went the way I wanted. And if it didn't, how could it be worse than it was already?

In the meantime, I spread and spilled and squirted things throughout the living and bedrooms, being careful to leave my closet untouched, the bindings and gag easily seen inside. Sir had reinforced the door against escape long ago; I hoped the reinforcements would hold against the explosion.

I took the alarm clock in their room and carefully 'chewed' at the cord with an old, broken  pocket-knife I had found in the trash. When the cord was raveled enough to show the inner wires,  and I had bared some of those, I put it under the edge of a bunch of papers underneath their bed. Plugging it in would be nearly my last move.

Going into the bedroom that should have been mine, but belonged to the dogs, except for the closet, I took a pillow and wrapped my shirt around it, then pushed it through the window pane, hard, smashing the glass and watching it fall outside in tiny pieces. I actually took a piece of the glass and scratched my arms and face with it, hard enough to bring blood out in some places. Hard enough to hurt, but I had long ago learned to hold myself against pain. I knew I had to be convincing, but stay alive. If I died getting rid of them, it would be poetic justice. I wanted justice, just not that kind.

The bar they always went to was about 10 minutes away, by my figuring. I, of course had never gone, but he always drove back plastered, and by his condition on his return, I figured he couldn’t have driven any farther than that.

I would have to wait for them to get home to start the fire, to make sure they were in it. I looked out to the porch, and the dogs were all asleep. If I got her and Sir back real soon, the dogs would never know what hit them, and some would probably have a chance to survive, being that they would be outside whatever happened.

I decided to do something I never had dared. I used the phone. I had heard Sir and her call there often enough, always asking about ‘specials’ and about who would be playing. They had called this afternoon about tonight, and I hadn’t heard anyone use the phone since. I crossed my fingers and pressed ‘redial’.

"Hello?" I almost whimpered, my voice so soft that the man answering the phone said to speak up, "Is my mom there?" "Who's your mom, kid?" the bartender asked. "Anita," I answered, using the name Sir called her. "Just a second, kid."

My stepfather came to the phone, as I knew he would. He used to beat on her, before they had both started beating on me, for fun. I knew he'd never let her answer the phone in a bar.

"Who is this? Well, speak up!"

"Stepfather?" I almost cried, "There's a small accident here..." "Accident?' he roared. "What accident?" "The dogs, sir," I whispered. "The dogs knocked over the re-loader, and there's powder all over the place. I tried to wash it up..."
"Damn fool kid," he muttered. "Get in your place, we'll be right there!"

I ran to finish what I had started.

I plugged in the alarm clock, smelled the electricity and saw the beginning curl of smoke. Then I ran into the kitchen, blew out the pilot light on the stove and opened the gas jets full. I made a long line of lighter fluid, on top of the newspaper trail I already had made from the kitchen stove all the way to the window that I had broken out, in the bedroom by my closet.

I clipped one of the handcuffs around my left  wrist, and after putting my glassy shirt back on got up on the window sill, and pushed myself out of the room onto the ground just outside. A long shard of the broken glass buried itself into my thigh and it was bleeding pretty good. All part of my set-up, better than I had thought. It burned, but I left it where it was.

I got back up with the lighter in my hand.

Now I heard his car fish-tailing up the drive. He must have been in an unholy rage by the way his car was all over the lawn. He slammed to a halt, and wrenching her out of the car, he dragged her along with him into the house. I heard him shout, "What the hell?" just as I lit the trail of fluid.

The flames ripped through the bedroom and entered the living room and kitchen. A loud floomp almost moved the house off its foundation. I was blown back onto the ground.

I never got to enjoy the fire.


When I came to, there were burning bits of the house all around me, and my clothes had caught fire in a couple places. I felt limp, like I had no strength, and like I imagine I would have if I’d ever had a bad sunburn. The sound of fast approaching sirens cut through the roar of the flames. Then I went away again.

I woke up as they were loading me into the ambulance. A paramedic was busily trying to remove the handcuff from my wrist. "Who else was in the house, son?" he asked gently, "Your family?" "I don't know," I said, "the man and the woman went out tonight." "The man and the woman?" The paramedic seemed confused. "You mean your parents? What are their names?" "I don't know," I said, "they never told me any names" "Well son, what's your name?" he asked. "I don't know, sir, they never told me." 

To be continued…

Author Bio:

Helen Bishop is a native of Pennsylvania and a true fan of the written word. She works as a litigation paralegal; reads on average 20 books a week; writes book reviews for an internet blog; writes stories, poems and novels in various genres; and-just to fill out her dance card-contracts with fellow authors to proofread and copy-edit their work before it goes to the publisher. You can check her out at, and

The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood
Part 3

By: Ronald Edward Griffin

Tabetha walks through the house wearing a black spaghetti strap top and grey pajama pants with her hair tied up in a bun. She hears a noise outside so she peers out of the window trying to see what’s making the noise. It sounds like a dog right outside the house so she opens the door to look around.

“Come here poochie.” She calls to the animal.

“Mama’s not going to hurt you. I love dogs so you can come out.”

A furry figure darts out from the bushes and runs down the street. Tabetha runs down the street in pursuit of the animal.

“Why am I chasing a dog out here in the dark anyways?”

She hears the howl coming from the nearby park on the beach of the lake. Once she arrives an eerie wind blows causing the swings to move. Goosebumps form on her arm causing the tiny hairs on them to stand on end. A slight growling sound comes from behind her in the bushes and she slowly turns around to see if the animal is there.

“Who's there?” she asks nervously.

The bushes start to shake back and forth as something moves between them and a tall figure jumps out in front of her screaming loudly. Tabetha falls down in the sand and Bobby stands over her laughing loudly at her. She grabs a handful of sand and throws it at him.

“Bobby you jerk! Why would you do that?”

“Well I had to find some way to amuse myself since you weren’t up for the job.”

A growling noise now comes from behind Bobby. His eyes grow wide and his heart starts pumping hard as he turns around. A large creature covered with black fur stands in front of him with globs of drool dripping down its maw. The creature pounces on him biting and clawing at his belly feasting away. A scream is trapped inside of Tabetha's throat and her body is frozen from fear. Bobby's screams pierce her ears and are soon muffled by the sound of blood in his throat as he is eaten alive. She turns and finally is able to get to her feet and run. She stumbles a few feet away right in front of the waters edge. Bobby’s gurgled screams have stopped and she doesn’t hear a sound from the creature either. Her body quakes with fear as she turns her body slightly to look behind her. She doesn’t see the creature nor Bobby's body. Her body is still shaking uncontrollably as she looks around for a sign of the beast until she notices the reflection in the water of the creature.

  “Please don’t kill me!” she pleads.

She moves her hands to shield herself and notices when she moves her arms the creatures reflection moves at the same time. Confused that the creature is mimicking her she waves at the reflection and the creature waves back. Then she notices that her own hands are covered with hair with blood soaked talons. She lets out a howl as she notices that the reflection is her own.
She sits up in her own bed screaming while gripping the sweat soaked sheets. Her heart pounding in her chest she notices that it's morning as the light peers through the blinds. Her breathing is labored and she lets out a deep sigh of relief as she realizes that it was all just a dream. Once she gets out of bed she goes into the bathroom to relieve herself and wash her face. As she dries her face off she hears a knock at the front door. She walks through the living room that’s littered with pizza boxes and beer cans. Her roommate's snoring as they lay passed out on the sofa and chair. Once at the door she peers through the peephole to see two sheriff deputies standing on the porch. She unlocks then opens the door with a smile on her face.

“Good morning officers, can I help you?” she asks politely.

“Are you Tabatha Greer ma’am?” one of them asks.

“Yes.” She says as the smile subsides fearing that something is wrong.

“We have a few questions to ask you about Bobby Grant.” The other officer says.

“You mean the jerk that I had a date with that tried to feel me up after just one date? He didn’t even take me anywhere nice we went to wendys’ on zebulon road to eat.”

“Is that the last time you seen him? Last night that is?”

“Yeah he dropped me off here last night after the date. He tried to feel me up and I told him to get lost. Why what’s happened?”

“We have reason to believe that you’re the last person to see him alive.”

Tabetha turns and looks into the direction of the park which is sealed off now with crime scene tape. A bad feeling grows in her stomach as she begins to wonder if what happened in her dream was really a dream at all. Two EMTs load a stretcher with a blood soaked sheet into the back of the ambulance.

“Do you know what happened to him?” one of the officers’ asks.

“No I don’t have any idea what happened. After he dropped me off I got ready for bed.”

“Okay that will be all ma’am. We will be in touch if we have anymore questions. If you think of anything though call at the station.” The other officer says politely as they walk down the porch steps.

“You have a good day ma’am.

This month’s nightmare sequence is dedicated to the king of nightmares Wes Craven. You will be missed and nightmares will never be the same again.

Author Bio:

Ronald Edward Griffin is a native of Macon, GA where he was born and raised. He is an accomplished Author in his own right and is always working hard on something. He has two children whom he hopes to pass his writing bug on to them.

Blood Queen
H.K. Taylor
All rights reserved
Copyright 2015 H.K. Taylor

Zane walked the deserted streets of Xavier Alabama, in search of her next meal. She had accepted this life, truly she had but by now… now it seemed the sleepless nights and restless days were catching up with her. When she entered the abandoned house, her silent steps carried her soundlessly toward the basement where were her coffin was. When she was first bitten—by a passerby seeking shelter at that—she had trouble grasping her new life. A life of eternity, save for a stake through the heart? How was one to accept a world like that?

Admittedly, she was still killing legions of humans; apparently there were two kinds of vampires in her new world: the ones who followed the true creed intended for their existence, known now as the Mortalitasi or immortals of death, and those who weren’t vegetarians—a stupid concept either way you analyzed it—no, they still fed from humans but instead of draining them completely like the Mortalitasi, the Imperium or immortals of change, wanted to usher in a society where the two races coexisted.

Zane had been turned by a Mortalitasi; so her allegiance was already accounted for and if she was being honest, she preferred it that way. The dark cloak she wore—the inside red with, clouds of matching color kept her expressions masked, and her steps silent allowing her to quickly move through the darkened streets whenever she needed to feed. Having found a comfortable spot in her coffin, she finally closed her eyes but not before closing the coffin shut.

Zane dreamed often; something she’d yet to point out to her mistress (the name female thralls were expected to call the immortal who changed them), though where she lived there were only female Mortalitasi. So Zane chose to keep her dreams a secret. They painted an interesting picture however, a golden city paved with marble roads and buildings as high as skyscrapers; at the center of the courtyard—a lavish garden of various flowers where humans were being killed left and right, staining the grass red were three Mortalitasi said to be the mothers of creation.

Avana, Hannah and Desiree—the Mothers’ of Creation were over a thousand years old each. It was said the golden city-- so called Rivain, was created by them. No one knew why the mothers’ wanted a city paved with gold, marble and blood but all the mothers’ enforced whether Mortalitasi or Imperium vampire, was following the rules. Unlike most governing bodies however, they had more than one rule:
  1. No vampire Mortalitasi or Imperium could romantically involve themselves with a human.
  2. Any and all half-breed children were killed within a day’s time; there parents being forced to watch them burned alive.
  3. By the twentieth year of turning, all vampires were to be branded with the respective emblem—the Mortalitasi emblem was a black crow with deep blood-shot eyes, and a cross around its neck. Whereas the Imperium’s was that of a human being led to the gates of what was said to be a sea of everlasting peace.
  4. Thralls were to be trained by their mistresses in stealth, combat blood draining and soul extraction every night, for the first three years of change.
  5. Any thrall the mothers’ took a liking to had to serve whichever marked them for a year before having their soul extracted
  6. Revealing ones’ true identity to a human resulted in banishment from Rivain, and the immortal forced to keep their soul for all of eternity.

Zane found it difficult to prevent herself from siring half-blood children; she had no care for humans aside from their blood, but she couldn’t keep Avana from her dreams; often painting a life for them, despite Avana’s preference for younger changelings. Zane had discovered—through her mistress—that Avana herself was a half-breed, having been born eight-hundred-years ago to an unknown immortal mother and her thrall (a female human).

Of course Hannah and Desiree were aware of such a fact, but according to Yasmin (Zane’s mistress), a decree had been written in blood by Avana herself that if she dared to sire a half-breed, she would agree to banishment from Rivain and having her soul returned. When the sun no longer faintly lit up her basement, Zane emerged from her coffin and dressed herself, keeping the hood on her cloak down. Today- the thirteenth of October, was the Mortalitasi council meeting.
Halfway to the abandoned home of the wealthy couple that had been murdered over three-hundred-years ago, Zane felt daggers scratching at her throat; violet eyes searched the streets frantically for a suitable victim. A smirk seen for a ghost of a second danced across her lips; her steps were silent as she made her way to her target. The girl stood around five-foot-six with curly brown hair, clad in faded blue jeans and white-blue Converse sneakers.

Zane tapped the girl lightly on the shoulder—she had headphones in, calling for help and faking an injury wouldn’t work this time. The girl’s mouth opened but by the time her brain registered the danger, sharp fangs were embedded into her neck, While Zane savored her taste; blood sweet like honey flowed slowly down her throat, her body shook with euphoria as she drained the girl for all she was worth. She carried the lifeless body down a nearby alley, dumping it in a trashcan.

After smoothing out her cloak, she made her way towards the house where the meeting was to be held. The inside of the mansion was well-furnished with blood; the floor—once a beautiful, soft marble now resembled the red sea. The walls however were left bare, two flights of stairs led to the bedchamber on either side of the foyer.  A crystal chandelier hung just above the floor with a painting of the mothers’, on the adjacent wall.

Zane lowered the hood of her cloak as she immersed herself within the mass of Mortalitasi awaiting the arrival of Avana, Hannah and Desiree.

“Hey, I didn’t think you were going to return.”

Zane smiled at her friend Ashley. When she’d been bitten, slipping in and out of consciousness, she had vaguely remembered a woman with a black tribal ponytail, and blue eyes. From what little she remembered, Ashley had been the one to carry her bloodied body back to the mansion.

“What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone?”

Zane hugged her tight; missing any kind of physical contact, it had been years since Veronica. All she remembered unfortunately was holding Veronica’s mangled body in her arms; since that night Zane swore she’d never feel pain again. Ashley’s lips moved, but whatever she was about to say was silenced once the mothers’ entered the foyer. Avana was the first to appear; wearing a black, strapless dress with a Jade amulet around her neck. Her body—the visible parts mainly her neck and arms were covered in bite marks; she wore her dark hair down with matching black heels.

Zane didn’t find this surprising, however; most Mortalitasi knew the mothers’ fed from one another regularly. It was often whispered within circles bold enough to make such claims, that they shared a bed together as well but given neither of them possessed the power of those who were mated, those was likely just rumors. Next, Zane’s eyes landed on Desiree; often seen as the wildling of the three, Desiree was taller than both Avana and Hannah at five-foot-nine with blood-red eyes, a slender but toned frame.

Her dress was red matching her eyes, but stopped at her knees; she had long, voluptuous hair and once more, just like with Avana and Hannah, Desiree’s background wasn’t known. Hannah was more reserved than either of them, but just as dangerous. Hannah had been the one to set up the rules all vampire now followed. She was the same height as Avana with black hair, pulled back into a ponytail; her eyes… her eyes were lifeless.

A dull, milky-white as if she could see nothing; which was partly true, but whenever they got like that most immortals knew to keep their distance. Also like Avana, she preferred to be stylish instead of practical. Her dress was an ocean-blue, stopping at her knees showing off her long legs and silver, strapless heels. The three mothers’ overlooked the crowd; six sets of eyes glared daggers into each and every soulless vampire in attendance.

When Avana spoke at last, her voice was cold and calculating. Laws had been broken all three mothers’ knew it, but Hannah—being somewhat compassionate—believed the one guilty, should be given a fair chance.

“We have convened here in my sister’s home might I add, because one of you thought it was a good idea to disobey the very women that gave each of you life.”

Within the blink of an eye, the aggravated Avana—mainly because she’d been woken up— had an unsuspecting first year (a fledgling who has yet to become a thrall, thus lacking the power and ability to effectively defend herself), by the throat. Her grip was relatively light on the girl; she had been turned at eighteen. She had a pixie cut dyed blue with black highlights; her usually soft, vibrant blue eyes were now wide with fear.

“Tell me young one,” Avana smiled slightly as she tightened her grip, but only slightly.

“Who do you think should die for breaking our laws?”

The girl was struck speechless with fear as her eyes frantically roamed the sea of damned, trying to decide whose life she no longer cared for. Knowing her creator would only spare her life if she condemned another, Trish pointed at a male vampire she knew and had traveled with for the first two years of her transition.

“Your life shall be spared my daughter; you must remember that aside from my sister’s and me, every vampire here is a test.”

Avana released her grip and Trish—having yet to abandon her emotions like her mother had consistently preached like some long forgotten religion, wept for her friend while her hands repeatedly pounded the marble floor. Avana was back by her sisters' side in an instant;. Her perfect features now marred by a slight frown at her daughter’s display. Desiree’s comforting hand on her shoulder, allowed her to relax once more and resume her passive, cold appearance not that any vampire present would dare call her weak. After she was sure Avana was back to herself, Desiree addressed the Mortalitasi next.

“We take great pleasure in condemning those who break our laws, but my children you must see this as a learning experience and nothing less. I see potential in a select few of you and though you will never be allowed to achieve godhood as we have, there may still be purpose in this eternal life for those worthy.”

The crowd remained silent; those who had lived with the mother'smothers’ long enough, knew what speaking out of term would mean. Hannah spoke only after Desiree had sat back down, her lips stained red from drink. Seeing as how Hannah was the compassionate one of the three, most expected her to keep her words short and sweet.

“The trials will start tomorrow; we will be watching each and every one of you. This is no fight to the death or joining of factions; two Mortalitasi will be sent in search of the Blood Queen, any Imperium encountered on your travels should be killed on sight.”

Much like her sister had done, Hannah turned her attention away from the crowd with a single wave of her hand the mansion was empty, save for the three that had pledged their allegiance to them.

“Are you confident in your daughter?”

Hannah’s eyes were curious; she had never been able to understand why Avana had adopted the girl. Sure she could admit, the girl—Trish had promise but the trials would be grueling, especially for a fledgling. Avana’s eyes never let their focus waver, but she answered the question with confidence; it was a sincere question, one she didn’t have an answer to. When she came to Alabama with her sisters, they’d done so solely out of respect for Carmen, but to take in a lowly human? Was it loneliness, perhaps she accepted that much. Avana loved both her sisters but she had wanted someone to mold after herself, and now she had Trish. Composing herself, she turned towards Hannah;

“I am. She’s progressed reasonably well since her transition but I will take your advice sister, what should be done?”

Truthfully, Hannah didn’t know what advice to give; she had no daughter but she could at least advise her sister on how to help her adjust to the change. She smiled; a genuine smile that touched her eyes, her hand resting on Avana’s shoulder.

“You must let her feed; it is wise keeping her from feeding from you, but at least take her hunting with you. Trish is capable of handling herself my sister, you shouldn’t fret.”

Avana nodded slowly and without her having to ask, Desiree chimed in.

“Personally I’d have killed her instead of marking her as my daughter, but that’s why I love you. You aren’t bound by my code Avana so yes; I agree with Hannah, show her what it means to have a mother.” Desiree turned her attention towards her thrall—a young, strawberry-blond haired brown-eyed girl, by the name of Cristina.

Cristina made her way forward; she knew not to anger her mistress, the markings decorating her body were her punishment. When she was first given eternal life by Desiree, she had been nothing short of rebellious but beating after repeated beating, and the rough, forceful taking of her purity had broken her completely.

“Cris, see to it that are meals are brought to our bedchamber within the hour. After you’ve completed this task, you may run a bath and rest.” Cris curtsied low before leaving the three sisters’ to their own devices; once she was gone, Desiree’s kind demeanor changed.

“She won’t be pleased if they don’t follow through with the trials,” a soft thud echoed throughout the foyer. Desiree was exhausted that much was clear, they all were; keeping her happy had helped them in the past sure, but if what had been predicted several years ago came to pass… not even she would be able to rally enough forces.

“Are we sure she’ll be watching the trials?” Hannah asked while rubbing Desiree’s back comfortingly.

While she knew next to nothing about the pact her sisters’ had made, she also knew they’d already thought of all possible outcomes. Then again, it was often said a pact with her meant enslavement for all eternity however true that was, Hannah supposed she would find out in the days’ to come.

“Even if we aren’t, we must be prepared. Desiree there will be time to worry later, for now we feast.”


Zane lay restless in her coffin back home. How was she expected to sleep after what she’d just seen? She wasn’t aware of any trials; the eternally damned were just that. A creed they were expected to follow hadn’t been heard of since the days of Dracula, and even he rarely enforced them. Still she couldn’t abandon the opportunity presented before her; a deep sigh left her lips, was this a test… obviously it was, but was Avana testing her specifically?

When at last, sleep claimed her, Zane found herself in a dark place where she didn’t know but from what she could see, it was a place long gone. The old city ruins of the Blood Queen herself; there were no buildings only pathways, five to be exact each leading to a different destination, much like a gateway. Zane felt pressure like she’d never felt before, how was she supposed to navigate these pathways? No one had taught her the legends, for all she knew the Blood Queen was a legend Dracula started to throw the Imperium off his trail, after he disappeared over two-hundred-years ago.

Zane followed the path to the first gateway, stones magically appearing with each step she took; someone had to have built this place, no dreamer could conjure up something like this… not repeatedly from memory. The gateways were not mirrors as one would expect since vampires had no reflection, it would be impossible for a human—if they could even journey here—to have access or knowledge on how to activate them.

When she made it to the path’s end, Zane looked into the bottomless body of water, and as she suspected, there was no reflection but something akin to a riddle;

She who travels the Blood Queen’s path, shall find nothing but fire sustaining wrath. To find the path the eternal strode, you must first find the city paved with gold.

“Well aren’t you helpful,” Zane deadpanned.

Her mind worked to think of the answer, but the only city she knew of outside the mortal realm was Rivain, but only the mothers had ever journeyed there. Zane woke up; sweat distorting her otherwise, perfect face. She knew Avana knew the answer, she had to and if Zane wanted to impress her by overcoming the trials, she would take whatever advantage she could.

Chapter 2

As she made her way back to the mansion, Zane could feel dread seep into her mind. It was one thing to break one of the laws… accusing one of the women responsible of giving you eternal life? That was blasphemous. Three hesitant raps on the door, and it opened; Zane did not recognize the girl who had opened it, but judging by the bite marks decorating her naked body, she had just entered her transition.

“I’m here to see Avana,” Zane said in a voice laced with fear; her test was just beginning.

To be continued…

H.K. Taylor

Author Bio:

Independant author of lesbian romance. I've published five books so far; i have Cerebal Palsey which makes most normal tasks difficult. Writing is a passion that has allowed me the chance to create women, and worlds in a unique original way.

Twitter @HajileTaylor
Facebook: H.K. Taylor

The Vampire Queen talks:

So, instead of my usual vampire poetry, I decided to do a few articles of interest from the state of Ohio over the next couple months. Being that Halloween is on the horizon, I thought I’d write about the Director of horror. We recently mourned the loss of the great Wesley Earl (Wes) Craven (August 2, 1939 – August 30, 2015) but how many of you knew he was from Cleveland, Ohio? He was born and raised here but then moved to New York later. He was an English Professor at Westminster College, a Humanities Professor at Clarkson University and finally worked at Madrid-Waddington High School. During this time he bought a 16mm camera and fell in love and it wasn’t until he got a shot with a friend of his brothers’ in New York that he launched his career and moved to Manhattan. His first film job was Sound Editor and then became the great Director we knew today and loved.
He was responsible for the Nightmare on Elm Street series of movies along with the Scream movies. However, it wasn’t the horror/slasher movies that he started with. He started with pornographic films making several X-rated movies under various pseudonyms. He made his directorial debut in 1972 with The Last House on the Left and directed all the way up to 2011 with Scream 4.  

He had two children, Jonathan (a Writer and Director in his own rights) and Jessica (a singer/songwriter).
He designed the Halloween logo for Google.
In 1968, he had a letter supporting Frank Zappa in the Time Magazine.
In 1977, he won the Critics Award for the Stiges Film Festival.
In 1997, he won the grand prize for the Gerardmer Film Festival but it wasn’t until 2012 that he won the most prestigious award. He won the Lifetime Achievement Award for the New York City Horror Film Festival for the movie Scream.
The MTV series, Scream (the TV Show), will honor his memory with their 10th episode. He’s done so many great films throughout his career and he will be sincerely missed. Here are some celebrity tweets about his life and death:

RIP Wes Craven, my director, my friend. A brilliant, kind, gentle and very funny man. A sad day on Elm St and everywhere. I'll miss him.

I had the great privilege of working with #WesCraven one of the kindest most gentle souls, who made great scary films. #RIPWesCraven

So sad to hear the news about Wes. An amazing man on set and off and I owe so much to his talents. He will be sorely missed by many...

Damn guys. @WesCraven died. A brilliant filmmaker, he brought quality & depth of character to every movie he made. Amazing library- bravo

Devastated to hear the news. Wes was a great friend, fine director and good man. Giant loss. Much too soon. 

Today the world lost a great man, my friend and mentor, Wes Craven. My heart goes out to his family. x

Thank you for being the kindest man, the gentlest man, and one of the smartest men I've known. Please say there's a plot twist. #wescraven

Edgar Wright, director of “Shaun of the Dead,” penned a lengthy tribute to Craven on his website, writing, “I am thankful for the many movies he left behind, for my tiny part in his last completed film and happy to have got to tell him how much I enjoyed and was inspired by his work. He was a true maestro of genre and a class act (from

Bob Weinstein, co-chairman of The Weinstein Company and Dimension Films, also released this statement: “I am heartbroken at the news of Wes Craven’s passing. We enjoyed a 20 year professional relationship and more importantly a warm and close friendship. He was a consummate filmmaker and his body of work will live on forever. My brother and I are eternally grateful for all his collaborations with us. Our deepest sympathy to his family” (from

Rest in peace, Wes Craven. Hollywood Horror Master, Dead at 76 

Master of horror, @WesCraven, has passed. Thank you for your legendary contribution to our show and the entire genre. 

Author Bio:

The Vampire Queen1 aka Jodie Pierce has been writing since Jr. High School but was unsatisfied with her teenage romance stories. One day, a friend handed her an Anne Rice book and she found her inspiration. She’s been writing about vampires ever since. She's got many books to choose from including some charity anthologies!


Rand's Story:
The Dead Shall Rise part 1


Brien O'Raighne
Cityfair Apartments. Downtown Storm City...

A janitor heads to his closet to get a mop and bucket. He opens the door and a body of a young voluptuous woman falls out. The janitor jumps back in shock. "What the hell?"
He, then, pulls out his cell and calls 911.

A half hour later, SCPD homicide Detective Randall Goodson and his partner, Leia Hawthorne, pull up to the apartment building. They head inside where the medical examiner is with the body of the young woman. Randall and Leia stroll towards the police tape. They cross under the police tape and stop beside the medical examiner.

The medical examiner, a black woman with black dreads named Galenda Fontenot, looks up at Detective Goodson. Randall crosses his arms. "So what do we have here?"

"This young woman was killed here. But I am not sure how." She says. "Her skin is grayish and cold. I am not sure how this happened."

"What do you mean?" Det. Goodson asks.

"Take a look at these marks on her arms." Galenda says as she lifts the young woman's arm where 

Rand can see the circular marks and small puncture marks.

A look of fear and disbelief crosses Rand's face. Galenda raises a brow. Rand gulps. Leia looks at her partner. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not exactly sure, Leia." Rand remarks. "But this is the second time I have seen these marks. I just cannot recall where I have seen them before. I am going to need to get a consult with some people who know this better than I do."

"Okay?" Leia says raising a brow. She watches as Rand walks away from her. He crosses under the tape and heads out the front door.
Rand opens the contacts on his phone. He swipes down until he reaches the name BARNABAS. He takes a deep breath and exhales. He, then, hits the phone icon.

"Hello," he hears on the phone.

"This is he. Who am I speaking with?"

"This is Detective Goodson."

"What can I do for you today, Detective?"

"I saw something today that I have not seen in two centuries."

"What did it look like?"
"I saw five circular marks with small puncture wounds on a dead woman whose skin is now grayish in hue." Rand says as he rubs the back of his neck.

"Please tell me that this is some sort of sick joke." Barnabas spouts.

"I wish it was. I fear that this may just be the beginning."

"Damn it!" Barnabas spouts. "This could only be one of two things and neither is good."


"These are the marks of either a succubus or incubus." Barnabas says. "Were there any bite marks?"


"Thank the Lord for that." Barnabas. "That means this is an incubus. But keep a close eye on the body of the young woman."

"What for? She's dead and cold."

"You better hope she stays that way." Barnabas warns him. "I will contact your captain to tell him to expect a couple of members of Metapol to join his team for these cases."

"Thank you, Barnabas." Rand says. "Elerby is one of only two or three people in the precinct who know that I am a vampire."

"You better hope it stays that way, Randall."

"I know. My partner does not even know."

"You are playing a dangerous game my friend."

"I was planted here by Carpenter to keep an eye out for any supernatural activities in Storm City."

"Well, he does know what he is doing." Barnabas remarks. "But be careful. Make sure you don't run into either of those creatures. Especially after having fed. They could turn you as well."

"Thank you. I will take that under advisement." Rand says. "I have to go back." Rand sees his partner exiting the building as Galenda's team wheels out the body on a gurney.
Leia walks over to Rand. "What the hell, Rand? Why did you walk out of the building?"

"I needed a consult about those mysterious marks."

"So what did you find out?" Leia crosses her arms. Rand gulps.

"I'm not sure you'll believe me. It sounds like something out of a horror novel."

"Uh huh?" Leia raises a brow as she nods her head.

"Okay. I'll tell you what I found out. Now, take this with an open mind. It may sound far fetched." Rand tells Leia.
She takes a deep breath and exhales. "Fine."

"Those marks are from an incubus."

Leia starts to chuckle. "Sorry. Trying to keep an open mind. You're right, though. It does sound like something from a horror novel."

"We are going to need to head back to the precinct." Rand says. "I have a feeling that the captain is going to want to talk to us."

"Okay, then. Let's get going."

Both Rand and Leia climb into Rand's red 2012 Ford Mustang GT. He revs the engine and takes off headed back to the precinct's office. An incubus is here, now? What the hell is going on? This cannot be good. I am going to need to speak with Lydia and soon. She must know something about this.

About the Author, Brien O’Raighne

Author Bio:
My name is Brien O’Raighne and I hail from Houston, Texas.
I have a son from a previous marriage.
I love to write. It is a passion of mine. Some would say an obsession, but those don’t really support me when they call it an obsession.
My writing usually combines my influences of Epic Fantasy, Sci-Fi Sagas, Paranormal, Classic Horror monsters, Superheroes and more. With what I like movie wise it would be hard for most people to understand some of my major influences in writing.
My influences include: J.K. Rowling, E.B. White, Homer, William Shakespeare, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Chris Claremont, Lara Hama, Margaret Weis, Tracey Hickman, J Michael Strasczynski, Todd McFarlane, Scott Lobdell, Timothy Zahn, Roald Dahl, amongst others.

Fun facts about me:
Zodiac sign:  Sagitarius
Favorite Genres: Sci-Fi, Paranormal, Mystery, Action/Adventure, Fantasy, Romance, Suspense
Favorite Music: Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, Chris Tomlin, Chris Rice, Some Queen, Some Journey, Aerosmith
Favorite Foods: Pizza, Hot Dogs, Spaghetti, Quiche, Eggs, Pancakes, Yogurt, Cheesecake, Pumpkin Pie, Ham, Mac & Cheese


Vice-President Lindsey Jayne has a new book out, Graceful Damnation recently released 9/26 so check it out at here.

Ronald Edward Griffin has signed a publishing agreement with Immortal Publishing and is re-releasing his premier book Blood Stained Lives on 10/1. You'll be able to find it on Amazon soon.

Brien O'Raighne is planning to release Southern Hospitality on November 17th, 2015 provided that all the edits and rewrites are completed. The book will be released in both print and digital formats.

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