Sunday, November 1, 2015

Darkness Within Vol.5-November

Hi all!
Welcome to the November issue of Darkness Within Ezine!!


President & CEO

Vice-President & Cover Artist


The Red-Eyed Demon of St. Alban Sanitarium by Thom Futrell
Lore’s Corner: Samhain by LM David
The Worm Farm by Carol Tietsworth
The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood Part 4 by Ronald Edward Griffin
Ohio Stories by Jodie Pierce
Dead Love by Samuel Southwell
The Oven Master by Geoffrey Porter
Detective Goodson: The Dead Shall Rise Part 2 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


Described by many experienced paranormal teams as the “most active location on the east coast” – a night at St Albans Sanatorium is not for the weak or squeamish! Long before the St Albans Lutheran Boys School came into existence in 1892; members of the Powhatan, Shawnee and Cherokee Indian tribes inhabited this land. The Draper’s Meadow Massacre in 1775 tells the story of the horrors faced by early pioneers and of Mary Draper Ingles journey home after her capture by the Shawnees.
The Civil War also had its share of violence on this hill overlooking the New River. In 1865 Union forces defeated Confederate forces during the battles of Newbern and Cloyd’s Mountain. Union artillery bombarded the settlement of Central Depot (now the city of Radford) from the ridge where St Albans stands today.
As magnificent as the St Albans Boys School was it had its share of darkness. An article describing the school sums up some of the horror that plagued the intellectual students; “The atmosphere at the school was rough and competitive. It clearly favored the stronger boys (or bullies as we would say today) and made short work of the more cerebral types like one E. Blackburn Runyon, whose painful experience at the school was poignantly summed up by a yearbook editor in 1904: “E. Blackburn Runyon did not return after Christmas, much to our sorrow, as it put a stop to the football games on the terrace in which he figured prominently as the football.” Though no official records indicate that students lost their lives (by suicide or by homicide) it is rumored that several lives were lost during the time that St Albans was a boy’s school.
In 1916 Dr. J.C. King converted St Albans from a boy’s school to a hospital for the mentally ill and St Albans Sanatorium came into existence. Even though the treatment of mental disorders at St Albans was far superior to the care given to “lunatics” at other facilities, many patients succumbed as a result of the experimental treatments performed at this institution. Insulin Coma Therapy (ICT), Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT) and Hydro Shock Therapy (HST) all resulted in a significant number of fatalities.  There are several documented suicides. This obituary from the Southwest Times chronicles one such lost soul “Mrs. Susan Jane Sayers, wife of W.B. Sayers, died Saturday night at the St. Albans Sanatorium, Radford, where she had been under treatment. Her condition had been extreme for some days and the end not unexpected, it being realized there was no hope.”
On June 28, 1980 the heinous murder of Gina Renee Hall was committed not far from St Albans and her blood stained car was found only a few hundred yards away on Hazel Hollow Road. Often when paranormal investigations are conducted in the basement, and in particular the bowling alley, a strange and almost sentient mist is seen in conjunction with the mention of her name.
There is also the story of Becca, a Patient of St. Albans who had a still born child. She kept the stillborn child in a jar in her room until the staff took it away from her. Soon after, she hung herself in her room. Since then there have been reports of at least three others who have also hung themselves in the same room.
For nearly a decade paranormal groups have investigated St Albans and the reports of full bodied apparitions, shadow figures, levitating objects, disembodied (often threatening) voices and physical contact are just some of the documented occurrences. A “ghost hunt” at St Albans Sanatorium is much more than an occasional slamming door, benign EVPs, blinking flashlights or rolling balls. There is a legend of a red eyed demon that was formed by all of the evil that took place in the Sanitarium. Several paranormal groups have reported seeing the red eyes staring at them, especially in the mini bowling alley. I saw a mist form in one of the corridors and move from right to left, dissolving into the darkness.
All in all, the Sanitarium is a truly creepy place with a bloody history dating back before the first stone was laid. If there is any truth to land being cursed or tainted, this place is a pretty good piece of evidence supporting that. 

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

This name has popped up several times but the meaning behind it was not known. I believed it had something to do with pagans but never sure. Here is what was learned about Samhain.
Samhain is a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season and beginning of winter or the "darker half" of the year. Traditionally, it is celebrated from sunset on 31 October to sunset on November 1st and the festivities fall approximately halfway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. It is one of the four Gaelic seasonal festivals, which are also celebrated approximately halfway between the two yearly solstices and equinoxes: Imbolc, Beltane, and Lughnasadh. Historically, it has been widely observed throughout Ireland, and later the Isle of Man and Scotland.
The Mound of the Hostages, a Neolithic passage tomb at the Hill of Tara, is aligned with the Samhain sunrise. Samhain is mentioned in early Irish literature and known to have pre-Christian roots. Many important events in Irish mythology happen or begin on Samhain. It was the time when cattle were brought back down from the summer pastures and when livestock were slaughtered for winter. As at Beltane, special bonfires were lit. These were deemed to have protective and cleansing powers and there were rituals involving them. Samhain (like Beltane) was seen as a liminal time, when the spirits or fairies (the Aos Sí) could more easily come into our world. Most scholars see the Aos Sí as remnants of the pagan gods and nature spirits that the Aos Sí needed to be appeased to ensure the people and their livestock survived the winter. Offerings of food and drink were left for them. The souls of the dead were also thought to revisit their homes. Feasts were had, at which the souls of dead kin were beckoned to attend, and a place set at the table for them. Mumming and guising were part of the festival, and involved people going door-to-door in costume (or in disguise), often reciting verses in exchange for food. The costumes may have been a way of imitating, or disguising oneself from, the Aos Sí. Divination rituals were also a big part of the festival and often involved nuts and apples. In the late 19th century, Sir John Rhys and Sir James Frazer suggested that it was the "Celtic New Year".
In the 9th century AD, the Early Church shifted the date of All Saints' Day to 1 November, while the 2nd of November later became All Souls' Day. Over time, Samhain and All Saints'/All Souls' merged to create the modern Halloween. Historians have used the name 'Samhain' to refer to Gaelic 'Halloween' customs up until the 19th century.
Bottom line, the tradition of Halloween may have evolved from Samhain celebrations and it’s nice knowing that little slice of historic information.
Reference: Wikipedia/Samhain

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
I found out later, much later that they had a lot of insurance on the house and on each other. Apparently, there was no missing person report for anyone around my age anywhere in the area, and the local doctor said that Anita had come in for a pregnancy test, and requested somewhere to go for an abortion around  17 years ago. So unless I "fell off a space ship" the sheriff and the courts had determined that I was her next-of-kin, and so I inherited. I still had no name, but the nurses had called me Charlie. Charlie, I became. They told me that I was the lone survivor of the "accident" and that I had some pretty bad injuries, so I'd have to stay in the hospital for a while.

The doctors and nurses, and later the sheriff told me that I had been found outside, with a handcuff on my wrist, with some very serious injuries, and it looked like the explosion, if that was what it had been, had blown me clean out of the house. They weren't really sure what had happened, and the sheriff had muttered "there wasn't enough left to fill a small sack", but that the bartender had said that my parents had been at the bar earlier, and after receiving a phone call, had gone flying out.

No one had known what to make of me at first. No one knew anything about them having any children, and the handcuff was disturbing and pretty hard to swallow. After the sheriff had asked what I remembered, "Remember, sir? I was in my closet..." the questions had mostly stopped.
They trotted in the counselors, and psychiatrists, and I answered most of the questions with the truth or my version of it, and if it got too close to the night of the "accident" I told about being bound and gagged and started to cry, and they left me alone.

The food had me pretty sick at first, and the nurses joked about "hospital food", but there was so much of it-food that I had never even tasted before, that I almost enjoyed the stomach upsets. After all, I was throwing up better food than I had ever eaten.

After about four months, they put me into an assisted living home, and the nurses came to me. The counselors had to buy me everything, because I had nothing. Of course, I could afford it; the "parents" had some good investments, besides the house and each other. The counselors helped me to get a social security card, and talked about a tutor to help me regain whatever I had lost. They were impressed that I could do a lot for myself, like vacuum and run the washer, but all those slave years had made me efficient. I tried to dumb myself down whenever they were around, so there would be minimal questions.

I got the tutor and the social security card, we had to guess at my birth date, because apparently I wasn't in the system anywhere.

They did everything they could to help me. They treated me with sympathy, and like I was "slow". When they explained something to me, they used simple terms and even drew pictures. The sheriff and his deputy came by to take me fishing. We always had to stop and get bait on the way. It gave me an idea.

In a few months, I told these people who worried so much about me, that I wanted to find out about stuff. I wanted to start my own little place, so I would have a job, and not be such a burden on everyone. I wanted to live in my own little house, and take care of myself. They were helpful and said that I showed 'spunk', but they cautioned me to go slow.

I told them I wanted to become a worm farmer.

They all did everything they could to help me. Someone knew of a little farm outside the next town that was available to buy. Some of the locals helped me check it out and make the down-payment. Some people from the courthouse helped me to set everything up.

I was introduced, at the library, to the internet. I spent long days looking up different kinds of worms and how to farm them for bait. I was the first one in the library most days, and sometimes even the last one out. On days when the library wasn't open, I cleaned up at the farm. I was always drawing pictures, to figure out what I wanted, and how I wanted to do it. I had almost figured it all out.

They all were so helpful whenever I had questions. I acted shy, and it must have been a good act, because they all, to a person, were very gentle with me, and my tortured feelings. None of them could forget the details of my past, or the handcuff, and I developed the habit of going very still and starting to tremble  when something didn't go my way. So very still, and sort of scared-looking, like I was waiting for the punch or the slap. With all my experience, it was very easy to do, and it was very effective.

Over that first winter, I spent a lot of time in the outbuildings on my farm. One of the sheds I had made into a kind of tool shed, and made racks for the ladders and rakes, and a worktable to keep all my tools, as I got them,  on. I hung peg-board and carefully drew around the tools with white paint, so my friends would see how careful I was being. Everything in its place.

I also dug up the dirt floor of that shed. When my friends asked, I told them I wanted to lay some concrete so I could park my tractor in the shed. I didn’t even have a tractor, a fact pointed out to me many times, but I had it in my head that a tractor would be needed, so I made the space. I also got some help making one of the shed walls into a wider door. It was a lot of work, back-breaking work, but for the first time in my life, or in the life that I could remember, I was working for me. I went to bed exhausted every night, but it was good, because it was to my benefit.

Right about then was when I told my friends that they should try to call me, before dropping in to visit. I said I expected there'd be times I was outside, or out in the barn and not at the house. I told them that because of the colder weather, I would worry about them wandering around looking for me, so it would be better if they called first. One of the counselors got me a little cell-phone. It was a cheap one, with pre-paid time, so they could keep tabs on me. I promised to call every few days, so they wouldn't worry. Now, I could really plan my future!

I waited for a few weeks while the weather started to warm up towards Spring,  planning and drawing and giving my friends time to get out of the habit of their almost daily visits, those things I was planning would be hard to do alone, but easier without witnesses. I had decided, long ago it seemed now, to make those other people-the ones like my mother and Sir-pay for their ways in this life,  just the way their victims had to. The worm farm would be my smoke-screen. In fact, the worms would be my partners, willing or not.

Worms are carnivorous. They will eat dirt and leaf matter, but they will also eat flesh. This fact was revealed to me when one of the people helping me set up the farm had said that maybe I could get some of the county's road-kill sent out to me. I could put it through grinders and mix it with the worm crumbles. He said it would help the worms to grow bigger and hardier. I guess flesh is flesh, and the worms won't care if it was deer, or coon, or anybody else.

I didn't wind up laying a cement floor in that shed, only a wooden one much later. Not until I had dug out the entire floor, dug down about fourteen feet, dug a tunnel out to the side, then dug a great root cellar. I laid cinder blocks in for walls, reading books to figure out the way. I made the "root cellar" about 12 x 12 feet with 10 foot high walls. I put a cement floor in there, and that took a lot of planning and pictures and looking up directions. I took a rake to the floor of dirt and carefully took out all but the smallest rocks. Then I got bags of sand delivered, from the hardware store, enough to cover the floor to five inches deep. That doesn’t sound like much sand, but believe me, it really is. Then I had bags of Portland cement delivered. I had spent almost one whole afternoon at the hardware store discussing the ‘care and feeding’ of cement. Larry, the clerk at the store, had told me I could buy a bunch of bags for fixing up stuff, like making a patio, and putting in a mailbox and stuff. He said they could deliver it and as long as it stayed dry I would have it when I needed it. He  insisted that I should order a lot, ( I think he got a commission) so I did, and they delivered it right to the farm. The guy even put all the bags right into the shed I had cleared out for the stuff, right after he told me I should put a couple wooden pallets down first.

I mixed those bags of cement, 2 or 3 bags at a time, right in the basement and shoveled them onto the sand that I’d carefully tamped down. I spread each wheelbarrow full, starting all the way in the back corner and bringing it forward. I did a bit at a time, letting each section set before I started another chunk. When all the sand was covered with cement to a depth of 4 inches, I mixed another three bags, a lot looser than the first bags had been mixed and made what they had told me was a ‘skim’ coat, effectively leveling the cement pad, and I carefully planted a set of dog run-out stakes and rings in the floor before that skim coat set. I had also set meat hooks and tie-rings in the cinder block wall while I had laid it, then painted the blocks with that white water-proofing stuff from the hardware store. I ran a heavy-duty extension cord down into the room and ran it up the side of the wall. I hung one of those reflector type lights off it so I'd have light to work, and other things.

In the room directly under the shed, I had laid cinder block floors and walls as well, making it a mirror of the root cellar beyond. In this room of course, there weren't any rings or hooks, only shelves, and these shelves were some of my earlier attempts and so were crudely made. I put a few old books haphazardly on those shelves, along with some old jars and bottles, and paint cans. A little more smoke-screen. I made a good framing for the ceiling, and then covered it with wood.

The wall with the tunnel to the 'dungeon" as I was now calling it, was heavily batted with insulation, covered with wall-board, and I had attached more crudely made shelves to the board, effectively masking the door to my dungeon. I was wondering how to get water there, for the clean up afterwards, but had determined that laying newspaper on the floor, then burning the paper would be an easier way to do that. Or, I reasoned I could use the dirty newspaper in the worm beds. Blood is blood, I was sure they would like the meaty-flavored treat.

Because my friends were curious, although well meaning, I had also laid a sidewalk from the house out to where the worm bed would be and also put a cement floor in the shed closest to the worms. I put up saw horses and used posts and string to mark the places they would go. I left the string up while I slowly excavated the marked-out areas, then dug them out a little at a time, over a week or two, so my visitors would have something to see when they dropped by. My friends told me that they were glad to see I was taking my time and doing things right.

I also laid out the strings to where I would excavate for the worm bed. I planned on making it the size of a garden plot at first, figuring that I could make it bigger if things worked out. I dug down about a foot and hauled the dirt away in the wheelbarrow. I went on down to the hardware store and asked the clerk about what to lay at the bottom of the bed. The research had recommended plastic or peat moss, but I didn’t like the idea of plastic, because I thought it would get too hot but I didn’t want to let the worms just dig themselves away from me. The clerk at the store recommended some stuff called landscape cloth, a kind of woven mesh stuff that would let any overflow of wash seep through, keep the worms from escaping, and keep the heat down. I ordered enough to line the plot I had now, and the same again in case of future diggings.

Now that the dungeon was set up, I spent long hours cleaning and decorating my house, and long, hard hours setting up for the worm delivery in the early spring. I had the librarian help me write an ad for the bulletin board, asking for old newspapers that I would grind up for the worm bedding. I needed an enormous amount, as I would need to have enough to regularly grind and fork into their beds. The librarian said I should ask for leaves too, year-round-to add to the newspapers and to change the mix for the worms. People, she said, would be glad for somewhere to take them.

I went on the internet and bought almost every book there was about worm farming. I also sent for a lot of worm catalogs. I made my choice- red wigglers. They had everything going for them: they grew fast, they ate anything that didn't eat them and they reproduced at an alarming rate. If something happened to fall into the beds, the vibration would bring out the worms for dinner just like those fish that can strip out a cow in minutes. Worms weren't as fast as that, but there would be a lot of worms.

I also bought this electrical shocker thing; I figured I could use it to electrocute fish before I threw them into the worms. I don't know if fish have feelings, but it seemed cruel to throw a live fish into a mass of carnivorous worms.

Time passed and I called my friends less and less, and got comfortable being alone. I would go out in the yards for bracing walks while I thought about how I could do what I felt I had to do. While I was still thinking and planning, winter melted into spring.

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

t, and

The She-wolf of Lake Wildwood
Part 4

By: Ronald Edward Griffin

Next door at Kurts house
            Kurt wakes up still on the sofa and starts rubbing the back of his neck. He stands up and walks into the bathroom to relieve himself before starting his normal routine. Once he finishes up in the bathroom he walks outside to get the morning paper. When he bends over to get it he notices the police car leaving next door and an ambulance driving down the road. He then looks over to Tabetha noticing that she seems quite a bit upset. Kurt walks over slowly unsure if he should even be getting involved. He clears his throat which startles her slightly since he was behind her.
            “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just wanted to make sure that everything is okay.”
            “Yeah I’m just a little surprised. They found my date from last night dead at the park. They asked me a few questions since I was the last one that had seen him.” She says.
            Kurt seems a little nervous at her answer.
            “You didn’t kill him did you?” he asks nervously.
            He can see the hurt in her eyes the moment the statement escaped his lips. He had wished he hadn’t said that but it was too late now.
            “No I didn’t kill him and I am surprised you would even ask.”
Tabetha’s eyes shift down to the ground as she remembers the vivid dream she had and was a little unsure herself as to what she did last night.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking. Sometimes my mouth runs without me having a chance to stop it. Do you need anything?” he asks feeling guilty.
“No thank you I’ll be just fine.” She says sounding hurt.
“Well you know I’m just next door if you need anything. Are you still going to come by for that interview tonight?”
“Yeah I’ll be there.”
“I’ll see you then. I am sorry I ran my mouth off though really I am. I suffer from a severe case of foot in the mouth.”
She lets out a weak laugh at his attempt at humor.
“Really it’s ok you don’t really know anything about me yet.”
“Well I’ll see you tonight then and you have a good shot at getting the job. Hopefully that will make your day a little better.” Kurt says with a smile.
Tabetha catches him off guard as she embraces him with a warm hug. He hugs her back uncomfortably until he can hear Diane clearing her throat. Kurt feels her intense stare on the back of his head so he slowly turns around seeing his wife glare at him with her arms crossed and a cocked eyebrow.
“Did you find the paper honey?” she asks through gritted teeth.
Oh great I’m sleeping on the sofa again tonight. “It’s not how it looks Diane her boyfriend was murdered last night.”
“Actually he wasn’t my boyfriend. He was just a guy I met and had one date with.” Tabetha says slightly insulted.
Kurt closes his eyes. Oh why did you have to say that? Why couldn’t you have just agreed? Kurt turns back to Tabetha with a look of disbelief. She gives him an apologetic look realizing she didn’t help his case before putting her hand on her door knob.
“Sorry I think I need to get back inside. I have a few slobs to clean up after before I go out for an interview tonight.” She says before disappearing into the house.
Kurt turns back around to face his angry wife.
“So what was that girl doing with her arms around you again Kurt?”
“She hugged me Diane so what I cannot help it.” Kurt says while walking to her.
“What were you even doing over there in the first place? I thought you couldn’t stand college kids much less a college girl. I warned you not to let her put her hands on you again.”
“I was concerned because the police had just left. I was being neighborly honey that is all.”
“Well you may as well get comfortable with the sofa again because it will be awhile before I want you back in the bedroom again Kurt. You’re my husband and I can’t have you running off on me with a younger woman. You know how my last marriage ended and about my parents.” Diane says with tears filling her eyes.”
Guilt swells in Kurts’ stomach as he remembers all the stories she had told him about her ex husband and how he cheated on her and left her for a teenage girl. Her father had also done the same thing but when her mom threatened to divorce him he went crazy and murdered her.  
“I am sorry Diane she doesn’t mean anything to me like that. You are the only woman I love or ever will love.”
She doesn’t say anything to him as she wipes the tears from her cheek. Then she turns around and enters the house slamming the door behind her.
I don’t know what to do about her. She has never acted this jealous before. I better make sure I keep away from the girl next door and keep things professional at work.
He slowly opens the front door and closes it gently behind him after entering.
Next door Tabetha watches Kurt as he enters the house feeling a little bad about causing an argument with his wife. Then she looks over to the kitchen window and notices his wife Diane staring straight at her through the window. Quickly she moves from the window and feels her heart beat quicken.
            That woman is scary. I feel bad for Kurt having to live like that.
            Tabetha starts feeling a strange attraction to Kurt. Although she’s unsure whether it is a genuine attraction or because of the thrill of what seems to be a dangerous wife. Only time will tell. She shrugs the thoughts aside and gets back to doing exactly what she had said she was. Clean up after the slobs that are still passed out in the living room.
To be continued... 

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.

The Vampire Queen talks:

Since I just missed Halloween and sticking with my hometown of Ohio’s theme, I’m going to let you know about our haunted prison, Ohio State Reformatory or Mansfield Reformatory.
The building of the prison started on November 4, 1886 but it’s doors were not open to the 150 prisoners until 1896. The Cleveland Architect Levi T. Scofield designed the prison with three different styles:
·         Victorian Gothic
·         Richardsonian Romanesque
·         Queen Anne
It was the only prison in the US that had six tiers of cells.

After housing over 155,000 men while open, the doors to the reformatory closed on December 31, 1990. Today, they are attempting to renovate the prison and make it a historic site. Visitors from all over the world come to see the prison, go on the prison walks and overnight ghost hunts, and their haunted house from September 25th to November 1st which can be found at where all the proceeds from the gift shop go towards the renovation (I got a t-shirt).
The prison site has been used in movies and videos since it’s closure. Below is a list from Wikipedia of all the uses of the prison:
Harry and Walter Go to New York
 (1975) - Harry and Walter spend some time behind bars at the penitentiary, when the prison was still in operation.
·         Tango & Cash (1989) - The facility was used for various prison scenes.
·         The Shawshank Redemption (1994) - The prison was used for a large panning scene and the warden's office; an officers' quarters were used to shoot a sequence set in a civilian apartment.

·         Air Force One (1997) - The prison was used for scenes of a Russian prison for General Ivan Radek.

·         Godsmack "Awake" music video 2000.

·         Marilyn Manson promotional photography, 1996 - Frontman, Brian Hugh Warner, grew up in Canton, Ohio.
·         Ohio State Reformatory has been the subject of numerous paranormal investigation shows, including the Fox Family Channel's Scariest Stories on Earth, and Scariest Places On Earth.
·         The Travel Channel did a tourism documentary[which?] on the OSR.
·         In 2005, The Atlantic Paranormal Society (TAPS) investigated the facility for the SciFi Channel's TV series Ghost Hunters.
·         In 2004 Lil Wayne featured this prison in his video for the song "Go DJ".

·         In April 2006 the horror/thriller motion picture Fallen Angels (2007) was filmed almost entirely at OSR.
·         WWE shot a promotional poster featuring Triple H for their 2008 Judgment Day event in the facility.

·         In 2009 the facility was featured on Ghost Adventures in Season 3 Episode 4.[which?]
·         In 2010, the facility was used for an episode of Ghost Hunters Academy.
·         It is the filming place for the music video of the song "Relentless Chaos" by Miss May I.
·         The Purple Smoke Project (Hip hop group) filmed a video for the song "Calm Down" in 2011
·         Attack Attack! shot a portion of their video "Smokahontas" in 2011
·         Anti-Flag shot the majority of their video for "The New Sound" in the prison
·         The National Geographic Channel featured the prison on the show Inside: Secret America S1/Ep 05 for the episode "Ghosts" in 2013
·         Ghost Asylum on Destination America in 2015

So, if you’re in Ohio, make sure you visit the Mansfield Reformatory for all your paranormal and jailhouse needs.
( and Wikipedia contributed to this story).

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!


Part 1

Mike stood on the ledge of the building. Below him he could see the army of the damned. In his hand he held the empty, useless, smoking gun. He was covered in blood and guts fighting his way up through the building to get to the top. For what?


“Hey Mike come here.” Jane sat on the bed giving him that come hither look.
“What do you need? I’m busy.” He glanced at her and his eyes melted into hers.
She stands up, walks up behind him, sliding her hand up his shirt. “What do I need?” She rubs his chest and he starts to melt even more.
“Come on Jane I have to finish this.” He grabs her hand and holds it.
“But I don’t want you to go?” She puts her other arm around him and kisses the back of his neck. Slowly, seductively, causing him to drop his shirt on the floor.
He spins her around to face him and gives her a hard passionate kiss on the lips. “Oh my dear sweet Jane. You know I have to go for business. I will be back in a week. Promise.”
“I know how important this trip is to your career. But..” She runs her nails down his chest sending chills to every nerve in his body.
He kisses her again. “Oh my Jane this trip could change our lives forever. If, no, when I get this promotion our life will be wonderful. We will have enough money to buy our house and start a family. Just like I always promised.” Mike stares deep into her eyes. “Don’t you trust me.”
“Oh Baby. You know I do I just have a bad feeling that...”
He puts his finger up to her lips. “Please Jane not another word.” He picks her up and carries her to the bed. They embrace and soon the words fall away as well as their clothes.
Afterwords he finishes packing and with one last kiss he is out the door. Jane leans on the door with the look of dread in her eye. “Goodbye my love.”

George stood in line checking his watch every few minutes. His flight was due to leave in a few hours and the line was longer then he liked.
Mike stood behind him basking in the afterglow. Thinking about Jane.
“This is bull. I am going to miss my flight. They do this on purpose. They could open more lines but do they? no. Why would they? We are just cattle is all.”
Mike pulled out his phone flipping it to a picture of Jane at the bench.He smiles thinking about that day. The surf, the sun, how beautiful she looked in her two piece blue suit. How they sat out there until the sun went down. Siting on that blanket holding each other. Watching the sunset. How the color of the water reflected in her eyes. He loved those wonderful eyes.
George checks his watch again. “It’s just wrong I tell you. We are just like cattle is all.” He turns to Mike. “You know what I mean?”
Mike’s memory shattered into a thousand pieces. "What?”
“ Cattle!”
Mike looked at him puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
George glanced at his watch again. “They treat us like cattle. Just a big heard of cattle is all we are to these companies. Damn corporation. I blame the government. They started this mess and now I have to go clean it up.”
Mike half listened. “Government huh?”
“Yeah it don’t matter. I doubt I will be able to stop it anyway. I warned them.”
“Warned them about what?”
George began to say something then stopped himself. “Let’s just say be careful and look to your loved ones.”
Mike watched George walk up to the check-in terminal. “Crazy people.”

Mike strolled through LAX with confidence in his stride. This was going to be the biggest trip in his life. He was going to get that promotion he could feel it.
He grabbed his bag and headed for the exit. The streets of LA were crowded and busy with people going to and fro.
Mike walked up to one of the cabs and got in. “To the Hamilton hotel.” He told the driver as they started off. He pulled out his cell and dialed Jane. She didn’t answer. Strange he thought.
The driver pulled into the parking lot. “Here you go pal. That will be $12.46.”
Mike hands him a twenty. “Keep it.”
“Thanks pal.” The driver helps him with his bag and Mike goes into the hotel.
The hotel is quiet compared to the streets outside. There is a nice young blond behind the desk. She has long flowing hair, deep blue eyes, and an inviting smile. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes I have a reservation. Name is Mike Roth.” He set his bag down in front of him.
“Roth let’s see...Oh yes here we are Mike Roth. It says here you will be staying with us for 5 days. Is that right?”
“Yes I am here on business. I have a big presentation to make in a few days. Biggest one of my career.”
She stares at him with her deep blue eyes. “Really well I am sure you will do great. You look like a man with a lot of confidence. My kind of guy.”
He stares back at her trying not to fall into those pools of blue. “Yeah so where is my room. I need to settle in and call my fiancee. Let her know I got here safe.”
 She reaches behind her as a printer goes off. She waits a few seconds and turns back with a key card and a paper. “You will be in room 651. Sign here please.” She hands him the paper.
Mike takes the paper and signs it. Then she hands him the key. “Thank you.”
“Good luck with your presentation.” She says as he turns to walk away.
“Thank you again.”
Mike opened the door to his room and tossed his bag on the bed. Then he pulled out his cellphone. “Jane honey. I miss you!”
“I miss you too.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. The question is how are you doing?”
“Nervous!” He sat on the bed.
“I know but you going to do great. I believe in you.”
“Thank you babe! I needed that.” His heart swelled with her love as they continued to talk into the night. Soon he hung up and crawled into bed for tomorrow was going to make or brake him.

Author Bio:
Samuel D Southwell has been pubished a dozen times, holds a BA in English Literature, and currently lives in Pinellas Park, Fl.


The Oven Master

By Geoffrey C Porter

     Lately I have felt a certain guilt.  It is not so much what I have done, but what is allowed to continue by what I do.  My nephew, Benjamin Grabble, introduced me to this business which I loathe.  Late one Saturday night, he called me on the telephone in tears.  “Uncle, you’ve got to help me!”
I should have known better, but at the time, I was worried for his safety.  At least, that is my line of reasoning in recollection.  In truth, I think I hoped for it to be a single instance and not an ongoing thing.
     Three months later, the slick black Cadillac backed into the loading dock of my mortuary with a nimble hand at the wheel.  I had already brought the cart out.  The trunk opened on the vehicle, and two men in dark suits and white shirts stepped out of the car and had the nerve to smile at me.  The one on my right, who called himself Squid, reached in his coat and withdrew a manila envelope.  He tossed it at me, and I caught it.
I set it unopened on the counter.  I would put it with the others after the night was through.          The other man, who called himself Butch, approached the back of the car and started tossing plastic bags on the cart.  I helped.  I figure I better help if I valued the life of my nephew, his family, and myself.
     Once the cart was full of what looked like a whole person, Squid closed the trunk, and Butch nodded.  I pushed the cart towards the ovens.  When we made it there, I pulled the grate open and started loading the bags on to the platform.  As I set the last bag on the steel, I said a silent prayer to God for the forsaken soul I was about to dispose of.  I assumed them to be criminals no better than Squid or Butch, or frankly, no better than myself at that point.  Butch and Squid waited for the oven to finish.  They asked me if I had any booze.  I simply shook my head no.
     The oven finished, and I walked them to their car.  Every step of the way, I told myself to call the authorities.  My nephew made it clear to me they had enough murdering friends, and there was no way the police could put them all away.  I never knew when they’d call and want to drop something off.  One time they stopped in, gave me an envelope, and didn’t even open the trunk.  They kept me guessing.  If I did call the authorities and Squid and Butch brought an empty car, I’d be stuck, and they knew it.
     I wanted to confide in someone, but I knew of no one whom I could trust with this vital data.  I began to reflect as if I were concaving in on myself.  I didn’t believe in Judgment Day.  I didn’t believe in the Bible.  I didn’t believe in souls.  I believe we’re just dumb animals no more likely to have a Heaven than a frog or a snake has a Heaven.  But I had to ask myself, would I cause harm to a frog or a snake?  The answer was no.  Still, all I was doing was running the oven; I would allow it for the safety of my nephew and his wife.
      A month passed.  Tuesday night.  Telephone call at 10:30.  Butch needs my services once again.  I got dressed and met them in the loading dock with the cart.  Butch unloaded a single suitcase, a big one, onto the cart.  Then they left without watching me burn the thing.  I paused.  Blood was soaked through the suitcase in one corner.  I decided I only had one safe choice: burn it.
     I pushed the cart back to the oven and put the suitcase on the platform.  I slid it into the oven and closed the door.  I spun the dial and lit the igniters.  Within a few moments, I heard screams.
     I shut the oven off and opened the door.  A woman lay dying on the grate.  Pieces of the suitcase had melted into her flesh, and in other places, her flesh was charred black.  She writhed in agony, twitched a few times, and lay still.  I pulled the platform out as the flames died down completely, and she smoked.  I felt for a pulse.  She was dead.  I considered the fact that there was an eight gauge shotgun upstairs owned by my grandfather originally and passed down through the generations, and I could ever so easily take my own life.
Something sparked in my mind, and I declined that option.  I slid the grate with the burned woman back in the oven.  I turned the gas on and lit the igniters.  Soon enough, all that was left was ash.
     I went up to the attic to where the shotgun hid.  Pulling it from its leather case, I noticed the initials carved into the barrels.  An old tin box of shells was right there.  I went downstairs to the basement workshop.  The gun fit nicely in the vice grip.  The hacksaw was like an old friend in my hands.
     I started to saw methodologically backwards and forwards slowly, but quick enough that I knew I cut metal with each precious stroke.  Sawing for what seemed like hours, surely only a few minutes passed.  Beads of sweat ran down my forehead and into my eyes.  I cut through to the end and heard the satisfying clink of the steel barrel hitting the concrete floor.
I undid the vice and loaded the weapon.  Pointing it at the cinder block wall, I squeezed the trigger.  It jumped in my hand like a wicked hammer.  I had a plan.  Reloading the gun, I took it to the kitchen and hid it in the oven.
     A week passed.  Then another week.  I thought maybe it was done.  Maybe it was over.  Then I got the call from Butch.
     Their Cadillac arrived as usual.  Squid stepped out of the car and tossed me an envelope.  Butch joined him, and we unloaded garbage bags from the trunk onto the cart.  I wheeled the cart to the oven and loaded the grate with the bags.  Once the furnace was lit, I turned to Butch and Squid.  I said, “I’ve got a bottle of Scotch.”
Butch smiled.  “Well, pour us a drink, old man.”
     I went into the kitchen and put two glasses on a tray.  I filled them with ice and Scotch that, in fact, was in my possession for a few years.  I opened the oven door and grabbed the shotgun with my right.  My left hand lifted up the tray, and I set it on top of the shotgun.
My heart sank, as I walked back towards the ovens.  I didn’t want to do this.  My nephew and his wife would be killed.  Then I remembered the dead woman’s screams.  I aimed for both of them: they were so conveniently close together.  I squeezed the trigger, and then I squeezed the trigger a second time.  The blasts cut them to ribbons.  The tray of booze went everywhere.  They fell to the ground writhing much like the dead woman writhed.  I waited for them to die.  The blood on the floor was in giant pools.
     I walked back into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of the Scotch.  I sat quietly and sipped it.  Reaching for the phone, my fingers dialed 911.  When they answered, I said simply, “I killed two men.”

Author Bio:

Geoff started writing in 2003.  He penned his first novel between Thanksgiving and Christmas that year.  He had high hopes for it, of course, but errors plagued his first draft.  He was driven to create an epic fantasy next, Juxta, Magi.  Then he crafted a military sci-fi, R.A.E.C.E. Genesis.

He spent hundreds of afternoons during his formative years dueling over a hot box of dice playing tabletop wargames such as Titan and Axis&Allies.  These games have strong military components and fantasy elements.

Geoff taught himself to program computers as a young pup.  The first software Geoff developed professionally was a Chemical Weapons Attack Simulator for the USAF.  He did it in Visual Basic 3.0 in Win3.11, on a 386SX16 processor.  Since then he has built websites professionally and browser based multiplayer kingdom games.

When he first started writing, he had no clue how to find publishers or submit stories.  He didn't know how to fix all the errors in his manuscripts.  It kind of hit him like lightning one day that Sinclair Community College in Dayton, OH might have an English class worth taking.  He discovered a plethora of writing classes, including the most awesome class ever, Text Editing.  Geoff learned under published authors: Ed Davis and Tim Waggoner, among others.

As of 2015, Geoff has written eight novels and a novella.  Most of them were self published.  They were largely never sent to publishers, and he's hoping to change his methods.  He penned over fifty short stories.  Fifteen of his shorts have been published.

Rand's Story:
The Dead Shall Rise part 2


Brien O’Raighne

SCPD Precinct 3. Downtown Storm City…

“Goodson! Hawthorne! My office now!” Elerby Hill, a balding man with a bad comb-over, shouts into the squad room. Rand rises from his desk as does Leia. Elerby is wearing tan khakis, a light blue button down shirt, and a dark blue tie with thin silver stripes adorning it.

Leia turns to Rand as the two partners head into their Captain’s office. “You have any idea what this is about, Rand?”

“Not a clue, Leia.” I hate lying to Leia. She’s a good person.

Rand and Leia enter the office. Waiting for them in the Captain’s office are two big men in dark blue suits.

“Close the door behind you.”

Leia shuts the door. She looks over at Captain Hill. “Sir, what’s going on?”

“Hawthorne, Goodson, these are Metapol Agents, Lance Thomas and his brother, Matthew.” Both men nod their heads to Rand and Leia.

“Metapol, sir?” Leia asks. “I have never heard of them.”

Lance raises a brow as he looks at Rand. Rand puts a finger to his lips to signal for Lance to stay quiet.

Captain Elerby clears his throat. “This is a special case, Hawthorne. These gentlemen will help you solving this case as it pertains to their job, which is to regulate the metahuman population in Storm City.”

“Metahuman? Sir?” Leia is a little skeptical.

“Metahumans by our definition,” says Lance, “are those people with special powers. Usually, we don’t ingratiate ourselves with regular police departments, but this case is special. We received an anonymous tip that an incubus is possibly in the area. The problem is that where there is an incubus, there is a succubus. Earlier tonight, we were called out to Club Chaos where we found two people turned grayish with bite marks and those same marks you saw on the wrists.”

“Any leads as to who these creatures are?” Rand crosses his arms.

“No, detective. We do not have any leads who they are.” Lance answers. He, then, rubs the back of his neck. “What worries me is the possibility that we may never know who the perpetrators are. This is something that have not been seen in the last century on Earth, but even longer here.”

“If we happen to run into them, what should we do?” Leia asks.

“Keep them in sight, but keep your distance.” Matthew says. “The problem is they have super strength and super speed compared to your average human.”

“Was the young woman attacked at CityFair Apartments brought back here?” Lance asks.
“Yes, she was. Why?” Captain Hill asks.

“Take us to her.” Matthew says.

Morgue. SCPD Precinct 3.

Galenda begins her examination of the young woman from CityFair Apartments. She is wearing her white lab coat and clear glasses. She starts the recording.

“This is Galenda Fontenot beginning the autopsy of Jennifer Banner. Such a shame that a young woman such as this should be found dead.”

She takes a scalpel and bends over the body. Then, Galenda hears a gasping sound. She sees the young woman’s eyes spring open. Galenda drops the scalpel onto the floor and backs up. Jennifer, then, sits up. Her golden locks are drenched in sweat. Her eyes dart back and forth.

“Where, where am I?” Her voice reverberates with a melodic sound.

Galenda takes a few steps back. Jennifer cocks her head. She looks at Galenda quizzically.

“I mean you no harm, ma’am.” Jennifer says. A look of terror crosses Galenda’s face. “Ma’am, why do you look so scared.”

“You – you were dead. I checked you out myself back at the apartment complex.” Galenda says as she takes a couple of more steps backwards.

“Ma’am, I was just taking a much needed nap.” Jennifer says in denial as she blinks adjusting her vision. As everything seems so clear. The stench of formaldehyde enters her nose. “Ugh. How do you work in these conditions?”

“Everyone here is dead.”

Jennifer leaps from the table onto the floor. Leathery black wings sprout from her shoulder blades. The sheet over her flies to the side. She lands on the floor. She is completely naked. “Do I look dead?” Jennifer spouts leans in towards Galenda.

The door to the morgue bust open. Five people enter the morgue. Two large gentlemen pull out their pistols and aim them at Jennifer, who turns her head in their direction.

“No. You look undead!” Shouts Lance. He pulls out his pistol that has specialized white oak ash tipped bullets within.

She hisses at the cops. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Metapol Agent Lance Thomas, you damn bitch.”

Jennifer retracts her wings and starts to strut over towards Lance. “Now. Now. Why are you going to talk to me this way? We could have a lot of fun?”

“Stay back!”

“Aww. You’re a little shy.” She sultrily says.

Matthew fires his pistol hitting Jennifer in the shoulder. She turns towards him and hisses. “You fucking bastard! I’ll rip you limb from limb!”

Lance, then, fires his pistol at her in the chest. Jennifer reels backwards. “You, too, baby! Once I get done ripping your partner apart, you’re next.”

Matthew and Lance begin pumping her full of their specialized bullets. She slows down as she backs towards the doors which hold the dead. She is huffing and puffing. Her eyes dart back and forth looking for an escape route.

She, then, takes the exam table and tosses it at Lance and Matthew. The table hits them square in the chest as they reload their pistols. The Metapol Agents hit the ground with the table atop them. Jenifer zooms out of the morgue and head towards the back entrance.

Rand and Leia follow after her as they watch her fly up into the air with her leathery wings.

“Fuck!” Rand says.

He and Leia return to the morgue where Captain Hill is helping the Metapol Agents to their feet. Galenda turns towards the Metapol Agents.

“What the hell was that?” She spouts.

Lance rubs his shoulder. “Ma’am, you were lucky that she didn’t attack you. But succubi are not known for attacking women.”

“Succubi? Are you guys flipping your fucking lids? Are you on PCP, LSD, or something else?” Galends asks Lance. She turns to Captain Hill. There is a distraught look on his face. “Captain, what the hell is going on?”

“Listen to these two gentlemen, Galenda. They know what they are talking about. This is nothing like we have ever seen before.” Hill tells her. “Galenda, these are Metapol Agents Lance and Matthew Thomas.”

Lance turns to Elerby. “Captain, this is bad. Very bad. There is a likelihood of more incubi and succubi making their appearances now.”

“Great. Just great.”

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 got a copy of all the new proofs for his books (new covers and all). You'll be able to find them all 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.

Thanks for joining us today! Please leave us comments as we love to hear from our readers!!

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