BOOK REVIEW – “History of Religion, Christianity” by Michael J Stewart and “Mediumship, Auras” by Tabitha Zalot

New Age, Bundle 1: Mediumship, Auras (New Age Series) by Tabitha Zalot
This book is a tour for the reader throughout Mediumship, special psychic skills and a little guide for people curious about it or interested in the subject.
The author presents the concept of being a Medium as to have the capacity to communicate with certain kind of energies, angels or loved ones who passed away. I loved the idea Zalot introduces, about being a way of transformation and self-healing. “I was able to develop my senses and my abilities, and I had experiences that I never thought were possible.”
The author sorts these professionals in physical, mental and trance mediumships. She also develops a little guide to hold the hand of the reader on the path of learning those skills. As well, she gives her advice about how to consult a Medium or how to start getting your own connection with spirits.
To me, the most interesting part of the book is this one, about auras: what does it mean? how to read it? what does the colour mean? how to work with it and with human energy fields. Afterwards, she explains the concepts “intuition” and “clairvoyance”, which are very different.
The last part is dedicated to the vast world of Chakras and sources of energy.
This piece is a little book to encourage those who doubt or feel unconfident about their own skills. The love the author pours on her writing is obvious, and it’s very pleasurable to the eye. A simple, clear guide to introduce to us this mysterious world. This book has given me a sweet time. I recommend it to people interested in this subject, wanting to clarify their doubts.

Religion: History of Religion, Christianity (Worlds Religions Series) by Michael J Stewart.

This book summarizes the most important points in the history of religion and beliefs throughout humanity. It analyzes the six main religions: Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism, and Sikhism, as ancient ones and mythology.

At first, he sorts theories by the one that protects the interests of a minority, the one that sees religion as an inherent part of every being and the last one, related to insufficient knowledge.

Then we jump to mythology, where personification takes the main role. The author mentions Mesopotamia, where we find clay tablets written in Akkadian language, registered as the first religious tradition.

The next part of the book, we find the Egyptian and Greek Mythology and totemism. “Immigrants had, together with the natives who happened to be there, accomplished the most complex pre-Christian religion of Europe.” Roman religion is the next point and Norse Mythology, Ancient China, I Ching Hinduism Gautama Buddha and Buddhism Aztec, Mayan, and Incan Religions and Native American. In this chapter, I especially enjoyed how Stewart marks the difference between the different kind of sub-cultures and creates a little insight into them.

We finish the ancient cultures and we land in Protestant faith, Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam). Here, the author stops and take his time to explain carefully every one of them. Thank you for that.

An interesting part takes place here, “The World’s Most Destructive Religious Movements / Cults Ever” like Satanism.
I loved the next chapter about absurd religions, it made it fresh, like a break for the reader as the mention of Zoroastrianism as an ancient pilar (3000 years old).

This book is very good structured in little chapters that allow the reader not to get lost. Stewart’s writing is clear and concise. The read gets fresh and quick. He touches all important points without getting lost in infinite details that would make it heavier.

What I appreciate about this author is his capacity of stay impartial in front of all this sensitive material, without judging or giving an opinion, he just develops his knowledge and/or investigations to inform the reader which, I personally find, very valuable in a history writer. Congratulations.


“Accidents happen” by Mar G

Today I didn’t expect to write but, you know. Accidents happen.

Our mind has such a strange way of surviving in the brambles of our own ghosts. When your soul is young (and notice that I say “soul”) you are obsessive, narcissistic, absurd. Then your brain starts pouring a thick, slow, warm, black venom through your glands, along your arteries, down your spine, impregnating your heart, pumping fuel lumps. Exhausted. Slow.

Your pain bar reaches levels you couldn’t have even thought about. You become inert, cynical. Your thoughts get covered in that kind of humidity you find in deep, toxic caves.

Once you reach that point, you are forced to face your own demons, because they don’t look as bad as the world outside and, hey, they’re almost like friends. That stupid friend that always makes you smile. Yah… my demons.

Your mind hibernates, deciding that you’re your only safe place.

When your soul is old, you appreciate other’s rejection or incomprehension. Because you, comprehend everything. Because you, can see through the flesh. Because you… only see souls. Light. Guilt. Regret. Pure feelings. Fear. Need.

Because when you only detect codes, colors, energies, beings.

Because when you see only darkness. And give up. Cough to choke. Get blind.

Because when you’ve chosen your last spot in your darkest corner.

Then, right then… in the most beautiful, brightest, unexpected, demolishing, devastating way.

Then… right then… Accidents happen.


…We were waiting for this anthology… Full Moon Slaughter 2 is JUST RELEASED!

[…]thrust up, and into the body of the beast as it wrenched a great hunk of meat from his shoulder, spraying blood and fragments of red flesh, his own scream chiming in a hellish duet with the monster’s ear-splitting howl.[…]

“Lycanthroship” by Jim Goforth

[…]He laid there immobilized, as the creature continued to feast on his throat, when suddenly he heard the sound of three more gunshots, and then the immediate feeling of the beast’s lifeless body upon him once again.[…]

“The Fang” by David Sgalambro

Edited by Toneye Eyenot (Author) and Nick Hatfield (Editor)


Do you want more…? Find the rest. Click on the image below.


OCTOBER TERROR – “21” by P.J. Blakey-Novis


by P.J. Blakey-Novis

A picture-perfect family; Mum, Dad, two boys and a really pretty girl. They had arrived yesterday. I watched them through the trees as they positioned that new-looking caravan into place, under the direction of the campsite owners. It was hot, and I was sweating under my camouflage. But I couldn’t very well wear anything else and risk being seen. I returned today. I continued to watch, studying the way they interacted with each other. They all had smiles on their faces; not a care in the world. It was mid-afternoon; it wouldn’t be dark for another five or six hours. I could wait. There was no way of knowing how long they would be staying for so it had to happen tonight, I couldn’t risk coming back tomorrow only to find they had gone.

The site was perfect in so many ways. It was relaxed, especially from a security aspect. It was accessible on three sides to anyone willing to walk through the dense trees; the only vehicular access came from one long, unlit lane. There was no gated entry, nothing to stop the guests coming and going at any time that they chose. Such a stroke of luck that I found it; this will be much easier than last time. That place had turned into an absolute nightmare, and it could so easily have been my final time.

The build up, the routine, the planning. These were the parts that held the most excitement for me. The watching. It was like a military operation, and I was good at it. Even if the army didn’t want me. That was their loss, their mistake. Maybe if they had taken me in, I wouldn’t be doing this now. Perhaps that pretty family would have been able to enjoy their holiday without having it cut short. For an hour I stood among the trees, motionless, just my eyes moving around as I surveyed the other campers.

It was much less busy than the places I had been to previously. One side of the field, to the east of the entry point, it was filled with caravans, all nearly identical. They appeared to be the same size; four-berth most likely. I counted them up yesterday; eleven of them. Still all eleven there. I had walked by last night, a little after midnight, for a kind of reconnaissance mission; I wanted to see if anyone would notice me, but they didn’t. They never do. None of the caravans looked as if they were up to traveling, and it was almost certain that they were left there all year round. Which meant there was a good chance that they were empty, or certainly most of them.

In the south-eastern corner, there were three tents, large ones. Could have been ten or twelve-man tents, all arranged with the entrances facing each other, surrounding a square of windbreakers. Within the windbreakers were chairs, cooking equipment, and so on. The residents, whom I assumed were one large group, had been the only ones still up when I took my wander last night. Seven adults, sitting around a fire, drinking beer and cursing whilst their hoard of unruly offspring tried to get to sleep. Thankfully no dogs this time. I hate dogs.

The new family were as far from everyone as they could be, claiming a solo pitch on the western edge of the field. They must think they are too good to set up close to the others; and maybe they are right. Even so, that arrogance only serves to make my life so much easier. I struggled to pull myself away, absorbed in the game that the children were playing. I watched in amusement as the older boy and girl threw a ball to each other, to the annoyance of their younger brother who stood no chance in catching it. Eventually, he stopped trying, stomping away and calling for his mummy. I watched as the older boy, a tall, dark-haired creature with a wicked grin, shouted after his brother; “Stop being such a baby, you little loser!” The kid must have been four or five and, briefly, I felt a little pity for him. I stared at the older boy. You’ll be first, I promised him. Only a few more hours to go; time to finish the preparations.

I returned a little after dusk, following the lane but staying just within the tree line in case any cars drove by. No-one came along the dark road; all remained silent until I reached the entrance to the site. This was the riskiest part; the twenty or thirty yards that ran alongside the toilets and showers were well lit and stayed that way all night. The coast looked clear, but there was no way of knowing if someone was about to come out of the toilets. I just needed to walk confidently, as if I belonged there. I felt my heart beat more quickly, the adrenalin flooding my system. I heard a toilet flush as I took a few hurried steps into the darkness, just beyond the reach of the lights. Seconds later, I was standing against the western edge, completely enveloped in darkness, as I watched an overweight female in a dressing gown make her way back towards the trio of tents in the far corner.

I looked towards my destination and saw four people sat around a fire, their faces illuminated by the flames. The youngest was missing, presumably already asleep inside the caravan. My right hand reached into the deep pocket of my cargo pants, caressing the switchblade that waited there. Only for emergencies, I reminded myself. I took sideways steps, hidden by the blackness, as I edged closer to them. The caravan was positioned almost up to the edge, with perhaps three or four feet between the rear of it and the start of the woodland. I took a step back, slipping into the pitch blackness, avoiding the light which shone from the caravan’s window.

My plan hinged largely on one hope; that it would be a warm enough evening for them to leave a window open. If not, then I would need to force the door which, although not impossible, would increase the risks considerably. I was in luck, however, as I saw three of the windows still wide open. In the past, I had managed to get inside before the owners, hiding myself in the built-in closet of a larger caravan. When this one arrived, I considered repeating that plan as it had worked out well before. I searched on-line for the floor plan, located a suitable hiding place, and kept my fingers crossed. It would work, I knew that, but they were sat too near the door for me to be able to sneak in. Plan B was the windows, which relied on them not to close them before heading to bed. It’s a warm and sticky evening, I thought. It’ll be fine, just wait it out. Half an hour later, I watched as mum ushered the two siblings inside, the mean boy and the pretty girl, drawing the curtains. After another ten minutes of watching dad prodding at the fire with a stick, mum returned.

She made her way to her partner; a duvet wrapped around her despite the warmth of the evening. I watched from my position, alone in the dark, as she sat on his lap. I could make out a slight rhythm to their motion as they kissed, and I wondered if they were doing more beneath that duvet. I only watched, transfixed, certain that they must want to be seen if they are behaving like that in the open. I felt a brief wave of confusion as I looked upon them with both disgust and arousal, but their moment came to a sudden end with the call of a child. From the muffled sounds, I made out that the smallest child was awake, mum to the rescue as she headed inside. Dad, a tall, thin man in his early forties, gathered up the empty cans and tidied up a little before following her inside. It was almost time and the nerves began to set in, the twisting, knotted butterflies felt that they wanted to burst from my stomach.

Remaining still for fear of crunching a branch beneath my feet, I stood transfixed on the caravan, willing off the lights. There was no way to see in with the curtains closed. I checked my watch; almost eleven. The lights went out at eleven-twenty. The windows were left open. I took a step forward and paused. My eagerness may have almost led to disaster. If they were doing what it looked like, and haven’t finished, then they are probably carrying on now, I pondered. Give them a bit longer. Be patient. I crept alongside the caravan, trying to listen for any sounds that would indicate anyone was awake. There was nothing; no television, no talking, no sex noises.

I took one last glance across the field; only the large group in the far corner showed any signs of life, but they would not be able to see me from there. I peered around the front to check the coupling and found the caravan to still be attached to the Range Rover. I slipped my backpack off and unzipped it, straightening out the tubing and feeding one end through the open window. There were so many things that could go wrong, and I did not like not knowing exactly where each of them was sleeping. Nevertheless, it had to be done. I fixed my end of the tube to the unit I had designed myself and switched it on. The battery whirred, seeming much louder in the silence of the field than it had previously. I positioned it beneath the caravan and scurried back under the cover of darkness among the trees. I waited. Ten minutes. Then another ten. There was no change, no sounds, no lights coming on. Now or never! I made my way to collect the equipment, placing it safely back inside my bag. The contents of the vapour were my own variation on a recipe in the Chemical Warfare Handbook, utilizing the effects of a veterinary tranquilizer that should have rendered the caravan’s occupants unconscious by now. If the dose had been evenly taken in, I’d expect the larger people to come around in two to three hours. But that little boy would be a different matter; it could be eight hours. And that’s if he even wakes up at all.

I attached my small, homemade gas mask to my face and managed to pop the catch on the door with the switchblade, closing it quietly behind me. They looked so peaceful; the three children on a pile of duvets across the main living space. I crept past them, opening the first of two doors on my right. A toilet. I carefully opened the second door and found the parents in bed, a duvet covering them up to their heads, appearing as if asleep. Satisfied that all was going to plan, I clicked on my torch and began to search for the keys. Not anywhere obvious in the living space. Must be in his jeans. Bingo. I found them lying among the clothes he had dumped on the floor before climbing into bed, slipped them into my pocket, and made my way outside. I locked the caravan, despite being almost certain that its occupants would not awaken during the journey. Just in case, I told myself. Don’t want anyone jumping out and making a scene.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turned the key, allowing the Rover’s engine to purr. I couldn’t see anyone else on the campsite but decided that there was enough open space for me to move around towards the entrance before switching on the lights. Once I had the car facing the lit-up area around the facilities, I flicked on the headlights, and we were on our way. I had at least two hours until anyone began to stir and, to be on the safe side, I had selected a destination only an hour away. I was confident that it was far enough from the original extraction point and would also afford me ample time to get my guests into position. The campsite would not necessarily raise any concerns over guests leaving earlier than planned; after all, they had paid upfront on arrival so no loss to the owners. Chances are there would be a few days before anyone reported them missing and by then, I would be long gone.

Fifty-minutes later, I turned the Range Rover on to a chalky, quarry path. The location was isolated; dark and silent. The structures surrounding the path were parts of a disused steel works; great, red clunks of metal protruding from the ground, rising all around me. I dragged the caravan along until I was out of sight of the road, parking it up next to the steel barn which had acted as a makeshift staff room long ago. Yanking open the door with a clang of metal, the sound echoing around me, I went inside to grab supplies. One bag of cable ties and a dirty sheet, which I cut into five long strips. We were far enough from anyone that screams for help would go unanswered, but I did not want to have to listen to five people yelling at me. It made me anxious, and when I get anxious I can become disorganized and confused. But there was no confusion as to why I was there at that moment for I knew, beyond any doubt, that it was the only way that I could be taken seriously. The only way that those bastards who dismissed me as a freak, as not good enough, as an idiot – that they would know my name.

Cautiously, I unlocked the caravan and opened the door, slowly. Still no sign of movement. I began with the adults as they posed the most threat to me, removing the duvet and binding their hands and feet with cable ties, wrapping the dirty cloth around their mouths. Still they did not stir. I looked down at them on the bed, both fully nude, bound and helpless. My thoughts sank into the gutter for a moment as I looked at her; she would never know. No! I told myself. That’s not who you are. That’s not what you want to be remembered as. I repeated the process with the three children, all of whom were clothed in pyjamas, and stood outside to wait. Thirty-six minutes passed before I heard a thud.

Re-entering the caravan, I saw the three children still out for the count. It was the adults that had come around first, just as I had expected; their larger masses would have recovered from the toxin more quickly than their children could. I cocked my head to the side as I gazed down at him, naked and restrained, trying pathetically to drag himself along the floor. He couldn’t lift his head high enough to see me properly, so he rolled himself over, the gag muffling whatever obscenities he was attempting to throw in my direction. I allowed myself a little laugh.

“If only you could see how ridiculous you look!” I told him, enjoying my position of power. “Helpless on the floor, flapping that tiny thing about.” I glanced at his manhood. “Are you cold?” He writhed about on the floor in anger, his eyes wide as he assessed his situation. “Is that pretty lady awake yet?” I asked. This seemed to refuel his anger, his protectiveness becoming even more evident. “Oh don’t worry. It’s not like that. I’m not that kind of monster.” I stepped over him to check the bedroom and found her in the foetal position, sobbing as best she could with the rag in her mouth.

“Don’t worry, honey,” I told her. “It’ll be over soon enough. I need you two to come with me; I know it’ll be difficult to walk in your situation, but I’ll help you up and you’ll need to try. OK?” She just continued to sob, making no attempt to get off of the bed or even look at me. Rude, I thought, approaching the man.

“Looks like you’re up first then,” I told him, putting my hand under his armpits and dragging him towards the door. He wouldn’t stay still, which I guess is understandable, but it made the process difficult for me. I don’t cope with stress very well; it makes me itchy. Once I had his head poking out of the door, facing down at the three small steps, I moved behind him for the last push. He landed in a heap in the dust, groaning loudly as his shoulder made a popping sound. “Dislocated, most likely,” I told him. Still he kept trying to talk to me, perhaps to beg and plead, perhaps to threaten me. Whatever message he wanted to convey was in vain, I had made the mistake of talking to them before, and it only muddled me up. They’re the enemy, they will say anything to stop you carrying on with your work, they would kill you if they could, I reminded myself. I locked the caravan and dragged him into the barn, under the glow of electric lights that I had fixed up on the previous day. He scouted around the room, clocking the chairs. Five chairs.

It was difficult, but I hauled him onto one of the chairs, wrapping ten feet of thick, electrical cable around him for extra security. Now, even if he tried to stand, he would be taking the chair with him. “I need you to stay here,” I told him, leaning forward a little so our eyes could meet. “Do you understand?” He nodded, panic across his face. “If you move, I’ll kill someone.” Again, he nodded.

The children still did not stir, so I picked up the smallest. He was light enough for me to carry out without any problem. Only he didn’t feel right; paler than I expected. Shit! The gas was too much for his mass; I suspected it may be. He’s going to go berserk when he finds out! I told myself, knowing that I needed to get everyone restrained in the barn at the same time. I decided to put the little child on the chair furthest from his father, in the hope that he would think he was still only unconscious. I strapped him in under his father’s glare, but this time he did not try to speak to me.

The other two kids weren’t an issue; both light enough to carry, both only beginning to stir. Four out of five in place. Ten minutes, maximum, I had spent between grabbing the last child and returning to the caravan. In the space of those ten minutes, she had gone from helplessly restrained on the bed to having disappeared. There weren’t any hiding places inside, she was not in the toilet, and she surely could not have walked far. I glanced around in a panic – the utensil drawer was open. Could she have dragged herself to the drawer and found something to cut the ties with? It wouldn’t be easy but not impossible. Shit! Stupid me for thinking she was being complicit, just lying there.

“I have your whole family in here,” I yelled from the barn door. “I suggest you get here now, or I’m going to start taking bits off of them.” Nothing. I scanned around with my torch, but she could be anywhere. Fuck!

“Right,” I told the man. “I’m going to take your gag off. I want you to call her back here, right now! If she doesn’t come back quickly, then I kill him.” I pointed my switchblade at the body of the youngest child. His father’s eyes widened, nodding quickly.

“Helen!” he yelled. “You have to come back. Please. He’s going to kill Harry!” As he shouted these words, I heard muffled screams coming from behind me, the older children having woken up into this nightmare. I flashed my torch out of the barn door, revealing nothing of Helen’s whereabouts.

“I warned you!” I hissed, before standing behind little Harry and jabbing my blade through his neck. A steady stream of red sprayed from his jugular as tears fell from my prisoners. They did not need to know he was already dead; not that it would have made their loss any more bearable. I stepped behind that taller boy, the one who had been horrible to Harry earlier that day. Looking to his father, I repeated my threat. “Get her back here. Now!” Helen’s disappearance spoiled things for me; I felt rushed in case she managed to get help. This is not how it was meant to be and, if I couldn’t find her, then I would be one person short of target. Someone else’s blood would be on her hands.

Four times he called to Helen, all to no avail. I stood, once again, at the entrance to the barn with a torch in one-hand and a blood-stained blade in the other.

“Helen!” I called. “I’m counting to ten. Then you’re lanky shit of a son is dead.” I paused, listening intently into the darkness. Still nothing. “Then I’ll count to ten again, before slitting your daughter’s throat. You’d better hurry up.”

“Please don’t,” the man begged.

“It’s hardly my fault!” I told him. “You married a right selfish bitch! She could have done what she was told, and little Harry would still be alive. Admittedly, not for very long, but she did cut his life a bit short.” He did not know how to reply to me, staring instead, anger flickering in his eyes. I shouted towards the door. “Ten, nine…” I counted down, slowing a little as I approached the final number. Still nothing. She’s gone. Somehow. It wasn’t how I’d planned it, but the end result would be the same. Doing my best to appear in control, I walked up to that gangly youth and ended him with five rapid jabs of the switchblade to his chest. His eyes widened for a brief moment as blood gurgled from his mouth, and then nothing. Another life extinguished in a moment.

I turned to see his father attempt to run at me, ankles bound, a chair on his back, but he did not get far. I resisted using the knife on him, merely shoving him backwards with a crash of wood and a yelp from his already damaged shoulder. His daughter cried incessantly, but the gag stifled the sound enough for it not to bother me too much. I looked at her, staring a while until she turned her gaze from the floor to meet mine. She knew she would be next as well as I did, but the look of fear had changed to a look of acceptance, of sadness about something that she could not change. I felt something when our eyes met, something that I was not used to. Remorse? Guilt? I knew I was a monster; I never denied that. But I had an agenda, a target to reach. And it was not as if I did not value human life, or even that I enjoyed the killing. It was the hunt that I enjoyed, that I was good at. But I could not very well go to all the effort of extracting people and then letting them go afterward? I’d have been caught years ago if I did that!

Helen’s apparent escape had presented a problem for me, and this was something I had not prepared for. It had never happened before, but perhaps I had become greedy. Or just wanted it to be over. The highest number of kills, confirmed kills that is, by any British serial killer is twenty. Some lady from long ago with a penchant for poison. Of course, that crazy doctor confessed to killing over two hundred a few years back, but it hasn’t been proved. So I want twenty-one. That would make me the most prolific serial killer this country has ever seen. As I gazed at the girl, trying to identify what I was feeling at that moment, I thought back to the girl a few months ago; number 16. It was planned down to the last detail; her morning jogging route, the most secluded spots along it, the ideal method. I saw it as an assassination, a necessary target. I could not put my finger on it, but there was something about her that made her stand out. It could have been an air of superiority, a woman well beyond my reach, an annoyance she evoked simply by jogging past me that first time. The hit had been easy. I’d lunged at her as she passed some beach huts along a promenade, pulling her between two of them and slitting her throat. Then I was gone. Number 16. I just needed five more, and I could relax; it wouldn’t matter if I got away with it for any longer. If Helen doesn’t return, then I’m still one short and that won’t do.

“One, two…” I began, loudly towards the door. “Nine, ten.” Nothing. “She really doesn’t care about you lot, does she!” I declared, incredulous that a mother could run from her family in this way. “Well, she can’t have gotten far,” I stated, with a sigh. “You know I can’t let you go,” I told him, as he continued to grunt from his place on the floor. “But it would be monstrous of me to make you watch another of your children die. I’ll give you this small mercy.” I leaned down towards him, the reddened blade pointing at his neck. He fell silent, just staring into me in defiance. His gaze was fixed, even in death. The loss of life happened too quickly for his eyes to close, as my blade entered the side of his head, piercing through his left ear. The entire five inches went in, destroying his brain in a fraction of a second, gloopy grey and red lumps sticking to the knife as I retrieved it. He slumped to the floor, a dark pool forming around the wound. His daughter now having fallen silent; she knew what was coming.

I sat on the floor, talking to the girl for some time after killing her father. Not about anything especially meaningful, and the conversation was entirely one-sided, but it passed some time while I deliberated my options. What I needed to do was kill the girl and then find Helen. But in keeping the child alive for a while longer, perhaps it would draw Helen back once she realized that she could not get far. Only she had got far, much farther than I had expected anyway. If she had waited to return with the police, then my time would have been up; of that I have no doubt. And I would have been named Britain’s second most prolific serial killer, meaning that nineteen people had died for nothing. However, she did not return with the police. My one-sided conversation was cut short by the sound of tyres on gravel outside the barn; the space illuminated by headlights. I jumped from my seated position and waited to the side of the open door, knife at the ready, listening as car doors opened and closed.

“Jesus Christ!” I heard an older-sounding man exclaim. “We should have waited for the police!”

“I couldn’t,” came Helen’s distraught voice. I saw the outline of her figure take a step inside the barn, surveying the blood-soaked bodies of her husband and two of her children. She looked as though she would collapse, but she spotted her daughter still alive, and ran to try to free her. The police were on their way, and I knew there was little time. I stayed motionless for a moment, and this must have given the Good Samaritan the idea that the coast was clear. He edged his way into the barn, and I struck; quick, repeated jabs with the blade until he dropped to the floor. Helen frantically pulled at the cable ties that bound her daughter, but she could not free her. So I did.

“I only need one more,” I told them. I looked at the girl and told her to run. To this day, I’m not sure why I had the sudden change of heart; maybe I wanted to leave a witness to describe the cold-blooded nature of my actions, maybe I grew a morsel of conscience. She looked to her mother, as if needing permission. Helen nodded sadly, and the girl was gone. I stared into Helen’s eyes as I raised my blade, her face suddenly illuminated in the reflection of blue and red lights now coming from outside. My time was almost up, but I reached my goal with a swift slash of the throat; the warm, sticky spray coating my face before I dropped to my knees and placed my hands on my head. My work was complete, and now came the prize – the fame, the respect, and the notoriety.

You’ll be able to find this story in “Tunnels” (About to be released!!)


P.J. Blakey-Novis is a British writer living on the south coast of England. He launched his debut novel, The Broken Doll, in early 2017 – a femme fatale psychological thriller. He has written a range of short horror stories with his first collection, Embrace the Darkness, being published in July 2017. A second collection, entitled Tunnels, is due for release in November 2017.


You can find him on


OCTOBER TERROR – “The Quiet Room” by David Owain Hughes

The Quiet Room

David Owain Hughes

They’re coming. I can hear the soft squeaks of their shoes on the freshly mopped floor; very faintly mind you. It was Phil’s shift on the mop today. I like Phil because he speaks to me through the door, though I have to press my ear tight to the padded entrance to hear him well. And they have that trolley with them, being pushed at a hearty pace by Miss Tudor no doubt; and it would be holding all the usual implements for my morning visit: drugs, a wash cloth and bowl full of lukewarm water, a safety razor and a small snack.

A key rattles in the door, and is then edged open, a male nurse that has to duck down a little is sent in first, along with another to sedate me, just in case I should make a grab for the plastic spoon on the tray, and try to go for their throats or eyes, or heaven forbid my own wrists. They know what I like to try and do to myself when I’m not inside the quiet room. Hell, they have even taken the laces from my shoes.

Morning, Mr. Stevenson,” coos Miss Tudor, as ever. “Are you going to be a good boy, and let Dexter and Roger clean you today?” Same rigmarole every morning.

Roger sticks the needle full of happy juice deep within my arm, making me buck and coy away in misery; the serum feels thick as it flows through my veins.

Come now Mr. Stevenson, you wouldn’t want Roger here to hurt you due to your negligence would you?” I’m sure my slight whimper makes her happy. Happy for all the trouble I have caused her over the years. Why does she still insist on calling me Mr. Stevenson? And not by my first name – whatever it is; I did know at one time, a time before that day. They say I have amnesia.

Whatever it is that Roger shoots me full of always has a stealthy effect and the mist comes down for a good thirty minutes. Just long enough for them to manhandle me.

I’m barely awake as I’m placed into a chair somewhere outside of my cell – I never know where it is they take me to clean and shave me. I can hear Roger and the new ape, Dexter, talking about me.

You need to watch this one, brother. Butchered his entire family in a wood not far from here on a sunny summer’s day. Just like that. I heard he cut his kid sister up with a chainsaw, a fucking chainsaw!” He smiles as he tells the other man this. Roger always likes to tell the new ones about me. Fucking liar. I’ve tried to defend myself in the past, but it always fell on deaf ears. Just like that police officer’s in the interview room.

“But there was nobody found out in those woods apart from you, see, crwt bach, how do you explain that? Your family didn’t just decide to kill themselves, now did they?” Smart arse I could hear myself shout back at him. After that, I decided to keep quiet. Silent. I have not uttered a single word since. I guess that did nothing to prove my innocence either.

By the time I come back round, I’m being fed the stone cold soup they have on the trolley, washed down with drugs and water. Then left until they see fit to give me more pills, morphine or meth.

Whilst all the commotion has been going on, He’s been standing behind Tudor and the other two, mocking me with his warped grin. After the feeding of the soup and drugs he slowly starts to vanish, and will be but a dream when twilight arrives.

Miss Tudor has left in the air a hint of coconut that takes me into a warm fuzzy limbo, between sleep and awake – and I can see my sister and I picking flowers for our mother when we’re kids, in a field behind our house: it being mum’s birthday the following day and us wanting to get her some freshly picked bluebells, her favourite. The smell is intense, and my head is filled with sounds, birds singing in the trees, farmers out collecting hay in nearby fields, drones out of their hives, and a voice I once knew.

Mummy says you have to hold my hand.” Jeez, I hope none of the guys from school see me.

Pleeease, hold my hand.” The sight of her crimson cheeks melts me inside, and I cannot resist. Who gives a shit if anyone sees me?

Fank, yooou.”

As we walk through knee-high grass, we stop here and there to pick flowers which are then placed into a wicker basket belonging to our mum. My sister’s sun coloured hair that’s blowing wild in the summer breeze finds its way into my mouth, and for some reason my mind fills with the thought of drinking coconut milk.

She normally likes to place her hair in pigtails, and when it’s down I like to brush it through for hours for her. My fingers get into a right fix if I try to plait it for her, and it always invokes her ‘piggy laugh’, as she likes to call it. We’re very close.

Shall we just get bluebells for mummy, or can we pick her some others too, like those pretty yellow ones?” Her head gesturing toward a patch of daffs growing wild under a big oak. Its branches stretching out its leaves, depriving the flowers of a full on sunbathing session.

Okay, if you think she’d like them too.” I know full well mum will, because even though bluebells are her favourite, she has a weakness for all types of flowers.

I just love the way in which they air the house out with their floral aromas,” she’d say.

The field doesn’t just contain wild flowers, but also cows. They belong to our father (I think) and he’ll be taking them to market before long in Carmarthenshire. That’s the closest one to our home in…err…in…in… the name of my town has escaped me, much like my sister’s name…God, I wish I could remember it.

But hers – along with my mum and dad’s – is just a faded memory. And as I try to focus on remembering their names the pleasant dream of my sister and I holding hands in a sun-drenched field turns from gold to black, as it’s twisted into that day long ago, and I’m back there once again…


He burst from the trees with a sickle in one hand, and a hay-hook in the other. The farming implement is plunged deep into my mother’s neck and pulled back sharply – ripping open a main artery, which pops. Bone cracks – blood is sent spraying into the air, sprinkling leaves directly above her – the sound so vivid in my mind – now. My father doesn’t stand much of a chance either, as the sickle comes swinging up (cutting off three of his fingers) toward the chin, and punches its way through his saggy flesh. My dad’s mouth crunches, and a bloody shower erupts out of his mouth, spraying the sandwiches and fairy cakes my mum has made for my sister’s birthday picnic; small flecks find their way onto the blankets we’ve put down.

The idea of being dragged to a sissy picnic had sounded so shitty to me two days ago, but now I’m somewhat glad to be here, to try and at least protect my sister. I grab her, jolting her from the hysterical state she’s slipping into and we turn to run. But not before seeing him ditch his utility belt from around his waist, that had been holding his weaponry then turn back into the trees, bend, and come back up with a chainsaw. The thing shakes to life in a smoke-filled roar and I can just about see my dad in the haze, collapsing to the floor, trying frenziedly to dislodge the sickle from his throat with one hand, as his other tries to stem the blood. The buzzing cuts off his dense gargles.

Now we’re running through the woods, but no matter how fast we run, we cannot seem to outpace him. His chugging weapon grows closer from behind, and I feel his hot breath, biting at my bare shoulders; I wonder if my sister feels it too?

As we near the verge of the woodland, my sister is dragged to the ground – I halt, naturally, and turn just in time to see her whole bloody crescendo: he whips his saw across her young, delicate throat, and I catch a hot spray of blood across my face, making me flinch; some of the crimson liquid finds its way in between my lips. It has a salty taste to it.

His face is pulled back in sinister folds of skin; his lips exposing yellow soiled teeth that resemble weathered tombstones; his fat, naked body coated in sweat – fusing his chest hair together in clumpy knots. As my sister lies dying in a spasmodic dance that only the departing can perform, I can do nothing for her as I stand frozen to the spot, tears streaming from my eyes. But I have to do something, because when he is finished nuzzling at her open throat it’ll be my turn, and I’m not about to die in vain like my sister and my parents before her. So I take to a thick, fallen branch to my side and hoik it from the leaf scattered ground.

This brings his burning glare my way, and as he gets to his feet, a shot of semen explodes from the tip of his penis, and mixes with blood and leaves. He bucks slightly, recomposes himself, then stalks toward me with his chainsaw in revving tow; strings of saliva mixed with blood and flesh cling from his drooping, lower lip. His penis still stands on end and gleams with satisfaction. I hold the branch out in front of me, and he slashes the timber in half with his cutting implement. I get a face full of smoke and chippings, and the smell of singed wood stuffs my nostrils. My back finds a tree, and he closes in for the kill – but his chainsaw sputters to stillness and his face loses its tightness. No more petrol. He looks down at the weapon in shock, or maybe it’s panic. Then throws it to one side, and runs off, back into the thick trees where he’d first sprung from – giving me a throat slitting sign with his finger as he does so.

My bladder releases. A hot gush of fluid finds its way down my leg, soaking my jeans. My knees buckle, and I slide down the tree. I’m a quivering wreck, but I manage to get back to my feet, pick up the saw and have a mindset to go after him, cut him down. But I fall, and land by my sister’s side. I see her take one final breath. By the time the police show up. I’m found clutching my sister close to my body. My ability to communicate is almost gone. I’m just a gibbering wreck as they take me away.


I’m awake, just like every other morning for the past twenty, thirty or forty years, I’m bathed in sweat and half hysterical with fear; my throat aching and begging to be freed from the screaming. Nobody can hear my wails of terror from inside the quiet room, or, if they do, they just don’t care anymore.

I think I hear the sound of the trolley coming, but then vaguely remember that had happened yesterday. Where has my sister gone? We had just been picking flowers.

The date of that day in the woods is lost in my head forever, along with lots of other information. Now, all that remains in the dark of my brain are his sadistic ways – the slaughter of my family members – and, for some strange reason that escapes me one chunk of a song, sung by a rock star that’s long forgotten in my past, in a time that was fuelled with booze, weed and rock music – innocent days of youth –

They have a place

Where I have been kept

Where I won’t hurt myself

Can’t get the wrists to bleed

Don’t know why, but

Suicide tempts me

The room

Is sterile in white

A tomb

With just a stained naked light

The nightmare and the lyrics – which are confused – seem to be more vivid the closer I get to the grave; it’s not just the “night terrors” as they like to call them anymore. But daydreams have started to set in. I see him standing over me sometimes waiting to slice me in two with his chainsaw, and do God knows what to my withered twitching corpse. He’s here again in the quiet room, sitting in the corner with his saw by his side. I hope Tudor comes with my morphine and meth before long, to make him go away again. But I don’t think she will come soon enough, because now he is rising from his spot in the dusky padded room, pulling at the cord on his petrol-powered machine, whilst lumbering my way. I pull my knees up to my chin along with my single solitary blanket which I’ve been allowed to keep, and think the lyrics over in my brain to try and drown out the roaring of his chainsaw –

They have a place

Where I have been kept…

Find the story in the book:

About the author



David Owain Hughes is a horror freak! He grew up on ninja, pirate and horror movies from the age of five, which helped rapidly instil in him a vivid imagination.

When he grows up, he wishes to be a serial killer with a part-time job in women’s lingerie…He’s had multiple short stories published in various online magazines and anthologies, along with articles, reviews and interviews.

He’s written for This Is Horror, Blood Magazine, and Horror Geeks Magazine. He’s the author of the popular novels “Walled In” (2014), “Wind-Up Toy” (2016), “Man-Eating Fucks” (2016), and “The Rack & Cue” (2017) along with his short story collections “White Walls and Straitjackets” (2015) and “Choice Cuts” (2015).

He’s also written three novellas – “Granville” (2016), “Wind-Up Toy: Broken Plaything & Chaos Rising” (2016).  

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