I write character-driven dark fiction.
What do you do?

This month's Friday Fright theme is 'Movie Monster Fanfiction'. The characters used herein are not my own and remain the intellectual property of their creators. Said characters are used here briefly in the spirit of fun and admiration.


A flash of grey in the moonlight and she is there, scurrying along, keeping out of the open. She makes small, furtive movements, trying to be unobtrusive, trying to be invisible. I understand completely. There are terrible things in the night, things of which she should be afraid. I am well acquainted with these things.

I should be.

I’m one of them.

She pauses in her quiet scramble, looking over one shoulder, ear cocked, posture wary. I nearly smile, catching myself at the last instant, forcing my lips to remain closed lest the gleam of teeth in the dark give me away. I have hunted this one far too long to lose her to something so bumbling as a grin in the gloom.

I smile not, nor do I move, holding my pose with a preternatural stillness that stirs neither sound nor current of air. I even fail to breathe. I can see she carries something, some bundle or other, though what it is I can not tell. In all honesty I care not, for I crave not what she carries, but what she holds, what she contains, what courses within her.

I crave her life.

She does not see me in the shadows, cannot see me in the darkness. Turning, she continues on, bustling away. The speed of her motion stirs a need within me: the need to chase, to swoop down upon her like the hawk upon the hare; to be the predator to her prey.

I pounce.

She squeals with fright as I take her neck in a bone-crushing grip, struggling, thrashing, trying to fight, but it is no use. No use at all. Though she is frantic with fear I am strong, far too strong for the likes of her. Stunning her with a quick brutal shake I peel back her head, exposing her throat. Even through her fear and confusion she feels the danger of her position, the very indefensibility of it, and instinctively she tries to struggle but it is too late for that. It is too late for anything.

My teeth sink into her bared throat, tearing through meat and muscle with ease. Her terrified heart, pounding so fast, propels the blood out faster than I can drink, spraying my chin and collar though I do my best to catch it all. Her cries lessen, dying out as does the flow from her throat, and I am forced to suck, to pull forth from her what was once offered so freely. Her little feet kick rapidly, then slow, ending as a faint twitching of limbs as I hold her helpless in the air.

I spin at a sudden sound, looking toward the door in the darkness, hugging her to me as one would a doll.  I leap with alacrity to the window, snatching a match from the box on my bedside desk as I pass, and with trembling fingers strike it upon the stone sill. Holding my breath in anticipation I raise the guttering chip of flame high, fighting back the shadows of the room with its small yellow glow.

Deep-set eyes glare at me from the hollow-cheeked, cadaverous face staring back from the window, revealed by the feeble light. The lips are drawn back, exposing the teeth in an expectant grimace, but as I watch the expression softens with recognition.

With disappointment.

Disheartened, I turn away from the window glass, my reflection turning away as well. I lay her body upon the desk and touch the match to the lamp wick before the flame begins to burn my fingers. The footsteps that so alarmed me stop just outside my door, and the knocking begins as I slip the glass chimney into place, the guttering wick settling into a steady light.

“Mr. Refield? Mr. Renfield, are you alright? Answer me, sir, or I’ll be forced to enter and see for myself without permission. You know that, sir, those are the rules of this place!”

The voice outside is energetic in its alarm, and for a moment, maybe two, I am tempted to remain silent, forcing him to try the door; that same being currently barred by way of my desk chair jammed beneath the knob. A locked door however, though it would cause an entertaining scene, would not be worth the trouble it would cause if discovered.

“I am fine.” I raise my voice to be heard through the closed portal. “I am here, and I am fine.”

I pull the chair from ‘neath the knob, swinging it to place before my desk once more.

“Are you sure, sir?” my keeper continues. “It’s just I thought I heard —”

“I am fine,” I say, and if a silence could shrug then this one does so before the footsteps begin once more, receding down the corridor. I drop heavily into the chair now before my desk, reaching up to pluck loose a thatch of bloody hair from between my teeth.

It did not work. Not yet.

My gaze finds the small, savaged corpse lying upon the blotter.

“This rat,” I whisper, “this rat was not the one.”

My gaze is drawn to the window, the glass that showed me my reflection, proved my failure.

“This rat was not the one, but the Master has promised me hundreds of rats. Thousands. One of them will tip the scale, one will be the right rat, the right blood, and my visage will no longer return my gaze from the glass. Then I will be complete! Then will I be as the Master is, and together we will rule the night!”

My gaze loses focus on my reflection, and I look beyond the glass. Through it.

Eyes. Red eyes in the dark, floating here outside my window, so high above the ground. I leap once more to the window, throwing it wide before falling to my knees, head bowed. A cold mist begins to spiral into my chamber, bringing with it the scent of decay.

“Welcome, Master...”

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Are you one of the many people who come to The Storyteller again and again? Do you enjoy the tiny little tales I put out each week for your enjoyment?
Come on, you know I'm talking about you.

You'll be happy to hear that I have a book coming out later this year from Hazardous Press.  Three much longer stories, a trio of ghostly tales, each one an original. 

The Dead of Winter will entertain your mind while chilling your blood. Keep an eye out for more information and I'll post it as it comes, both here at The Storyteller and on my FaceBook page.

The Dead of Winter

My Friday Frights were just the appetizer. 

It's time for the main course.