The Horror Tree Recent Markets, Articles, Interviews, and Fiction!

The Gloaming Gruesomeness Of Spring (Equinox)

It’s almost the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, but the weather still feels very cranky, to put it mildly. So, what can we do to placate the tempestuous Mother Nature and her denizens? By turning the naturecore trend into a movement that’s about much more than consumerist indulgences.

Every horror writer knows that forests are not as idyllic as they seem—not only are they full of magic, they contain inscrutable secrets yet to be revealed even for the most devout of practical scientists.

This equinox, don’t just pass through the forest on the well-beaten path, blend in as much as possible with the dirt, the leaves, and the shadows.

Paradoxically, it’s also time to embrace the state of natural decay and accept that things don’t have to be perfectly pristine. Abandon the weed whackers, the leaf blowers, and even the driveway brooms and let your yards become as untidy as your windblown hair and your dirt-streaked visage.
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Taking Submissions: Solidarity Forever Zine

Submission Window: April 1st – 7th, 2024
Payment: 10 cents per word
Theme: Solidarity Forever – fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. (See below for specifics)

The Solidarity Forever zine will be included with all preorders of The Nightmare Box and Other Stories by Cynthia Gómez placed through the Cursed Morsels store.

Cynthia Gómez and Eric Raglin will be coediting this zine. See submission details below.

Theme: Solidarity Forever – fiction, poetry, and nonfiction.
Word Count: up to 500 words
Pay: 10¢ per word
Dates: April 1st through 7th
Send to: cursedmorsels@ericraglin1992
Simultaneous submissions are fine.
No multiple submissions.
Absolutely no AI submissions.

FAQ
Does my story/poem/nonfiction have to be horror?
No. We welcome varied creative approaches to the theme.

What does “solidarity forever” mean?
It refers to the old union song of the same name. This song explores the workers’ struggles, triumphs, and collective power against oppressive capitalism when organized as a union. However, your submission does not have to be specifically about unions. It could be about all sorts of problems solved through collective resistance and people standing together.

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Taking Submissions: Cosmic Roots And Eldritch Shores April 2024 (Early Listing)

Submission Window: April 2nd, 2024
Payment: 8 cents per word for original, 2 cents for reprints, For artwork: $10 for the non-exclusive right to use each image, for as long as the site is online.  If we publish a print collection we will pay a pro-rata share for each image used.
Theme: Well written original work in science fiction, fantasy, myth, legend, fairy tales, and eldritch, in written, podcast, video, and/or graphic story form, and from around the world.
Note: Reprints welcome

 

 

Submissions Schedule

We have a new submissions schedule as of June 1, 2020:
The first and second day of every month, 12 am of the 1st to 12 am of the 3rd, E.S.T.
Only one submission per person.

For reading impaired individuals, our submissions manager and ‘forget password’ have a captcha compatible with screen readers.

We pay 8¢ per word for new fiction, 2¢ per word for fiction reprints, 2 – 6¢ per word for new fact-based work, 1- 4¢ per word for reprinted fact articles.
For new poetry, we pay $1 a line, reprints would be 50¢ a line, up to 40 lines. We’ll look at longer poems but that would be a hard sell, and words over 40 lines would be paid at 6¢ per word.

We began The Kepler Award to recognize and encourage writers of excellent science fiction and fantasy stories that creatively extrapolate on known science in constructive and exciting ways. You can learn about The Kepler Award here.

You can read a copy of our standard contract here.   It can be varied as needed to include the rights of translators, voice actors, etc.

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Martin L. Shoemaker: His program for writing

Martin L. Shoemaker: His program for writing

By Angelique Fawns

 

Martin L. Shoemaker has more than 30 years of experience in programming, writing, and teaching. He’s a popular mentor in the speculative fiction world, and has stories in Analog, Galaxy’s Edge, Writers of the Future Volume 31, and Clarkesworld. I met Shoemaker when I took his Fyrecon short story masterclass, “Tools Not Rules.”

He is a prolific creator and has some great advice for writers looking to learn story structure. Last year, he released a book called Making Story Models: Tools for Visualizing Your Story, and he has a salient bit of advice that stuck out for me.

“There is no One True Path. There’s no rule of writing that someone hasn’t successfully broken, save for one: You must write.”

Shoemaker was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to chat with us.

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Trembling With Fear 3-17-24

Greetings, children of the dark, and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day to the Irish diaspora. I’m fighting the urge to make comments about evil leprechauns and suchlike, and am thankful I’m feeling so drained from battling the mega virus from hell all week that I can’t think of anything Irish and witty to say. (The Irish are probably thankful for that, too!)

Speaking of the mega virus from hell—’twas not the plague; the test told me so—it is the reason I’m running a bit behind on TWF correspondence at the moment. A few of you have slid into my DMs to chase me on some things, and I can assure you I’ll get to it. Hopefully in the coming days. And yes, I said “hopefully”, because I have a lot to catch up on! I promise you, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. 

With those two ridiculous paragraphs re-read, I’m telling myself it’s time to cut my fevered losses and just jolly well get on with the show. So here we go.

This week’s TWF menu is some top shelf stuff, that’s for sure. Our feature short story is absolutely stunning—and its author, Miley Chen, is a high school junior, people!! I may as well throw in the towel now… 

That story is followed by the short, sharp (and somewhat gothic/folklorish, aka right in my wheelhouse) speculations of:

  • Steven Patchett’s chosen one, 
  • Samantha Lokai’s gardening tips, and 
  • Joshua Ginsberg’s award-winning service.

I hope you enjoy these offerings as much as I did.

To finish, two quick event plugs. Writing the Occult: The Fae is coming up on 6 April, with a whole globe full of amazing speakers. Never fear if you can’t make the whole day—it IS long—because we’ll record it all, but only for ticket holders. You’ve got one week left to get tickets at the early bird price of £35+bf; after that, the price will rise to £40+bf, with sales ending the day before the event. Get in quick before that price rise! Tickets here. (Yes, I’ll probably plug this every week until the event.)

Also: I’ve roped Stuart into being on a panel at the next British Fantasy Society online event day. The whole day is about “the book journey”—all those things besides the writing!—and I’ll be moderating the panel on marketing with the boss man, plus Jenn Hanson-dePaula from Mixtus Media, and indie writers/promo machines Beverley Lee and Nicole Eigener (aka Nicoverley). It’s free for BFS members, and just £5 for everyone else, plus it will also be recorded if you can’t make any/all of it live. Our panel will be up last, at 4pm UK time (11am East Coast / 10am Chicago for the boss’s diary). Details are over here.

And now it’s over to you, Stuart.

Lauren McMenemy

Editor, Trembling With Fear

 
We have a new site sponsor for the month, so if you’re looking to pick up a new book, I highly suggest The Dark Man, by Referral and Less Pleasant Tales by Chuck McKenzie!
 
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We’ve had a lot of people reach out over the last three weeks about the notable increase in ads on Horror Tree. Not only do we hear you, we see it as well. The number of ads has skyrocketed. I went in with our ad provider and manually lowered it, but it didn’t have any change. I’ve got an open ticket with our ad network to troubleshoot the issue. I’m hoping that within the next week, things will settle down a bit on exactly how much is being shown. Fingers crossed this doesn’t drag on for a long time as we really can’t afford to lose our ad revenue, but we also won’t have any readers if they stay how they are. So… Hopefully soon. I’ve been in contact with them all week about the issue.
 
And now the regular announcements:
  • Don’t forget – Trembling With Fear Volume 6 is out in the world, and if you’ve picked up a copy, we’d love a review! Next year, we may be looking to expand past just the Amazon platform. If we do that, what stores would you like to purchase your books from?
  • ATTENTION YOUTUBE WATCHERS: We’ve had some great responses so far but are open to more ideas – What type of content would you like to see us feature? Please reach out to [email protected]! We’ll be really working on expanding the channel late this year and early into next.
  • For those who are looking to connect with Horror Tree on places that aren’t Twitter, we’re also in BlueSky and Threads. *I* am also now on BlueSky and Threads.
  • If you’d like to extend your support to the site, we’d be thrilled to welcome your contributions through Ko-Fi or Patreon. Your generosity keeps us fueled and fired up to bring you the very best.

Stuart Conover

Editor, Horror Tree

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Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Eight

  1. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part One
  2. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Two
  3. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Three
  4. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Four
  5. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Five
  6. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Six
  7. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Seven
  8. Serial Saturday: The Cavern’s Memory by Jacob Calloway, Part Eight

 

 

Part Eight: The Text of Terror

 

Having arrived home from the tavern on a night off work, Jeffrey collapsed into bed and fell asleep, drifting into his now-typical nightmares haunted by the ever-nearing shadow in his peripheral vision. To his relief, however, he was soon interrupted by Clara climbing into bed next to him. Contrary to what he expected, she reached over to him with a warm touch and pulled herself next to him. Surprised by her affection, Jeffrey turned toward her and returned the gesture by pulling her into his arms. The passion of her intimacy that followed further bewildered him, but almost immediately confusion gave way to desire, and the frightening forms of reality melted away. Jeffrey’s sleep for the rest of the night featured few of the terrorizing dreams, and he slept clinging to Clara’s hand as an anchor. 

As sunlight entered the room the next morning, Jeffrey lifted his head from the pillow and looked around the room. She lay next to him, buried in the blankets with her arm still extended toward him and clasping his hand. Sitting up in bed, he heard the apartment door open and close as somebody entered. The crushing anxiety of the past few months immediately rushed back into his thoughts, with images of a shadowy figure gliding through the apartment toward the door. Fright quickly turned to confusion in a matter of seconds when he recognized the figure who appeared at the bedroom door was Clara. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Clara cried out in complete shock.

“I….” Jeffrey could hardly form words in his state of equal astonishment. 

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed. 

“I thought… where-” Jeffrey gave up on his disoriented response as Lila sat up in bed beside him. She looked with confusion at Clara and then at Jeffrey as she pulled the blankets around her.

“We’re done, you piece of shit,” were Clara’s final words to him before she stormed out of the apartment. 

“Who was that?” Lila asked after Clara had slammed the door behind her. 

“That- that’s Clara… I thought that…” Jeffrey still struggled to piece together what was happening. 

“Shit, you aren’t married or something, are you?” Lila said with a hint of suspicion. 

“No, she’s my girlfriend. Or…” he corrected himself, “she was.” 

“Why the hell would you call me if you lived with your girlfriend?” Lila scolded with a casual attitude as she slid out of bed and began to dress herself. 

“I called you?” Jeffrey asked, entirely bereft of any explanation. 

“Yeah, you called me like an hour after I left,” she explained, grabbing her purse and phone from the nightstand. “You picked me up and we came back here. Were you really that out of it?”

“I didn’t drink at all last night,” he replied, probing his memory for any trace of what Lila was describing. 

“Well, then I guess you’ve got a strange sense of humor, because this definitely wasn’t funny to her,” Lila said with a slight smirk.

“I- I just don’t remember what happened.”

“Okay, buddy. You’ve got my number.” Lila had put on her shoes and begun to leave the bedroom. “Maybe figure this out before you call me again,” she advised as she waved her hand in a circular motion.

Jeffrey sat in silence for a bit after Lila had departed, trying to understand how he had lost so much memory of the previous night. Though he knew his hallucinations must be worsening, he was loathe to acknowledge that his perception was deteriorating more precipitously every day. After pulling himself from the stupor of confusion, he made his way into the kitchen and pulled the manuscript from his backpack. Finding his spot once again, he continued to probe the ancient words. 

Their many slender branches of bright and beautiful color crept across the ground, winding through the doors of our very homes and embracing us in our sleep. Life could not return to those wrapped in them, and their flesh soon disappeared from their bones. The insatiable behemoths drank of our flesh from afar with their ever-growing reach.

The text continued for many pages in which the ancient author recorded the names of those having perished, describing each household and how it came to its end. Every account began the same way: a member of the family began acting strangely, worsening to the point of madness. The madness would consume the home, finally driving husbands and wives and brothers and sisters to a crescendo of violence in which most or all members lie dead or maimed. Even before the rest of the community found them, the colorful tendrils had infested the home and engulfed the bodies.

Beasts we found, too, were overcome by the ravenous feasting arms which traveled far from their bodies, and no tool could break their almighty grasp. The madness spread among the people, driving us to ever greater bloodshed as the land became a cistern of unfathomable sights in which we were drowning. 

So few of us were left when the great ones arrived, and our souls were broken. Oh, how gracious are they that restored the veil to our eyes. Violent bolts of light struck the earth from dark clouds above, setting fires even among the rocks. Incomprehensible speech like thunder filled the earth from above, plunging our ears into numbness. The terrors beneath the rock returned to their depths and their branches of death soon withdrew. When the dark clouds had cleared, the stars returned once more to the peaceful lights we knew them once to be, and as they remain to this day. 

The veil now covers our eyes once more, and this frightful world is hidden from us again. Most now can remember the terrors only as a dream. Some even venture to claim it never was. But upon these pages I save the memory of those times for a future generation should our appeasement of the great ones cease. Yet shall these pages remain hidden from the many until then, for knowledge of this terrible truth is a burden too heavy for the soul to carry. A person cannot think rightly knowing these things. I write this now as even I forget. We must forget. We must forget.

Jeffrey sat back in his chair, gaze fixed upon the final words in the manuscript before him. The crushing weight described by the author fell upon him with a finality he had yet to experience. He felt he knew now what was in store for him; his hands trembled at the prospect that his fundamental picture of the world was but a veil. His resolve became all the more potent as his curiosity mounted into an obsessive, consuming desire: he wanted to see behind the veil

As evening approached, Jeffrey packed his things for work, stuffing the manuscript into his backpack. The building in the gorge had already fallen under the mountains’ twilight shadows. The break room was empty when he arrived, and it looked as though Alan hadn’t arrived either. Finding it a little strange, he asked the departing crew if they’d seen Alan at all yet. He was surprised to hear Alan had called out sick, as this would be the first time Jeffrey had ever noticed him take a day off. 

Alan’s absence didn’t linger long in Jeffrey’s thoughts as he grabbed a cart and began his cleaning route. Slowly progressing from one room to the next, his mind raced back and forth between obsession and fright. Down long corridors and through dimly lit labs he muttered to himself, recalling the haunting words in the final pages of the text. A suffocating anxiety broke over him in periodic waves between bouts of manic curiosity. Jeffrey wound himself up into a frenzy trying to imagine what lay behind the veil. The shadow that had stalked his dreams for months seemed to follow him down the halls as he cleaned. Each time he could feel the shiver run through his body he would spin around to try and catch a glimpse of what he knew was there but still evaded his searching eyes. 

Corner after corner he wheeled the cart, entirely losing track of time as he went about his routine. His hands shook and his eyes darted about. The sound of shuffling footsteps suddenly drew his paranoid attention, but he was too late to avoid the dizzying blow to the side of his head. Jeffrey’s knees buckled beneath him, and he braced himself on the wall with one arm to keep from falling, only to have a second strike to his head send him reeling onto the floor. The room shrank into darkness as he saw through blurred vision that Alan was standing over him.

Eda Easter – Leading the Way in Horror!

Image donated by Sara. C./center>

Eda Easter – Leading the Way in Horror!

By Angelique Fawns

 

Eda Easter is no stranger to the world of horror. A panel expert on extreme horror at the San Antonio Ghoulish Book Festival happening from March 15-17, Eda is creating her own brand.

She is the creator of the indie feminist horror zine “Last Girl’s Club”, and author of the fun splatterpunk book, Killer RV, which you can find on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/Killer-RV-H-Obey/dp/B0BMSKBPFV

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Unholy Trinity: Tales from a Midnight Fire by Miguel Goncalves

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

The Whispering Grove

 

Under the shadowy canopy of ancient trees, the campfire light flickered. Martha shivered, as she recalled the tale of the Whispering Grove. Legends spoke of the lost souls trapped within, condemned to eternal whispers. As the friends huddled around the fire, the wind seemed to mimic eerie voices, sending a chill through their bodies. Unnerving rustles approached, and in the trembling light, they swore they could glimpse spectral figures. The grove seemed with ghostly murmurs. As Martha finished the story, they all laughed but the whispers lingered, as if the grove’s tormented souls had now joined them around the fire.

 

Footprints

 

Around the bonfire, Jake took his turn sharing a yarn. In a nearby marsh, it was said that ghostly footprints appeared on moonlit nights. Intrigued, people ventured to the marsh as ethereal prints guided them to an old well. Fear clutched their hearts for as they neared the well a voice would be heard. Turning back in dread, they would notice that the footprints had vanished. People would panic, realizing they had no way back. And as they tried to find their way, they’d eventually hear the chilling voice again, calling them to it, and the bottom of the well.

 

The Camper

 

Amidst the crackling flames, Dorothy shared the tale of the cursed camper. One night, a couple camped beside the forsaken vehicle. They had scoffed at the warnings and tales of its last occupants’ mysterious disappearance. As they prepared to turn in; terror struck. They could see faces in the camper’s windows. The camper’s door opened, beckoning them in. When the search parties found their camping site they were nowhere to be seen. The camper had long been towed away, Dorothy whispered, but its haunting presence is forever tied to that fateful camping spot, the very same we now sit on.

 

Miguel Goncalves

Miguel Gonçalves was born in Porto, Portugal, in the 80s. He grew up on comics, fantasy books, horror movies, and rock hair bands. He’s been writing, mostly for himself, since a young age and his stories are a mix of horror, thriller, and serial killers, some venturing into the supernatural spectrum of horror. He’s the author of “The Scarecrow Man”, which was published in an anthology by Dark Pine Publishing and by itself as a mini book, and also has some stories published by Fábrica do Terror a Portuguese- Horror website (one of his stories also features on their anthology). He also had one of his drabbles published at Horror Tree. You can find him at https://linktr.ee/AngelusSanguis.