Thursday, June 23, 2011


A loving couple, and proud parents of two beautiful children, were headed out for a much needed night on the town. Their most-trusted babysitter was at the door at 8:30 PM, sharp. The children were already in bed, so all the babysitter really had to do was sit around and make sure everything was alright.

Later that evening, after running out of things to do, the babysitter decided to watch some TV. There was no cable in the living room, however. The parents didn't want their children watching too much garbage. The babysitter called the father on his cellphone, "Can I watch TV in your bedroom since there's cable in there?" She asked him.

"Of course." He replied, "Just keep it turned down so you don't wake the children."

"Sure thing," She said, "but one more question. Can I put a blanket over the angel statue outside your bedroom window? I feel like it's staring at me."

The father was silent for a few moments, then said, "Get the children dressed and get out of the house. I'll call the police. We don't have an angel statue."

Five minutes later, a patrol car arrived on the scene, but neither the children nor the babysitter could be found.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Horror Preview: The Market Street 6

Michael Costanza, the amazing indie director who brought us The Collingswood Story, returns to the movie scene after footage for his upcoming feature film 'The Market Street 6' has been unearthed.

"Set in San Francisco, “The Market Street 6” chronicles the final hours of six people who become stranded when the subway they're riding supposedly breaks down. Forced to blow the train, the passengers band together to locate the nearest emergency exit...

“Tapping into our primal fears and presenting them in a unique way is a challenge for any low budget filmmaker,” explains Costanza. “Looking back on all the horror greats from PSYCHO to HALLOWEEN, EVIL DEAD to BWP, even fast forwarding to the brilliant INSIDIOUS –- all were produced on a slim budget. I firmly believe that working with limited resources can work to our advantage as we are forced to bemore creative -- to completely tap into a nightmarish realm and as a result create work that's all the more terrifying. Less is more. That's exactly what inspires me as a filmmaker.”

Friday, June 17, 2011

Short-Short Story: Mother

A young girl, no older than six, is sitting alone in her bedroom. She's got her dolls set up, fancy and proper, awaiting tea to be served. She hears her mother calling for her from the kitchen. "I'll be right back, ladies and gentlemen. There is something I must attend to!"

She hops up and skitters down the hallway. Just as she's passing the hall closet, the door opens a crack and a feminine hand reaches out and pulls her in, covering her mouth. "Don't scream, darling. Please."

The girl looks up at her mother, her heart racing. The mother says, "Don't go in the kitchen. I heard it, too."

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


It was starting to get dark. How late was it? I've been out here for a while now, just sitting with my rifle, waiting for some unexpected creature to pass me by. I haven't seen anything yet though. The woods are quiet around here save for the sound of the ancient oaks creaking in the wind. Nary a bird nor a squirrel can be heard singing to the clouds or skittering along the leaf-strewn carpet of earth. Maybe this hunting trip was a bad idea.

I packed up my thermos and various other personal effects. My legs nearly gave out as I stood up, not realizing they were asleep from hours of crouching in the brush. I steadied myself on a nearby tree. I surveyed the surrounding area from my bark-skinned crutch. Which way did I come in from? I couldn't remember. I dug around in my pockets for the compass I always carried with me, but it was nowhere to be found. It must have fallen out. I'll never find it now, buried beneath the leaves in this twilit tangle.

With my bearings lost, I was left with no other choice than to pick the most likely direction and walk, hoping beyond hope to stumble across the dirt road upon which my truck was left. I walked for at least twenty minutes before the night's complete darkness finally settled in. I could barely see the outline of my own hands against the lightless veil.

Perhaps lady luck was on my side, though. After another few minutes of stumbling I came upon a small, one-room cabin set in one of the rare clearings in these woods. With no overgrown canopies hovering overhead, the light of the moon made the wooden shelter glow; a beacon for a lost hunter.

I remember hearing it said that some forests had small shelters built through-out, as protection for lost travelers. I could not be sure that was the case here, but it is a possibility. I approached the front door, only to find it ajar. I peered inside through the small crack between the door and the frame, but my eyes were met with an empty room save for a small bed in one corner. If the shelter belonged to someone they weren't there.

I pushed past the threshold, closing the flimsy wooden door behind me. It was then, as I sat on the edge of the bed that I realized just how tired I was. My joints and muscled ached, and my eyes were sore from lack of sleep. I flopped down on to the pillows, resigned to explain my situation to the owner should they show up.

It was then, as I started up from the pillows that I noticed them. The walls of the cabin were covered in portraits. They were all the same size, and each portrait had a similar picture held within -- an exaggerated face, with dark, inset eyes and an eerie grin, and I felt as though each one was staring directly at me. They were staring at me with a gaze full of mischievous hatred and contempt. The longer I started at them the more uncomfortable I got. I could feel my heart beating faster, my body's panic reaction starting to kick in. I willed myself to look away, turning on my side to face the wall. I put the portraits out of my mind, and slowly drifted off in to an uncomfortable, restless sleep.

I was  awakened the next day by the unexpected presence of sunlight in the cabin. As I wiped the dreams from my eyes I was overtaken by a startling realization. There were no portraits in this cabin, only windows.

Monday, June 13, 2011


There is a weird trait that runs in my family. When we fall asleep our eyes are often open ever so slightly. It brings in to our dreams the faintest of glimpses; Just a sliver of the waking world. It is enough to have a slight effect on our dreams, adding a touch of reality to the images in our mind. Because of this flaw... or perhaps gift... my family has the most vivid and detailed of dreams.

I claim it as a gift most any day of any year. There was one day, though... one rainy, morose day that my most animated dreams were seen as a flaw. I was sixteen at the time, and it was a hot, sticky August night. I left the window open just an inch, hoping to entice a breeze to grace me with its cooling breath...

I woke up before the alarm. Bleary-eyed, I surveyed the room. Everything seemed in place, and I figured since I was up I might as well get dressed. As soon as my feet touch the floor, a gust of wind blew through my window, pushing back my curtains 'til they tickled the ceiling. I crept toward the window, and pushed it down tight. I locked it as per usual window etiquette in my house. As I turned to get dressed, it started to rain.

It was a harder rain than we had in years; A great torrent hitting the house so hard it could've been mistaken for hail. The downpour just came out of no where. There were no clouds in the sky when I closed the window, and there was no mention of any rain on the evening weather report the night before. I shrugged it off as your general summer rain (you can never predict them) and start getting dressed. I was reaching for my belt, the capstone to my dressing pyramid, when I heard a woman screaming.

I momentarily froze. My first instinct was to run to my mother's bedroom, and see what had happened. Maybe the thunder had jolted her awake? No... It couldn't have been mom. The scream came from outside. I walked over to the window and gazed out in to the falling water. I froze in a mixture of panic and fear.

She was just standing in my driveway. I  could plainly see the white picket fence through her. I couldn't make out her face -- if she even had one, but eyes or no, I could literally feel her looking at me. Looking in to me...

I woke up in panic. I was covered in sweat, and breathing heavily. The clock read 6:14 AM, I still had sixteen minutes until the alarm was supposed to go off. I didn't want to go back to sleep, not after that dream, so I got up and started getting dressed.

I reached for my belt, and it started to rain.

Sunday, June 12, 2011


I was twenty-one years old and living on the West Virginia-Ohio border. I lived alone, in a (very) small house back in the sticks, a good way from society. I was sitting out on the patio at about 3:00 AM, smoking a Capa #1 Churchill Natural, when this weird, yet surprisingly beautiful noise came out of nowhere.

It sounded like a church choir singing. It was angelic and intoxicating, and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from at first. The sound seemed to surround me. I wanted to go look for the source, but I could scarcely move. After listening for what seemed like hours, the singing started to fade -- "The source is moving away," I thought to myself.

I went into the house, and grabbed my truck keys and a small handgun I kept around (for insurance.) Then I headed toward the woods.

As soon as I crossed the tree-line, the singing changed. It went from an angelic, beautiful Latin melody to something deeper, darker and far more sinister-sounding. I couldn't even tell what language it was, but it wasn't Latin anymore.

I froze. The singing started to get closer again. My hands were shaking so fiercely that I could barely hold the handgun, let alone shoot it.

After swallowing a lump of fear the size of my fist I turned and ran. I didn't even go in to my house, or to lock the front door. I jumped in my truck and sped off, away from the woods.

I arrived at a friend's apartment later that morning. He lived in town and I figured it would be a bit safer there. When I told him what had happened he just said, "I hear stories like that all the time. It's just the wind blowing through the mountains." It wasn't wind, though. I know what I heard and I wanted to argue, but he had this smug sense of superiority because he had lived there his whole life and I had just moved there. I let the subject drop.

It was well over a week before I put my thoughts in order and decided to head home. My friend decided to join me, to make sure everything was okay. We took separate vehicles, obviously, and I arrived first. Everything felt... weird, and eerie. I noticed it as soon as I got out of my truck. I told myself it was just left-over anxiety from my earlier experience, but I couldn't shake the feeling.

I went in to my house to wait for my friend to arrive. Luckily, no one bothered anything while I was gone -- not that I specifically cared. I didn't have anything of express value. It was another five minutes before my friend arrived. He had to stop for refueling.

When he exited his car he looked around, and said, "It feels weird here. Empty. It's too quiet. The woods are usually full of noise."

He was right. It was quiet. Maybe that's why everything felt out of place. My friend started walking the tree-line around my property, looking for any signs that it was someone playing a terrible prank. What he found was slightly more worrisome.

There was dead wildlife everywhere. Birds laying lifeless beneath the trees, squirrels and even a few rabbits just laying about, stiff and cold. If that wasn't odd enough, there were about ten rows of baseball-sized scorch marks in different areas around my house.

We couldn't explain any of it. I, personally, don't think there is a logical explanation for any of it. That day, I loaded my truck with as many things as I could, and stayed with my friend until I found a new place. I never went back, and I'm never going to.