P.L. McMillan's Blog, page 9

Interview: Kristin Holland

Today I chat with the one and only Kristin Holland, host of the Nocturnal Transmissions podcast! We talk about what podcasting is like and Kristin's love of horror. Due to Kristin wanting to keep his eldritch countenance a secret, I had to use a picture of Kristin instead. Still, his voice is so wonderful, you should definitely listen to this one with your eyes shut.

Podcasts galore!

Hello dear reader!

I promise I’ll be back to my regular reviews soon, but I just had to share some fun news!

I’ve been appearing on some podcasts recently, talking about writing and my upcoming novella, Sisters of the Crimson Vine, and it’s been so much fun! If you have a chance, you should have a listen! Just click on the podcast icon below to be redirected to my episode!

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Also, super exciting! I have an episode of PLM Talks coming out this Thursday, an interview with none other than Kristin Holland, host of the Nocturnal Transmissions podcast! So be sure to come back and watch that!

Last, don’t forget: special blessed editions of my debut novella are up for sale for a limited time only! Get yours here before it is too late!

BLESS ME PLM!

Be sure to come back on Thursday! See you then.

x PLM

p.s. just saw a lovely review from Hear Us Scream by Marina Garrido! Check it out!

Sisters of the Crimson Vine - Blessed

Hello dear reader and welcome to late nights with PLM. My new program where I only publish blog posts after midnight!

Just kidding, this isn’t going to be a regular thing. I meant to get this done earlier but I got invited to play some horror video games with friends and couldn’t resist.

My event this past Saturday went swimming (congrats to all the winners and thanks to everyone who came!). If you missed it, I’ll be uploading a video of it sometime later this week.

As for today’s post, let’s celebrate! We are only two weeks away from when my debut novella, Sisters of the Crimson Vine, is released! Those who ordered their limited copies from Timber Ghost Press might already be receiving them. If you can, please let me know what you think by posting a review to Amazon or Goodreads.

Here are some of the reviews so far!

“The perfect mix of folk and cosmic horror, McMillan’s novella is one of the best I’ve read this year. The story takes a subtle and unnerving approach when it comes to horror, revealing things slowly and making sure the reader is tense and unsettled during the whole narrative.

McMillan is a master at descriptions: I had a vivid image in my mind of the convent with all its rooms, the vineyard, and the cellar. What’s even more impressive is that she does so by feeding the details to us gradually, building the scenery in layers as the story progresses. Furthermore, the author also carved out individual traits for every single character, which made them all seem real and enriched the story greatly.

This is a quick read, both because of the length of the novella and because McMillan’s prose is so alluring and immersive that you won’t want to put this down until you’re finished.”

— Marina Garrido, Goodreads

“PLM has crafted a modern gothic masterpiece that oozes with genre bending nightmares. Of course, the nightmares are only there to take the non-believers, and the eldritch mysteries at the heart of the Crimoria Convent can be either your damnation or your salvation. Which side are you on?”

— Jon Gensler, Goodreads

“Author P.L. McMillan does that thing. What thing, you ask? Right. This is a review, so I guess I should elaborate. Or articulate, even. You know what I mean though. That thing. That all-important writing discipline that’s important to writing good stories, but absolutely vital to writing good horror stories. That bit of descriptive prose that somehow isn’t notably descriptive at all, but – through some insidious and subconscious method that is nigh invisible on the written page – manages to slither into your head and whisper: something isn’t right; something is wrong; you are not safe. THAT is the thing that McMillan does so well with her debut novella Sisters of the Crimson Vine. A slick, viciously scary blend of folk and cosmic horror that will have you looking twice at nuns and the picturesque British countryside.”

— Eugene, Goodreads

Looking to get a signed copy? You can! In fact, I have fifty blessed copies available. No more, no less.

What makes them blessed you ask? Along with personalization, doodles, a signature, and bookmark -- each copy has colour hand-printed elements to it.

What does it mean the book is hand-printed? It means that I designed, cut seven custom stamps, and have hand-printed the novella's subheadings, as well as an extra illustration. All in red.

Only these 50 copies will have these custom prints inside:

Currently I am only shipping inside the US because of price. If you're willing to cover shipping costs, I am happy to send outside the US. Just let me know and we can work something out.

US Price (shipping cost included): $15. Limited 1 per person.

I WANT ONE!

In addition to a copy of the book, you can also add on some PLM merch. Like nun stickers, pins, a Horrorgatchi keychain, or booty Mothman sticker (for additional cost)!

So click that button and grab a blessed book. You won’t regret it.

x PLM

PLM Catch Up

I feel like this month has been crazy busy for me, dear reader! With so many exciting events planned and releases coming up, I wanted to do a little recap.

First, this Saturday is the Evilly Entertaining — Live Reading Event. Yup, only four days away!

Four authors, four readings, four giveaways!

You’ll need to reserve your spot so don’t wait! I hope to see you there:

Reserve a Spot

Next up: my 90s Blockbuster horror story is being published as part of AHH! That's What I Call Horror: An Anthology of '90s Horror. This one was a lot of fun to write. Pre-orders are available now!

Pre-order Now

Beyond that — I will be making guest appearances on several horror podcasts, such as Burial Plot Horror Podcast and The GeanerikC Podcast, talking about my upcoming novella which debuts on December 6th. Don’t worry, I’ll share the links once the interviews go live.

And yes, dear reader, that’s right! Sisters of the Crimson Vine will be debuting in less than a month! I am super excited! In fact, if you come to the event I talked about above, you’ll have a chance to win a signed copy!

Check out some advanced reviews on the novella’s Goodreads page:

Check it Out!

As for my own Youtube channel, I have a couple of interviews lined up, so keep an eye out for those!

Otherwise, I am still plugging away at my current WIP, which stands at 17k words now. I’ve joined a linocut class (stabbed my finger rather well with the carving tool but have a pretty awesome first project done), drawn up a bunch of digital art, completed some embroidery for a gift, and written up a cross-stitch tutorial for a special newsletter (I’ll share a link when it’s live).

Overall, I’ve been crazy busy! I know I haven’t posted a review in a while but it is coming! Until then, make sure you stop by my event on Saturday and say hi!

x PLM

Reserve Your Spot! Live Reading Event - Nov 19th

Hello, dear reader!

Do you wish you could see me read my debut novella live? Do you wish you could have a chance to see other talented writers read? Do you wish you could win a giveaways and get free books!

Well, you’re in luck!

On Nov 19th, 6:00p.m. MST, I’ll be hosting a special live reading event with three other amazing authors.

This free 90 minute event will also feature four giveaways and attendees will have a chance to win a copy of the books being read from*!

Our guests include:

Me! - reading from Sisters of the Crimson Vine

Carson Winter - reading from The Guts of Myth

Christi Nogle - reading from Beulah

Caleb Stephens - reading from If Only a Heart

How cool is that?

Again, the event is free, all you need to do is reserve your spot through eventbrite:

Reserve your spot!

So don’t wait! Reserve your spot now and mark it down on your calendars for Nov 19th! I cannot wait to see you there!

x PLM

*US shipping only for paperbacks / international winners will receive an ebook <3

Sneak Peek!

Happy Halloween, everyone!

A bit of a late post, mainly because I temporarily forgot that part of Halloween is handing out candy and didn’t pre-write this post to release at a scheduled time. Oh well! I promised you a treat and, by God, you’re getting one!

Hey, if you haven’t read all seven of my chilling stories that I wrote for my seven day story challenge, you definitely should! Right now! I’ll wait!

Do The Broken Hearted Dream of Entropic Paradise?

Granny Mae, The Witch Bitch

Sow Thy Garden Full of Ire

Lights, Camera, Haunt!

Overtime is an Understatement

Curiosity Paid in Full

Look at the State of Me!

For this very special spooky day, I present to you a little sneak peek of my coming debut novella, Sisters of the Crimson Vine.

Pre-order!

Stay spooky!

x PLM

Spoopy Writing Challenge — Day 7

Well, well, well, if it isn’t All Hallow’s Eve Eve. You know what that means – it’s the final story of my October writing challenge. 

I thought I might share how my writing process has been for this challenge, in case you’re curious! How quickly I start writing really depends on my mood that day, which of course can be difficult if I’m tired or have had a bad day. It always starts with me reviewing the list of prompts I’ve made, thanks to your help. Sometimes one will stand out and an idea will come right away – like with yesterday’s. Others might be harder. This can be for various reasons. I might get a basic idea for a prompt but need to flesh it out – like with the story for day five. For that prompt, I had to puzzle out what “currency” could compel a ghost to haunt. 

In all these scenarios, I usually start writing before I have a fully formed story. I don’t know the length or details, there are some gaps I have to fill in as I go, and I improvise a lot. I don’t get much time to edit either, so sometimes the edges stay a little rough (forgive me, dear reader, for my editing sins!)

What are the benefits? Well, I get to offer you, my loveliest reader, seven spooky stories for spooky season! But it also offers me a chance to push boundaries, to push myself. The prompts can often get me to write something I would never have otherwise. The time constraints forces me to ignore my inner critic in order to write. 

And overall, it can boost my sense of accomplishment. I like knowing that you are here with me, reader, enjoying the stories I’m telling. So thank you. Thank you for reading them, thank you for commenting, or liking, or even just lurking and sending me good thoughts. I appreciate you. 

And while today is the last story, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a treat (or trick) for you tomorrow, so if you want to know what that little Halloween goodie is, you’ll have to come back and see!

If you haven’t, make sure to read the rest of my challenge stories and let me know what you think in the comments below. I’d love to know your thoughts! So, without further ado, today’s prompt comes from B.D. Brave:

I can’t stop eating decorative beads

And to close out my 2022 October writing challenge, for my seventh and final story, I bring you…

Look at the State of Me!

“When you feel that emptiness inside you,” Debra said with a smile at the webcam installed in front of her ring light. “You can fill it. Fill it with self assurance, self love, and selflessness.”

She paused half a second, smiling, smiling, smiling, then winked. 

“Of course, if you’re in dire need. You can fill it with cake! Thank you for joining me today for my newest episode of Devoutly Debra. Until next time, stay centered, stay present.”

She gave the cam a wave, then shut off the recording. Her smile disappeared with the little red circle. 

Next came an hour of editing, adding filters, adding soft lo-fi music, a title card, rendering, before loading it up to the platform and setting a scheduled release. All done in the quiet bedroom, the only sounds the muffled shrieking girl underneath the desk whose hands, feet, and mouth were duct-taped. 

Debra watched the loading bar process, process, complete. She closed the laptop and pushed away from the desk. Not her desk. The young girl’s. It was covered in gel pens, high school textbooks about pre-cal, chemistry, and Shakespeare, a couple unicorn plushies, and scattered make-up palettes. 

She stood, her hands shaking, turned and faced the small bed with the yellow duvet. On top of the cover was the small box that Debra had brought with her. 

“It’s not fair, you know,” she said and opened the box. 

Inside were beads. 

Debra sunk to the floor, tears prickling her eyes. “I helped so many people but no one helped me.”

She met the eyes of the young girl, who still lay beneath the desk. Her parents were away, Debra saw them leave. They hadn’t been very careful, leaving the garage door open, so Debra could watch them heave their suitcases into the trunk of their van. Watch them drive away as their single child waved goodbye.

“Alone in a crowd.” Debra picked up a wine bottle, unscrewed its cap, and gulped some. The next bit was always the worst. “Did your father tell you you cried too much?”

The young girl sobbed, her mascara running, tears streaking her duct tape gag. 

Debra dragged the box off the bed, into her lap, the wooden beads – each the size of a cherry - clacking against each other, a rainbow of pastel colours. 

“We’re all just sponges, absorbing the world around us,” Debra continued. “And the world is dirtied by our greed and lust and selfishness. Some of us absorb more than others. It’s not our fault.”

She dug a hand into the box, feeling the smooth wooden beads against her palm. 

“You’re too thin-skinned. That’s what they told me.” Debra set the box down, leaning forward, getting on her knees. “They didn’t know how right they were.” 

Debra sighed, feeling the girl’s eyes on her. Slowly, as though on a stage, performing for an audience, Debra pulled off her sweater, her undershirt, unhooked her bra. 

“I never felt good enough. I dropped out of college, thought I could make a name for myself as an influencer.” She ran her hands over her sides, her belly. “The world ignored me. I was a shadow. My parents kept asking when I’d get a real job, when I’d grow up.”

Debra crawled towards the young girl, who let out a muffled scream and tried to shimmy away from her. 

Debra sat back on her heels. “Am I the problem? Or was the world so uncaring that it made me this way?” She gestured at the quarter-sized holes that dotted her skin, like dalmatian spots, like the empty pods of a lotus root. “Just look at the state of me!”

The young girl shook her head, new tears pouring from her puffy eyes.

Debra pulled a box cutter from her jeans pocket, pushed its blade up. “They didn’t find me lacking, but they made me feel inferior, and that made me lacking. Can a person really say that they can define their own worth? Is our worth not weighed by the judgment of others? Was I not whole until their lack of interest, their bored eyes, their cruel comments made me small?”

The young woman heaved against her bonds, hitching with sobs, and fear sending her into convulsions. 

“They left me wanting and so I want. I must feed the void. I have to find my place in the world and weigh myself down with worth. You understand, right?” Debra said. “To feel seen. To feel worthy. I want to feel whole.”

Debra reached forward and pulled the young girl to her by the girl’s blonde hair. Pulling up the other’s shirt, Debra dug the box cutter blade in, sternum to pelvic bone, exposing the rib cage, the organs, the inner workings. Blood as deep as wine flowed forth. Debra reached back blindly, finding the box, pulling forth fistfuls of beads and stuffing them into the young girl’s abdominal cavity. 

The holes in Debra’s chest and belly gasped like suffocating fish mouths, desperate, desperate, desperate.

“Am I alive?” Debra asked the dying girl, whose blood soaked into the decorative beads and poured over the carpet. 

Debra caressed the young girl’s face, then reached into her gaping chest cavity, pulling out a fistful of blood soaked beads. “Am I enough?”

Like kernels of popcorn, Debra popped one bead in her mouth, swallowed, then another, and another. 

On her body, the beads reappeared, blocking the holes on her chest, on her sides, on her ribs, her belly. Finally quieting them. Their hunger silenced by the crimson, glistening beads. 

She couldn’t stop eating the decorative beads, moreso she wouldn’t stop eating them. They blocked the emptiness. They helped her feel whole. She ate until every void in her body was filled and the hungry feeling of unworthiness had quieted. 

Debra opened her eyes. She looked at the massacred girl in front of her. The girl’s worth was gone, consumed by Debra. 

Debra stood, packed away her beads and her laptop. She would have to find a new place to film. Eventually the beads would be gone and the holes would demand. She would need to find her next mark. She would need to find her worth again. 

But she wouldn’t cry. Debra stopped crying when she was a child. When her father had shouted at her for being weak, her mother had told her to grow a thick skin.

She didn’t cry in college when she’d caught her fiance cheating on her.

She hadn’t cried when her professors told her she wasn’t good enough.

She hadn’t cried at the hateful comments online when she started out her channel.

And she hadn’t cried when the holes began to appear.

Debra had just developed a need. 

A need to be seen, to find a way to fulfill her self, to find meaning. 

And she wouldn’t stop.

Debra knew she was worthy of continuation, no matter the cost. 

She deserved to be seen.

And that’s the final tale, my dear reader. But be sure to come back tomorrw. I have something special for you.

x PLM

Spoopy Writing Challenge — Day 6

Howdy, ghosts and ghouls! 

It’s getting to the end of my writing challenge, which means only two more stories left (including this one). I received a ton of really cool prompts, so please don’t be offended if I didn’t use yours! My process is to review the list of prompts and I pick that one that strikes inspiration first! On that note, today’s prompt comes from Zach Rosenberg:

A basement with a dark secret 

So, for my sixth story of my seven day chilling challenge, I bring you…

Curiosity Paid in Full

Zach’s Bistro was bustling, full of theatre patrons and artists, the smell of rich spices and heady booze filling the air, with an undertone of smooth jazz from the speakers. The boutique restaurant’s sommelier, Rose, slipped away from the clamour. Passing the steaming kitchen, she opened the door marked STAFF ONLY, which revealed dimly lit wooden stairs that led to the basement. 

The cacophony of the restaurant died as the door shut behind her, leaving Rose in blissful quiet. She descended the stairs, the air was cool and dry, smelling of dust and old paper. It was here that the restaurant kept their cleaning supplies and sundries, it was also where they housed their wine cellar. 

Rose went straight to the furthest wooden wine rack and pulled a 1950 Pomme’s Salt Pillar Pinot Noir out, wiping away the dust with her apron. 

“Good news, honey,” she whispered. “We found you a loving home! Or, well, loving mouths.”

Cradling the bottle on one arm, like a baby, Rose made her way back to the base of the stairs. One foot on the bottom stair, she paused. To her left was the lightswitch panel for the basement. Yellowed with age, one plastic corner cracked off, it contained thirteen switches. 

The one Rose used was marked with peeling painter’s tape and controlled the overhead lights. The others were unknown to her, all had been taped to the ON position with heavy duct tape, a handwritten sign said “DO NOT TOUCH” by them.

But tonight, a corner of the tape had curled, exposing the thirteenth switch. Rose reached out and touched the top of the thirteenth switch with the tip of her index finger. She’d always wondered what they did, what they controlled. If it was anything like her apartment then none of them would do anything noticeable, just a relic of poor wiring work. 

So she flipped it down. 

A sound like the exhalation of a held breath and the lights went out. 

Something touched the back of her neck and Rose dropped the bottle she held, a corner of her mind calculating the deduction that would cost her pay cheque, and she flipped the switch back up. 

The lights flashed on again and she turned to find herself somewhere else. 

A long hall, pale cream walls, a nondescript taupe carpet, the far off hum of a heating system or air conditioning, dim overhead strip lighting. At her feet, the broken glass bottle, the expensive wine soaking into her black suede heels. 

“What?” Fear was an acid bomb in her belly, burning her up, sending panic through her veins. 

She turned, convinced that all she had to do was flip the thirteenth switch down and up again. 

Except the panel was gone. Instead, the whole wall from floor to ceiling, was covered in light switches. 

Rose gasped for air, her ears buzzing with her racing pulse, and she fumbled, switched another off. 

The lights went out, dousing her in darkness and complete silence. She had the sense of mind to keep her finger on the switch, so she could flip it on again. 

Lights went on. 

The wall was now a buttery yellow, there was faux wood laminate flooring beneath her feet, and the halls stretched left and right of her, as well as behind. The air was alive with whispers, far and close, though she couldn’t see anyone, and Rose was too afraid to try and find someone, to try and find help.

She flipped another switch. 

More halls – green textured walls, brown carpet, the sound of something frying and the greasy smell of cooked meat. 

Another switch. Pink wallpaper with a daisy motif, tiled floor, screaming.

Another switch. Old brick walls, grass, a maze of some kind, and distant growling. 

Dozens of switches.

Dozens of halls.

Time unmarked except by Rose’s growing fatigue, her hunger, her thirst. 

She fell asleep in a place with wood panelled walls and dusty concrete floors, a light flickering overhead. 

She licked up the drying remains of the wine she’d spilled in a place with hammered metal walls and plastic flooring, alien muttering coming through the vents.

And when her weakening body couldn’t stand any longer, Rose solely tried the switches within arm’s length, until it became too tiring even to do that. 

Flip. Red velvet walls, a glass floor, a sweet voice singing lullabies.

Flip. Black walls with chalked graffiti, a gym floor with shoe scuffs, the distant sound of children laughing.

Flip. Yellow wallpaper with a plaid design, yellow rubber floor, and the smell of lavender.

She wet her tongue on the blood that leaked from her cracked lips, her eyes blurred, her head throbbed. Her limbs weighed her down in fleshy shackles. Her heartbeat fluttered and slowed, a lonely dirge in the lonely corridors of her own flesh and bone. 

One last switch managed, one last transition from light to darkness to light. 

Hope gone. Even despair gone. Just numbness and acceptance. 

In a hall with robin’s egg blue paint, a kid’s carpet of bears and tigers, Rose eyed a shard of glass.

x PLM

Spoopy Writing Challenge — Day 5

Doom has befallen this land! 

Oh wait, no, I mean it’s day 5 of my seven day writing challenge! 

It’s about this point that I start struggling a bit, if I’m being honest. Seven stories in only seven days is pretty intense! Still, despite the challenge, I am really enjoying myself. So far I’ve written stories about a cult, an unconventional granny, a tale of revenge, and a spirit on set – hopefully you’ve also been enjoying reading them! 

Oh! Exciting news! I’ve decided to attend Authorcon in March. I’ve never been but a lot of amazing and talented authors are going so I am excited to see everyone! 

And maybe you’re eagerly awaiting for me to get on with it so you can read the next one… well today’s prompt comes from my Hubs:

In a world where not even the dead can escape capitalism, a poltergeist can’t hold down a job. 

So, for my fifth story of my seven day chilling challenge, I bring you…

Overtime is an Understatement

Poltergeist designated M4TT0433 floated along the ruins of the road once known as Main Street. At least that’s what the rusting sign, lying on the heaped up concrete, said. Overhead, the eternally smog-strangled skies threatened another onslaught of acid rain. 

M4TT0433 drifted through a six legged dog, whose strange bulbous fifth and sixth legs twitched and trembled as it snacked on an unrecognizable pile of flesh. Sensing him, the dog looked up and around, snarling, before returning to its meal, content that it found itself alone. Along this road, only three houses stood relatively intact, faint lights flickering in their broken glass windows. The other houses were splintery graves of familial memories, mouldering sentinels of better days. Days before… before whatever had happened happened. M4TT0433 couldn’t remember what exactly.

He passed another poltergeist floating in the opposite direction. 

“Any work that way?” he asked.

The translucent woman just shook her head sadly, before breaking down into pearlescent tears. Uncomfortable, M4TT0433 moved on. At random, he turned down another road, slipping through abandoned cars and buses. 

When the Event had happened, whenever and whatever that had been, millions of people had died. It should have been a relief. M4TT0433 stopped and stared down at a teddy bear choked by moss in the dirt. 

It should have been a relief. M4TT0433 had vague memories of repetitive tasks, small talk, daily routines, annoyances, grievances, fatigue. 

But death was not the end. Limbo was an unemployment office guarding an eternity of bliss that could only be entered once applicants had made themselves whole again. 

Because at the moment of death, all M4TT0433’s memories and dreams and ambitions had died too, leaving him a lonely husk, a yearning hollow. Without even a name he could remember. 

He’d been told by a horrifying entity made entirely of eyes and glowing disdain that he’d need to earn these memories back through hard labour.

He needed to haunt. 

But jobs were scarce these days. The dead outnumbered the living. And the living were so worn down by the horror of life, death didn’t seem to scare them anymore. 

A black cat crossed M4TT0433’s path, startling him out of his thoughts. 

Cats, the only thing as yet untouched by the devastation of the world. It looked up at him, actually seeing him, with jade eyes. 

Straightening his ghostly shoulders, M4TT0433 wavered his misty appendages at the feline, uttering – what he thought was – a soul-piercing shriek. 

The cat blinked slowly at him, then turned, and continued on its way, unimpressed.

Poltergeist M4TT0433 sighed, dropping his arms. He went up a shattered front walk to a house whose roof had collapsed into its second floor. Tarps had been nailed across the gaps, a desperate attempt to protect against the acid rain that had just now begun to pour. 

M4TT0433 raised a fist to knock, then stared at his hand, numb. An old habit, a living habit. Floating through the door, he followed a faint trace of light to the living room. Aptly named for three people were huddled around a small fireplace. A can sat close to the flames, something cooking, something M4TT0433 couldn’t smell. 

Another poltergeist hovered in the corner, pounding his fists against the wall and throwing a light bulb to the floor. 

The three people glanced up briefly, then sunk back down, expressionless. 

M4TT0433 and the other poltergeist made eye contact. The other shrugged. “Good luck.”

Then he exited through the wall and out of sight. 

One of the living, a young woman with a shaved head and savage scar across her face, pulled the can away from the fire and began to serve the slop within. 

M4TT0433 sighed, a sound like dead leaves on the sidewalk, and began to moan and wail, throwing debris about. 

Afterall, he had a job to do. 

See you all tomorrow!

x PLM

Spoopy Writing Challenge — Day 4

Hear that? The writing bell tolls!

It tolls for thee and me!

That’s right, dearest reader, today marks day 4 of my writing challenge. I’m not sure about you, but I am pretty excited for Halloween! I am hoping I can wake up early enough to check out a local pumpkin farm, maybe snag some pumpkins and goodies, then head on home. I might rewatch Alien to celebrate, or maybe rent something new like Black Phone or Nope, which I haven’t seen yet. I still have to decorate, I’m always late with that!

But are you really here for my Halloween plans? No, you’re here for some spookiness. Today’s prompt comes from Timaeus Bloom:

A daytime talk show whose host(s) get visited by an otherworldly guest

So for my fourth story of my seven day spooky challenge, I bring you…

Lights, Camera, Haunt! 

“And that was Kimberly Hale on the dangers of exposing your children to genre fiction!” Pastor Landry said, his voice booming across the studio. 

The cameraman glanced down at his watch. Tim Bloom was a young graduate and, in his pursuit of trying to fund his dream project of travelling and documenting various haunted locations across the world, had taken freelance work at Christ’s Christian Channel studios. He wasn’t particularly religious and, honestly, he found most of the topics Pastor Landry focussed on to be completely bonkers, but it paid well. Real well. CCC Studios had a huge turnover rate – from cameramen to assistants, caterers to cleaners. No one could stand Landry for long. On set, he was overbearing and loud, off set he was worse. Condescending to all the guys, super creepy to all the ladies.

But no one would say anything. Tim definitely had no plans to. He collected his pay cheques and saved. In a few more months, he would have enough. Barely enough, but he’d make it work. He always did. 

Snapping back to attention, Tim made sure his camera was centered correctly and resumed watching the sound stage with minimal interest.

Landry was an intimidating figure at six and a half feet tall, dressed all in black, his porridge face often blotched red with emotion, his hawk-sharp nose spiderwebbed with broken veins. His gray hair was thinning, his face clean shaven, his lips glistening with spit. 

His guest, an older woman with mousy brown hair that had been captured in stiff curls by too much hair spray, scurried away with a tight smile and short wave to the canned applause of the overhead speakers. 

Pastor Landry spun and lumbered to the corner of the stage, where his organ awaited. He sat, the bench protesting under his weight with a frightful squeak. Raising his hands to the ceiling, fingers curled into sausage claws, the man yelled “Praise the Lord!” before crashing his hands down on the keys and banging out a discordant tune. 

Landry called this horrible playing his version of speaking with tongues, of communing with the Lord at a primal level. To Tim, it was just grating to hear. 

Behind him, the live studio audience began to call and scream and clap. They ate Landry’s shit up every time. 

After what felt like an eternity, Landry stopped playing and stood again, striding back to his seat – more like a throne, Tim thought, focussing his camera on the man as he let himself fall into the heavy oak chair with ornate carvings and towering back rest. 

“And now, our next guest,” the priest intoned. “Now this brings me no joy. No, none at all, to bring this to your attention. But we have yet another missing girl.”

The audience gasped and cried out on cue. Tim wondered, not for the first time, if they were all paid actors. 

“Let’s bring out Mr. Jebediah Cotton.” Landry stood again, straightening his shoulders. 

A cold chill crept down Tim’s spine. Cotton? It couldn’t be. The guest walked out onto the stage, a washed out looking man, sorrowful and hunched over. He took Landry’s offered hand, shaking it weakly, before practically collapsing in the armchair behind him. 

Pastor Landry stayed standing, addressing his audience and Tim’s camera. “This is a sad tale, my children, but a common tale. A tale of a girl led astray, straight into the wolf’s teeth.”

Landry sighed theatrically, loudly, before settling into his own chair and resting his head against a fist. Jebediah stared at his hands, limp in his lap, his forehead spotted with sweat. After an awkwardly long pause, Landry finally straightened up and settled his own hands on his chair’s armrests. 

“Now, Mr. Cotton. Tell us how your daughter, Cordelia, strayed from God.”

Tim’s world shrunk to a terrible pinpoint as another chill rolled down his spine. He knew her. Cordelia Cotton. He’d gone to grad school with her and she was the one who’d gotten him the job at CCC Studios, they had sometimes hung out after filming, and he’d had no idea she was missing.

He struggled to remember the last time he’d seen her, talked to her – it had to have been last week, Friday. He remembered that she’d seemed upset. But he hadn’t thought to press her about it, he hadn’t thought to check up on her. Now guilt – something Pastor Landry talked about a lot – weighed down on him like spectral chains. 

“My Cordy, she didn’t come home on Friday,” Jebediah said, his voice hitching a bit. “The police found her shoes in an alley near the mall, but nothing else.”

Pastor Landry nodded, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “And you mentioned thinking she was meeting someone. A man perhaps. A lover.”

“I don’t know,” Jebediah said. “I think so. She was texting more often, seemed distant.”

Tim gritted his teeth. Cordelia didn’t have a boyfriend. She didn't even seem interested in dating at all as far as he could tell. Cordelia was just too busy working, hanging out with friends, and building up her following on her make-up channel. It was something he found amazing about her - her drive, her passion, her dedication. She was the one who had encouraged him to save up and set off on his own rather than wait for a sponsor or backer.

He knew that she had been planning on leaving eventually once she felt her brand was strong enough, moving to L.A., something she hadn’t told her ultra-conservative family yet.  

“And this daughter of yours.” Landry stood again. “She fornicated outside of marriage. She tainted her value and purity!” 

The audience gasped on cue and Tim clenched his hands into fists, staring at the priest through the filter of his camera. 

“This daughter of yours strayed from God!” Landry shouted.

Jebediah cried out and fell from his chair to his knees, clutching his head. “She wasn’t right, Pastor Landry! But I tried to guide her! I tried to keep her pure!”

The priest placed a fat hand on the man’s head. “You failed as her father, Jebediah Cotton. You will need to repent for that, by God’s will. But your daughter was tainted. All girls carry Eve’s sin, her weakness towards the serpent.”

Tim wanted to rage, to shout and storm the set, but he froze when movement on the right side of the stage, by Landry’s organ, caught his eye. It was a pale ethereal wisp of movement, like the barest breath of smoke. 

“Your daughter opened her legs, she opened her soul to Satan!” 

“God have mercy on her soul!” replied Jebediah. 

Behind Tim, the crowd roared with ‘amen’s and ‘god have mercy’s, but Tim was transfixed. Through his camera monitor, he watched the wisp shimmer and sway. It swirled further onto the stage, growing thicker, growing clearer. 

His heart was a frantic drumbeat in his ears, pounding his ribs, threatening mutiny. Tim leaned to the right and looked past his camera but saw nothing at all on the stage. When he looked back at the camera monitor again, it was there. 

Past the camera, the stage was empty. 

Looking at the screen, there it was. 

Whatever it was, it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye. 

But it was there. Something was there. Tim could feel it just as clearly as one knows when they are being watched or when someone has entered the same room. The feeling of something else – of someone else. 

“She was a sinner and fell to temptation!” Landry cried out.

Overhead the stage lights flickered, buzzed. Someone in the crowd screamed – from the lights or the frenzy Landry was whipping up, Tim couldn’t tell.

“We must pray for her soul!” Jebediah wailed.

The light directly above the two men crackled, snapped, a spray of sparks showered the stage, and the lights went out. The audience screamed in unison and Tim’s breath caught in his throat as he realized they were all alone in the dark with whatever was creeping on the stage. He could still see it, a brilliant white and gold aurora dancing towards him, towards center stage. 

“Someone fix the goddamn lights!” Landry yelled. 

Stage crew scrambled, the audience whispered and chattered, laughing nervously in the quiet. 

Tim watched the wisp approach. It became more defined, took shape. A human shape. She faced him, trailing the faintest of mist in her wake. 

“Cordelia,” Tim whispered. 

Her face was deadly still, looking more like a death mask than how he knew her. He could faintly see that she was wearing the same clothes in this form as she had the last time he’d seen her, though now they were ripped and stained. Her eyes were blank, mirror-like sparks. Missing life, missing what made her Cordelia. 

Tim’s breath rose in small clouds as the temperature plummeted. His teeth chattered, his fingers went numb. Again, as if to reassure himself that this was all really happening, he looked past the view screen. Nothing. Just Pastor Landry shouting at the scurrying crew and Jebediah Cotton cowering on the floor in the darkness. Nothing else, nothing strange.

And yet, looking through the camera, Tim could see her. She floated in front of the equipment and stared directly at him, through the lens. 

The lights flickered, sending sparks across the stage again. Cordelia reached towards the lens and traced a symbol that lingered for a brief moment in a bright echo.

“Give me power.” Her voice, cold, pleading, as if from miles away, yet intimately near, in his ear. 

Another explosion of sparks sprayed down, dancing through Cordelia’s translucent body. Her mouth never moved, her eyes never blinked. “Help me. Tim. Help me now.”

The lights blinked on again, flooding the sound stage with brilliance. The audience cried out in relief, Pastor Landry shooed the crew away and snapped his fingers in Tim’s direction. “Keep filming, child. The show must go on!”

Out of habit, Tim repositioned the camera, but he wasn’t looking through the lens, he was still looking at it, remembering the symbol. Cordelia was gone but not. He could still sense her. Close, waiting. 

“Now where were we?” Landry forced a jolly laugh and the audience, his sheep, laughed with him. 

His belly roiling, threatening revolt, Tim stumbled back from his post and pressed the back of his left hand to his mouth. He knew. It was clear. Cordelia wasn't missing. She was dead. She was dead and wanting something from him. 

Tim bit down on his thumb, just a little, then remembering the symbol, a lot. Hard, then harder still, grinding his teeth back and forth until he drew blood. 

On the stage, Pastor Landry was standing over Jebediah, one hand on the man’s head and the other raised to the ceiling. “Praise God for his judgment! Praise his servants for exacting his will!” 

Switching his camera off, Tim slipped around the side and stood in front of it. Then he pressed his bleeding thumb against the lens. The symbol blazed in his mind as clear as day and he recreated it on the glass in his blood. Returning to his place behind the camera, Tim turned it back on. 

As the camera whirred to life, Tim spotted Cordelia again – though obscured by the symbol in blood on the lens – standing on set, just behind Pastor Landry. The symbol began to glow, from crimson to gold to white, before disappearing in a sizzle. 

“He has answered our prayers!” screamed someone in the audience. 

“She has been delivered!” cried another. 

Tim clutched his bleeding hand against his chest, right above his racing heart. Landry turned with a frown, angry at being interrupted when his sheep should be enraptured. His mouth gaped, his eyes bulged, he continued to turn and spotted her, the spectral Cordelia. 

With a squeal, the priest stumbled back, stumbling over the kneeling Jebediah. 

Tim looked up. He didn’t need the camera to see her anymore after all. 

She drifted, following the priest as he fumbled along the stage. Raising one ghastly hand, Cordelia pointed at him and opened her mouth in a silent scream. 

Right behind his ear, he heard her whisper grow to a shout to a wail, “He did it. He did this. He hurt me. He broke me. Killer, killer, killer!” 

His ears ringing, Tim fell to his knees, clutching his head in pain, as Cordelia’s shriek slowly faded. Looking up, he saw the audience in a similar state, blood leaking through their fingers as they wept from the pain in their ears. 

Jebediah stared up at his daughter in horror, his bloody hands raised defensively. She ignored him, didn’t even seem to see him, as she floated after Pastor Landry, who had reached the edge of the stage. 

Cordelia’s form began to flicker, weaken, as she followed him to the edge. Her whole being shuddered and slowed. 

“That’s right, demoness!” Landry screamed triumphantly, finally standing and holding out his crucifix. “Be gone, tainted whore!”

Tim got to his feet, wavering, sick to his stomach, and happened to glance at the camera. Landry had gone out of frame and Cordelia was at the very edge, fading. 

Tim didn’t hesitate. He’d gone to school for this after all, he’d dreamed of filming, making movies, catching the action. He wasn’t able to let this moment escape, he wasn’t about to let Cordelia’s moment fall flat. 

He turned the camera on Landry, capturing him in the lens’ eye. Cordelia blazed to furious pearlescent life again. Reaching to her shirt, she ripped it open, revealing gruesome slashes and puncture wounds cast in obsidian stains across her bare chest. She dipped her hands into these wounds, pulling out globs of iridescent ichor. 

“Back, you bitch!” Landry screamed, waving his crucifix back and forth, his face as red as a tomato and looking fit to burst. “I’ll kill you again, I swear!”

Cordelia swooped at him, hands outstretched, passing through his defensive crucifix, and she smeared the black goo over his face. He choked on it as she jammed it into his mouth, stifling his screams. 

Flailing, he fell onto his back and Tim made sure to keep the camera centered on the convulsing priest. All the while, Cordelia continued to scoop the dripping slime from her wounds and jam it into the priest’s mouth, his nose, even stabbing it into his eyes. 

The audience swarmed, mindless, mad. They fell on Pastor Landry, trying to help or hinder, Tim didn’t know. Whatever their intent, they ended up trampling Landry beneath their feet and Tim filmed it all. 

He zoomed in, capturing every snap of bone and spray of arterial blood. In moments, the priest was reduced to a puddle of holy muck on the sound stage floor. 

Then the spell was broken, the audience dispersed, staring down at their blood-stained hands as if mesmerized. Jebediah Cotton got up, staring where his daughter wavered in the harsh studio lighting. She grew dim, fading from sight. 

“Cordy!” her father cried but she never looked at him. 

Instead, she turned and looked at Tim through the lens of his camera. Her face was still, cold, expressionless, but as she disappeared from view he heard her voice, a whisper just behind his ear.

“Thank you.”

Oooh, that was a haunting tale, wasn’t it? (bahdumtsh!)

See you tomorrow!

x PLM