Raw Earth Ink
Spit mixed with dirt – Muddy words flow
The Hawthorne Project book excerpt – ‘Manteo’ by Mark Ryan
The following is an excerpt of the short story: Manteo by Mark Ryan, which you can find in the anthology The Hawthorne Project. Inside you’ll find ten dark and creepy stories written by him and other amazing authors. I hope you enjoy this little snippet. Oh, and click any of the links below to buy.
When she was young, around nine or ten, Olivia and her sister had begun to be looked after by a Mrs. Langford who lived around the block from them. Up to that time, their mother had been taking them to their grandparent’s house when she needed to work. The life of a single mother gave her the added stress of holding down two jobs, and much of the time she would have to drop her kids off with her parents. This was only up to the time when her own father passed away, and her mother struggled both with his passing and then in being able to look after the kids. The demands of a nine and six-year-old were too much for her and the onset of dementia. Olivia loved her grandparents, and enjoyed staying with them with their giant yard, plentiful and delicious food, and the tender moments only a family could provide.
Mrs. Langford offered no tender moments, her food was minimal and foul, and she lived in a small unit that smelled of cat piss. Both she and her sister hated going to her house, as Mrs. Langford – though it was never known of a Mr. Langford – refused to come to theirs. In hindsight, Olivia was somewhat thankful of this as she had been a cruel and suspicious woman, and Olivia could only imagine her sniffing about her home and forcing the chores upon them. As it was, they did very little when they stayed with her, as she seemed not to care about her own surroundings. Being told to keep quiet and out of sight surprisingly worked for both parties when they would stay with her. Olivia and her sister Rachel would usually take to the only other bedroom in the unit, and were thankful for the wall and dividing door between them and the older woman, who would while away her time watching television and smoking away on her Camel cigarettes as the tiles above her caramelized.
It was rare, but sometimes they would have to sleep over when their mother worked, Olivia could recall only a handful of times, but one stood out more than any of the others. She and Rachel were in the small single bed that was pushed up to the wall beneath the tiny window. The cold air would seep in, but it gave them a sense of a world beyond the realm of Mrs. Langford and the smoke-filled unit. Rachel had fallen asleep, something Olivia struggled to do there. She had heard Mrs. Langford go to bed earlier, for once not spending the night on the couch with the tv blaring.
All was somewhat quiet when she heard a small sound coming from the other room. The cat usually went where Mrs. Langford went, but Olivia was sure she was in her own bedroom. Listening harder, she watched suddenly as the door of their room clicked open and slowly pushed itself ajar by an invisible hand. Olivia had sat up then, scared and unsure what to do. She wanted to wake her sister but was too scared to make a sound. She saw it then, a dark figure looming in the crack of the door. Its head started low and then moved upwardly as if independent from any body. It had no features, and even in the dead light she could see it was not human, the head was pulled back in an unnatural fashion. It hovered there, seeming to have noticed the girls in the bed.
She heard it then, a low breath, like steam out of a heated pipe. Not from the figure, but next to her, breathing in her ear like a dead tongue. Motionless she sat there; her hands gripped to the duvet. The door nudged open a tiny bit further and it seemed the figure were about to cross the threshold of their little protected sanctuary. Just then, she had seen a light go on in the other room, and she heard Mrs. Langford stumbling out to go to the bathroom. One of the only times Olivia was ever grateful for the old bag. Though the figure disappeared instantly, in the moment that the light was on she had seen the faceless image clearly; and with eyes that she knew weren’t there, she knew it had looked deep within her and marked her for something.
You can find Mark’s story, along with nine additional ones, in The Hawthorne Project. Each creepy tale interweaves with the others for a week of terror on Hawthorne Drive, a small cul-de-sac in Greenfield, Wisconsin. Buy it at lulu, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or on your Kindle.
The Hawthorne Project book excerpt – ‘When the Walls Fall Down’ by Lou Rasmus
The following is an excerpt of the short story: When the Walls Fall Down by Lou Rasmus, which you can find in the anthology The Hawthorne Project. Inside you’ll find ten dark and creepy stories written by him and other amazing authors. I hope you enjoy this little snippet. Oh, and click any of the links below to buy.
It’s a ceramic pan. There are two raw chicken thighs inside of the pan. Some olive oil is pooling beneath the chicken and then I add salt, pepper, onion powder, a little cayenne, and I top it with some herbs. The oven is at 400 degrees. The rack is on the second rung from the bottom. Before I put the pan in the oven, I mix the seasonings and the oil and the two raw chicken thighs until everything is evenly spread. The chicken is icy between my fingers; my fingers are slimy between the chicken and the oil.
It’s a ceramic pan. And there are two beating hearts inside of the pan. Ugly, vascular hearts. Going buh-bump buh-bump buh-bump. And buh-bump buh-bump buh-bump. My hands spasm and recoil. One heart beats faster and more erratically than the other. So much so that it beats over the edge of the ceramic pan and onto the floor. There’s a heavy, viscous pool of red where it lands. And then the thing just goes on beating – buh-bump buh-bump buh-bump – around the kitchen. One of the cats comes down from on top of the refrigerator where he was sleeping to look at it. His head turns one way and then the other as he studies it. It’s unfamiliar to him, a beating heart. He’s never seen anything like it. And when it goes beating and jumping around the kitchen it startles him. He jerks backward from it. He springs straight up into the air. And then he swats at it, with his little white paw. He swats at it in the fast, repetitive way cats swat at things. Like quick sideways jabs. But he can’t seem to get it. The heart is beating too fast and too erratically. It’s headed for the door. It’s leaving, I think to myself. I’m not sure where it’s leaving to, but I can tell that it doesn’t want to be here, so I let it go.
I look back down at the pan. It’s a ceramic pan. There are two raw chicken thighs in the pan and they’re mixed together with olive oil, salt, pepper, onion powder, cayenne, and some herbs. It’s just a regular pan with regular chicken. The one cat is asleep on the refrigerator and the other is sleeping on the couch in the living room, I’m sure. She sleeps there most of the day and usually through the night, too. The oven is at 400 degrees and the rack is on the second rung from the bottom of the oven. I put the pan into the oven, set a timer for forty minutes, and wash my hands.
When Oxford comes into the kitchen he asks me what’s for dinner.
The chicken thighs have been in the oven for ten minutes, I have vegetables sautéing on the stove, and some sweet potatoes are boiling in a pot.
“Your favorite,” I say brightly.
Oxford steps closer. A smile sneaks up on his face and he sniffs at the air. He has a cute, pointed nose, I think.
Then he says, “salmon? Is it the lemon-parmesan crusted salmon?”
I back myself up against the stovetop to hide the vegetables and sweet potatoes.
“Um…”
He comes closer and smiles bigger and sniffs a few more times.
“Oh!” Oxford says. “It smells like asparagus, too. Ah! I love asparagus Teddy!”
I stutter out a soft “well…”
He strides up to me until his chest is pressed against mine. Just enough for me to feel the size of his chest on mine. His broad and heavy and strong chest. It takes over my deflated frame and bends me backwards over the stovetop until the heat of the burners starts to make me sweat. That’s when he sees it. Over my shoulder he sees the sautéed vegetables and boiled sweet potatoes. His pointed little nose turns down.
“Wait,” he says. He grabs me by the arms and moves me to the side away from the oven door. Then he opens the oven, sees the chicken, and drops his head. He doesn’t slam the door shut, but he closes it hard enough to make it clear that what he was going to say next isn’t going to be good.
And what he says next isn’t good.
You can find Lou’s story, along with nine additional ones, in The Hawthorne Project. Each creepy tale interweaves with the others for a week of terror on Hawthorne Drive, a small cul-de-sac in Greenfield, Wisconsin. Buy it at lulu, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or on your Kindle.
The Hawthorne Project book excerpt – ‘What the Snow Brings’ by Chisto Healy
The following is an excerpt of the short story: What the Snow Brings by Chisto Healy, which you can find in the anthology The Hawthorne Project. Inside you’ll find ten dark and creepy stories written by him and other amazing authors. I hope you enjoy this little snippet. Oh, and click any of the links below to buy.
The air held a chill but it wasn’t cold for the area. A gentle fall breeze rustled the leaves of the oak and elm trees that lined the sidewalk of the Hawthorne Drive cul-de-sac. Just past the old stop sign that wasn’t so much cemented in anymore and creaked when the wind blew, the first house on the left side of the street was 981. The old man in the rocking chair coated in chipping white paint on the front porch of the beige house with white trim that didn’t fare much better than the chair, was as much of a fixture as the trees. At this moment he was chewing on a toothpick and staring across the street at house number 104. His brow was furrowed and his eyes hard.
The screen door slammed open behind him, caught by the wind and banging into the siding of the house. A young man in his early twenties stepped out of the house with a frown. He inspected the hinges before facing the old man rocking gently in his chair who had yet to so much as look his way. The young man sighed. He walked forward and rested his elbows on the porch banister and faced the old man whose eyes were still glued to the house across the street. “It’s supposed to snow this weekend, Pop-pop. Maybe you should get some practice sitting inside the house before then.”
The old man waved him off. He spoke to the boy without looking at him. “I’m telling you Aaron, I seen it again.”
Aaron McCallister rubbed at the tension in his face. “Come on Pop, don’t do this.”
Finally the old man looked over at the man who could have been a younger version of himself. He glared at him, as if his eyes held stingers. “I know what I saw, boy. Listen. You know them folks over there are religious zealots and whatnot. I bet they’re in a cult. Maybe they used their voodoo or whatever to call forth a demon from Hell or something other.”
Aaron reached into his pocket and dug out a pack of cigarettes. “I just can’t even…” he said, lighting one. “They’re just people, Pop-pop, our neighbors. You should try leaving the porch and talking to them one day instead of sitting here spouting cultural inaccuracies.”
“Don’t patronize me. I’m not too old to kick your ass. It came from down the road at the end of the cul-de-sac. It had no face. Just a shadow thing it was and it walked right through the wall into their house.”
Aaron opened his mouth to discourage his grandfather again, but he couldn’t help looking at the wall of the house across the way. He swallowed a lump in his throat and then shook his head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this. Come inside. Have you even eaten dinner?”
“I’ll eat when I’m hungry. Don’t try to parent me, young man. I came out here from Alabama to raise you when your Daddy took ill. Your momma was long gone and I foot the bill. You talk to me with respect.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done, Pops. That’s why I want you to eat and not catch cold out here. I’d like to keep you around for a while.” He took a long drag off of his cigarette to calm his nerves.
The old man pushed himself up from the chair on trembling arms. Aaron watched him, ready to catch him if his unsteady legs couldn’t hold him but the younger man knew better than to offer him help. He stubbed his cigarette out on the porch railing where the paint had already chipped away and then set the unsmoked half down on the ledge for later.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not handicapped. I’m just old for God’s sake.”
Aaron frowned but offered no rebuttal. He just stepped aside to let his grandfather have room to pass by. Aaron watched as he hobbled his way into the house. “I know what I saw,” he said as he crossed the threshold.
You can find Chisto’s story, along with nine additional ones, in The Hawthorne Project. Each creepy tale interweaves with the others for a week of terror on Hawthorne Drive, a small cul-de-sac in Greenfield, Wisconsin. Buy it at lulu, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or on your Kindle.
The Hawthorne Project book excerpt – ‘104 W. Hawthorne Drive’ by River Dixon
The following is an excerpt of the short story: 104 W Hawthorne Drive by River Dixon, which you can find in the anthology The Hawthorne Project. Inside you’ll find ten dark and creepy stories written by him and other amazing authors. I hope you enjoy this little snippet. Oh, and click any of the links below to buy.
The members of the Terrance family sat around their dining room table, hands joined, and heads bowed. Jacob Terrance, who would turn eleven-years-old this November, had been delegated the honor of saying grace for the first time this evening. He pulled in a deep breath as the final words of thanks trembled from his young lips.
“Amen,” the family sang out in unison.
Simon Terrance, husband, father, devoted follower of The Law, ruffled his son’s hair with pride.
“That was a fine blessing, boy. A fine blessing. Your nerves didn’t show through one bit.” Simon smiled and winked at his wife, Anna. “Now, let’s thank your mother for all she did preparing this fine meal before us.”
“Thanks, mom,” Jacob nodded.
All three jumped at the sound of breaking glass coming from the living room.
Simon took pause, his eyes darting back and forth between Anna and Jacob. “Where’s the cat?”
“He’s right here, dad. Under my chair.” Jacob pushed his plate forward and nervously folded his hands on the table in front of him.
Anna, clearly annoyed, wiped her mouth and threw down her napkin. “It’s him again, I know it. I’m done playing games. Just who does he think he is, coming into our home and disturbing our family dinner?” The woman lit up with a rage unbecoming of her as she scooted back in her chair, attempting to stand but being swayed by Simon’s gentle, controlling hand on her shoulder.
“Anna, let’s take a moment. We don’t want to be brash. We may do something we could regret.” He got up from his chair and hiked up his pants. “Let’s all three go out there together. Calm, cool, collected. Maybe this time he’ll tell us what he wants.”
“Wants? That’s just it. He never tells us what he wants. This is all just a sick game to him.” Anna’s voice quivered as she forced herself to straighten in her chair.
Simon stopped and sat back down, “You know we have to have faith. The Lord will help us through this.”
This time, from the kitchen, the sound of running water and slamming cabinet doors sent a chill through each member of the Terrance family that froze them in place. A blood-curdling scream reverberated off the surrounding walls, shaking the hanging light fixture above their heads.
“Join hands,” Simon instructed, and the family followed. “Gracious Lord, You are our Loving Father who grants our protection and guides our actions.”
The table shook beneath their joined hands, guttural screams rose from the cracks in the floorboards under their feet.
“I come before You to ask for my family’s safekeeping. I pray You will guard our physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being at all times.”
Simon’s plate flew from the table, shattering to pieces against the wall. He could feel his son’s hand growing limp in his own. “Hold onto me, boy!” He shouted over the wailing cries and howling moans. “Keep the faith!”
Jacob felt the warmth of his mother, and the resolve of his father spread up each of his arms. This is the worst it’s ever been, but he committed not to give in to fear.
“Let not the enemy gain a foothold in any aspect of our lives. Help each of us to keep trusting You, recognizing Your victory over the devil and acknowledging the strength you give us to resist him.”
The air grew still as a calmness settled over the room. The family portrait fell from the wall, fracturing the glass and splitting the frame. A final scream grew faint, fading to a whisper.
“Amen,” Simon conceded.
“Amen,” Anna squeezed her son’s hand. “It’s okay, Jacob. It’s over.”
“Aye… a-men,” the young boy fell into his mother’s waiting arms, pressing his face against her shoulder, trying to stifle the tears but failing.
Simon let out a sigh as he brushed his fingers through his thinning hair and rose from the table. He picked up the broken picture, running his thumb along the length of the cracked glass. Three smiling faces stared back at him, with a fourth distorted, now unrecognizable. Anna met his eyes as he slowly turned, holding out the portrait.
“Oh no,” she gasped as the crack in the glass drew her now frightened gaze.
“What’s this mean, Anna?” Simon shook the picture, pleading. “What’s he done?”
Anna darted from the dining room, not slowing a step as she navigated the debris-strewn living room and bound up the stairs to a second-floor bedroom. Her hand gingerly turning the brass knob and her other, making the sign of the cross on her chest. She whispered a short prayer as the door creaked open and the frigid, stale air pressed against her body.
“Abigail?”
You can find River’s story, along with nine additional ones, in The Hawthorne Project. Each creepy tale interweaves with the others for a week of terror on Hawthorne Drive, a small cul-de-sac in Greenfield, Wisconsin. Buy it at lulu, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, or on your Kindle.
Autumn Days Photography
Hi friends, as promised, a few photos to share from my little part of the world. One thing I love is my view is always the same, but it still changes from day to day. The way the light strikes a tree or a wave crashes. How different the clouds can look from one minute to the next. I spend a lot of time just looking and looking and looking. I hope you enjoy.
tara caribou | ©2021 All photos mine.
“The War for Solace” poetry by V.R. McKoy
Raw Earth Ink is proud to present V.R. McKoy’s debut book of poetry, The War for Solace.
Brutality …
Sordidness …
Adaptation …
Transformation …
Freedom …
Poet V.R. McKoy speaks out in bravery against abuse, and the resulting rage, vengefulness, and cold rebirth that can assault the victim even long after the abuse has ceased with her emotional, no holds barred poetry and lyrics. Unashamedly, she shares her experiences and journey, giving a voice to those who don’t have one.
In paperback at: lulu, Barnes & Noble, or Amazon.
As eBook at: Kindle.
Leave a review on Goodreads.
©2021 | V.R. McKoy
“The Hawthorne Project” a dark fiction anthology
Just in time for Halloween, Raw Earth Ink is proud to present The Hawthorne Project. A dark fiction anthology.
Nine houses. Eleven authors. One week.
The neighborhood of west Hawthorne Drive in quiet Greenfield Wisconsin is filled with dark stories and darker rumors. There’s the haunting by a faceless creature. They’ve all seen it. They’ve all experienced its presence. On the one hand, it seems to desire the life of mortals, on the other, it befriends a small boy. It both mocks and assists. Runs away and stands face-to-faceless face.
And not to mention the mysterious death of the street’s namesake, Jim Hawthorne. His strange and reclusive widow peers from behind her drawn curtains, rarely leaving her home, but to walk her little dog or tend her manicured gardens.. yet she’s not one for giving up any of the cul-de-sac’s secrets.
But in the days leading up to Halloween, events take a more sinister turn, including strange visitations, an eerie violet haze in the sky, attempted murder, breaking-and-entering, and multiple police check-ins until not one of the residents can deny: something or someone is here to stay.
Inside you’ll find work from:
- River Dixon
- Chisto Healy
- Tristan Drue Rogers & Sarah Anne Rogers
- Lou Rasmus
- Mark Ryan
- Mark Towse
- Joshua Marsella
- Darren Diarmuid
- Robert Birkhofer
- Jeremiah Fox
In paperback at: lulu, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon.
As an eBook at: Kindle.
Leave a review on Goodreads.
Collective copyright 2021-23 Raw Earth Ink
Individual text copyright by contributing authors
Summer Into Autumn Photography
Due to unforeseen circumstances this spring in my household, my workload increased and my summer has been busy, busy. Autumn is always busy, with harvesting moose and foraging for berries. I thought I’d give you all a break from the macro shots and share a little hodgepodge. Enjoy!
tara caribou | ©2021 all photos mine
Raw Earth Ink 