Fae Shivers: Forgotten Horrors: Fae Shivers, #1

By Azlyn Fae, BF Vega, Jay Hall Carpenter and 9 more

Stories:

Dejad a Los Niños By B.F. Vega

There Is No Such Thing As The Boogeyman By Michael Guzman

Hell Of A Pitcher By Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

The Wondercade By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Campfire Creepy By Serena Mossgraves

Dream Devourer By Azlyn Fae

Looking for Hiram Wilkes By Vonnie Winslow Crist

My Beating Heart By Justine Johnson Hemmestad

 

Poetry by

Beulah Vega

Jay Hall Carpenter

Maggie D Brace

Randall McNair

Ruan Bradford Wright

Vonnie Winslow Crist

 

Art by

Patricia Harris

Vonnie Winslow Crist

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fae Corps Publishing
• Release date: Nov 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201656621

Book preview

These are stories, poetry, and art of Horror and Terror. Some have darker themes and possibly disturbing themes. We at Fae Corps do not want to be a part of any issues so we ask that you read with care. This is for entertainment and fun. We hope you enjoy.  Please, if you are not in a safe place, take care of yourself.

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Contents

Dejad a Los Niños By B.F. Vega

Briar By Patricia Harris

There’s No Such Thing As The Boogeyman By Michael Guzman

Spiders By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Hell Of A Pitcher By Jo-Ann Lamon Reccoppa

For Issac By Beulah Vega

Ogerhunches by Vonnie Winslow Crist

Not A Human Being By Jay Hall Carpenter

On Halloween By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Emma’s Ghost By Keely Messino

The Ghost By Patricia Harris

The Wondercade By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Maternal Instincts By Maggie D Brace

Campfire Creepy By Serena Mossgraves

Secrets By Patricia Harris

My Beating Heart By Justine Johnson Hemmestad

Haunted Annie By Vonnie Winslow Crist

Switchblade By Randall McNair

21 Surgeries By Randall McNair

Based on a True Story By Randall McNair

Fire and Ice By Randall McNair

Shivers By Randall McNair

The Mask of Madness By Patricia Harris

Dream Devourer By Azlyn Fae

A Poem: To Be Mouthed and Read By Ruan Bradford Wright

Looking for Hiram Wilkes By Vonnie Winslow Crist

About the Authors

About the Publisher

Dejad a Los Niños

By B.F. Vega

The rain just turned on. I can’t describe it any other way. One minute it is a beautiful March day and I am sitting on a dry sand bluff looking out onto the vast Pacific, and then it is as if the Pacific is falling on my head. It is too early in the autumn for rain like this and I don’t understand what is happening.

I stood to hurry back to my house on the outskirts of Trujillo, when I heard children playing in the rain. Who was outside in this downpour? I knew all of my neighbor children, and their mama’s would not be happy to find them covered in the quickly forming mud.

I turned back to look even though I knew that I was alone. I had chosen this particular bluff overlooking Huanchaquito to the southwest, and Chan Chan to the Southeast, because I had needed privacy. I needed space to make some decisions about my life.

I shook my head to clear it. Maybe my mama had been right and I had been spending too much time with the archaeologists. But I was smart and interested, and I knew that I had what it was going to take to become an archaeologist myself; if I could only convince mama of that.

I turned toward town and again I heard giggling, then faintly, a young llama calf bleating out its protest at being drug someplace it did not want to go.

I turned again. There was nothing to see. However, I still heard children.

Hola? I called out, Niños?

The giggling increased with the strength of the rain. I could feel the water running down my blouse, but I knew it was not the source of the cold shiver that ran up my spine.

I tried once more, Hola?

For a moment, all sound ceased except the rain splashing into the already muddy sand. I found myself holding my breath. When I realized I was doing this, I exhaled, which was followed by a voice immediately beside me that I did not recognize, saying something in a language that I had never heard. I did not have to know the language to understand that something was very wrong here. I turned and ran home.

By the time I got home my blouse and skirt were soaked with rain and caked with mud. I changed quickly, and was still trying to unravel the knots in my long black hair when my mama came home from the market. I helped her bring in the produce she had bought and waited while she changed.

When she came out to the common room I had made a pot of tea for both of us.

Gracias, Marta, she said, accepting the cup and sitting in a chair. What have you been doing all morning? she asked.

I was thinking. I know that you don’t want me to, but I am going to Lima to attend the university. It is what I want to do with my life.

As this was a longstanding argument, I was expecting a lecture. Instead, she put her cup down and went to the doorway to look out at the rain. After a few moments she turned and said,

Do you know why I do not like you helping the archaeologists and tourists that come to Chan Chan and who unearth sacred tombs at Huanchaquito?

Because you believe that they come to do harm, when really they come to protect these ancient monuments.

No, child. It is that they are unearthing the graves of our ancestors.

Papa says that we are Peruvian and Inca.

Your papa might be Inca. We are Chimu. We come from here. This land, these sands, and the sea have always been a part of us and we have always been part of them. She stopped talking and looked out into the quickly flooding streets. This was land that bordered the desert and the sea, so the ground was not accustomed to rain like this, and the city streets were quickly turning to rushing streams of mud and refuse. After a few minutes she spoke again,This rain has come before.

It is just rain.

No daughter. This rain is the wrath of Si. Where were you when you made this decision?

On the bluff south of town, near Las Llamas.

She shook her head in confirmation to herself before asking, What did you hear?

How did…? I caught myself replying. She had turned to look at me with an intensity in her brown eyes that made them shine like copper straight from the mine. I did not want to give her the satisfaction of thinking her arguments against my chosen profession were right. I don’t know what I heard. I lied.But this is superstitious nonsense. The dead are dead. There are no true Chimu left. The Inca came and wiped out the civilization, which was already dying.

Because of the rain. You never listen to anything but your books. This rain. This is the wrath of Si. The first time these rains came here to our people, they started suddenly as they did today. And they did not stop for six months. The sea became unworkable in the torrents. The irrigation canals we had carefully dug, roared out and swallowed crops, animals, homes, and finally people. We were starving.

Mama, that was a normal atmospheric phenomenon called El Niño.

That is a fitting name for this rain. That bluff, Huanchaquito. It is a tomb, an offering of the most precious things our ancestors could give. It holds the only offerings that were deemed worthy enough by the Gods to stop the rain.

Mama, Huanchaquito was opened six years ago. Why would it start to rain now?

They have only opened the smallest part. And, unlike you, they were not the descendants of those buried there who had decided to join the ranks of the grave robbers.

I would have retorted with something appropriately scathing, but my Papa came home from the docks just then and there was no more talk of ancient cultures and dead gods.

But as I lay in bed that night, listening to the rain beat down onto the concrete ceiling, it started to sound like stone hitting flesh. And far off, south of town, I heard llamas crying in terror. Finally, I fell into an uneasy sleep.

I found myself in a lucid dream. I knew that I was dreaming, yet I could not control anything. In the dream, I was a young girl. Maybe eight or nine. I was clasping my mama’s hand tightly. There were people everywhere. I could see other children with the strange head shapes that meant they were from the north. There were still others that had the slightly darker skin of the desert dwellers from the east. My mama and papa and I walked in a group of others from the city itself.

The rain and the large grouping of people, made it hard to see beyond the next