Archive for the ‘horror’ Category

Mother’s Gift

Posted: December 31, 2024 in horror, writing
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It has been a long time since I produced a horror short for this blog. The following short hit me like a train in November. Obviously, it is a direct result of my trauma from my son being bit in the face by our dog the month before. So, this season, I give to you a glimpse at one of my demons.

The bubbling Christmas music sounded out of place against the rolling chatter and peals of laughter filling the house. The college party throbbed around me. I perched on an uncomfortable plastic chair by the coffee table, surrounded by strangers in ugly sweaters, crowded by a sloppily decorated tree.

I poured another drink down my throat to sedate my nerves.

I glanced around the circle of the gift exchange. The boy across from me balanced the small, wrapped box on his fingertips, like he didn’t know how to hold it. The drunk sorority girl beside him on the battered couch swayed into him.

“It’s just a present,” she said over his shoulder. Her red velvet skirt was too short for winter. She knocked her bare thigh against him, melting snow slicking from her tall, black boots.

He looked down to the box, awkward in his grip, then suddenly right at me. I stifled a gasp. His eyes were startling, some kind of hazel reflecting the Christmas lights hung around the room. I almost flinched, but for an instant, he looked childlike, lost. Something about the connection soothed me, made me forget that I knew no one at this party.

“My family doesn’t do Christmas gifts,” he said to the blonde, offering the green box with shining red bow back to her. “I didn’t bring one for the exchange.”

“But it’s a Christmas party.” Her intoxication elongated her words. She butted her leg against him again, but he did not lean into the touch. She pushed against the gift, pouting. “Everyone gets a present.”

“Don’t worry, Tyler,” the plaid-clad guy in the armchair said from the end of the coffee table. “I always keep a couple spares for the lame-asses who forget their gift.” Popping up from the chair, he vaulted over the coffee table.

Plaid grinned as he retrieved a larger box covered in snowman paper and pushed it across the table. Tyler watched the present slide to a stop before Blondie snatched it up. I looked at the red gift bag dangling from my fingers, glittered paper stabbing up at me.

“Why doesn’t your family do Christmas gifts?” My question startled me, the alcohol loosening my tongue, blurring my thoughts into clumsy speech.

I winced before looking to him, flush burning through my cheeks. What business was it of mine why his family didn’t celebrate Christmas? Maybe he wasn’t Christian. Embarrassment pounded in my veins enough to dilute the alcohol, but he smiled at me, soft and gentle, a glint in his striking eyes.

“I don’t know if it’s a very festive story.” He dropped his eyes, tilted his head, but his resistance felt hollow. He passed the present between his hands, waiting. “Kind of a buzzkill.”

“No, tell us!” Blondie straightened on the cushion, gripping his bicep.

He didn’t look at her. He looked at me. I stopped breathing and hurried my plastic cup to my lips. His mouth quirked.

“Well,” he began. “If you insist.” He planted his present in front of him on the table and eased back on the cushion to address the circle. “When I was a kid, I got bit in the face by a dog. And it was bad, real bad.”

Blondie gasped beside him, pressing her painted fingernails to her mouth.

Tyler turned his face, exposing his cheek. “Part of my cheek was ripped down. I was hospitalized for over a week, had over 120 stitches. It got infected,” he said. He traced a faint line down his cheek and through the break in the stubble along his jaw. Once he pointed it out, the healed skin winked white in the light.

“You can barely tell.” My thoughts spilled out again.

He smiled fast, running his hand over the faint scars. “My parents could afford good doctors. Young skin heals well,” he dismissed. “And my mom made sure I kept out of the sun and used every cream and treatment they recommended.”

“Did it happen on Christmas?” Plaid interrupted, leaning forward on his elbows, clutching his beer.

The circle contracted around Tyler, the festive chaos around us fading into the background.

“No, no.” Tyler waved the question away. “This happened before Christmas. I was pretty healed by Christmas, out of the hospital, stitches out. We were getting back to normal, except my mom.” He paused a moment, wet his lips. “My mom was messed up about it. It was her dog who bit me. Her rescue. And she loved that dog. Sometimes, I worried that she loved him more than me.” A pained smile twisted his face. “But when we got home from the hospital, she put him down herself. Didn’t even take off her shoes, just took him straight out back, and he was gone. Never shed a tear in front of me.”

The entire circle fell silent. All gifts had been abandoned to the table or the floor around us. The party had ceased to exist as we all leaned in for his words.

Tyler ran his palms down his thighs to his knees, exhaling before resuming.

“So Christmas came around. Our family was big into Christmas, made a thing of it. My parents had this big party every year with their siblings and close friends. The main part was this asshole gift exchange. Everyone got a name and bought that person a joke gift. But not like white elephant.” He poked at the box in front of him. “Like well thought out, personal, and often kind of mean.” He chuckled to himself, smiling at the present. “It was only the adults, and we kids were always so jealous. We wanted to buy asshole gifts too, but our parents said we weren’t ready.”

“Asshole gifts?” Blondie asked, cocking her head like a puppy.

“Like, how mean?” Plaid asked.

“It was about being funny,” Tyler said. “But you had to have thick skin. Like, if you hated something, you were getting that for Christmas. If you did something stupid, you were getting that for Christmas. My aunt fell on the ice one year and got a concussion; my dad bought her ice skates and a helmet.”

The table giggled uncomfortably, unsure where the story was going, not knowing if it was inappropriate to laugh. A smile broke my face, but I took a drink to disguise it, feeling the liquor hum through me.

“So, the Christmas after the bite,” Tyler resumed, “my uncle decided to include me in the exchange. He got me this, like, Phantom of the Opera type mask that covered all my scars, and he painted it to look like a werewolf. Honestly, it was kind of badass.” He smirked, shrugged.

Blondie placed her hand on his forearm, but he didn’t meet her wide, blinking eyes.

“So, your mom was pissed about the mask?” Plaid eased to the edge of the armchair, legs bouncing.

Tyler exhaled in a whistle. “She was so upset.” His tone lowered with his eyes, back to the gift in front of him. “I wanted to be involved so bad. I was the only kid. Even if the mask hurt my feelings, I felt special to get it. I tried to tell her it was fine. I told her it was funny and I loved the mask. But she was livid.” He took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Then my dad made it worse. He told her to calm down.”

We took a collective gasp.

“Oh no,” Blondie said.

He looked directly at me again, and that boyish demeanor surfaced. A boy healing back together after the gnashing teeth of a dog. A child listening to his parents fight. Then it receded behind how handsome he was. My stomach flipped.

“So, what happened?” Plaid encouraged the words with his hands.

“She did not calm down.” Tyler grinned sourly at the present. “She left.” He shrugged, shifting on the cushion. “She messaged that she was taking an uber. But—”

His voiced trailed off, and he found me again. As his eyes watered and glittered, it felt like he could see through me. When his eyes caught mine like this, it felt like he was talking only to me. The intimacy of his sharing. Or it was the rum in my egg nog.

He kept staring into me when he continued. “We never saw her again. She never came home, never called, never got any of her things. Just gone.”

My heart sunk with each word until it burrowed in my belly.

“Wait, what?” Plaid shot to his feet, mouth agape.

“Oh my god.” Blondie grabbed her face.

“I’m so sorry,” I said without thinking.

He kept his eyes on me, calm and clear now. “After that mask, we never exchanged another gift.”

Tears pricked the back of my eyes. The urge to hold him overwhelmed me. My arms insisted I clear the table between us, sweep Blondie from the cushion, and comfort this wounded boy. Yet I just gaped at him with the others.

“Holy shit, bro!” Plaid shouted, swiping fast at his cheek. “What a downer. Now, open your damn present.”

***

The cold walk across campus cleared the echo of the party from my ears, but my brain still thrummed from the cups I had nervously drank after the story. And my proximity to Tyler. Looping my arm through his, he held me close to guide me over the icy sidewalks.

His story had dispersed the circle. Blondie took the hint and stopped slapping her thigh against him, turning her attention to Plaid instead. We rushed through opening the awful gifts unceremoniously.

Our gifts now sat purposefully forgotten on the coffee table at the party. I received a set of straws shaped like veiny penises. He never opened his. The crisply wrapped box remained where he placed it during his story. The story that circulated through me faster than the rum.

I tried not to stare at the side of his face, searching for the scars in the dim light, as he brought us to his room. He kept the lights low, half-hiding from me, except for those shining eyes.

Closing the door behind him, he gathered my face in his hands. He ran his thumbs over my unmarred cheeks, banishing the chill from the night. His eyes, green or gold or maybe blue, caught the light from the window. He kissed me, slow, deep, until my knees wobbled.

“I didn’t finish my story,” he said, low and soft against my lips. “At the party.”

I leaned back to take in his face. Something behind him, something in the shadow by the door shifted. Or I thought it did.

“What do you mean?” I murmured, staring over his shoulder.

He guided my face back to his, drew me closer. “I lied before, when I said I never saw my mom again.”

Anger flared in me, betrayal in how much I had trusted his words and how they felt meant for me, and I jerked back again. The shadow behind him moved, took shape. I closed my eyes, blinked hard, tried to force my vision into sobriety and focus. Taking a step back, I bumped into his bed.

“No, no,” he soothed. Stroking his fingers down my face, he pulled me into him. “It was the first Christmas after. It’s how I knew she was gone, how I knew to stop asking questions.”

This beautiful stranger embraced me, his hands foreign on my back. I saw it behind him. The figure hobbled from the darkness, broken and jerking. Eyes like his found the light and gleamed at me from a mangled face. The flesh of the cheek had been ripped, torn away to expose a line of white teeth. Like it had been attacked by a dog.

“She comes back every year,” he breathed into my ear. Then, still holding me close, he turned to greet her. “Hi, Mom.”

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Horror and Trauma

Posted: November 13, 2024 in horror, real life, writing
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Horror is a genre about trauma. Whether it is the fictional trauma being inflicted on the characters or the zeitgeist of fear it confronts for us.

At Colorado Festival of Horror 2024, I participated in two panels on the horror genre and trauma. Both sessions were so compelling and cathartic for me that I needed to share some thoughts here.

Horror can be a way of coping with trauma both by ingesting it and by creating it. In both cases, horror allows you to interact with or process something scary or hurtful in a “safe” environment. You are on your couch; you know the screen or the page cannot really hurt you. You can experience all those emotions knowing how it will safely end. Not unlike exposure therapy.

For me, it is definitely that, but it is also more. The awful things I see in horror help normalize how I am feeling, make me feel less alone in my pain. Horror also provides a worse-er scenario, which helps me keep my reality in perspective.

People often have “comfort horror”, stories they revisit in times of stress or pain. From the outside, it may seem odd to find solace in something terrible. However, when you unpack the movie and discover what resonates with you, you will often find it hits on something personal. Maybe it lets you control the situation. Maybe it lets you re-experience things knowing how it ends. Maybe it shows you a character like you surviving or being vindicated. But something in that horror is a salve to your wound.

For the panel, I had to think about my comfort horror movies. And why they are therapeutic to me. I came up with:

  • Scream: Aside from this being my first horror movie and introduction to the genre, Scream definitely hits something for me. When I stopped to actually consider it, I realized it is the deceit, the betrayal. Sidney’s friends lie to her, work against her, try to hurt her, but once she figures it out, she survives. And kills them all.
  • You’re Next: The same as Scream, You’re Next introduces a final girl who is being lied to and used. Yet when she fights for her life, it is her intelligence that keeps her alive.
  • Revenge: Rape revenge is pretty self-explanatory. I usually find this subgenre very triggering (Irreversible, Last House on the Left, etc.). Yet this one was different. I attribute the distinction to the female filmmaker (Coralie Fargeat). After Jen is assaulted and left for dead, she returns almost supernaturally in her vengeance.
  • A Nightmare on Elm Street: Nightmares and night terrors brought me to the horror genre. Seeing scary things outside my mind made me feel more normal. There was comfort in not being alone, in seeing what my mind mapped every night on external landscape. Watching Nancy confront her nightmares and ultimately defeat them in a way I never have soothes me.

Reading horror hits me even harder. In the past few months, I have been crying my eyes out over multiple books. American Rapture by CJ Leede, I Was a Teenage Slasher by Stephen Graham Jones, Lone Women by Victor Lavalle, The Angel of Indian Lake (the entire trilogy) by Stephen Graham Jones, The Reformatory by Tananarive Due, Maeve Fly by CJ Leede… to name a few.

More than watching or reading, more than anything, creating horror is how I deal with my trauma. I have always written about my pain from journaling to blogging to essays to stories and books. It is more effective for me than any therapy I have tried (and I have tried many). Sometimes, the trauma is the inspiration, sometimes the thread, sometimes the whole damn story.

Tour my horror library with me:

  • How to Kill Yourself Slowly: The first thing I ever published. I wrote this satirical essay for a nonfiction class in college. All my trauma packaged up into one catty rant.
  • Savages: My first and perhaps my best book. Going to Iraq as a contractor deeply affected me. It changed how I saw humanity. I worked that out in this book.
  • “The Last Christmas Dinner” in Collected Christmas: A character based on my mother and maybe what she should have done one unappreciated holiday.
  • “After the Screaming Stopped” in Graveyard Girls: My post-partum story. This one was hard to find a home for. No one wants to look at how ugly and scary those new mother emotions can be.
  • “Personas” in Colorado’s Emerging Writers nonfiction: A deep dive into the many faces and roles of me.
  • “Under the Rapids”, Ink and Sword, Issue 4: I almost drown white water rafting when I was in my 20s. This story covers what I can remember.
  • “Awake” in America’s Emerging Horror Writers: West Region: I had hip surgery to repair a torn labrum. This story confronts how helpless I felt under anesthesia and after the operation.
  • “Hairs”, 96th of October, Autumn 2023: I lost my hair to Alopecia multiple times in recent years. In this story, I start there and make it oh so much worse.
  • Followers: Questioning how safe we are on the internet. This book has roots in online stalkers and one I briefly had in Iraq.

Not included on this list are works where I borrowed other people’s traumas. Their experiences served as inspiration for me, but hopefully my resulting work can be therapy for them.

“Hairs” and “After the Screaming Stopped” are the most literal examples of me writing out my trauma (aside from maybe Savages where I put myself in a story to change my mind about the world). In both, I took the literal trauma–severe hair loss and post partum depression–as the premise. Then I stretched it, elongated it into something grotesque and horrendous.

And at the end of both (of them all), I felt better. The trauma felt processed and exorcised.

I understand that horror is not for everyone. It is full of terrible things that can be triggering or make people uncomfortable. Even people who do enjoy the genre may not interact with it the same way. However, for me, I have found a way to make it therapeutic. It speaks to my traumas in their native tongue, soothing and hushing them so that I can claim more of myself.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Colorado Festival of Horror 2024

Posted: September 24, 2024 in film festivals, horror, horror movies
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Friday the 13th was made for horror festivals, and Colorado Festival of Horror (COFOH) took full advantage this year. I spent last weekend participating in all it had to offer.

COFOH is now in its fourth year. My first time was their second year, when they featured Art the Clown from Terrifier. Then I volunteered last year, sitting with the creator of Final Destination and members of the cast of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The festival definitely has been growing and evolving each year into a destination event for horror lovers.

The weekend is put on by genre lovers, and their passion shows. It is also still small enough that there is a community feel. It is welcoming and approachable, with fun events like karaoke, a cosplay contest, and a Little Shop of Horrors sing along.

This year, I participated even more by sitting on three different panels.

Meet Me in the Dark: We discussed the relationship between trauma and horror movies and how horror can be therapeutic. This conversation resonated with me both because I consume horror as therapy and also create it as an outlet. So many of my stories are my own trauma stretched and processed. We covered our favorite “comfort” horror movies, mine being ones like Scream and You’re Next where everyone lies and hurts the final girl but she emerges stronger and a survivor.

Turning Trauma into Art: This session was the workshop extension to Meet Me in the Dark. Instead of covering horror that comforts and helps us, we expanded to discuss the art and horror we create to deal with our own trauma. I discussed works like my post-partum horror short. Then we went through an exercise of word association with different feelings and crafted art from those lists.

Where is the Monster Line: Joining authors from Horror Writers Association Colorado chapter and Denver Horror Collective, we discussed our favorite monsters and villains we love to hate. Then we dove into what makes a villain sympathetic, interesting, or relatable versus what crosses the line into abhorrent.

I also volunteered with the celebrities again. My husband and I sat with Thom Mathews (Tommy Jarvis of Friday the 13th Part VI).

Befitting the theme and the weekend, other Friday the 13th people were in attendance. Tom McLoughlin (director of Friday the 13th Part VI) and Vincente DiSanti (creator/director/actor of the Never Hike Alone movies and a frequent Telluride Horror Show attendee).

We got to meet Pam Grier as she introduced a screening of Ghosts of Mars and provided new insights into the film’s merits.

And, perhaps most importantly, we sat beside the delightful Tiffany Shepis and helped her create and recruit for a spatula cult (IYKYK). The Spatulatti spread like wildfire.

The weekend was a bloody whirlwind that left me exhausted, but my black, little heart was full. I needed this time with fellow horror lovers. I felt involved and included, like I was contributing. At this point in my horror life, I probably should be!

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Tales from the Drive-in: It’s Me, Hi, I’m the Ghost, It’s Me

Posted: January 20, 2024 in horror
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Another round with Tales from the Drive-in podcast! Are you a paranormal believer or not?

Horror makes the best friends. Christina Bergling, Eva Bordeaux, and the Mighty Quinn have been partners in horror for years. From horror movie festivals to fake blood photoshoots to epic Halloween costumes. They often work together to lose at horror trivia. Christina is a published horror author with 5 books and over 20 shorts. The Mighty Quinn is the creator of the Wyrd Wanderings show on YouTube. Eva is a movie addict and the best damn hype person on the internet.

Wyrd Wanderings is a ghost-hunting and paranormal adventure show that takes viewers from haunted woods in Tennessee, a prison museum on the East Coast, and lots of spooky places in New Orleans. Check it out to see where the Mighty Quinn ends up next.

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

“Hairs” – Short Story Release

Posted: September 4, 2023 in horror, writing
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Losing my hair last year was traumatic. Even with the medication coursing through me and hair slooooooooowly returning, it is still every day. Waiting for me in the mirror.

I write horror because that is what comes out of my brain. Nightmares and worst case scenarios. To no surprise, I processed this life event by writing horror.

“Hairs” is a deeply personal story for me. I poured my pain into the premise and the beginning then let the ugly thing sprout legs and sprint into the horrific. I cried as I wrote it and when I read it. Yet, by the end, I do feel better, more settled.

Find “Hairs” on 96th of October, and let me know what you think of this slice of my hell.

There is more hair in the sink. There is always more hair in the sink. And in the shower. And in the drain. And in my hands. And everywhere. Tumbleweeds of hair across the tile. Webs of hair embedded in the carpet.

And I feel like I lose a piece of myself in every strand.

http://96thofoctober.com/articles/hairs/

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Telluride Horror Show 2022

Posted: December 29, 2022 in film festivals, horror, horror movies
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Every time I vanish from the interwebs and writing, I say life has been wild and complicated. And it always is. Yet, it seems like every time that happens and I get back on top of things, life seems to level up on the challenges. Here we are in December, and I haven’t even written about October! I had the Father Death chapters to cover my absence, but now it is plain to see.

So let’s play catchup. Let’s talk about the Telluride Horror Show way back in October. My memory is well past faded, so forgive less detailed opinions and reviews.

#

Ah, October. The most wonderful time of the year. Halloween, horror, and the Telluride Horror Show.

The trip is more than the festival for us. It is a tradition, and it is a vacation. As always, we prepaid for a weekend of sitting and eating with a hike. This time, we tried Little Hawaii.

The hike was easier and shorter than we usually do but gorgeous — as the mountains and Telluride are in the fall. It was a great start.

Then it was all movies and all horror the rest of the weekend.

It was a solid lineup of films this year. Of course, there were good and bad, but the ratio favored us. Since I currently have the memory of a Pomeranian puppy, here is a (brief) summary of what I saw.

Ice Cream Man: Somehow I had never seen this cult classic. I loved it. Clint Howard serving ice cream before and answering questions after made it all the better.
A Wounded Fawn: This was like two movies smashed together. The first was interesting and entertaining. It really reminded me of Fresh. But then the second half wandered off in an incongruent direction and lost me. The ending credits were hilarious but not enough to right the ship.
Something in the Dirt: I’m usually not too dazzled by Lovecraftian/cosmic horror. However, these filmmakers have my number. The Endless was great, as was this one. The movies stays with mostly two characters, and that tight scope had me locked in that apartment with them.
Christmas Bloody Christmas: This was like Silent Night, Deadly Night meets Terminator. With gratuitous violence and cheesy holiday cheer, it was pure entertainment. A great one to watch with a night fest crowd.
Mad Heidi: Swissploitation is all I have to say. This movie is utterly ridiculous but, in so, just hilarious. It is great for mindless entertainment.
V/H/S/99: The V/H/S franchise has been hit or miss with me. The first is great; then the rest are less impressive. Until this one. I enjoyed all the segments. Each section is different, but all are well done and entertaining.
The Harbinger: OH MY FUCKING GOD! To say this was my favorite of the fest is an understatement. It is likely my favorite movie of 2022. It is definitely one of my favorite horror movies. On the surface, it is a well made, engaging horror tale. Yet it is so deep and nuanced. It hits on so many levels.

The only screening that was utterly unenjoyable were the high elevation (elevated horror) shorts. We walked out of that one.

Of course, in addition to the movies, we made sure to cram in social events. The ice cream social with Clint Howard. The pig roast.

As every year, I made time to go to the campfire tales, author summit, and book signing. Part masochism and part inspiration hunting, I enjoy just listening to other authors. This year, I was introduced to Alma Katsu and have since read two of her books.

We also did trivia, but this year, we utterly lost our asses. The questions just get harder, and we had no surprise film makers on our team.

Overall, great movies and great weekend. Until October, Telluride!

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Father Death (22) – THE END

Posted: November 9, 2022 in Father Death, horror, Scream
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Previously on… Father Death (21)

1998

Stu walked along the beach. The dry sand depressed between his toes, and the neck of a beer bottle dangled in his fingers. His wavy hair bounced on the sea breeze. The sun prickled on his smooth and warbled skin, the lines and scars that drew his features thankfully into a new face.

The tropical air radiated warm, but it was autumn. Stu could feel the falling edge that only existed in his mind. His body clocked the approaching anniversary. It tracked it every second of every day. Just as he saw Billy’s disappointed face every morning when he opened his eyes.

Stu took a swig from the bottle and continued to walk along the shoreline. The waves rolled softly in a steady and persistent roar.

Maureen had been dead for three years. Billy and the others had been dead for two years. Stu Macher had been dead for two years too.

“Steve! Steven!”

Stu turned to his new name. The figure moved down from the modest beach house, approaching him across the sand, blonde hair whipping around her face.

“Steve, what are you doing out here?’ she asked as she reached him.

“Just walking, babe.” Stu took another swig and reached out to encircle her shoulders.

“Javier is here. He’s waiting for you inside.” She pressed her lips to his neck.

Stu glanced over her head, out at the water. His thoughts wandered across the waves and up to Woodsboro. He saw Maureen splayed out on her bed, Steven gutted and taped to a pool chair, Casey swaying from her tree, Kenny reaching for his gaping neck wound, Dewey collapsing into a pile on the porch, Gale slumped in the news van. He saw Billy bloody and collapsed in failure on the hall floor.

And he saw Sidney.

Heat radiating up through his scalp brought him back to the beach.

“Thanks, Court.” Stu laced his hand in Courtney’s and followed her up the sand to the small beach house.

Courtney. Just as beautiful of a cover as Tatum was. She even kind of looked like Tatum, if Stu had drank enough.

Blue, sun-bleached paint curled and peeled back from the siding of the small structure. The boards were rough as Stu grabbed the railing to ascend the stairs half-sunken into the sand drifts. A wind chime sang softly against the sea breeze.

Stu pushed the door open. Javier sat at the small, wooden kitchen table, twirling a small glass of clear liquid between his fingertips. Two large men in black stood beside him with their arms crossed, guns holstered on their belts.

“Javier, my man!” Stu burst into the room and jumped as he raised his hand for Javier.

Javier looked from Stu to his outstretched hand before extending his own. They shook. Then Stu dropped into the opposite chair.

“What brings you to my casa?” Stu asked.

“You haven’t shown up to work for me.” Javier stroked the rim of the glass with his fingers and watched the liquid quiver.

“Yeah, man, I thought my debt was paid.”

“I got you out of California, knowing who you are. I set you up here on this beachside paradise, gave you an easy gig. And you’ve done a good job for me for almost two years.”

“Gracias, amigo.” Stu smiled.

“Your debt is settled, but you are not out. You are not out until I say you are out.” Javier lifted glittering dark eyes to Stu.

Stu’s smile fell from his lips.

“You work the resorts for me. All the white girls and white boys trust a gringo like you, even with that face,” Javier continued.

Stu reached up and brushed his fingertips along the faint scarring of his cheek. “They’re getting better.”

“Let’s hope they don’t get too much better. Otherwise, Jimmy will have to rearrange your face again. Don’t want any of those Americans recognizing you.”

Stu shrugged.

“These tourists see that golden hair and hear your California talk and instantly trust you.” Javier poured the shot into his mouth and replaced the glass. “They party with you and buy from you. And no one looks twice because you look like you belong, because you’re goofy and make everyone laugh. You’re like a cartoon. I can’t give up that arrangement.”

“But Javier—”

“Look, Stu.”

Stu’s eyes widened, and he whirled around to locate Courtney, to make sure she had not heard his long-dead name in the room of the beach cabin.

“She is outside,” Javier assured him. “You are safe as long as you are with me. You are Steven as long as you are with me. Keep working the resorts, and I will leave you here living in peace.”

Stu squinted out the window into the blazing sunlight. He glimpsed Courtney’s blonde locks dancing in the breeze. Looking down to the woodgrain of the table, he plastered a wide grin on his face and offered it to Javier.

“Of course, Javi.” Stu stretched the smile until his scars threatened to pop. “I love working for you. I just thought we were square, man. When do you need me out?”

“Tonight. Jimmy brought the product for you.”

Stu leaned against the beachside bar and let the beer trickle down his throat. The club music throbbed around him, pulsating with flashing and strobing colored lights. Sweating, scantily clad bodies massed about the bar, clumped on the dance floor, spilled out onto the dark beach. Stu allowed his eyes to wander over the crowd and noted the glossy eyes where Javier’s product was already doing its work. His cargo pockets were already lighter as he hocked his wares through the eager and hungry party.

Money would make Javier happy, and Stu liked Javier happy. He appreciated the wordless nod of approval and lack of an ominous meeting with armed associates. He needed to not hear any names from a life left behind.

Billy had said everything would change. Billy said their lives as they knew them would be over. He was not wrong. Stu drained the bottle and planted it on the bar top.

A tan and muscled man in flowered board shorts with tall hair sidled up beside Stu. A rich, vacationing frat boy, no doubt. Stu assessed him with a calm sweep as the frat boy’s eyes darted to Stu then away.

“Hey, man,” the frat boy finally said, leaning in to be heard over the music.

“Hey.” Stu saluted with his empty bottle.

“I hear you’re the Candyman?”

Stu scoffed. Since you branded him the Candyman? No, his heart is broken.

“What? You got a sweet tooth?” Stu asked.

“Huh?” The frat boy offered dumb eyes.

“Buy me a beer, man.”

“What?”

Stu palmed a baggy and tipped his hand to the frat boy. “Buy me a beer,” he said, slower.

The frat boy dissolved into the crowd with his purchase, and Stu perched on a stool to enjoy his next beer. Planting his elbows on the bar top, he turned his eyes up to the flashing screens hanging above the glowing rows of bottles.

Gale Weathers looked down at him.

Stu gagged on his beer and nearly spewed it across the bar. He coughed and sputtered around the choke, gasping to regain his breath.

I can’t escape this bitch.

He reached out and seized the bartender by the shoulder. “My man, my man,” Stu demanded. “Turn this up.” He pointed hard at the screen.

The bartender gave Stu a skeptical squint, keeping his narrowed eyes on him as he extracted a remote and pressed the volume key. Stu waved his hands up and up until Gale’s shrill voice penetrated the edge of the pulsating music. Then he slid a bill into the bartender’s hand to soften his gaze.

“We are approaching the anniversary of the Woodsboro Murders, which I detailed in my best-selling book, The Woodsboro Murders.” An image of the book cover appeared beside Gale’s face.

Stu rolled his eyes hard. His beer went sour in his mouth and his stomach.

“Two years ago, in Woodsboro, California, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher went on a killing spree, murdering five people. They had also killed Maureen Prescott the preceding year. Cotton Weary has since been exonerated for that crime, in part due to efforts made here on Top Story.”

Stu gaped at the screen, at Gale’s narcissist audacity. I bet in her book it says she single-handedly took down Billy and me. She saved the day! Stu’s stomach clenched tighter.

“Tequila!” he croaked. “Tequila, por favor.”

The bartender slid a shot glass in front of him and dumped the golden liquid into it. It overflowed onto Stu’s fingertips, but he did not notice as he slammed it down his throat.

“Mas! Mas!”

The bartender refilled the glass. Stu slapped bills on the counter, Javier’s bills. The bartender snatched them and drifted away before Stu could ask for more.

“In addition to the Woodsboro Murders in 1996, I, Gale Weathers, brought you a harrowing eyewitness account of the massacre at Windsor College just a few months ago.”

Stu lifted the shot glass to his lips and froze. He gaped at Gale, the shot shaking in his grip.

“Copycat killers Debbie Loomis and Mickey Altieri terrorized the campus as they patterned murders after the original murders. Debbie Loomis is the mother of Woodsboro murderer Billy Loomis.”

Oh, fuck, Billy’s mother. Stu stopped breathing. He pressed his empty hand to his lips. Billy would have killed to see his mother, did kill for his mother. Stu tried to grapple with how Billy would feel to know his mother had murdered just like him, in his name. Proud? Touched? Offended? Would he hug her or stab her? Stu honestly did not know with Billy.

Maybe they would find out now that they were both six feet under together.

“Woodsboro survivor Randy Meeks lost his life in the Windsor College Massacre,” Gale continued.

“Ah fuck, Randy,” Stu breathed. Finally got him. Bet he saw it coming too.

Stu pictured Randy pinned to his front door, slapping the woodgrain and calling for Sidney. He conjured Randy’s wide eyes with fear wavering at the edges when Stu finally let him see, let him know how right he had always been. Stu imagined Randy had that same look plastered on his dead face when the rigor set in.

Stu toasted the picture of Randy on-screen and tossed the shot down. The tequila sizzled down his throat and pooled in a burning puddle on top of his stomach.

“Just like the Woodsboro Murders, the central target for the Windsor College Massacre was Sidney Prescott. Sidney Prescott is the daughter of Maureen Prescott, Billy Loomis and Stu Macher’s original victim,” Gale continued.

Sidney’s face consumed the screen, her wide and bright smile mocking Stu. Her hair had changed. She had lost those annoying, quivering bangs and cropped it close to her ears. She looked more like a survivor now, and he hated her for it.

“Sidney Prescott could not be reached for comment.”

The picture of Sidney continued to burn on the screen. Stu glared into it, narrowing his eyes until she blurred, the way everything looked when he opened his eyes after she electrocuted him.

Survivor. She wasn’t supposed to be the survivor. She was supposed to be the one person in all of this who was dead. Her and her mother. Yet she was still alive. Even Billy’s mother couldn’t come back and get rid of her properly.

This was not how you executed a proper sequel. Randy must have been appalled before he died. Debbie Loomis and Mickey Altieri had gotten it all wrong. They had all underestimated her. But Stu would not do that again.

In his sequel, he would get it right. For Billy.

THE END

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Father Death (21)

Posted: November 1, 2022 in Father Death, horror, Scream
Tags: , , , , , , ,
5

Previously on… Father Death (20)

16

Stu’s breathing pressed back into his face from the inside of the plastic bag. His blood thumped steadier in his veins as his consciousness swam up to his sizzling nerves. He heard the plastic shuffling around his head but did not feel it against his face or shoulders. Willing his muscles to flex and move, he found them impossibly stiff and resistant. His breath just struggled in his face.

A chill tickled him deep below his flesh, coursing over him and making him writhe on his own skeleton. A skeleton that seemed singed and radiating. Before his thoughts coagulated into words, he imagined himself glowing in this strange, constrictive plastic space.

In your dreams. Sidney’s words echoed in his skull as her face flickered before him.

He jerked at her image. An involuntary and rageful spasm against the idea of her.

You sick fucks have seen too many movies. Sidney’s voice, again, tugged him more into his flesh, throbbing in hot pain. He saw her against the kitchen counter behind Billy.

Billy.

Where is Billy? Stu’s voice surfaced in his mind. Where is Billy? Where am I?

He had been in his blood-soaked house, surrounded by the bodies of their victims. Billy had been overzealously carving him up in the kitchen and throwing the phone at the back of his head. He had tackled Sidney to the ground after she had attacked Billy. And now…

Stu scrunched his face but felt nothing. He heard the skin crack and split at the movement. Back in the recesses of his sinuses, he smelled a faint char. A liquid slid from his cheek to drip on the plastic under his head.

The pain settled over him, formed articulate shapes on his body. He recognized the buzzing feeling of his arms and legs as they pulsated in angry rhythms. When he lifted his hands along his body, the plastic sheath around him contained them. His blunt, half-numb fingertips traversed the crisp edges of his sweater and the warbled, blistered flesh of his face. It felt wet and disfigured. Stu snatched the digits away, horrified to translate the touch into an image, and pressed forward into the plastic.

Above his face, he felt the zipper sealing him into the bag. He traced it up until he found the flat metal at the top above his head. Worming a finger out around the shape, he noted the cooler temperature outside the bag, and tugged the zipper down in an awkward struggle.

As Stu parted the seam of the body bag, weak light permeated the crack. The dim beams felt like an assault, and Stu squinted against them. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard to bring the world into focus around him. Turning his head on the crinkling plastic, he glimpsed another long, lumpy shape stretched out beside him.

Billy.

Wrenching himself up on his elbow, Stu’s muscles shaking and stuttering. Once he lifted his head, the world swam, and he gauged the gentle swaying below him. Tires rumbled under him as the van rolled down the road.

They think I’m dead, he thought. I’m the supposably dead killer. They’re taking me to the morgue under the hospital.

His thoughts crackled disjointed. He squinted his eyes again, the skin crunching and cracking. He gave his head a little shake, but then the entire van seemed to spiral around him. Snapping his eyes open, he sucked in breath through his nose. It whistled distorted, and he brought his fingers to the mangled flesh again.

Sidney. Fucking bitch.

Sidney was supposed to be dead. Gale and Dewey and Randy were supposed to be dead. He and Billy were supposed to be the survivors.

He turned to Billy’s body bag beside him. His plastic only jostled softly with the movement of the van. Something in Stu’s chest sank heavily, deeper than the tingling, the numbness, and the shocks of pain. The van felt surreal, like a nightmare. As if Freddy Krueger would turn around from the driver’s seat.

But it was probably him who looked like Freddy Krueger now.

Stu craned his neck toward the driver’s seat. More cruel light poured in from the windshield, carving the seat into a haunting, warbled dark shape in Stu’s damaged vision. He could see the ball cap and jacket of the driver, not the brown fedora and striped sweater of Freddy.

Stu shimmied the body bag from his shoulders. It tangled in the frayed edges of his sweater before piling on the floor of the van. Stu remained crouched low, both to stay out of the eye-line of the rearview mirror and because his trembling arms resisted supporting him. He felt like Michael Myers coming back to life, reanimated with a second chance to finish things. Sliding from the bag, he hunched in the shadows beside the passenger’s seat.

The van bounced into the parking garage; the light from the windows brightened. The brakes squeaked softly as the vehicle stopped. Stu pressed harder into the back of the passenger’s seat as the driver opened his door and slid from the van.

Stu’s heart rate battled to the surface and pounded through his entire body, shaking the fried edges. Glaring through the windows the best he could, he pulled himself into the passenger’s seat. Before the driver reached the back seat, Stu opened the door and lowered his feet to the concrete. Reseating the door silently, he slithered under the van.

Above his head, he heard the back doors of the van swing open. The driver’s feet shuffled on the concrete. Stu watched the blurry boots turn one way then the other in nervous patterns.

“Shit,” the driver said. The low voice echoed in the empty parking garage. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Stu pictured his empty body bag beside Billy’s. It had to look terrifying, a frame out of a scary movie. A smile hesitated on his deformed cheeks.

The radio chirped above Stu’s head. “Get the Sheriff down here.” The driver’s voice cracked. “We have a problem.”

Stu felt his pulse pressing against the concrete below him. The boots shifted across the concrete. As they rounded the bumper, Stu slid from beneath the van. He crept along the ground and darted to the large green blurs against the wall. Gripping the edge of the dumpster, he heaved a long leg over the edge. He whipped over the side and lowered into the trash. The smell permeated his charred nasal cavity.

The door slammed open into the wall. Boots bounced on the floor, and voices filled the parking garage. The silent space crowded with chattering bodies. Their energy spilled over into the dumpster with Stu, yet he remained lowered out of sight, listening to them.

“Macher is gone,” the driver said.

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” Sheriff Burke said. “He’s dead. How can he be gone?”

“He’s obviously not dead then,” another voice countered.

All the voices hushed, and Stu pictured them huddled around the end of the van staring at his wilted body bag.

“Fuck!” Sheriff Burke exploded. “Well, where the fuck is he?”

Mumblings and murmurs failed to answer him. Stu cowered against the rim of the dumpster and hazarded a glance. Sheriff Burke stood at the end of the gaping trunk, his hands fisted against his bald head. He turned to the van then away into the parking lot then back again. Then he squared up to face all his officers fiercely.

“The media cannot catch wind of this. This is enough of a shit show.” He leveled his eyes and jabbed a finger at them. “This has been enough of a fucking catastrophe already. They are salivating over the massacre at the Macher house. Billy Loomis and Stu Macher are our killers, and Billy Loomis and Stu Macher are dead.” Sheriff Burke swiped a hand over his face, and Stu dropped back into the trash. “Now, find him!”

Boots shuffled on the concrete in manic patterns. Gurney wheels squealed as it approached the van. Billy’s corpse dumped heavy onto it. They wheeled it away and closed the van doors hard. Stu remained pressed in the garbage, sucking in slow and rank breaths. The garage fell silent around him until it was only his weak exhalations.

Dead, he mused. I’m dead. Just like Billy.

The weight returned to his chest to squelch his hammering heart rate. Dead like Billy.

This night had changed everything. This night had ended their lives as they knew them. Just as they had thought but not at all like they had planned. Stu strove to set aside the blooming feeling of failure, the familiar itching sensation. He did not have time to sink in that native quicksand. Even these local morons would search a dumpster eventually.

Stu peered over the edge of the dumpster, expecting to see at least one lingering officer. Surely, they would have left someone at this portion of the scene instead of scampering off frantic and disjointed to find their escaped killer. Yet his eyes found a vacant parking garage. The van stood alone in its parking spot.

If Stu was watching this scene in a movie, he would have laughed. Instead, he slunk from the dumpster and hustled to the exterior exit.

Stu pulled the hoodie low over his head, tugging on the strings to envelop himself. His raw flesh prickled at the stiff fabric. He flexed against the chill running down his back and rounded over the diner counter. Dragging the steaming mug of coffee under his face, he hunched over, squinting at the hanging television screen.

Gale Weathers filled the screen. Stu wrinkled his nose at her ghastly pink suit and the way it brought out the depths of the bruises on her face. No amount of makeup could hide all the trauma.

She probably doesn’t want to, Stu mused. Better ratings. Survivor ratings.

As Stu stared into her face, he saw her back in the news van, fresh blood trickling from her face, her head hanging limp on her neck. Appearing dead. She was supposed to be dead.

They were all supposed to be dead, but Stu had failed Billy. Now, Billy was dead.

Gale offered the camera her pursed-lip smile.

What a bitch. She really is eating this up. Loving every minute of it.

He saw her back in his kitchen, holding the gun in their faces, that same smug grin on her lips as the weapon trembled in her hand. But she had not foiled them. She had been a speedbump. Sidney had been their undoing.

“Good evening, welcome to Top Story,” Gale said from the screen. “I’m Gale Weathers, here with more eyewitness accounts of the murders in Woodsboro, California.”

Stu mashed his fists into the side of the hood. You’re supposed to be dead. There aren’t supposed to be any witnesses. Some random reporter is supposed to be saying Neil Prescott slaughtered everyone and only Billy and me survived.

“First, we need to honor our own fallen cameraman. Kenny Jones was killed on the job at the Macher house the night of the massacre. Kenny was a dear friend and colleague, and our hearts go out to his family.”

Huh, Kenny. Kenny was his name. Stu conjured the memory of Kenny’s eyes going wide when Stu’s blade parted his neck. Kenny pawed for Sidney in the van before collapsing to the dirt. He died so quickly, with barely any effort at all.

“Last week, five people were murdered by Billy Loomis and Stu Macher,” Gale continued.

Stu stiffened at the mention of his own name. He raised up on his stool and peered around the edge of his hoodie. The waitress continued to pour coffee into a wilted trucker’s cup, unfazed. The family at the far booth bickered unaffected. The two other patrons at the counter stared into the television and blinked slow. Stu lowered back down over his coffee.

“This brings the murder total for Loomis and Macher to six as it was revealed they were responsible for killing Maureen Prescott in Woodsboro one year ago. This new evidence will work to exonerate Cotton Weary, who was convicted for Prescott’s murder. Top Story has been proclaiming Weary’s innocence for the duration of the investigation and trial.”

Stu rolled his eyes and pressed his fist to his cheek, immediately recoiling away from the scabbed flesh.

“In addition to Maureen Prescott and our own Kenny Jones, Loomis and Macher savagely murdered Steven Orth, Casey Becker, their principal Arthur Himbry, and Macher’s own girlfriend, Tatum Riley.”

Stu sucked in a breath at Tatum’s name. He had not killed her, but he always knew Billy was going to. If he was honest with himself, he was surprised Billy had not made him to it. It seemed like a task Billy would want him to fulfill. Stu pictured Tatum’s face, remembered her in those tight red pants and the jersey baring her pale stomach. He listened to her reckless laugh.

“Six people lost their lives at the hands of Billy Loomis and Stu Macher,” Gale continued.

Should have been more. It was supposed to be more. All told, that did not seem like that high of a body count for a scary movie.

“But both Billy Loomis and Stu Macher are dead.”

All echoes and memories fell from Stu’s mind. His head became hollow to consume those words. The concept of his living death was perhaps as unsettling as the idea of Billy’s true death. He knew it was better to be left for dead, to be assumed dead, than to be lying beside Billy, yet Billy was not feeling the crushing weight that strangled him.

“Both men were killed by Sidney Prescott, Maureen Prescott’s daughter. Sidney Prescott has not responded to requests for interviews or comments.”

Sidney. Fucking Sidney. Billy had to put her at the center of it. Here she was, at the center of it.

Looking up at Gale’s face on the television, Stu saw Sidney rush around the screen and plant her hands on the back of the television to shove it down onto his face. The electricity shuttered through his bones at the thought. His muscles spasmed at the memory, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He glared up at the picture of Sidney imposed on the screen beside Gale.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the stranger’s wallet. He pulled out a few bills and slipped them under his cooling coffee mug. Then he palmed the foreign car keys and trudged out to the parking lot.

Continued on… Father Death (22) – THE END

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Father Death (19)

Posted: October 18, 2022 in Father Death, horror, Scream
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
2

Previously on… Father Death (18)

14

“Right here, asshole.”

Gale Weathers raised the gun and pointed it at Billy. A massive cut transected a blossoming bruise along her forehead, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She still sported her red tailored skirt suit and shiny coat, yet her bare feet were soiled. The gun trembled in her hand.

“Man, I thought she was dead,” Billy said to Stu.

“She looks dead, man. Still does.”

“I’ve got an ending for you,” Gale interrupted. “The reporter left for dead in the news van comes to, stumbles on you two dipshits, finds the gun, foils your plan, and saves the day.”

“I like that ending,” Sidney chimed in from behind them.

Stupid bitch. Billy smirked. “I know something you don’t.”

Billy ambled forward unfazed. Gale squeezed the trigger, yet it remained fixed. She clutched the gun again, tipping it in her hand to look at it, eyes widening in desperation. Billy seized the gun and her other wrist and planted his foot in her chest. He kicked her hard, sending her flying backward. She sailed into the pillar on the porch, leaving the gun in his grip. Slamming hard, she collapsed in a heap on top of Dewey.

“Yeah, man.” Stu pumped a fist in victory.

“Yeah.” Billy stepped out onto the porch and crouched beside Gale’s body. “Aw, so sweet. It works better without the safety on.” He tipped his head to crack his neck then stood and pointed the gun down at Gale. “This is Gale Weathers signing off—”

“Baby, you’re going to love this.” Stu turned back to the kitchen to make sure Sidney was enjoying the show. “Shit.”

Sidney was gone. The corner where she had been cowering was empty. The gun was gone. Now, Sidney was gone. Stu’s thoughts surged then folded in on themselves. The pain swelled up over it all. It collapsed around the edges of his mind and hazed the edges of the world.

“What?” Billy whirled around and surged back to the kitchen. “Where are they? Where are they?”

Gaping at where Sidney was not, he turned to the floor where Neil also was not. His victim was gone. His fall guy was gone. His plan was gone. Panic flared up in him and immediately twisted into rage. They were not going to take it from him.

Beside him, nausea swelled over Stu. He teetered back into the fridge and wrapped an arm over his seizing belly as blood dribbled from his mouth. His legs wobbled unsteady beneath him.

“I don’t know, but I’m hurting, man.” Stu continued to cough blood into his hand.

“Fuck!”

The phone on the counter rang and snatched their attention, Billy from his rage and Stu from his pain. Then gaped it confused, as if they had forgotten the device’s purpose.

“Should I let the machine get it?” Stu asked.

Who would be calling? Who could be calling at a time like this? They are all dead or dying.

Billy leaned past him and snatched the receiver. “Hello?” He could figure out how to explain the call to the cops later.

The killer’s voice greeted him. “Are you alone in the house?” His voice, his words pirated.

Sidney. On the phone and voice changer in her father’s pocket. Billy’s vision went red.

“Bitch, you bitch, where the fuck are you?” Billy screamed into the phone, the knife clutched against the receiver.

“Not so fast. We’re going to play a little game.” That voice, his voice mocked him. “It’s called—” Sidney’s voice returned from beneath the mutation. “Guess who just called the police and reported your sorry motherfucking ass!”

Stu sank into the chair in front of the phone and puddled on the counter. He draped his arm long and rested his head upon it. His body beckoned for him to close his eyes, just for a second, to make the symphony of pain on his nerves stop.

“Find her, you dipshit, get up!” Billy planted the gun in his neck as he yelled.

“I can’t, Billy. I think you cut me too deep. I think I’m dying here, man.”

At the edge of the hurt, Stu registered he did think he was dying. The pain lulled him, coaxed him to just lie still, just close his eyes. If he did, he could be done disappointing his parents or answering to Billy. Tonight could be the end of this life without being the start of another one. It could simply be the end.

“Talk to her.” Billy pressed the receiver against Stu’s ear. “Talk to her.”

Stu drew himself up in his consciousness. He tugged his head up and grasped the phone, aligning it with his ear. Billy pressed away behind him, and Stu listened to him slink out of the kitchen.

“Hello?” Stu answered cordially.

“Oh, Stu, Stu, Stu.” Sidney offered him the same patronizing tone she always did. The tone that said she tolerated him because she had to, because Tatum was there. Only Tatum wasn’t there anymore. “What’s your motive? Billy’s got one; the police are on their way. What are you going to tell them?”

“Peer pressure. I’m far too sensitive.” No lie.

Billy stormed up behind Stu and snatched the phone from his grasp. “I’m going to rip you up, you bitch, just like your fucking mother.”

“You got to find me first, you pansy-ass momma’s boy.”

The reference to his mother set Billy alight. The phone flew from his enraged hand, bouncing off the back of Stu’s head. He did not see it. He did not hear Stu’s protest. He rampaged from the room.

“Fuck!” Stu cried. “You hit me with the phone, dick!” Stu gathered the receiver back into his hand.

“Fucker,” Billy raged. He ran to the couch and tore through the cushions with the knife, sending feathers flying. “Where are you? You fuck!”

Stu listened to Billy’s screams and leaned into the phone. “Did you really call the police?”

“You bet your sorry ass I did.”

Stu grimaced, emotion flooding into his sinuses. “My mom and dad are going to be so mad at me.”

They were going to know. They were all going to know now. His parents were going to be more than disappointed about his mediocre grades or messy room or the fact that he just wasn’t motivated enough. They were going to see the real him, something they never wanted to be around. They couldn’t stand even a fraction of him for more than a couple days before they were in the air again. He could not fathom how they would react when they knew he was a killer.

Continued on… Father Death (20)

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

Like my writing? Check out my books!

  • Followers – You never know who is on the other side of the screen. Followers is a mystery and thriller that blends women’s fiction with horror.
  • The Rest Will Come – Online dating would drive anyone to murder, especially Emma.
  • Savages – Two survivors search the ruins for the last strain of humanity. Until the discovery of a baby changes everything.
  • The Waning – Locked in a cage, Beatrix must survive to escape or be broken completely.
  • Screechers – Mutant monsters and humans collide in the apocalyptic fallout of a burned world. Co-authored with Kevin J. Kennedy.
  • Horror Anthologies

Telluride Horror Show 2021

Posted: October 26, 2021 in film festivals, horror, horror movies, real life
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Telluride Horror Show, back in person! If I can accurately stalk my own social media posts or count my own souvenir badges correctly, this was our fifth Telluride Horror Show attendance (inclusive of last year’s virtual rendition). I was thrilled to back in Telluride this year.

For the past two years and pandemic, the festival itself managed to go on largely unchanged. There were masks indoors and wristbands to verify vaccination or negative test status. Some events were held outside. Otherwise, all the things happened.

However, this won’t be my typical Horror Show write up because this was not my typical Horror Show experience. Not due to the fest–the fest itself was as normal as it possibly could be. The call was coming from inside the house. The trip to Telluride afforded me the time to finally take a breath, and when I did, many things surfaced in my mind. Horror has always been a coping mechanism for me, so I supposed it was an apt time for some processing.

In all cases, it was much needed.

Bridal Veil Falls

Sure, three days of horror movies and events is enough to fill a weekend. However, considering we have to drive across the state to get to Telluride, we decided to cram more into the trip. Plus there is always that masochistic outdoor streak.

My father has been scolding me yearly for being in Telluride and not doing the Bridal Veil Falls hike, so this year, we finally got it together and did the thing.

The weather was amazing. My Viking heart was singing through the frigid snow contrasted with the blazing fall colors on the trees. I was euphoric and zen, in my total happy hiking place. We took the long walk through town to the trailhead to truly absorb it.

When we got to the trailhead, there was even more snow on the mountain and we were the first on the trail, so there was no trail. We had to trailblaze through the untouched powder the entire way up. It was an adventure. And a slog. Lots of slipping and sliding. For just over a mile, it was a journey.

Totally worth it. Gorgeous frozen falls times three. It was the perfect way to kick off the weekend and get the blood pumping before sitting in theaters for three days.

Author Stalking

One of the highlights of Telluride Horror Show for me this year was all the author events. Telluride always hosts an enviable set of author activities. I have seen Paul Tremblay and Jeremy Robert Johnson in previous years. Yet this year included Stephen Graham Jones.

I was introduced to Jones’s work this year when a beta reader suggested The Only Good Indians as a comparable title to my WIP novel. I read it and fell in love with that book and Jones’s style in general. I immediately devoured My Heart is a Chainsaw and Mongrels. I was hooked and so excited to see him in person.

Jones and Tremblay both read (and Johnson riffed) at the Creepy Campfire Tales. Then, prior to a book signing, the three held a Horror Summit to discuss writing and horror genre topics.

This all hit at a strange time for me. I find myself a bit lost in my writing career, and I’m not entirely sure why. I just released my fifth book (Followers) with Crystal Lake Publishing. I have wanted to work with Crystal Lake for a long time, and releasing a book is always a success, so I should feel happy and accomplished. I already have another novel drafted and ready to submit. Though it has garnered a bunch of agent rejections, I still love it.

So, why am I questioning my writing career? Why is my resolve weakening now? Listening to these professional authors speak somehow left me feeling even more conflicted, made the real dream seem even farther away. I left the events full of admiration… and increased self-doubt, which is uncharacteristic for me.

The Movies

The Telluride Horror show is really all about THE MOVIES! So what did I see?

Admittedly, I saw less this year than I usually do. My social stamina was not where it used to be, so I did not have the drive to attend every round of every day. We also had a baby in our party, so I took several child care shifts. Then I devoted a good portion of my time to the other events (authors and trivia). Plenty of horror movies still happened.

The viewing experience was somewhat off for me this year too. At first, being in a full theater was bizarre. It had been two years since I was in a packed theater. The first time I was seated directly next to a stranger, I found myself curling toward my husband, as if I was going to crawl into his lap like a cat. But I got over that quickly and reacclimated to being social.

More than that, my triggers were misaligned. Movies that were hyped up to upset me passed over my mind smoothly, while others that seemed inane stirred unexpected responses. Ghosts were moving beneath the surface of my mind that I could not identify. The horror called to them.

The Sadness

HOLY SHIT this movie. The Sadness gets every trigger warning. Graphic, gory, disturbing, fucked… but brilliant.

The movie is unsettling enough with its COVID parallels. The news reports sound all too familiar. Then it takes a swan dive off into horrific. Yet it is not splatter or shock gore. While traumatizing, it is all calculated. The despicable things depicted contribute to the story, drive the plot points.

The movie is about showing what terrible things are right below our surface, right under our thin veil of control or civilization. The Sadness renders a sublimely sickening vision of what is behind that veil. Yet it maintains lines where the camera pulls away and leaves even worse things for the imagination of the audience. That control made what is deliberate on screen all the more effective.

While a challenging and one-time watch, The Sadness is my favorite from the fest and a movie I needed to see.

Sinister Stories Shorts

The “Sinister Stories” shorts block included some creepy and interesting offerings.

Koreatown Ghost Story was my favorite short of the fest. Extremely succinct and unnerving, it offers just enough to draw you in and deliver the right impact. I loved it.

Face Not Recognized. Try Again has an interesting concept that left me with numerous questions. You’re Family Now delivered a creepy interpretation of grief.

Let the Wrong One In

Horror comedy is always a solid bet for our group. We love it, and even when it goes wrong, it is usually ridiculous enough to keep us entertained. Let the Wrong One In brings Irish vampires. One junkie brother shows up bitten instead of strung out, and things unravel from there. The movie is funny and entertaining as long as the brothers fumble in their own house. Once the story left that structure, it sort of lost cohesion.

Antlers

The big budget, mainstream closing night movie. I have very mixed feelings on Antlers. On the surface, it is a formulaic, highly produced, entertaining horror movie with a very good monster.

Yet the formula is also a bit tired. As the story borrowed the wendigo from Native culture, it felt like another instance of white characters telling a not white story. It could have been more interesting with a couple steps out of the typical box.

The ending is also pretty weak.

When the Screaming Starts

More horror comedy. When the Screaming Starts is a pseudo mockumentary about an aspiring serial killer starting a cult. The story has a lot of potential, yet much of the comedy does not land as strong as it should.

Broadcast Signal Intrusion

To be honest, I slept through part of this movie, so I’m not sure how inclusive my opinion can be. I was well schooled on the inspirations for the movie, which definitely made it more interesting. I found the first half very intriguing, a solid mystery. Then the movie lost steam. When I woke up for the ending, I was left confused and wanting (more so than from being unconscious).

Black Friday

I was potentially the most excited about Black Friday. Holiday horror comedy with Bruce Campbell? Yes please! I was expecting something in the vein of perhaps Krampus. I’m not sure what the fuck I got. I don’t know that the movie knew what it was.

I think I was expecting the commercial commentary to be foundational, a la Dawn of the Dead. Instead, it was more sprinkled like salt as random references. Then the threat shifts from zombie-like shoppers to some sort of amalgamation monster, and that transition is poorly portrayed. All the characters are extremely cliché, but it is not pushed far enough to be caricature. Ultimately, just so disappointing.

“Folked Up Horror” Shorts

Folk horror is not my preferred genre. I definitely have selections I enjoy, but I am in no way an expert. The shorts in the “Folked Up Horror” block were bizarre. The musical taxidermist in Stuffed is fantastic and more entertaining than I usually find musicals. Then The Wet Nurse personally traumatized me with breastfeeding flashbacks and horrifying potential. The others fell relatively flat or outright confusing.

Trivia

We always attend Fright or Wrong trivia and muddle our way through. By some miracle of betting on the right question last (in person) year, we won. We managed to pull it off again this year. This time, the feat was accomplished by the combination of having two experts in 80s horror combined with two strangers joining us more fluent in filmmakers and modern horror.

Win or lose, it is always a fun time. And ridiculously hard questions.

In the End

Despite whatever cycles or processing I had percolating under my surface, the breath this trip afforded me to acknowledge them was so needed. Vacations or breaks of any kind have been scarce since the pandemic, and I am glad that we used it for Telluride Horror Show. The fest managed to preserve itself and return post lockdown with the same level of horror, community, and events.

Can’t wait until next year!

Christina Bergling

https://linktr.ee/chrstnabergling

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