William Blackwell

Dark Fiction Author

Tag: short horror stories

What can you buy for 99 cents?

What can you buy for 99 cents? I’ll tell you. For a limited time, my newly released horror anthology, Tales of Damnation, is on sale for only 99 cents. That’s right, only 99 measly pennies for an ebook copy of terrorizing horror tales.


If you enjoy a nail-biting roller-coaster ride through hell, you’ll love Tales of Damnation, an anthology of short horror stories.

The Spot: Watch a school bully finally get his comeuppance in grisly fashion.

The Cab Ride: Witness a malignant narcissist realize a little too late that it’s time he started caring.

Fire and Fury: Feel the heat when a pyromaniac learns that playing with fire also means getting burned.

The Succubus: Discover the horrifying consequences when a loser succumbs to the seduction of a succubus.

Fake Friends: Learn the shocking difference between real friends and fake friends.

The Stalker: Ride shotgun with a demented stalker as she tracks her prey through the haunted woods.

And there’s more. A total of thirteen finely crafted short horror tales guaranteed to educate, terrorize, and entertain.

Simply click the link below and buy now:


Or, if you prefer, read an excerpt from short story Fire and Fury before you click your way to terror:


                                               Fire and Fury

I don’t know why I felt so much trepidation about venturing into the forest. Normally Mother Nature brings me great joy. Yesterday, I even learned a new word—werifesteria—the human desire to wander through the woods aimlessly in search of magic and mystery. So where was my werifesteria this evening? Sipping a coffee on the back porch of my humble abode on 60 acres of Prince Edward Island paradise—with 2000 feet of pristine oceanfront—I tried to put a finger on the reason for my frayed nerves and jangled senses.

I looked to the sparkling stars and the looming full moon for answers. Nothing. I listened to the hissing of the trees, driven by a 20 mile-per-hour west wind. Still nothing. I looked into the darkness of thick woods, just beyond my manicured lawn. I thought I heard a twig snap. I jumped, spilling hot coffee on my shirt and down my pants.

“What’s wrong with you?” I said, snatching a recycled old t-shirt off the balcony railing and wiping myself somewhat dry. I took a couple of deep breaths and sat down. Waited for relative quiet. What are you waiting for? It’s always quiet. Only wind-blown trees hissing. Not even a bird chirping. No twigs snapping. You’re hearing things. Think, think, think. Why fear? Why now?

Even though it was a cool summer evening, I suddenly felt hot. A bead of sweat exploded on my forehead. Dribbled into my eye. The saltiness stung and I wiped it with my hand. Hot, hot, hot… that’s it.

It came to me in a flash. I have nightmares every night. I remember them at the time, but most of them disappear soon after I wake up. Most of them, I don’t write down. Only the really gory ones. This one, I had last night. I didn’t write it down, but I still remember it. Remember it like it happened yesterday. Remember it like it’s happening right now. In the nightmare, which felt more like a living hell, I woke up in the middle of the night, went outside, climbed into my trusty pickup and drove down a twisted and bumpy road to my waterfront site, about seventy feet from the water’s edge. The night before, I had had a rather large bonfire, along with some friends and a few beers, and I wanted to make sure the blaze was extinguished since I had left the site with the fire still burning quite brightly. Flashlight in hand, I arrived at the smoldering ashes, poked them around a bit, and then let out a deep sigh. It wasn’t out but pretty damn close. Then I heard a whoosh, felt a hot flash singe my eyebrows, and looked up at a large pine tree. About six feet up its three-foot diameter trunk, it branched out into three trees. In the middle of those three trees, a large bonfire blazed wildly out of control.

With a sinking feeling of despair and helplessness, I scrambled over to the tree, watching in disbelief as the fire’s orange tentacles ravaged the three amigos. I knew with a dread certainty that there was nothing I could do. It would burn out of control, burn down my forest, probably ravage me and kill all of my neighbors in that small corner of the island where I live. Then I woke up, heart pounding in my chest, sweat streaming down my face, and screamed at the top of my lungs, “No, no, no… please, God no.” And it was the sound of my own voice that had snapped me into reality, assuring me that everything was fine, the forest wasn’t burning, I wasn’t gonna burn, and my neighbors on the island weren’t gonna die. The fire was out.

Or was it? I wondered. Hell hath no fury like Mother Nature scorned.

I have a confession to make. I’m a pyromaniac. Even as a kid, I loved starting fires. I’m not talking arson kind of fires. Just the ones you have when you’re camping, or the ones you sneak out and light in your backyard when your parents are asleep. Everything about fires has always fascinated me. The glow. The heat. The dancing flames. The magic. The mystery. Even fireworks. Sparklers. Shooting stars. Rockets. Firecrackers. As kids, we used to have firecracker fights, lobbing them idiotically at each other’s heads, and if we got really lucky, shoving them down some unsuspecting fool’s pants and watching them shriek in agony as their asses exploded. Lol. Hilarious, right?

But, as an adult, I developed a healthy respect for fire. My mother used to tell me, “You play with fire, son, and you will get burned. It’s not a question of if, it’s when.”

And of course, Mom was right. Clearing an old logging road and a beachfront site, my disrespect and underestimation of Mother Nature came back to scorch me in the ass. Burns to my hair. My eyebrows. My arms. My legs. More than once my clothes caught on fire. Most of my fireside clothes are pock-marked with burn holes. Fortunately, none of those burns were life-threatening. My ass didn’t explode, thank God. And, believe it or not, the burns to my clothes and flesh were not what terrified me the most.

During the beachfront clearing operation, I hired a logger to help me with the project. I decided to burn some of the logging slash as we worked, telling him I had a safe, albeit makeshift fire pit. His name was Norman but I called him Normandy. He was as big as the country. Watching me pile twigs in an open area, he eyed me with skepticism, concern, and a healthy dose of fear. “Be careful with that, Gary. It’s a hot and dry day. Don’t make it too big.”

I looked at him, oozing arrogance and over-confidence. “Don’t worry, Normandy. I’ve got this.”

Like hell I did.

As soon as I lit the pile of twigs, it went up in a flash. Seconds later, flames shot through the dry moss forest floor like mission-bound streaks of lightning—bee-lining it straight for the nearby trees and stumps. It was like an octopus’s poison tentacles, fanning out in all directions.

Seized by unbridled panic, I started dashing around, stomping out the hot tentacles of fire. Normandy immediately dropped his chainsaw, picked up a nearby shovel, and began frantically pounding out the flames. Fortunately, after about a minute—that seemed like an hour—we had most of it contained. We met at a tree-stump that had ignited, me foot-stomping, Normandy pounding with the shovel until finally we extinguished it.

He dropped the shovel and glared at me, a mixture of disgust, anger, and fear, contorting his grizzled features. “I fucking told you to be careful. I’m not gonna tell you again. You do this when it’s raining. Light it again and I quit. I mean it.”

Normandy didn’t have to tell me again. And I didn’t light it again, until one day when it was pissing rain. I could tell by the look on his face he’d suffered a nasty experience with fire. Someone close to him had died. Burned to death.

Nobody had to tell me. I just knew.

A sound. A twig snapping. Or was it crackling? Or was it popping? Whatever it was, it snapped me out of my reflection. Suddenly, I thought I could smell smoke. I stood up quickly, realizing with a sense of anguish I had not gone down to the beach site this morning to check last night’s fire, in spite of last night’s nightmare. Somehow I’d gotten distracted and frittered away the hours playing on social media, binge-watching the news, and reading Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Yikes, of all things to read now.

Opening the screen door quickly, I shuddered, reaching for my flashlight and baseball cap. A million thoughts, like a million flashing fireflies, were dancing through my mind. Is it too late? Is the fire raging? Why didn’t I check it today? Am I gonna to die? Are my friends and neighbors gonna burn? Have I pushed the envelope one step too far with Mother Nature? Hell hath no fury like Mother Nature’s scorn.

My mother’s warning reverberated in my head: “You play with fire, son, and you will get burned. It’s not a question of if, it’s when.”

I was gripped by a tingly, adrenaline-fueled paranoia that I was coming to an end, that the world was coming to an end. Beads of sweat popped on my forehead in rapid succession and streaked down my face.

I climbed into my pickup, started it, revved the engine, and veered toward the winding road leading to the beach. By the time I arrived, I was in a state of almost complete and utter panic. Even as I approached the fire pit, I could see an orange glow surrounding the area. I quickly parked the truck, killed the engine, climbed out, scrambled over to the fire pit, and shone the flashlight beam down upon it. Orange embers glowed and small spirals of smoke twirled up. But the night was calm. It wasn’t going anywhere. It would be out on its own in a matter of hours. Maybe less.

I sighed deeply, looking around the site, feeling my heart rate slowly but surely returning to something approximating normal. I set my flashlight down, picked up a wooden poker and jabbed at the hot embers, trying to convince myself my eyes weren’t deceiving me. But, no. Just a few hot embers and a few twirling ribbons of smoke. I carefully placed the poker on a log near the fire, careful not to put the hot end on any loose twigs.

A crackling sound startled me. I jumped, jerking my head toward the beachfront, obscured partially by a seventy-foot tree bluff. Then I saw it. An orange glow near the water’s edge—about six feet off the ground, right smack in the middle of a three-foot diameter tree, fanning out along the tree branches into the night sky and wreaking destruction on everything it touched. An apocalypse. Armageddon. Just like my nightmare. Seized by panic, I grabbed the flashlight and charged to the water’s edge. About ten feet before the blaze, I stopped, the realization of the reality of what I was witnessing striking me like a bucket of cold water upside the head.

It was the moon rising up above the ocean, looming large, a fiery orange ball peering through the trees.

“Get your shit together,” I said, taking several deep breaths in an attempt to replace déjà vu with reality.

That crackling sound. Again. I looked around, trying to determine its origin. Nothing. I looked out to sea, taking in the magnificence and stunning beauty of the glowing moon rising above the water. Then I saw it. A large bank of dark rainclouds rolling toward shore. The crackling again. But this time I knew what it was. It wasn’t the snap, crackle, pop of a fire. It was the bone-cracking sound of thunder…

Thanks for your support. Click the link below and buy now:



Screw Xmas

Whoa! Wait one second. Before you get all bent out of shape and start accusing me of being the Grinch who stole Xmas, please read on. Screw Xmas is actually my little Xmas gift to you, dear reader. That’s right, it’s a complete story from Tales of Damnation, my collection of short horror tales scheduled for release in early 2021. And, I’m not gonna throw out any spoilers, but I think you just might enjoy it.

Here’s a synopsis of Tales of Damnation:

If you enjoy a nail-biting roller-coaster ride through hell, you’ll love Tales of Damnation, a collection of short horror stories.

Watch a school bully finally get his comeuppance in grisly fashion.

Witness an insensitive narcissist realize a little too late that it’s time he started caring.

Feel the heat when a pyromaniac learns that playing with fire also means getting burned.

Learn the shocking difference between real friends and fake friends.

Ride shotgun with a demented stalker as she tracks her prey through the haunted woods.

Discover the horrifying consequences when a loser succumbs to the seduction of a succubus.

And there’s more. Fourteen finely crafted short horror tales guaranteed to titillate, terrorize, and entertain.

And here’s Screw Xmas:

Screw Xmas

“Screw Xmas,” Hank Weimer told his sister Andrea. “And, no, I won’t accept your Xmas dinner invitation.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that,” she said.

“Why not? That’s how I feel. It’s a stupid holiday.”

“Why do you say that?”

“People you never ever hear from and never talk to send you stupid Xmas cards. What a bunch of bullshit. Phony bullshit.”

“Well, aside from its religious significance, it’s also a special time to get together with family and friends. You know, share special moments and all that.”

“And all that,” Hank said. “And all that bullshit. It’s a terrible time of year. The malls go crazy, retailers go crazy. Commercialism runs rampant. People buy shit for people they normally wouldn’t even talk to. A pair of socks, a pair of underwear, a box of chocolates. They max out credit cards and spend money they don’t even have.”

“You don’t have to focus on the materialistic part of it,” Andrea insisted. “That’s why we draw straws.”

Maybe she had a point, Hank thought, but he wasn’t willing to acknowledge it. This year, from his family of three brothers and two sisters, he’d drawn Andrea’s straw; technically that meant only one gift. But could he really ignore his sister Karen’s three toddlers? By the same token, could he ignore his brother Brandon’s twin ten-year-old boys? Could he reasonably expect to ignore his mother and father, knowing most of his other siblings wouldn’t? No, the whole thing was just fucked.

“I just don’t like Xmas,” he said. “Actually, I hate it.”

“Well, you should try and change up your attitude a bit. And I know your reasons are much more deep-seated than what you let on. You should learn to get over it. And, I know why you always pronounce it Xmas even though it’s Christmas. You want to make a mockery of the holiday. Stop that, will you.”

“Merry fucking Xmas,” Hank said, pressing END CALL and slamming the phone down.

Feeling angry and irritated, he went into the kitchen of his modest one-bedroom apartment in downtown Vancouver, snatched a Coke from the refrigerator, and returned to the living room. He went over to the window and looked outside on that dreary Saturday afternoon. It was December 14th, and there was a steady and insidious drizzle that was coming down. It had been raining all day today and all day and night yesterday. Welcome to the west coast of Canada in the winter. On the busy street below, a few umbrella-holding pedestrians moved along, going about their daily tasks, whatever the hell they might be. Cars swished through puddles, grinding slowly down the busy street. Even on a Saturday, it was wall-to-wall traffic.

He sat down on his favorite tattered armchair, popped the tab on his Coke can, and briefly thought about doing some channel-surfing. He moved his hand toward the TV remote but abruptly changed his mind. He’d torn a lower back muscle at his shipper-receiver warehouse job two weeks ago and had been practically doing nothing but staring mindlessly at the Idiot Box for the last ten days. Laid up indoors on sick leave, he was fast becoming bored out of his mind. Worse still, due to the severity of the injury, he was under doctor’s orders to rest for at least another two weeks before even attempting any exercise.

He ran a hand through his thick black hair and adjusted his glasses, which lately had started to slide down the bridge of his nose. Time for an adjustment, he knew. But not now. Now he could only do short walking stints around his apartment before the pain would stab his lower back, protesting loudly for him to sit his thirty-seven-year-old skinny ass back down. He grabbed a nearby pill bottle, popped the tab, and stuck two Ibuprofen pills in his mouth, washing them down with a mouthful of Coke and burping loudly.

Finally it began to occur to him that he might have upset his sister. Andrea had just gotten married to a successful lawyer. They’d just purchased a brand-new home in the suburbs and were now planning a family. She had just married the love of her life, had just started a new career as a radiographer. She had everything to look forward to. Especially around Xmas, a holiday he knew she loved. As a child he remembered how she could barely contain her excitement on Xmas Eve, eagerly anticipating waking up to all those presents under the tree. She would wake shouting with glee, and all ear-to-ear smiles. Her enthusiasm and happiness were infectious and in no time at all would spread through the entire family.

But not today, Hank thought glumly. At least not for the moment. I just pissed in her cornflakes.

He reached for his cell phone, suddenly feeling guilty and remorseful, like he owed Andrea an apology. After all, she’d done nothing wrong. All she’d wanted to do was cheer her brother up for the holidays. What was so wrong with that?

He started to punch in her number and stopped. Fuck it. She’ll get over it. She always does. He set the phone down and tried to think of other things to think about, other things to do. Maybe he could call a friend to come over and watch a movie? Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters.

Hank’s friend list wasn’t exactly extensive if you didn’t count family. There was Mitch Silver, who, at 46, worked as a carry-out boy at a local grocery store. He’d just left for Ontario to spend Xmas with his family and all he really liked to do in his spare time was play video games and watch chick flicks. Strange combination, but it worked for Mitch.

There was Ryan Boddington, who’d lately taken a fancy to drinking excessively and trying to get laid on internet sex-hookup sites. How’s that working for ya, Ryan? Pick any hotties up while you’re shit-faced? He doubted it. In his last conversation with Ryan, Hank learned that five of the eight sites Ryan had once subscribed to had banned him for lewd and offensive behavior. Not a good role model to say the least.

Then there was Deborah Brasher, a likable and good-looking thirty-something woman, who had expressed some interest in Hank after he’d met her in a downtown coffee shop almost a year ago to the day.

However, even her interest had begun to wane after Hank mentioned to her a week ago over coffee that, “Xmas was for kids. Period.”

And that was Hank being polite.

After reminding Hank that Christmas represented the birth of Jesus Christ, she called it “a special time to express your love and devotion to friends and family.”

Then she continued to gush over the holiday. Maybe it was his dead-pan expression while listening to her parade of positivity. Hank wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, she’d stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, frowned, and said, “I don’t think you really care about any of this. I think it’s time for me to go.”

So clearly, contacting Deborah Brasher, especially in the mood he was in now, wasn’t a good idea. He extended his fingers, ready to count down all the digits of his other good friends. But no one, besides family, came to mind. The sad fact was that Hank no longer had a lot of friends. Many of them had moved away, and others he’d just lost contact with, as people often do.

And family wouldn’t work right now. They were all crazy-happy over Xmas and Hank wasn’t in the mood for any Xmas cheer right now.

So he dimmed the lights and wallowed in self-pity. Pity over the overwhelming depression that settled over him every Xmas. Pity that he was suffering way too much chronic pain to even go for a long walk and stop for a coffee or a drink. Even if he was well enough, who wants to go out in this soup?

Absently, Hank picked up his cell phone and scrolled though the contacts. Nothing, no one, zero, zilch, zip, nada.

Even though it was only 8:30 in the evening, he decided it was time to call it a night. He slowly rose, wincing as sharp pain stabbed him in the back. Pretty bad when you’re so bored and depressed and in so much pain that all you want to do is sleep. What a life. Fuck life. Fuck Xmas.


Hank was nine years old all over again, playing in the backyard of his suburban home with his sister Lisa, born a year behind him. She was the one who looked so much like him and acted so much like him. Many people had commented that they could’ve been twins. Lisa was really a more refined and feminine version of himself, he realized as he watched her swing back and forth in the swing set.

He looked around the snow-covered backyard on that bright and sunny mid-December day. Where were his other siblings? Why weren’t they out playing? But did it really matter? He always had the most fun with Lisa.

He stuck a twig in the nose area of the snowman he was making and turned to Lisa. “What do you think?”

Lisa laughed. “Use something else,” she said. “It’s too big and skinny. It’s like a Pinocchio nose.”

Giggling, Hank stood up. “You’re right. I’ll wait for you to help me.”

“Push me,” Lisa said with a wry grin. “I want to go high. Way, way high.”

Hank approached Lisa and positioned himself behind her on the swing. He started off slowly, but soon had her soaring high in the air.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Higher and higher.

She giggled with delight. “Now I know what I wanna be when I grow up.”

“What do you wanna be?”

“I wanna fly a plane and be a pilot. I love going higher and higher. Weeeeeeeeeee… I love it… weeeeeee…”

“A pilot? That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”

“Weeeeeeee… it doesn’t matter. It’ll be fun. Don’t you think?”

“Sure, it’ll be fun, just like this.”

“Make me go higher, Hank. I wanna go higher.”

“I’m getting scared. I don’t want you to go too high.”

“Come on, don’t be a chicken. Just a little higher.”


Hank backed up a little, allowing himself more pushing and pulling power, and soon had Lisa swinging a good four feet higher.

“How’s that?” he said.

“I love it… I love it… weeeeeeeee…”

The back door of the house opened and Hank’s mother poked her head out. “Come in now, kids. It’s lunch time.”

Hank took his eyes off Lisa and looked at his mother for a fraction of a second but that’s all it took. On its backward momentum, the metal seat of the swing smacked him in the head and knocked him down. As a constellation of concussive stars danced around his head, blurring his vision and dulling his senses, he saw Lisa flying through the air. As the lights of consciousness dimmed, he felt warm blood trickle into his left eye, and he saw his sister plummeting to the ground head-first.

“No… Lisa!!”

He heard a loud blood-curdling scream and then everything went black.


He opened his eyes slowly and brought his hand to his head. What? It was wrapped in gauze. His eyes slowly adjusted to the powerful white light and he tried to focus. For a moment he saw only a shadowy image, undulating and indistinct.

Then the image changed. Blue eyes. Soft, pale skin. Shoulder-length golden blond hair. A small and dainty nose. And lips pursed in an expression of concern.

Then a voice. “Hank, you had a little accident. You’re gonna be okay.”

Confused, disoriented and precipitously terrified, he bolted upright in bed. “What happened? Who are you?”

As soon as she smiled and those two dimples danced across her pretty face he recognized her instantly. But she had aged. Albeit, gracefully, but aged nonetheless. She must be at least as old as he was. No, right. A year younger. How could that be? She was dead, had died in that terrible swing accident that Hank could never stop blaming himself for.

“Lisa,” he said. “Is it really you?”

She bent over, hugged him warmly, and pecked him on the cheek. Then she backed up and sat down on a chair that magically appeared bedside. “It’s me, dear brother, and I want you to know something.”

It took a moment for Hank to overcome the incredulity of the situation and get over his shock. It took another moment for him to compose himself enough to speak. He was being bombarded by strong and powerful feelings of love and well-being.

Finally, Hank said, “What… what do you want me to know?”

“I’m okay, brother. I have a different life in another otherworldly dimension, but I’m okay. I’m happy.”

Hank sighed as a heavy wrecking ball of guilt began to float away from his shoulders, making him feel as light as a bird. “You’re not dead? But I thought I killed you in that swing accident.”

“That was never your fault. You must learn to accept that. It was an accident, nothing more. It ended my earthly existence, but gave me another more divine purpose outside of the mortal realm.”

“So, there is life after death?”

“I’m living proof, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

Hank watched the wrecking ball float higher and higher until it disappeared into a cloud of white, powdery dust. Then, he said, “It’s a miracle.”

“That it is, my brother. But the Supreme Being works in mysterious ways. I’m here to save you. I’m here to assure you that I’m okay, it was never your fault, and from this day forward you have to get over the guilt, stop blaming yourself, and start living your life and begin living up to your true potential.”

Hank was overcome with emotion. Tears of joy began streaming down his face. “Thank you, sis. I… I love you.”

“I love you, too, dear brother,” Lisa said. “Please, change for me, change for yourself, and change for the positive contribution you can still make to the world.”

Then Lisa rushed into her brother’s open arms and embraced him in a tight hug. “Don’t worry,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll never leave you.”


“Don’t ever leave me, sis. Don’t ever leave me.”

The sound of his own voice startled Hank awake and he bolted upright in bed, looking left and right, right and left, frantically before it registered that he was indeed in his own bed, in his own bedroom, in his Vancouver apartment.

But everything was not the same. It was pretty far from the same. He jumped out of bed with the exuberance and enthusiasm of an overly rambunctious teen and began dancing around his bedroom singing, “My sister Lisa is alive… my sister is okay… my sister is happy… my sister is healthy… my sister loves me… and it’s not my fault… oh, no, not my fault…”

He stopped suddenly, thinking for a split-second that perhaps he’d taken leave of his senses. But it was more than that. Something wasn’t right. In his explosive bliss, he’d forgotten all about his aching back. Yet it wasn’t aching anymore. He ran his hand down to the injured spot. Feeling for the swollen area. It was as smooth as silk.

“Yippee,” he shouted, jumping for joy and resuming a little dance number around his bedroom, “It’s a miracle. Lisa cured me. The Supreme Being cured me.”

“There’s still hope for you,” he said to his grinning reflection in the bathroom mirror a little later. Even his face looked fresher. Gone were the dark circles under his eyes. Even his deep blue eyes, identical to Lisa’s, looked brighter and more alert.

As he reached for his shaver, he caught another glimpse of his reflection. Disbelieving, he moved closer to the mirror. Over his left eyebrow, he noticed a drop of blood. Sure enough, the three-inch scar resulting from the head injury he’d suffered from that fateful swing accident so many years ago had started to bleed.

He wiped it with a clean facecloth and examined it closer. It had been sliced almost surgically yet superficially. A much greater understanding of what had happened to him began to sink in and his body began to twitch with the epiphany.

He hadn’t been dreaming at all. He’d dream-teleported, gone back in time, and then shot forward to another dimension where he’d been saved by Lisa. And now, here he was back in the so-called real world.

“It’s a miracle, all right,” he said to his refection. “It’s a bloody miracle.”

After showering, and then cleaning, disinfecting, and bandaging the small cut, which he was confident would heal in no time, he made a pot of coffee, finished one cup, and then decided a few calls were in order. He could barely contain the urge to start dancing around his apartment and singing his heart out again, but he wasn’t sure his neighbors would appreciate it. And one part of him thought this was all a dream and he’d wake up, be in severe pain, and everything would be as miserable as it had been when he’d gone to bed last night.

He dialed Deborah and got her voice mail. “Hey, Deb, first of all I wanna apologize if I offended you with my scrooge attitude about Christmas the other day. Merry Christmas to you, and I hope I get the chance to see you before the holidays.” He thought the Supreme Being would forgive a small white lie. “I bought you a Christmas present and I’d love to give it to you before Christmas. Bye for now. Take care.”

Overflowing with excitement, Hank then got his sister Andrea on the phone.

“I didn’t think I’d hear from you today, of all days,” she said.

“What do you mean, sis?”

A long pause. Then, “You do realize that today is December 15th, the anniversary of our sister’s death? Usually you go into complete hibernation mode around this time.”

In the fog of his earlier self-pity, depression, and self-loathing, it actually hadn’t dawned on Hank. But it struck him now as the divine intervention of the Supreme Being, as Lisa had called Him. Or Her.

“I saw Lisa,” Hank said. “I mean really saw her. She’s okay.”

“You saw her?” Andrea’s voice cracked with emotion. “I wanna hear all about it.”

“And I know the perfect time to tell you. Is that Christmas dinner invitation still open?”

“Of… of course. It’s always open. You’re my brother, and I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Hank felt his cheeks moisten with tears. “Please forgive me for being such an asshole yesterday.”

“Forget about it. I know you hate Christmas.”

“Not anymore, Andrea. I think from now on I’m gonna start loving it.”

“Oh my God. This is a miracle.”

“Merry Christmas, sis. Merry Christmas.”


                                                             The End

If you’re still here, that probably means you enjoyed that little tale of redemption. And, if you enjoyed Screw Xmas, I’m sure you’ll love In Your Dreams, my new release.

Teaser: A zombified TV and junk food addict discovers vicarious carnal comfort in his dreams only to confront the grim prospect that the escapist fictional world he’s so meticulously constructed might actually be a terrifying reality.

If you feel so inclined (of course you do), click the link below and buy it before Xmas. Or, should I say Christmas?


Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Thanks so much for your support, and stay safe.

Tales of the Damned

Tales of the Damned. What is it? It’s my latest work in progress, and it’ll be a finely crafted collection of short horror tales.

For me it represents a deviation from the norm—full-length dark fiction. For the last seven or so years, I’ve written mainly full-length novels across multiple genres: horror, psychological thriller, supernatural thriller, thriller, paranormal, sci-fi, post-apocalyptic or dystopian fiction; even a foray into inspirational fiction.

Why a collection of short horror tales? Call it an experiment in form and structure, call it intellectual curiosity, call it whatever you want but for me it represents an opportunity to try something different. Something new.

I like the idea for a number of reasons. Recently I did a little Twitter poll in an attempt to try and determine the level of interest in short horror tales. To my surprise, the response was overwhelming. It’s no secret that global sales of short fiction and short horror tales are going strong. There are many talented short horror story writers in the Twitter #writingcommunity and I certainly see a strong demand.

In today’s complicated world, books compete with so many other things for people’s attention: gaming, YouTube, Facebook, TV, Twitter, the labyrinth of information on the internet, and dozens of other social media platforms—not to mention the myriad of other distractions, tasks, and problems that are just a part of living.

People lead busy, often stressful lives. It’s often easier for them to read short stories than full-length novels. Waiting in the doctor’s waiting room, they can get through one or more stories and not have to worry about losing the thread if, heaven forbid, a distraction prevents them from revisiting it again for another week or two.

The timing is also excellent. Being that it’s summer and summer is short on Prince Edward Island, I can create a story and, depending on word length, probably knock the first draft out in one sitting before escaping outside to enjoy the glorious summer weather. And, of course, there are my outdoor projects and my outdoor pets to attend to.

When I start a full-length novel, I usually write for about five to six hours a day, six days a week until I get the first draft completed. By writing consistently I stay with the thread and, at least to my mind, it makes for a more powerful and better flowing read.

Tales of the Damned (a working title that may change) will contain at least thirteen short horror tales, examining everything from real-life ghostly encounters; actual horrifying nightmares; and completely fictional yarns that will be the product of a dark and twisted imagination.

I’m only half way through the first entry but can already feel the creative juices generating other story ideas. When I write in a particular genre, I generally also read a lot in that genre. I’ve plowed through dozens of short horror tales in an effort to learn something about structure and form.

I generally have a lot of backstory in my novels which I try to weave into the narrative in bits and pieces as opposed to laying it all out at once in one big info dump. I also use a lot of internal dialogue to give readers a really clear idea of what motivates my characters to behave in often erratic, unstable, and unpredictable ways.

But in Tales of the Damned, I won’t have time for a lot of backstory or internal dialogue. The challenge will be to say more with less—much less.

It’s a dynamic form with limitless possibilities.

As British author William Boyd, says, Short stories “seem to answer something very deep in our nature as if, for the duration of its telling, something special has been created, some essence of our experience extrapolated, some temporary sense has been made of our common, turbulent journey towards the grave and oblivion.”

Stay tuned for updates on Tales of the Damned. As always, thanks for stopping by.


Wondering what’s new and what’s blue in William Blackwell’s world? My world.

Well, let’s dispense with the blue by getting it out of the way straight away. Since I’ve vowed to do more book marketing this year, other than book reviews, website content, and blog posts, I’ve managed very little writing on my two works in progress—The Dark Menace and The Witch’s Tombstone.

Yeah, I always get a little blue when I can’t escape through the lives of my fictional characters. After all, writing has been described as the ultimate form of self-expression, as well as being liberating, therapeutic, and deeply satisfying.

The time will come, I suppose. But right now, I’m immersed in book marketing tasks. If you don’t oil the wheels of your marketing machine they become rusty, antiquated and ineffective. The book publishing industry is constantly evolving and to be successful you have to evolve with it or get left behind in a plume of toxic exhaust smoke.

So what’s new?

My website has a brand-new look and I love it. The free WordPress theme I picked is called Lovecraft, fitting since H.P. Lovecraft, considered by many to be the master of horror, is one of my favorite authors. Some readers had actually complained that they found it hard to read my blog posts on my last outdated theme. On that theme, the words were white, the background black. That can get a little tedious on the eyes after a while. Now, with the more traditional black words on white background, the website is way more appealing to the eye. And I love the font, Times New Roman, the one I use to write all my novels with.

On the new-and-improved website, I’ve also disposed of most the Amazon widgets that drove traffic exclusively to the US-based Amazon site. Too limiting.

In its place is a really cool thing called Universal Book Links (UBL). Created by Books2Read (Google them if you want to know more), these specialized links package many different online bookstores into one convenient link. Click GET WILLIAM BLACKWELL BOOKS NOW AT YOUR FAVORITE BOOKSTORE HERE if you’re curious about how they work. The actual link is in the top right-hand side of this page, but I’ve also added it to the bottom of this post for your convenience.

The links give readers several options to choose from, including Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, Amazon, Indigo and many others. You simply click on your preferred book retailer and it takes you right where you want to go. No muss. No fuss. The links are flexible and can be checked, repaired and added to as needed.

And, since I just received an email today from Google Play Partner Centre announcing that I’ve been accepted into their publishing platform, I’ll soon be adding Google Play and Google Books to the links of online ebook retailers who carry my books. I don’t know much about publishing on Google Play or Google Books. I’ve spent the last two hours navigating the platform and I’m told my latest release, The End is Nigh, is currently being held in limbo due to a pricing issue and the fact that Google needs to review my new account. Eventually, I’m sure it will get resolved.

Who knows if I’ll sell a lot of books on the platform? But, in reading over a few blog posts on the topic, it definitely helps with book indexing. Certainly with a behemoth big tech company like Google, it will definitely put more eyes on Blackwell novels. Google is working hard to expand its presence in the ebook publishing industry and it’s certainly a no-brainer to jump at the opportunity to open up my books to millions of more readers around the world.

With that goal in mind, I’ve also opened an account on Wattpad, a wide-reaching platform for established writers and aspiring writers. I don’t know much about Wattpad yet except to say that I’ve put one of my earlier works, Resurrection Point, on the site in its entirety—free for the world to read. I’ve read some writers have made it big on Wattpad—movie deals, book deals, and the like.

But I don’t necessarily have any lofty expectations. It’s just another way—in the often muddy book marketing waters—to get a few more eyes on my books. It also gives me an opportunity to connect with readers and get real-time feedback, good or bad, on my prose. I’m still mulling it over, but I’m considering offering two of my series starters on Wattpad for free to generate interest in the other series books.

You guessed it. I saved the best for last. Maybe I don’t need to have lofty expectations or goals. Maybe I’m already famous. I recently made the cover of the internationally renowned Who Knocks?

As the cover says, it’s an “unearthly magazine celebrating the otherworldly, the ghostly, the mysterious and the strange.” And contained within those ten-dollar pages is a “candid and in-depth interview with Canadian horror writer William Blackwell.”  Now I guess people will have to pay to get my innermost thoughts on writing, LOL.

Seriously though, the magazine also contains a collection of short horror stories by some very talented writers. The brainchild of author Krystal Lawrence, with much help from Telemachus Press owner Steve Himes and others, it’s the first edition of a magazine that I truly hope will live a long, successful, and terrifying life.

Who knows, maybe next week William Blackwell will make the cover of the Rolling Stone.

I know what you’re saying: “Don’t hold your breath.”

Trust me, I won’t. I wouldn’t do this writing thing if I didn’t love it. If you didn’t get a chance to check out that cool Universal Book Link I mentioned earlier, I’ve posted it below for your viewing pleasure.

Thanks for your time and enjoy your day.