Interview with Lisa Vasquez and MF Wahl for Dread Central

Sometimes I come out of the basement…


The tree stood in the corner, it’s dark green boughs weighed down with long soft needles. They remained unadorned despite the wealth of glitter and sparkle in a storage tub nearby. The tub’s lid sat slightly askew, balancing on the rim, where it had been placed down the evening before. Nothing in that corner had moved since then, as though the Christmas decorations had been preserved in ice, much like the yard outside.

In a way they had. The coldness of a marriage on the rocks had taken it’s toll. Marty and Nadine had been at each other’s throats all night. Many of the barbed comments and dirty looks passed right over the children’s heads, but they felt the darkness, even if they couldn’t truly understand it.

Tempers flared, no one was immune. Like a swirling tempest, the sour mood sucked the joy from every little moment. At fourteen, Clara was the oldest of the four children, and the first to rail against her parents. “I hate this family!” she yelled, shoving her younger brother to the side as she stormed from the room.

Marty called for her to come back, insisting she participate in the festivities, but short of physically dragging her from her room there was little he could do. It wasn’t long before he and Nadine were openly screaming at each other, and the younger children took refuge in their own rooms. So much for the Norman Rockwell Christmas decorating scene they had been trying to cobble together.

The next evening Clara sat in front of the TV, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching a show she only marginally enjoyed. That was fine, because her parents were fighting in the kitchen once again, and her three little brothers raced in circles powered by batteries that never seemed to run out. The house was loud and she tried to focus on smiling faces and the laugh track coming from the TV.

Before the end of the show she heard the front door bang closed, followed by the deep rumble of her father’s car as he fired up the engine and pulled out of the driveway. A few minutes later her red-eyed mother stepped into the living room and turned off the TV.

“Hey! I was watching that!” Clara snapped at her mother.

“Too bad,” Nadine replied, and crossed the room to the tub full of decorations. “It’s time to decorate the tree.”

“Yay!” cried Clara’s youngest brother, Jeremy. He was only eight and always eager to please. He skipped over to the tree, followed by Nathan and Bradley.

Clara stood and crossed her arms. “I don’t want to.”

Nadine pursed her lips unhappily and walked over to Clara. She wasn’t much taller than the teen anymore, but was still able to throw her weight around. Clara glared defiantly into her mother’s eyes. “This is stupid.”

Nadine was fast, and before Clara could react her mother lashed out, striking her across the mouth with her palm. “You’d better watch your mouth, young lady.”

Tears stung Clara’s eyes, but she blinked them back. Not wanting to be struck again, she slunk over to the Christmas tree and accepted a red metallic garland her mother held out to her.

That’s how the night went, the family nearly smothered by a cloud of anger, decorating the tree, trying desperately to cling to a thread of happiness. Except Clara, she didn’t see the point of decorating, or clinging, and with each bulb she hung her resentment grew, like the scowl on her face.

Soon enough the tree was laden with beads and bulbs and tinsel and twinkle. Nadine went back to the kitchen to cook dinner, and her brothers began playing again. Clara with the last golden decoration in her hand, searched for a place that wasn’t already festooned. The back of the tree had the least on it, so she slid between it and the wall. As she reached up to hang the ornament a black spot on a red bulb caught her eye.

It was a spider. Big, and black, with long hairy legs, clinging to the side of a shiny red bulb. Clara squeaked in surprise and recoiled, bouncing off the wall behind her, and back into the tree—and the spider.

Normally, she wasn’t afraid of spiders, but the thought of having one unexpectedly dancing on her shirt kicked her baser instincts into gear. She dropped the ornament from her hand and, squealing in terror, scrambled out from behind the tree.

“Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!”

Clara danced around the room batting at her clothes as her brothers giggled. After a few moments she stopped, and panting, looked at them. “Spider…” was all she could manage though breaths.

Dinner proceeded as normal, with Marty arriving back home just before it was served. Clara’s parents were curt to each other, but didn’t return to earlier fighting. Her father even complimented the Christmas tree before the kids had to get ready for bed.

Clara had long since forgotten about the spider by the time she was brushing her teeth. She looked in the bathroom mirror, scrubbing, as she saw it creep up onto her shoulder. She froze, toothpaste foaming from her mouth, arm stiff. She didn’t want to panic this time and lose it, she wanted to knock it off into the toilet and flush it down.

Her heart sped in her chest as she tried to move slowly enough not to spook the arachnid. It was bigger than she remembered it. So big she could make out a few details of its face in the mirror. Two sets of shiny black eyes stared forward, unblinking, with a disconcerting quietness. Just below them Clara knew there were fangs, hidden by whiskered mandibles.

She crept toward the toilet, stepping softly and trying not to jar the thing on her shoulder, all the time keeping her eyes fixed on its reflection. It moved slowly across her shoulder toward her neck, and she suppressed a gag as it reached out a thick black leg that reminded her of a pipe cleaner, and stroked her throat.

“Be calm child,” it said in her ear. Its words were raspy, said in the echo of a voice, neither feminine nor masculine. Clara widened her eyes in surprise, but other than that, didn’t move a muscle.

“Please,” said the spider. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Mom! Dad!” Clara screamed, and batted at the spider on her shoulder. As her hand made contact she felt the stiff haired bristles that covered its body. She spun in a frantic circle trying to see where it went. “Mom! Dad!” she screamed again, as they both came running.

On the verge of tears Clara told them about the spider, but at the last second, looking up into their concerned faces, she left out the part about it speaking. They’d just think she was being crazy.

Marty dutifully checked the bathroom for the offending arachnid, and Nadine helped Clara check her hair and clothes. After they came up empty-handed they said goodnight and saw a nervous Clara off to bed, leaving the door open a crack at her request.

“That seemed like an overreaction,” she heard her father say as her parents descended the stairs.

“It’s just her hormones,” her mother replied.

Clara pulled her blanket up to her chin and replayed the moment in the bathroom over and over again, until she managed to convince herself that she imagined a talking spider. I was just scared, she thought, fear can do strange things to people’s minds.

Still, no matter what she told herself, she had trouble falling asleep. She couldn’t help but feel every itch on her body like it was the spider crawling on her skin. Eventually, she heard her parents go to bed, and she lay awake, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion finally closed her eyes.

Clara woke to a pressure on her chest, heavy, but not unbearable by any means. Almost as if a small cat were perched on her. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was still dark.

Half asleep Clara reached up and touched the weight on her chest. It bristled beneath her palm and she yanked her hand back as her eyes popped open.

“Please don’t scream,” rasped the spider.

Clara’s lips trembled and she breathed quickly, feeling the weight of the spider as it rode her chest up and down, up and down, up and down.

The moon shone through the bedroom window, just enough to illuminate the black shadow perched atop her, glinting off its many eyes.

“I’m not here to hurt you, child.” It reached out a long leg and touched Clara’s cheek. “I’m just here to talk. To help you.”

“Help me with what?” Clara whispered, her voice fluttering past her lips.

“Why didn’t you tell your parents about me?”

“I did.”

“No. Not about me. You told them about an ordinary spider. Perhaps a bit on the bigger side, but still a bland and ordinary spider. You didn’t tell them about me.”

Clara shivered beneath her thick down duvet. “They wouldn’t have believed me.”

“They wouldn’t have listened to you.”

Clara nodded, feeling a small ember of resentment from the Christmas tree charade still burning in her gut.

“They never listen to me,” she said quietly.

“I know,” the spider replied. “I witnessed everything from the moment your family selected your tree from the lot. I saw how they treat you, and I hurt for you.”

Clara nodded in the dark, watching the spider’s eyes sparkle as it spoke, her fear slowly being consumed by the tiny flame fanned to life from the ember.

“Am I crazy?” She asked the creature on her chest.

“Does it matter? If you were, its your parents fault, not yours. Look at how selfish they are. If they truly cared about you they would just be happy.”

For the first time in her life Clara felt like she was speaking to someone who understood her. No one, not her friends, not her dumb brothers, no one understood her situation. Everyone thought her parents were so nice. They couldn’t see the cloud that hung over their house, poisoning the very air inside. Choking the life from her so stealthily that no one noticed.

Clara felt her cheeks flush with anger, and balled her fists under the covers. She hated her parents and her whole stupid family.

“What do you want to do?” asked the spider.

“I want to leave and never come back.”

“Now is as good a time as ever.”

“I can’t sneak downstairs without waking up my mom.”

“What about the window?”

The spider rose from Clara’s chest and sidled next to her on the bed. As it moved she felt the lightness of empty space and it almost felt foreign. She scooted to the foot of her bed and peeked out of her window at the white powder covering the rooftop. They were only one floor up. If she hung from the gutter it would only be a small drop into snow.

“I don’t have any shoes.”

“You don’t need them. It’s not really that cold outside.”

“Maybe I should just wait.”

“And endure one more day in this house? I thought you hated your parents, look at what they’ve brought you to.”

Clara nodded. “You’re right.”

She quickly dressed herself and layered on two pairs of socks, then grabbed her coin bank. It was a dolphin jumping from a wave, her favorite animal, but missing its dorsal fin. Last year Nathan had broken it, and although her mother tried to repair it, eventually the piece fell off and was lost.

Quietly Clara slid open the window and a cold blast of air hit her. It was almost enough to make her close it again, but she felt one of the spider’s legs on her arm, reassuring her.

“Are you coming?” she asked.

“Yes,” rasped the spider, and climbed onto her back. It felt even heavier than before. Awkwardly, Clara stepped out onto the roof.

The snow was crisp and cool beneath her feet, and the wind cut through her sweater, but now that she was outside Clara was determined. Just as she had imagined, she hung from the gutter and dropped into the snow bank near the side of the house. Enjoy Christmas without me, she thought spitefully as she headed toward the road, the big black spider clinging to her back like a many-legged backpack.

She walked, head down against the wind, shivering, and telling Spider her new plans. The coin bank she clutched to her chest probably had enough in it to buy a bus ticket. All she had to do was get a pair of shoes.

“Any charity box,” Spider whispered in her ear. “They’re overflowing this time of year. You might even find a pair in your size.”

“And a coat.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The snow was beginning to cake around Clara’s socks and her body heat melted what stayed close. She shivered as she trudged, feeling like Spider was getting even heavier.

“You’re growing.”

“You’re just seeing me more, child.”

Clara nodded, her face feeling frozen. She didn’t understand what that meant, but was running low on energy.

Soon they were out of town, headed toward the small city nearby. There she knew that’s where there’d be charity bins and a bus station. Just as the streetlights disappeared the sun began to rise.

Clara trembled uncontrollably. “You made it through the hard part, Clara,” coaxed Spider. “The sun will bring warmth with it.”

But it didn’t. Clouds obscured the sky and let loose a fury of snow and wind that pelted her chapped face, feeling like needle pricks. Her feet were numb now, as she dragged them in the slush on the side of the road. She tried not to think about them as she walked hunched over, burdened by Spider’s weight.

“It’s getting late, they’ll be looking for you, Clara.”

Clara said nothing but began peaking over her shoulder to see if there were any approaching cars. She spotted the first car’s headlights not long after and ducked into the underbrush along the side of the road. After it passed she tried to stand, but stumbled under the weight of Spider.

“You’re getting too heavy for me.”

“You’re giving up. I thought you were better than that. I got you this far, don’t disappoint me now.”

Clara sighed. She was so tired and so cold. All she really wanted now was to get back into her nice warm bed.

“That ship has sailed, Clara. What do you think will happen when they find out you’re gone?”

Tears slid from Clara’s eyes and froze on her cheeks as she stood, staggering under the weight of the enormous creature embracing her from behind. She tried to take a step forward and fell to her knees.

“Get up,” rasped Spider. Its words floating overtop of the wind. “Get on your feet.”

A sob broke from Clara’s throat as she tried to stand again. Her socks, frozen to the snow around them, pulled away and she stepped barefoot toward the road, trying desperately to carry herself on red swollen feet. Her legs wobbled again and she fell, catching herself with her hands before her face hit the icy ground.

“Get up.”

“I can’t,” Clara managed through sobs. Her eyelashes were beginning to freeze.

“You must. You’ll show them.”

Clara rose to her hands and knees, ice slicing at her bare palms, her coin bank lost somewhere in the snow far behind. She fixed her eyes on the side of the road and crawled, chest heaving as she cried.

“Not too close to the road, Clara. You don’t want to be found.”

The weight of Spider was almost unbearable and Clara felt as though she might break under it.

“Not too close.”

She felt the tips of Spider’s legs, like large pointed branches, digging into her sides.

“I said not too close!” Its rasp was loud in her ear, angry, overtaking the howling wind of the storm.

“Get off!” Clara yelled, her voice cracking. She reached for the side of the road, barely able to see, dragging herself next to it, hoping she was close enough to be found.

Spider dug its legs harder into Clara’s sides, piercing her sweater, and her skin. She screamed in pain.

“Get away from the road,” it rasped.

Clara reached behind her and grabbed one of Spider’s legs with her hands. It was so big she could barely wrap her hands around it. As she tried to pull the creature from her back it dug its legs in further, jabbing points between her ribs.

Every sob, every breath Clara took now came with pain. Pain so sharp it almost shut out the cold. Almost. She was too cold to shiver, and too weak to fight. Clara’s hands slipped from the leg and she collapsed under Spider’s weight by the side of the road.

Ahead a bright pair of headlights cut through the falling snow. A pick-up truck slid to a stop and Clara could see Christmas lights strung around its bed. They twinkled merrily, as she closed her eyes.

So cold.

So cold.

So cold.



Horror, thriller, sci-fi … all are synonymous with author M.F. Wahl. Dark plots and a keen focus on character development will keep you chained to each frightful word. Wahl is a proud member of the Horror Writer’s Association and her first novel “Disease” is will be released by Stitched Smile sometime next year. Visit for more information, or to get on the mailing list. You can also find Wahl on Facebook and Twitter.

Beginning picture credits: “Frozen Spider’s Web” by Matthew Harrigan

Every bitter thing is sweet – Talking “Low” with Mike Duke

“To a hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet.” – Proverbs 27:7

One of Mike Duke’s favorite quotes from his new novel LOW, soon to be released. Here at SSP we couldn’t wait to share what Duke has in store for you, so we convinced him to share a little bit. A little sneak preview, if you will. A tiny tease, an amuse bouche, something to whet your appetite and make you hungry for what’s sure to be a dark and terrifying ride.


Officer Mark Adams is fed up with God, his wife and the legal constraints of his job. He longs for a life he can enjoy and to see true justice meted out.

Chad Bigleby is a lawyer thrown into a deadly moral quagmire, forced to decide whether he will abide by man’s laws or make his own.

Each man is being driven to the edge of his limits.

Both men are on a collision course.

All because something wicked has arrived in Pleasant Grove, something ancient and obsessed with vengeance, eager to punish the souls of men for their sins.

How LOW will they go to get what they desire most? And what will it cost them in the end?

Hell only knows…

I sat down with Duke and asked him a few questions about LOW.

MF: Mike, how long did it take you to write LOW?

Mike: I started writing it in 2009 and finished the rough draft in 2012. I submitted it  multiple times and took the feedback from each rejection and did numerous rewrites to refine the story.

MF: Where did the idea come from?

Mike: I got the initial kernel of an idea for LOW out of the blue one day, riding down the road listening to my iPod. Two songs played in a row and the two themes just kind of meshed in my head. Metallica’s “All Nightmare Long” and “Testament’s Low”. I envisioned some kind of entity that torments people in dreams and night terrors, and combined it with the thought of how low will we go to get what we want. There was a lot of work to do after that, but that was the initial spark.

MF: What do you think sets this story apart?

Mike: One, I think the premise, though Dante-esque in some ways, is original as far as the nature of the supernatural entity and his motivations. In dealing with moral issues and weaknesses more common to men, I believe I’m able to present it with a voice of authenticity and authority. I was a cop for almost 12 years so I have first hand experience seeing how low people can sink to get what they want.


I’m sure by now, dear reader, you’re itching to read LOW, but you’ll have to wait just a bit more. It’s slated to be released this November. Until then, you can placate your appetite with this short excerpt, and if you’re really keen to get more, join us on Halloween night for the LOW per-release party on Facebook.


Glenda Harris was leaving the Gas N Go, a large colorful coat covering her heavy dark skinned frame, when she saw a creepy old man and his dog lingering beside the building, almost invisible, the shadows wrapping them like a shroud, eating the streetlight’s glow. If her skin hadn’t prickled when she passed them she might never have even glanced over much less paused to stop and stare. The man’s lips parted in a smile and white teeth was suddenly all she could make out clearly, the brightness casting a cloak over what she had seen before. Like some Cheshire cat, his smile hung in the darkness, tilting slowly to the right and then to the left before righting itself at last and revealing his face. She stood frozen, struggling to find words to break the spell of fear gripping her. “Umm…sir…this ain’t no place for an old white man to be all by himself at this time of night. Are you lost?” Her heart was beating out of her chest. She gripped the aluminum foil packet in her pocket that held the blessed roots and herbs and prayed they would do their job of warding off evil.

A voice, smooth like sand sliding over glass, a southern gentleman’s accent, projected from the shadows as the teeth disappeared. “Why, mah lady, how absolutely kind and considerate of you. I appreciate your effort but I assure you, I am quite dandy and in need of no assistance. You may be on your way without the slightest worry for my well-being.” The man tipped his head down and in her direction in parting recognition, then raised his right hand up and waved his fingers up and down to say goodbye, each finger falling and rising in succession.

Find out more about Mike Duke and LOW on Facebook,as well as his blog, Twitter, and on Amazon.

Don’t forget to sign up for the SSP mailing list to stay up to date on this and other horrifying new releases.


Horror, thriller, sci-fi … all are synonymous with author M. F. Wahl. Dark plots and a keen focus on character development will keep you chained to each frightful word. Wahl is a proud member of the Horror Writer’s Association and her first novel “Disease” is will be released by Stitched Smile sometime next year. Visit for more information, or to get on the mailing list. You can also find Wahl on Facebook and Twitter.




FLASH FICTION SATURDAY: Merry-Fucking-Christmas by M.F. Wahl

Thomas had to piss. He pulled the truck over to the side of the snow-packed road and popped open the door, letting in an icy burst of winter into the cab. With shoulders hunched he stepped down, cursing the weather, and the goddamn piece of ass that brought him all the way out here.

She was a redhead—they were all redheads—and not worth the money he’d sunk into his gas tank. Merry-fucking-Christmas.

He unzipped his pants and pissed right where he stood, next to his open door, staring at the blinking string of lights wrapped around the bed of his rundown truck. He’d always loved the holidays, but this Christmas Eve certainly wouldn’t go down in his top ten. Christ, it was probably in his top five worst.

“Help!” a voice drifted in on the wind, jarring Thomas back to the present. He shivered, and glanced around, dribbling a bit of urine onto his work boots, unsure if he actually heard it.

The breeze warbled through the trees, and then he heard it a second time. “Help!” It was a child’s voice, but he wasn’t sure which direction it came from. He shook, zipped up his pants, and then leaned into truck bed, reaching for the axe he kept back there and hoping he wouldn’t need it.

He slung the weapon over his shoulder and peered into the dark, wondering which way to go, when he heard the voice again. His heart skipped a beat. The voice was coming from under his truck.

“Oh, God,” Thomas thought, and dropped to his knees to peer beneath. How could he not have seen a kid in the middle of the Goddamned road? How could he run over—blackness?

A thick, black tentacle slapped the ground next to his knee.

Thomas dropped his axe and scrambled back, scraping his hands over ice. He sprang to his feet faster then he’d ever moved in his life, then jumped back into the cab of his truck, slamming the door closed behind him. Shaking so hard he felt like he was sitting on a damn vibrator, he floored the gas pedal.

The pickup fish tailed on the snowy road and black ooze splattered the windshield. “Shit, shit, shit!” Thomas shouted, and leaned into the steering wheel. As the wheels caught and the truck flew forward he almost lost control.

He drove as quickly as he could down the highway, counting his blessings. Perhaps it was a Christmas miracle he survived. Perhaps the creature was a sign. Perhaps it was a hallucination. Whatever it was, that was the last time he answered a personal ad on Craigslist.

Horror, thriller, sci-fi … all are synonymous with author M. F. Wahl. Dark plots and a keen focus on character development will keep you chained to each frightful word. Wahl is a proud member of the Horror Writer’s Association and her first novel “Disease” is will be released by Stitched Smile sometime next year. Visit for more information, or to get on the mailing list. You can also find Wahl on Facebook and Twitter.


She absently digs beneath a fingernail at the red dirt. It stains everything. Even if she were able to wash every speck of oxidized dust from her body, her traitor skin would still harbor the mark of living on this Godforsaken rock. Discolored palms, blemished nail beds, a reddish-orange mottle like faded blood splashes across her body. It gets into the pores, and no amount of scrubbing can take it away.

She squints out the window. Her reflection warps in the clear, industrial plastic keeping in the air. The temporary shelter distorts her face and accentuates the dark bags that cling to her eyes. Her tight lips are drawn down by the exhaustion and stress that threaten to overtake her. She barley hears the muffled sounds of desperation behind her.

She can’t look at herself; forces herself to focus on the damnable panorama that reaches into the dawn. Red, like the stained husk wavering in the reflection.

She once thought of these craggy rocks as a blank slate, a place of great promise and glory. The mission was to give birth to greatness here, but something was waiting for them in the dust whipping through this planet’s thin atmosphere. She knows now, but it’s too late.

She rips herself away from the window, craning around to face the consequence of naivety. Her green eyes bulge with adrenaline that slashes through her veins. The whites of her eyes are light pink and glimmering with tears. They sting from the microscopic dust specks that tattoo them. Her hand shakes, gripped tightly around the bright yellow handle of a utility knife. Its razor sharp blade flashes in the worklight shining from above.

They stare back at her from the floor, bodies quivering. It’s like they know how fear should look, but they can’t quite wear it right — as if something essential was lost when they tried to fashion it. She cringes inwardly, biting back terror as it tries to claw its way out of her throat.

The one impersonating the Commander groans beneath duct tape wrapped tightly around his mouth. She’s gagged them all; couldn’t listen to their lies anymore. One of them is crying, another tries speaking around the makeshift muzzle. They wear her colleague’s faces, trying to confuse her. She’s sure they’re attempting to wiggle an ankle from the duct tape or unbind a hand from behind a back. She can’t wait any longer.

Kathy turns back to the window. Her stomach seesaws with burning sick and her mouth goes dry, leaving microscopic clots of grit behind. Her heart’s relentless thumping vibrates her entire body. She feels like she might shatter.

She plunges the knife through the temporary plastic. It takes all her strength to push the tip through the protective skin, gashing a long slit, exposing the swirling, pulsing claret dust beyond. The writhing heap of imposters behind her screams and thrashes. Atmosphere hisses away as it’s sucked through the hole’s greedy mouth. It gobbles up their air, slurping like a criminal long starved for gruel.

It won’t be long now.

Horror, thriller, sci-fi … all are synonymous with author M. F. Wahl. Dark plots and a keen focus on character development will keep you chained to each frightful word. Wahl is a proud member of the Horror Writer’s Association and her first novel “Disease” is will be released by Stitched Smile sometime next year. Visit for more information, or to get on the mailing list. You can also find Wahl on Facebook and Twitter.