Joseph Roy Wright
Bio
Hello there!
My name is Joseph Roy Wright, the British author of over 30 Independent novels!
I like to write about movies, pop culture, fiction and horror! I review all the latest films (and classics), I also like to write short stories.
Stories (216)
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Mr Crueler
The English children of Partridge Secondary School always spread rumours about the terrifying ghost, that of the meanest teacher who ever lived, the one nicknamed Mr Crueler (whose real name was Robert Krueger). This cruel man was a math teacher back in the early 1960s when corporal punishment in schools was at its most infamous and terrible. If you're an Englishman, your parents have likely told you about the many hard spankings with wooden and metal rulers against their fingers and backsides. Or how these teachers used to physically wash soap into the mouths of naughty children who dared to swear in class. All of this sounds truly horrid, just imagine the frantic terror that must've horrified the poor minds of these young, innocent souls! However, there is an argument to be made that without such harsh teachings; it has resulted in fearless and ill tempered children who believe they are untouchable, they well and truly are until they turn 18 and then other adults will show them what a real fight looks like. If Mr Crueler was still around to this day, most teens nowadays would be scared, timid little boys and girls who wouldn't dare step or speak out of line in fear of getting the cane smacked across their delicate flesh! For you see; Mr Crueler wouldn't even allow a cough or an innocent yawn to disrupt his class without punishment, not even a sneeze was forgiven. "Cover your mouth when you sneeze!" He'd yell far louder than the terrified student, "have you not heard of the black plague, you naughty child!" His voice was hideous and just nasty to hear, like an old dying frog with the aggression of a rabid dog, frothing at the mouth! Mr Crueler had a long, hook nose, one so sharp it could've cut hard, frozen butter. He was covered in boils, like the dirtiest teenager going through the worst of puberty. His clothes were the complete opposite of his monstrous features, for the old bastard always wore a perfectly ironed suit with a maroon red blazer and pants. A brown fedora sat upon his head, alongside a leather trench coat he wore, whenever he went outside. From a far, he looked like a 1940s detective or (more accurately) an Italian mobster about to unload a fully loaded Tommy gun onto the poor little children he taught. Mr Crueler was incredibly tall for someone living back in the 1960s, even today he'd seem taller and bulkier than most men. His dark, soulless eyes were the scariest thing about him, they were coloured brown, but it was a shade so dark and muddy, they resembled the blackest eyes of all, the devil's eyes. He had a pale complexion, like that of a vampire and his hat hid the giant bald spot, where long grey hairs hung loosely upon the back of his head. The man was simply ugly, not horrifying to witness, but certainly unpleasant and a bit weird. Unfortunately he suffered a war injury when bravely serving in world war 2, that of a long red scar which spread across his right eye (that was damaged beyond recovery), a black leather eye patch covered it, making him look like a strange pirate. Some year seven kids dared to call him 'Captain Krueger' because of his injury. Those kids wouldn't dare speak ill of Mr Crueler again, after he terrorised them for being too 'naughty!' as the mean teacher often said. Yet it wasn't just Mr Crueler's comical appearance, thunderous booming voice and aggression that made him so notorious. You see, Mr Crueler did something back in 1962 that many still talk about to this very, he killed a student! It was an 'accident' or so he claimed, when one of the girls he taught got more daring than ever before, she stood up in class on the last day of school in her senior year and roared at him, arguing that he was a monster of a man. The student was named Cindy Elise and she believed Mr Crueler's punishments were far too cruel and terrible, especially after all the years of trauma he had inflicted upon her in particular. Cindy thought she could express all of her frustrations, moments before leaving that horrible school forever, never to return. Of course, Mr Crueler wouldn't just stand there and allow such ridicule against him. No, no, he couldn't allow that, never let such blasphemy slip! So he yanked the 16 year old over his desk and punished her mercifully for hours and hours, her whole back was red with cuts and bruises, blood bursting everywhere as her screams were heard down the corridors outside the classroom (and still heard to this very day on rare occasions, especially at night). He beat her with his belt, the metal rulers, his wooden cane and bare fists, going way beyond what corporal punishment at the time deemed appropriate. He made everyone in class watch the whole ordeal, as he brought her closer and closer to death with every blow and insult swore into her crying face. Eventually she stopped moving, stopped crying and then her breathing ceased too. Cindy collapsed dead onto the hard wood floor, soaking the grain a dark red so permanent, there is still a darker patch of oak where her body once lay dead over 60 years ago to this day. The teachers tell kids the darker stain is just where the wood has aged, you may think the floors would have been renovated by now. Well they have been, at least five or six times since 1961, yet a dark stain where Cindy Elise died still shows upon that very spot and still will even a hundred years from now when the floor is made of stone, there will be a darker shade of marble on that very spot, even if the floor was made of metal, it would rust where she died. A permanent reminder of her cruel and tragic death, forever marking the school of Partridge no matter how many years, decades or perhaps centuries pass. After Cindy's death, the whole classroom screamed in terror, frantically escaping the scene of the murder. Even the other cruel teachers, who also used corporal punishment without remorse or mercy, thought Mr Crueler had gone way too far with his actions as Cindy's body was a hideous sight of battered flesh, red cuts, purple bruising and scars by the end of his savage punishment upon her. It was evident that this was a slow, tortuous and humiliating death, the worst kind of murder imaginable. Every surviving teenager in that class, would leave petrified of Mr Crueler and Partridge School too, never to truly recover from the PTSD he had gifted them as their final leaving present. In her dying moments, Cindy gravely regretted speaking her mind to Mr Crueler, she knew she was going to die and the fact she could have avoided this fate so easily was only adding salt to her wounds. There was a court hearing not long after Cindy's murder, to everyone's delight; the jury found Mr Crueler guilty without a shadow of a doubt. The mad, mean teacher was sentenced to death by public hanging, within the city centre of London. Hundreds, if not thousands of citizens gathered around the display like the best selling music concert in town. They were an angry mob of parents, fellow students from Partridge school and other teens who hated their cruel, harsh parents or teachers. A thousand voices roared at Mr Crueler, as he was brought to the stand. This chorus sounded like the angriest crowd of disappointed rock music fans, who only came to boo and scream obscenities at the terrible teacher, whose only crime was that he simply took his punishment against Cindy Elise way too far. Many still remember the dying man's words as the trap door below him opened. "I curse you naughty children!" He barked, moments before his body hung limply from the neck by the slipknot, feet dangling several metres above the ground. Everyone cheered or gasped the moment he was executed, yet to the horror of many, he managed to slur a few more words. "Curse you all... At Partridge School..." Mr Crueler choked then died, at last he was finally defeated and nobody paid much attention to his final threat. Believing it was the last ramblings of a psycho killer, one desperate to scare anybody before death. It seemed that for the next twenty years, Mr Crueler's curse remained an empty threat as school life went on perusal. Then it was in the mid 1980s when teenagers got a lot more rebellious and punk, that the ghost of Mr Crueler began to resurface.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Midnight Laughter
Roy Johnson was a working class English man, one who hated his job because it paid so little, while he was simultaneously treated like dirt. His job was in a depressing little factory, one where the staff were rude, mean and short tempered. The lighting here was dim and dingy, an ugly urine yellow colour seemed to emit from every flickering lightbulb and the place stunk the same way it looked. The building was ancient and mouldy with decay, dust covered almost every surface all around him and nobody bothered to brush or mop the floors. So not even the ground he walked on was nice and smooth, instead it was grotesque, sticky and stained black and brown like the insides of an abandoned toilet bowl. The whole place was a dump and in great need of renovation. Roy was supposed to get paid minimum wage, but the company was so incompetent (perhaps on purpose) when it came to reporting work hours, the poor man still got underpaid from time to time. When he first began his hellish job here, he used to demand his payments be amended. They would reluctantly pay him back what he was owed eventually, but it would always happen and get confusing every month or two. The bosses would demand more of him if he tried to get his fair pay too and most of the staff simply didn't bother to go through all that annoying hassle, just to make a few extra pounds a month. It simply wasn't worth the effort or grief of going through all of that work politics and angering the toxic upper management, the underlings here learnt to just take this financial abuse and keep to themselves, it was better to be alone and unnoticed than cause a fuss. Roy hated working here just like everyone did, yet he was a man with very little work experience and his social skills were terrible also, so this god awful job was his only real choice in life. He was trapped and getting ripped off too, the factory was a living hell to work in. The building looked like a 1970s prison from outside, with its rusty metal walls and broken brick walls, that had huge gaping holes in them. There was this huge metal fence that stretched all around the complex, with razor sharp barb wire on top of them. This only added to the oppressive mood and appearance of this hellhole that Roy called his workplace. The shifts were way too long as well and his job consisted of doing the exact same task for 10-12 hours a day at nauseam. Roy would pack beer bottles into a cardboard box and send them down the conveyor belt. Then he'd do it again and again and again. Sometimes he'd pack beer cans into a cardboard box instead, then send them down the conveyor belt again and again. It was tedious and boring, not to mention exhausting. Every now and then, a boss half his age would march up and down the aisles screaming at anyone who looked too tired or worked too slowly. Roy was no exception to this humiliation, as a 'boy' (at least compared to Roy's age) named Mickey was the most notorious and arrogant of the bosses here. His childish name matched his punchable, young baby face. The kid just finished university at 19 and got his first job here, before his twentieth birthday. The little mouse didn't know a damn thing about real hard work! Not a god damn thing! He was a whiny little shit! With the voice of a kitten and the screams of a newborn baby. His voice wasn't intimidating, just annoying and stinging to the ear drums. For some reason, Mickey seemed to have a particular hatred for Roy, or so it seemed that way. Roy hated to admit, that the thoughts of murder always entered his mind when that 'child' was on shift, acting tough and smarter than everyone else. Roy had seen at least a hundred 'real men' get fired, after roaring at Mickey, the posh kid would run crying (literally) to his own bosses and the brave workers who dared to rage against that little brat were immediately discharged from service. Roy needed this job, more than anything, otherwise he'd be homeless by next winter and that seemed a far worse fate than packing beer boxes for hours on end. So he'd resist his urge to strangle the tiny man, allowing his so-called 'boss' to belittle and punish him for the pettiest of reasons. Mickey constantly changed his rules and work techniques on the flip of a dime, saying the beer bottles needed packing first, only to come back demanding the beer cans be packed instead. It was clear to everyone, that Mickey was as clueless as the boss before him. The company kept hiring dumb kids straight out of 'higher education' to order around the 'less educated' workers. Yet what the clowns running the show failed to understand, time and time again, was that somethings couldn't be learnt from behind a computer screen or by studying a spreadsheet. Packing boxes required speed, strength and endurance. There weren't any 'unique' or 'clever' methods behind such a task, all that was required was good hard manual labour. A little brat like Mickey telling forty to fifty year old hard, working class men with decades of experience how to 'properly pack a box in the most efficient and secure fashion' was completely unnecessary, at least according to Roy. If anything, Mickey slowed down production rates dramatically by stepping in and interfering every five seconds.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Chahud The Dream Demon
Have you ever heard of the classic horror villain known as Chahud? It came from the writer known as Daniel King, Chahud's legacy began as a horror novel, which became so successful in the early 1980s that several supernatural slasher movies were made. In these horror stories; Chahud was a demon who preyed on fear, to defeat the monster, one must overcome the horror of his grotesque threats and appearance. Unlike most villains, the book or movies (that expanded upon the demon's story and lore) never tried to kill or destroy Chahud for good, the demon was truly immortal and simply moved on to the next victim. Chahud was a shape shifter, a devilish beast whose true appearance was never truly exposed. The book described the demon as a sort of bug-like monster, with multiple legs and arms, with black skin covered in long sticky hairs. However, that description was only what some of the demon's victims saw, others described the beast as being lizard-like with green scales and sharp teeth, like a dragon or dinosaur. Then the films depicted the demon's true form as a giant bat beast, later it became a six eyed slug and the most ridiculous form was of a great big pink bear, with red eyes of fire! The conclusion is that Chahud had no such 'true form' as the demon morphs so much it is simply a mess of all forms of monster imaginable. What Daniel didn't include in his book (or the films that followed), was how Chahud spread terror and death in the real world that we all, horrifyingly, live in. Chahud in fiction simply haunted houses like any other poltergeist, however the demon's true methods of terror were through the many nightmares of the audience who watched or read about it. You see, Chahud was no work of fiction, at least not entirely, for there was a dark truth behind this beloved horror icon. It was a dream demon, an ancient legend of devils who invaded dreams to possess and torment their prey. With the book and Chahud's many films; the demon's legend spread and people all around the world saw, heard or read about the beast and so had dark dreams about the creature. There, in those surreal dreamscapes; Chahud would show, taking the form of the dreamer's darkest fears by remembering their most traumatising scene from the book or films. This was the insidious truth behind Chahud's many forms in his stories, it was to target everyone's phobia who studied the demon's legend. Then it could terrorise their victims to the fullest extent, driving many former fans to madness, into comas or even suicide. It was a demon that for many years, through the 1980s to late 1990s; it feasted on the minds of terrified souls and collected many who either died of fear or acted out Chahud's desires of murder, as some even became possessed by the demon and Chahud used these poor people bodies to kill further innocents, inciting a truer essence of fear by presenting blissfully unaware victims of a deranged killer that wore many human skins. The book and films were harmless horror fun, made to scare but entertain millions across the globe, but it was rumoured that Daniel King himself made a deal with this particular devil. That Chahud would gift the aspiring author the fame, fortune and recognition he so desperately wanted. Many theorise this to be fact, as the author was an unknown before his huge breakthrough which was his book about Chahud and the film's success, which also brought him much further wealth and attention, alongside all the cast members who participated in the film creations. Everyone involved with these productions was gifted fame and fortune beyond their most wildest of desires! Every film spawned a new Hollywood star and shaped the horror movie genre into the gore feats we know and love today. Yet, the reason nobody remembers the classic Chahud films as of 2024, is because the many deaths and killings surrounding the franchise's fanbase became such a wide spread occurrence, the entire series was banned worldwide by late 2000. TV Shows stopped discussing the series, theatres destroyed all copies of the Chahud films. Over a million Chahud books were burnt, never to be reprinted. Any and all mention of Chahud was simply shut down and silenced by the government. Nobody has uttered the demon's name in almost 30 years until this very horror story that you are reading right now. To further prove the fact that Daniel King was an agent of Chahud's legacy, once the demon's legend had died for over a year, Daniel died of mysterious circumstances in 2001. Many speculated the author's time was up, due to the fact Chahud could no longer terrify the earth and kill/torment prey through their many dreams, Chahud took its vengeance out upon the messenger that made the demon famous. Since then, the legend of Chahud has faltered dramatically. Only the oldest of horror fans remember the monster's movies. They'll tell you how much scarier those films were compared to any other horror movie out there. That they had the best effects imaginable, with only the most believable acting. That Chahud was a demon so life-like and realistic, the films often felt like documentaries, rather than fictional B-movie slop. Of course, not everyone who consumed Chahud media was bewitched or haunted by the demon, perhaps because there were far too many souls on earth to truly harvest. Maybe the film's message was actually true, that Chahud leaves those most brave alone, so some horror fans may not have feared the demon enough to warrant a visit from it. Of course, the legend of this demon could all be nonsense. Perhaps the media simply blamed the monster story for all the real life terror that happened (and still happens) in our everyday lives. It could be that Daniel just partied too hard back in 2001 one night and woke up dead, perhaps from an overdose using a drug most medical examiners didn't know about. There could be a reasonable explanation behind all of this lunacy, that there was never a real demon, that it was simply just a horror series so effective it truly scared the world silly, driving many to insanity through sheer creative horror by the deranged mind of a mad man with a pen, calling himself the author Daniel King. Whatever the case may be, the legend of Chahud certainly installed a sense of frantic terror into the hearts of many across the globe, during the 1980s especially.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
The Light At The End
I've never been a fan of tunnels. Going underground just seems so unnatural, like we're entering God's green earth instead of living on the surface of it (like we're supposed to!). It just creeps me out, I can't put my finger on why exactly. Perhaps it's the severe lack of sunlight, or the dingy atmosphere which comes with subway stations. The dim lights that flicker as diesel trains race past, that always unsettled me. The way the ground beneath our feet rumbles as the steam engines charge through the dark tunnels between stops, or how the ceiling above you quakes from traffic just above your head. It is simply eerie. I can never wait to get out of those hideous dungeons. What's worse, is the people that dwell in these dark undergrounds. You'll always see thugs on the subway trains or gathering around the waiting areas, as if these dark souls are attracted to such dark places. It always seems there is trouble in the most ugly of locations. Where darkness comes, trouble follows. Sometimes I've seen hooded figures under dark tunnels, perhaps walking to work or back home, I've had to travel right past these shady beings, keeping my head down to avoid any eye contact. For the longest time, I had been spared any hardship from these potential muggers, yet the threat always scared me. The sight of a shining blade of silver in the darkness is something I am sadly all too familiar with. It was on a particularly dark and stormy night, after the worst shift I ever worked, that I slumped home in the pouring, heavy rain, with thunder and lightning roaring in the background. I could've walked round the long dark tunnel ahead of me, traveled up hill on the surface of earth, where traffic passing by could see me clear as day, but I was glad to get shelter. You see, the rain was making me cold, it was agony against my skin, drenching my clothes completely in ice cold water. I had to get somewhere dry, even if it meant facing one of my most unsettling phobias. So, I entered the darkness ahead of me, it felt warmer underground than being outside, but still breezy. The walls of this tunnel were painted with grotesque graffiti, full of swear words and crude imagery! This gangster art was already making me feel anxious. I half expected to see hoodies with spray cans, aimed directly at my face, as I passed by in the dark. I convinced myself I was being ridiculous, so I continued to walk further into the dark, even though my whole body screamed for me to return back and face the rain above. I swallowed my fears instead and chose to flick the torch on my mobile phone on, to light my way forwards. There, at the very end of this long and narrow tunnel, was the exit, shining ever so dimly, far far away. I knew it was going to be a long and agonising walk, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Yet, I wanted to face my irrational fears, to prove to myself that I was just being paranoid and letting my silly phobia get the better of me, so I stepped forwards, further and further into the underground tunnel, until I could no longer hear the rain, thunder or lightning behind me, only the sound of my footsteps. Crunch, crunch, crunch, the autumn leaves beneath my feet said. That was all I could hear, that and the echoes which bounced off my footsteps. The silence was deadly, I could feel my heartbeat race so strongly, it was like I could hear it. Beat, beat! I breathed heavily, condensation from my breath steamed upwards like smoke into the dark air. The longer I walked the more used to this isolation I became, it eventually became oddly cosy in a weird way, like I was entirely on my own in the darkness, where nobody could see or hurt me. I could strip naked and no one on earth would know (not that I'd want to in that cold weather), I started to sing, it made me feel less unsettled. My echoes sounded like a collective choir, singing right back at me. So I decided to amuse myself, yelling funny words and talking to my own responses. It was all fun and games until I heard the word; "help..." Echo right back at me, quietly under the much louder sounds of my own voice. I stopped suddenly, zipping my mouth shut. It couldn't have been another voice, I convinced myself it wasn't. That somewhere in my jumbled speeches, I said something that sounded like the word 'help' but it was just my own echoes remixing into a new alien sound. All I could hear was my own breathing. I looked behind me and the light from where I had come in from was just as dim as the one ahead of me, I was roughly halfway through this tunnel, with both exits being equally as far away. I felt trapped, stuck in the middle of this dark abyss. So I slowly crept forwards, my footsteps much quieter than ever before; I dared to venture further forwards into this darkness. I thought it would never end. Then, as I stepped closer forwards, towards the exit ahead that still stood at least eight minutes ahead of me, I saw a shining glint of silver, as if reflected from my mobile phone's light. I feared the worst; a knife in the dark, but I didn't want to believe it, I told myself it was just a glass bottle, smashed to pieces on the ground somewhere ahead of me. However the truth was something far worse. I turned off my torch light, as I could see the exit ahead of me clearly enough to travel forwards without the extra light. Suddenly the tunnel felt even longer than it did before, the darkness all consuming, the light at the end; seemed to shrink as the light on my phone died. I crept forwards even slower than ever before.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Beautiful Death
Reynold Ford was both disturbed yet in awe to find the scene. It was of a garden, one filled with roses, violets, daisies, orchids and almost every other flower you could imagine. Featuring all colours of the rainbow, against lush greenery from the crisp grass and well trimmed bushes that surrounded it. There were the prettiest little plant pots he had ever seen, painted in rosy colours of red against orange. The sun shined nicely upon this little slice of heaven too, which had the gorgeous scent of fresh fruit emitting from all the nature that surrounded this small square of absolute bliss. However, there was one major problem with this single scene of affirmation and perfection; there was a dead body within the midst of it. There, laying dead, yet gently, as if in some eternal slumber of absolute peace, was the corpse of Shannon Carr. She was a beautiful lady, only 20 years old with long blonde hair that covered her nipples. She was entirely naked, yet her body was somehow perfectly preserved like the flowers around her had protected Shannon's body from decay. The dead woman had the most angelic face, her crystal clear blue eyes were still open, facing blankly into the abyss. The sight was like something out of the bible or a scene painted by the most talented artists within France or Italy. Someone had lain poor Shannon here like this, Reynold wasn't sure if she was murdered or died of natural causes, but the sight terrified him none the less. Somebody had put this scene together and must have only recently killed the poor angel. It was like a disturbing art exhibition, right in the middle of New York's Central park for all to see. Reynold had seen it first at 6am, but soon the whole police force would come to investigate and thousands of New Yorkers gathered to look upon this beautiful death. It was a bizarre sight, police men guarding a crime scene, where people were desperately trying to take pictures of a dead body. Something about that fact seemed so disturbing to the many detectives who investigated this case. Most crime scene photos are honestly grotesque and harrowing to see, but these ones were bloodless and the body wasn't bloated, green or even decayed. The woman suffered no bruising, cuts or scars. She was left completely untouched, as if her killer had taken great care into resting her here. In fact, there was no proof to suggest this even was a murder, but perhaps a public burial. One some detectives even dared to suggest, may have even been wanted by Shannon herself. CCTV footage found the culprit, they were busy from 2am til 4am, placing all the potted plants around Shannon's dead body, which they lay in the centre of this disgusting art display. It was evidently a man spotted on the surveillance footage, but he wore a black tuxedo and what appeared to be a fancy opera mask. The lunatic was dressed to the nines, creating this bizarre scene. It baffled detectives, who followed the 'killer' back to his limo, which drove out of the city, far away from all surveillance, as if knowing where to hide from police. However, not all hope was truly lost. As evidence mounted up, it became apparent that there was an operatic artist within the city itself, calling himself 'Belle Mort' which meant Beautiful Death in French. Of course, this asshat wasn't actually French, but from San Francisco. He had an art degree and told everyone he met about how important the arts were, even if people didn't want to hear it, he would spout about it endlessly, with the utmost pretentiousness. His art was quite unsettling yet magnificent. It all involved the cycles of life and death. One of his exhibitions consisted of several dead rats in glass boxes, all of which were shown in varying stages of decomposition. Another was a truly grotesque painting that he had done entirely within his own blood (supposedly), however the vivid red had dried into a horrid brown colour which resembled monkey feces thrown at a white wall. His art was of 'an acquired taste' as he so delicately put it. Belle's legacy was of narcissistic art pieces. Some of them genuinely were marvellous, but most were simply gross and very, very wrong. He expressed in his writing, that death is a beautiful end to life, that it is the closing credits of our very own movies, or the final page of the books that are our lives. Belle believed death was beautiful, truly. That it was far better to die young and full of life, than to eventually retire and crumble to dust from old age. When Detectives questioned him about the death in Central Park, he was so excited about the concept that he practically (although involuntarily) made it obvious that it was really him who was behind such a murder. Nobody else had expressed how magnificent a piece it was before Belle, as everyone else said the crime was horrendous. He was brought into an interrogation room for questioning and it was there where he straight up confessed to Shannon's murder! Belle exclaimed that Shannon would never be remembered without him, that she was just "another New Yorker before I made her a Martyr" and that "she'll now be remembered for centuries, because of moi" he said in that fake French accent. The sad reality, is that everything Belle expressed is unfortunately true to this day. Nobody would've known Shannon (outside of friends and family) if it wasn't for her murder. Nobody would've noticed her profound beauty, that not even she was aware of, if it wasn't for Belle. The sick artist had won, his 'artwork' was discussed worldwide and some unhinged internet corners dared to celebrate his 'creativity' as they so called it. Unfortunately for Belle Mort, but fortunately for us, he was given the death sentence in 2004, so his fame was short-lived. As the pretentious artist awaited his death behind bars, he wept like a baby, realising the horror of what he had done. Poisoning such a young and beautiful woman, ending her short, sweet life way too soon, it was only after the fact he realised what a monster he had become. The art piece was nothing but a cruel mockery, a spit in the face of those who loved the poor girl and the stolen dreams of a young soul who had a promising future that was actually bright! Oh how he wept and screamed in horror, realising what an absolute villain he was. Before he could be executed, other inmates on death row heard about Belle's crime and decided to speed things along. They all shanked him with broken glass shards, Belle was seen by prison guards, screaming for mercy and begging for help. However, the guards decided to neglect their duties and allow him to be tortured to death. They would all later say the incident happened too quickly for any of them to intervene. Yet, even the other prisoners would know they could've stepped in to help, they just chose not to. Not even the new guy stepped in, he too allowed that early death to happen. As everyone agreed, Belle deserved far worse than the lethal injection or electric chair. A monster like that didn't earn the respect of a dignified death, not after making a show of Shannon's corpse, purely for his own vanity, that was a sick and truly degenerate crime, one that many believed had been dealt with appropriately. After Belle Mort was killed, his body was nothing but bloody pulp and shredded prison rags. The man looked like a busted tube of red paint. His gore painted the floor in hideous shades of flesh, he had become a grotesque piece of art in of himself. When news broke out worldwide of his death, everyone was relieved to hear that such a despicable human being had finally been put down in the most agonising way possible. Ironically, Belle Mort's most remembered piece, was his own death.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
The Midnight Slasher
For several years now, on the midnight of every month's end, a killer stalks the streets of New Orleans. One that strikes in the dark, within the most hidden corners of the city. He or she has never been caught. Not that police haven't tried to catch this mysterious killer, only they seem to slip the sights of Detectives alike. Whoever this stranger is, they are skilled and resourceful, someone who knows the law system a little too well, in order to escape it so easily. Many speculate it is a rogue police officer, taking up the role of a vigilante, as the killer only murders drug dealers, con artists and sometimes other killers. They are clearly someone who believes in a certain sense of lethal justice. They always use sharp blades, presumably because this is a silent weapon that is quick to slaughter. Only a small handful of survivors have faced this so-called 'Midnight Slasher' and lived to tell the tale. The following are three known encounters with this mysterious, deadly stranger.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Wraps To Die For
In the summer of 2003, people within the American city of Chicago went missing. A lot of people suddenly vanished, seemingly out of thin air, never to be seen again. It wasn't like they just evaporated before anyone's eyes, they just went to work one morning and never returned home. It was when these people were all alone, perhaps walking down a dark alleyway, that some stranger struck and abducted them. For the longest time this was an eerie mystery. Rumours of a secret serial killer, began circulating around the city, as everyone believed it was another creep like one of those monsters you see in all those true crime documentaries. The truth would be far more disturbing than even that.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Magic Murders
The year was 1999: Liverpool Police Officer Barbara Clarke, had recently been promoted to Detective. A terrifying murder mystery was about to meet her that very December, just days before Christmas day. Neighbours called the police to the Price residence, as they could smell rotten meat stinking from the basement next door to them. Any seasoned Police man (or anyone with a basic knowledge of criminology), could tell this could only mean one of many things including; death. Yet the officers on duty hoped that wasn't the case, even though they could smell the stench of rot and decay emit from the basement of the big fancy house, even from all the way outside. They found that the front door was left unlocked and blood stained the handle in the shape of a hand. There was a trail of red gore leading all the way from the front door to the house's basement. The cops equipped their tasers and approached with the utmost caution, Constable Daniels called for more back up and an ambulance, expecting the absolute worst! So they tapped the basement door open with their finger tips and watched/heard the wooden door creak open slowly and loudly. Before their eyes; the sight of the whole Price family were butchered like slaughtered pigs! There was blood everywhere, all over the walls and floorboards, it was as sickening as it was unbelievably terrifying. The kids were far too young to die, nevermind skinned, just like potatoes. The wife got the least of it, a slice to the throat, but she was hung upside down like a slaughtered pig, her drying blood still dripping in big fat blobs onto the hard concrete ground. The father however, Dave Price, he got the absolute worst of it! He was stabbed one hundred and eighty seven times, all over his body, from head to toe. The poor father was so horribly cut up, half his limbs were dismembered. He was unrecognisable, as his face was nothing but grotesque mince meat. It was crystal clear, even to the regular police constables, that whoever did this had a serious vendetta against Dave especially, but killed the whole family seemingly out of spite. Now Dave was a rich man, who may have had a lot of enemies, it was possible that a crime lord or mafia type gang did this to him and his family. That's what became the theory among the Liverpool police, who opened an investigation into this murder. The blood on the front door handle was tested, it was Dave's own blood, mixed in with traces of his son, daughter and wife's. Most disappointing of all, was that there weren't any fingerprints to be found on the handle either. Only patterns of leather, proving the killer (whoever he or she) was, wore gloves. However it was the local CCTV footage that caught the suspect in the act, but to the shock and disgust of everyone who worked at the police station; the killer was dressed like a comic book supervillain! It was a tall, skinny man, dressed like the character of Trickster, a Raven Girl rival, who always used magic tricks to rob banks and commit other similar crimes. Trickster arrived in a black car outside Dave's house, the vehicle had no license plate on the back of it, so it was untraceable. The killer crept in, then later, the basement lights were switched on. You could see this, because there were small glass windows under the porch, where a basement was built. It was hard to see, but eventually the windows would get splashed with red blood, even the light would turn a darker shade of orange, almost pink by the end of the bloody murders. Then the lights would switch off. Soon, Trickster would exit through the front door, covered head to toe in the family's blood, smile wickedly, dance a little bit and climb inside the black car he arrived in. There was a second passenger inside the vehicle that was waiting for him, an accomplice of the killer. This man was hard to make out, as the footage was quite grainy and low quality. Although it appeared as if he had the nose of a pig, one either disfigured into a snout after a horrible accident of some kind, or perhaps a birth defect. Detective Barbara Clarke reviewed the horrifying footage extensively. She thought she almost recognised the man dressed as Trickster, yet she couldn't put her finger on who it was exactly. So, soon a nation wide manhunt was called into action.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
House Fire's Secret
The Phillips were a wealthy family, one that many feared, for they ran a huge monopoly across multiple large businesses. Rumours had it they were involved with multiple counts of money laundering schemes and the sons of this family; they were spoilt, corrupt rich kids who got away with murder and I don't mean metaphorically either. The two twin boys were aged 24 and they were known to have many house parties, ones where escorts would visit, only to never return, at least not alive. These women were unfortunately forgotten about, as they were considered "missing people" even after they were found dead, it was always ruled as either suicide or accidental, never murder. The father of this family wasn't much better either. He was the one who not only protected his evil sons, but also hired multiple Hitman to take out his competitors. Of course, all of these horrible crimes were never proven, but well known among the elites in society, who chose to ignore them for their own protection. This corruption went on for years, decades even. However, there were some people out there, the families of the escorts who went missing (killed) and the gangs of Southern England who didn't like the Phillips much. So on one cold night in December, the night before Christmas, the Phillips estate set fire! The whole family was inside the mansion, including the innocent mother and lone daughter the family had. It was when they were all asleep and as the fire spread throughout the whole building, shining a fiery red so bright it was visible across all of Cornwall (where this horror story took place). The mansion was already a crumbling wreck by the time police arrived, the sounds of screaming from within were heard for miles, louder than the flames that raged thunderously all around the countryside. It became headline news and everyone in Britain knew about the "accident" that was later proven to be an intentional arson. As CCTV footage showed several masked men in hoods and tracksuits, sneaking into the estate and settling off petrol bombs around the building. There must have been at least twenty of these arsons, as they all strategically threw the bombs in a way that would flare up every side and exit with flames. They all left in several unregistered vans the moment the mansion set ablaze. The vandals knew where to drive off CCTV and hide away from all surveillance cameras around Cornwall. The fact these criminals knew how to access the estate so well and escape without getting spotted, suggested that perhaps the leader of this gang knew the building incredibly well. The theory that it was a family relative who organised this mass murder, began to circulate around Cornwall and among the police. A whole rabbit hole of shady dealings, such as drug rings and smuggling rackets began to unravel. As Mr Phillips hid many dark and depressing secrets, ones that kept organised crime around London in check. He was a mob boss, one who lived peacefully in Cornwall with his family, while England's biggest city fell into corruption and crime, all the while he profited off the mayhem! So when this news broke out, some were actually glad of his demise. Then as more rumours about the terrible twins came to light, people were glad they were gone too! Yet, that never changed the fact the Phillips wife and daughter were still innocent women, two young lives lost over their father and brothers actions. It is a sad tale, for those two anyway. Now, as for the arsons, police searched far and wide for them, but the vehicles were never recovered. Some of the clothes they wore were spotted on the bodies of other known criminals within London. These men were pulled into custody for questioning, but they never cracked under the pressure of snarling detectives or legal threats. Obviously no respectable cop could charge any of these crooks on a mere suspicion. So they were unfortunately let go. To this very day, the mystery of who burnt down the Phillips estate still remains unsolved. The theories are wild, some believe the police were behind the murder, putting a permanent end to this crime family for good. Others speculate the rival mob paid off law enforcement, so that they would never be prosecuted. For some it is a crime that seems just deserved, the end of the Phillips family is seen as justice by many. Others confess that two wrongs never make a right, that the women of this family didn't deserve to be fried. It is a complicated case, one that is still talked about and studied to this day. There have been many documentaries about the house fire, as well as crime films about all of their shady dealings. Although the arsons were never caught, many made for TV movies fabricated a rival gang (who may or may not actually exist) who were behind the attack. So if you're desperate for answers, perhaps these films will somewhat satisfy those itching questions of yours. Yet, no concrete proof has ever been found. We can only theorise and wonder, but never truly uncover the dark, despicable truth.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Fiction
The Trickster. Content Warning.
When Romero Price was just a boy, in the late 1980s, he was obsessed with the TV show, Raven Girl. This show was a live action adaptation of a 1930s comic book series by the same name, which first aired in 1959 and ended in 1962. It was a cheesy reimagining of the much darker comics, it had colourful cheap sets and a certain campiness that even to this day has a particular charm. The show wasn't good by any means, it was a ridiculous kids show, with equally silly villains. There was Ducky, the Australian gangster whose laugh sounded more like a quack (hence the nickname). There was Pebbles, a pink haired children's clown who turned to crime. Novel Man, a French sophisticated writer who drank tea and wine, who used Paris themed weapons like a wooden baguette and garlic bombs. Yet, Romero's most favourite (which coincidentally was also most popular among fans new and old) was the British magician known as Trickster. This well spoken Brit wasn't actually posh, it was all part of his act. He was actually a rough speaking Scouser behind his smile shaped mustache, black top and red suit with black & white pinstripe pants. Trickster pretended to be a sophisticated magic man whose accent would slip, every time things went wrong! It was a comedic gag, one where he'd speak formerly and pompously, only to start mouthing off in his native derelict whenever Raven Girl (or her sidekick Pigeon) would ruin his well thought out schemes. Trickster used his magic tricks to rob banks, by flooding the buildings with red smoke, then his goons would race in and out with all the money, before anyone could even see them. This particular scheme stuck out to Romero, because his father, Dave Price, always screamed about money troubles. So, if Romero could rob a bank without getting caught like his hero Trickster (who was supposed to be the villain!), then Dave wouldn't need to pull out his "metal plated belt" that he used to hit both him and his mother, whenever any of them bought unnecessary things or spent their limited cash carelessly.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Ricky The Rat
Richard had a fear of Rats, ever since he was a little boy, those creepy, furry little monsters always terrified him. Yet, even as an adult, the mere sight of one, still put him on edge. He hated them worse than big, fat, black spiders with long legs that ran faster than the speed of light. Rats were more terrifying than a hungry crow, swooping down to peck out your eyeballs. Not even snakes or centipedes gave Richard the creeps like Rats did. Maybe it was their huge gnawing teeth, or the fact they lived in sewers. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Rats were the absolute worst in his eyes. Perhaps it was their red eyes and wormy tails. He didn't want to know why, only that they were gross and scary little critters full of disease. Any time Richard saw one in the parks or (god forbid!) his own back garden, the young man would hold back a scream, as his heart raced frantically, full of terror! So when Ricky The Rat began to haunt his every waking day, Richard didn't know if his fears were manifesting this horrifying hallucination or if the singing rat was actually real.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Horror
Lover's Scorn
Jack Davidson, 22 year old author from California, was found dead in London in the year of 2018. It at first appeared to be a drug overdose (as most young celebrities die from). However, when investigators looked into his death, it became apparent that he was actually poisoned! As grains of insecticide was mixed in with the cocaine he snorted the night before his death. Only he would have had access to this private stash of his, so it must have been someone close to him who could've done this. Detectives investigated Jack's personal life, as it turned out, the young author liked to sleep around a lot. So there were many women who came to his hotel room throughout the months he had been staying in London. A couple of close friends of his also stayed with him, so the suspect list was huge. Yet it was on the night of his death that CCTV spotted a young petite lady, break into his hotel room at 2am when Jack was asleep, before exiting discreetly at 2:30am. That morning he must have used his drugs and died not long after using. Considering this young lady was the last person seen leaving his hotel, Police had to figure out who this mysterious person was. As it turned out, she was spotted at Jack's book signing in London, meaning she was a fan of his that got a little too close as some other celebrities commented on the fact that Jack was dating a normal civilian, someone who wasn't famous. It didn't take long for them to discover this lady was named Elizabeth Shaw. Detectives tracked her down and took the lady into custody. It seemed the first mystery was solved, but finding out why a former fan of his would turn on him so brutally? Well, that was a story full of many twists and turns. They interrogated her and she revealed the horrifying truth.
By Joseph Roy Wrightabout a year ago in Fiction
