My name is E. A. Black, and I’m delighted to be here for Women In Horror Month. I have been writing short horror stories for several years. My horror has been appeared in Zippered Flesh 2: More Tales Of Body Enhancements Gone Bad, Teeming Terrors, Mirages: Tales From Authors Of The Macabre, Midnight Movie Creature Feature 2, and Wicked Tales: The Journal For The New England Horror Writers: Vol. 3. I shall soon work on a novel. In addition to writing horror, I write erotic fiction with the pseudonym Elizabeth Black.
You can find E.A. Black and her work in the following places:
Blog and Web Site: http://eablack-writer.blogspot.com
Amazon Author Page: http://amazon.com/author/eablack
INFECTION – TEEMING TERRORS
My story, Infection, which appears in Teeming Terrors, was inspired by my husband’s stay in the hospital due to an infection he had in his leg. The doctors are still not sure what caused it. Several nurses suspected a brown recluse bite. If you know anything about the brown recluse, those things are nasty. The wound was ugly, deep and full of puss. I joked with him that if he lanced it, spiders would come crawling out. I’d seen far too many horror movies. He had to return to the hospital at least once per week to get the thing scraped out and cleaned, which hurt like a son of a bitch. I got to see this the first time the doc dug into his leg. The doc shoved his metal scraper at least an inch into the wound. Gross. The pain was intense – so intense it brought tears of agony to my husband’s eyes. The doc feared MRSA and told my husband to keep it elevated and to stay off it, otherwise there was a good chance he could lose that leg. It took over a month, but the thing finally healed. He has an angry scar.
Here’s an excerpt from Infection:
The wound nurse prepared the injection and handed the syringe over to the doctor, who injected close to the wound’s opening. A high-pitched but faint buzzing droned around Mrs. Jones, as if it came directly from the wound but much like a cricket’s chirping it was hard to tell exactly where it came from. It sounded similar to air being let out of a balloon. The noise was shrill and angry, but so faint she thought she imagined it. Maybe it was an I.V. alarm going off down the hall. The nurses let those things beep forever, but somehow, Mrs. Jones doubted that was the case. That noise came from her husband’s wound, and it scared her.
“Did you hear that?” Mrs. Jones whispered.
The doctor looked up. “I’m not sure what that was. Let’s get the wound opened and cleaned out. Scalpel.” He said.
The nurse opened a small package to reveal a sterile scalpel, which she handed to the doctor. Mrs. Jones held her breath as the doctor’s steady hand approached the wound, which by now had turned a deep shade of rose with black edges and yellow pustules erupting on the surface. Mr. Jones gripped his t-shirt in his fists so hard his knuckles had blanched. Terror etched across his face. What the hell was wrong with his leg? Was it a brown recluse bite after all?
The doctor leaned over his leg and cut down the center of the boil. Blood gushed out, running down his leg and staining the bed linens. Creamy yellow pus filled the wound. As the doctor picked up the instrument to scrape out the infection, that shrill keening sounded again, coming directly from the opening he had cut.
Mrs. Jones backed away, closer to the bathroom.
The doctor inserted the instrument into the wound, and Mrs. Jones was shocked to see it disappear nearly an inch into his calf. When he scraped along the inside, Mr. Jones cried out in agony, but Mrs. Jones barely heard him. Hundreds if not thousands of tiny mites flew from the wound’s opening, covering the doctor’s white jacket so thickly it appeared to be crawling. They flew onto the nurse, who swatted at them, screaming and howling with surprise and terror. Mr. Jones screamed and crept up the bed towards the wall, but the mites surrounded him, flying in his face and against his arms and legs until they held fast.
Then they began to bite.
FOG OVER MONS – WICKED TALES: THE JOURNAL OF THE NEW ENGLAND HORROR WRITERS, VOL. 3
My story Fog Over Mons appears in Wicked Tales: The Journal Of The New England Horror Writers, Vol. 3. I’ve long been fascinated by World War 1 from the Christmas Armistice to the story of the Angels of Mons. Fog Over Mons is inspired by the Angels of Mons story, a touch of Lovecraft, and All Quiet On The Western Front. My husband is a history buff, and he helped me with the minute historic details such as the horrors of war at that time and uniforms such as German pickelhaub helmets. The result is my realistic tale of the Great War and cosmic horror.
Here is an excerpt from Fog Over Mons: