Richard Schiver

Tag: horror fiction

  • Weekly Writing Challenge – I Am. 02/11/2026

    Weekly Writing Challenge – I Am. 02/11/2026

    The final segment:

    Brodie sat in a narrow chair built more for function than comfort. For reasons beyond his understanding Doctor Wilberman had asked him to stop by his office. He was sure it had something to do with the clone who had recently confronted him in the men’s room.

    “He didn’t say anything at all?” Doctor Wilberman asked as he worked to keep his pipe lit.

    “They can’t speak,” Brodie assured him, sticking to the proper narrative, it was safer that way, for him at least. He recognized the clone as the assistant manager of a co-op his grandfather used to take him to when he was a small child. Reminding him of a man who went missing when he was a teen. Several years before the restrictions on cloning were lifted.

    “True,” Doctor Wilberman said as he exhaled a cloud of smoke and flipped through the file lying open on his desk. “There are some who believe a bit of the past remains with the cells we use to create these clones. Are you sure he didn’t say anything?” Doctor Wilberman said as he continued flipping through the pages of the report, “according to the foreman’s report the clone in question tried to speak to him in the mess hall.”

    Brodie shrugged, his fingers working along the edge of his hat, hidden below the lip of the doctor’s desk. It wouldn’t do for them to see how nervous he was. While cloning was now legal, it hadn’t always been that way, and he remembered a time when several of the larger corporate farms operated outside the law in that regard.

    “He didn’t say a word sir, he tried to, but nothing came out.”

    “You’re certain?”

    “Absolutely.”

    “Did you recognize him?”

    “Why would I recognize him? Aren’t all the clones taken from the same cell source?”

    “They are, but every so often a mutation occurs, such as it did here.”

    “If you say so sir, you know more about this stuff than I do.”

    “Very well then,” Doctor Wilberman said as he closed the file, “if there’s anything else I need to ask I’ll be in touch.”

    “Can I go now?” Brodie said as he moved to get up, he couldn’t wait to get out from under the doctor’s scrutiny. If he did admit to recognizing this particular batch of clones what would happen to him?

    “You’re free to go,” the doctor said and Brodie got out of the office as fast as he could. He was halfway across the compound when he saw the latest batch coming in from the fields. Each one of them reminded him of that manager who had gone missing nearly thirty years before and he wondered how he was going to keep his mouth shut while working around them every day. On the other hand who could he say anything to? Cloning was now legal, and while it might have been safe to reveal what he knew, there were no absolutes. He’d felt a connection with the clone, a recognition of his plight, and as he watched them moved across the compound he worried another one might try to make contact with him.

    This completes the story I AM. Join me next week when I begin a new short story. I’ve been itching to go a lot darker than the past stories so we’ll have to wait and see what I come up with. The letter will be J, and that opens up so many possibilities.

  • A conversation with myself.

    A conversation with myself.

    This week I speak with Meat, the main character in This Lawless Land, a six book post-apocalyptic series. The first book, All Roads Lead to Terror will be updated next week.

    1. Can you describe what motivates you to keep going in such a harsh, post-apocalyptic world?

    I guess what keeps me moving is the hope that things can get better, even if it’s just for a little while. I’ve seen too much loss to believe in miracles, but I can’t just sit back and let the world swallow up the people I care about. Maybe it’s stubbornness, or maybe it’s just wanting to prove I’m more than what my name says I am. I want to help others survive, especially the kids who got taken. If we don’t look out for each other, who will?

    2. How did your upbringing shape the person you are now?

    My childhood was a mess—always running, never safe, never really wanted. My mom called me Meat because, to her, that’s all I was. I grew up with survivors, not family, and learned early that you can’t count on anyone but yourself. But I also learned that sometimes, you must step up for others, even if it hurts. That’s what makes you more than just Meat to the world.

    3. What does leadership mean to you, especially when you’re leading other kids?

    Leadership isn’t about being the loudest or the strongest. It’s about making hard choices and carrying the weight when things go wrong. I never asked to be in charge, but people look to me because I’ve survived outside the fence. I try to keep everyone together, even when I’m scared or unsure. Sometimes, all you can do is keep moving forward and hope your choices don’t get someone killed.

    4. How do you handle fear, both your own and that of your friends?

    Fear never really goes away. I feel it every day, especially when I think about what could happen to the people I care about. I try not to show it, because if I fall apart, so does everyone else. I focus on what needs to be done. Tracking, fighting, surviving. If I let fear take over, we’re all dead. So, I push it down and keep going.

    5. What do you think about the rules at Bremo Bluff, especially the ones about outsiders and survivors?

    The rules at the Bluffs are harsh, but I get why they exist. If word got out about what we have—electricity, water, safety. Everyone would want in, and we’d be overrun. Still, it doesn’t sit right with me that people who know about us can’t ever leave. It’s like a prison, even if it’s for our own good. Sometimes I wonder if we’re really any better than the people we’re afraid of.

    6. How do you deal with loss, especially after everything you’ve seen and done?

    Loss is just part of life now. I’ve lost friends, family, even people I barely knew. It hurts every time, but you can’t let it break you. I try to remember the good things, the small moments of hope or laughter. But I also use that pain to keep me sharp. If I forget what I’ve lost, I might get careless, and that’s when people die.

    7. What do you think about hope? Is it a weakness or a strength?

    Hope is the only thing that keeps us going. Without it, we’d just give up and let the world win. It’s not weakness to hope for something better, even if it’s just a hot meal or a safe place to sleep. Hope is what makes us human. It’s what separates us from the monsters, both the dead and the living.

    8. How do you view the adults who survived the awakening compared to your own generation?

    Most of the adults are broken by what happened. They remember the world before, and that makes it harder for them to adapt. My generation, we never really knew anything else. We grew up in the ruins, learned to fight and survive from the start. Maybe that makes us harder, or maybe just more desperate. Either way, we’re the future, for better or worse.

    9. What’s the hardest decision you’ve had to make so far?

    Letting go of the idea that we could save everyone. Sometimes, you must make choices that haunt you. Like leaving someone behind or doing what needs to be done to protect the group. The hardest was probably agreeing to the council’s rule that there could be no survivors among the kidnappers. It made me question if we were still the good guys.

    10. If you could change one thing about your world, what would it be?

    I’d bring back a sense of safety, even if just for a day. A world where kids could play without looking over their shoulders, where families didn’t have to choose between survival and their humanity. I’d want a world where names mean something, where you’re more than just a walking bag of meat to the people around you.

    In the coming months you will have the opportunity to follow Meat’s story as the series is released in its entirety. I’m nearly done with the final book and have hired a good cover designer to help me bring these stories to life.

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 02/04/2026 I Am.

    Weekly Writing Challenge 02/04/2026 I Am.

    Gus backed away from the three men, then turned and fled towards the only building that had any color in his featureless world.

    “He’s got a gun, get him.” He heard the shouts behind him as he fled across the open ground. A farmhand appeared at the door before him, his relaxed features giving way to sudden surprise when he found himself staring down the muzzle of the pistol as Gus pushed past him into the interior of the building.

    He stopped just inside the door, his wavy reflection stretched out at his feet in the surface of the highly polished floor. A door stood to his right and as approaching footsteps came from around the bend in the hallway before him, trapped between them and the pounding footsteps that were fast approaching behind him, he slipped into the room.

    Beyond the door, on his right, stood a row of stalls. Gray walls wrapped around toilets to afford the user a degree of privacy. Opposite the stalls was a row of white porcelain sinks and above each was a mirror.

    Gus was drawn to the mirror, having never seen himself as much as he could recall, the sound of movement in one of the stalls interrupted him and he spun around with the pistol leveled at the door as a farmhand emerged from within the stall. It was the one he recognized as Brodie and he stepped towards him. His hands spread in a questioning manner as Brodie backed away.

    Gus grunted, unable to make any other sound, his hand once more going to the puckered wound on his neck, he could feel the stitches with his fingers.

    “Don’t hurt me, please,” Brodie said as he backed away.

    From the corner of his eye Gus caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror to his right as Brodie backed towards the door. It drew him like a moth to a flame and with Brodie forgotten he spun around to look at himself in the mirror. What he saw gazing back at him was the same face he’d seen upon his arrival.

    Short sandy hair crowning a face that formed a near perfect circle with wide spaced eyes, and a pug nose above a thin mouth.

    No!

    It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible, he wasn’t one of them. He had a wife, kids, a home. He had been the assistant manager of a farmers co-op. His finger went to his throat, he fel that puckered wound, the stitches protruding from his flesh. But when he looked in the mirror all he saw was the unblemished skin of his neck.

    No!

    A commotion at the door drew his attention and he turned to confront several farmhands pushing their way through the door with weapons aimed in his direction. He lifted the pistol and aimed the shaking muzzle at them. Bullets ripped through tender flesh, spinning him around and he fell face first towards the floor, his last thoughts clinging to the notion that it had all been a terrible mistake.

    To be continued!

  • A Conversation with Myself

    A Conversation with Myself

    An interview with Sheriff Paul Odenton.

    Sheriff Paul Odenton appeared as a supporting character in Cursed, which I realize now I should have titled. The Curse of Porter Mines.

    1. Sheriff Odenton, you’ve served your community for decades. What first inspired you to pursue a career in law enforcement, and how has your perspective on the job changed over the years?

    When I was a young man, I believed in the idea of justice, of right and wrong being clear as day. My father always said someone had to stand up and do the hard things, and I suppose I took that to heart. Over the years, though, I’ve learned that the world isn’t so black and white. There’s a lot of gray and sometimes doing the right thing means making choices that haunt you long after the paperwork’s filed.

    2. The disappearances of children in Porter Mines have haunted your career. How do you cope with the emotional toll of unsolved cases, especially those involving the most vulnerable members of your community?

    You never really cope, not fully. Those faces stay with you. You see them in your dreams, and you hear their parents’ voices every time the phone rings. I try to remind myself that I did everything I could, but the truth is, you always wonder if you missed something. I lean on my wife, Maggie, and the folks I trust. Sometimes, all you can do is keep going and hope you make a difference the next time.

    3. Throughout the investigation, you’re confronted with both rational explanations and local legends, such as the Witch of Porter Mines. How do you balance skepticism with the need to respect the fears and beliefs of the townspeople?

    I was trained to look for evidence, to trust what I can see and prove. But in a place like Porter Mines, legends are as real as the ground we walk on. Folks need something to explain the unexplainable. I try to respect that, even if I don’t always believe it myself. Sometimes, listening to their fears is as important as chasing down leads.

    4. The events in Porter Mines often put you at odds with political pressures and public scrutiny. How do you maintain your integrity and focus on justice when facing criticism from both the community and local government?

    It’s not easy. There’s always someone looking over your shoulder, second-guessing your decisions. I remind myself why I took this job in the first place, to protect people, not to win popularity contests. I do my best to be honest, even when the truth is ugly, and I try to treat everyone fairly, no matter who’s watching.

    5. In your view, what role does the past, both personal and communal, play in shaping the present dangers and fears in Porter Mines?

    The past never really leaves us. In Porter Mines, old wounds fester, and stories get passed down like family heirlooms. Sometimes, the things we don’t talk about, like secrets and regrets are what hurt us most. I’ve seen how history repeats itself when we don’t face it head-on. That’s true for families, and it’s true for towns.

    6. You’ve witnessed the impact of trauma on families, including your own. What advice would you give to others in law enforcement about supporting victims and their loved ones through tragedy?

    Listen. Don’t just go through the motions, really listen. People need to know you care that you’re not just another badge. Be patient, and don’t make promises you can’t keep. Sometimes, all you can offer is your presence and your willingness to help them carry the weight, even if only for a little while.

    7. Now that the case has reached its conclusion, what lessons do you hope the community, and perhaps future generations of law enforcement, will take from your experiences in Porter Mines?

    I hope folks remember that evil isn’t always a stranger in the night, it can be the things we ignore, the pain we bury, or the anger we allow to fester. For those who come after me, I’d say. Never stop asking questions, never stop caring, and never forget that every case is someone’s whole world. Sometimes, the only thing standing between hope and despair is the person willing to keep searching for the truth.

    Sheriff Odenton is a persistent old man who continues to show up in various other places in my work. He briefly appeared in Parasite, part two of my Shadows of the Past trilogy, and in my works in progress, Bitter Hollow, The Bad Place, and will take the stage again in The Gathering when I get around to writing it. Which will be the last chapter in a trilogy of books that started with Cursed.

    Cursed

    Click on the cover to purchase.

    After the loss of her husband, Susan sought a safe place to rebuild a life for herself and her six-year-old daughter, Christine. Quaint and picturesque, Porter Mines seemed ideal, but Susan soon learns appearances can be deceiving. 

    Like many small towns, the history of Porter Mines was woven in a tapestry of dark secrets. One centered on a witch, who vowed with her dying breath to claim vengeance against those who wronged her. A ghost story rooted in grisly truth. 

    Can Susan protect Christine from a wrath even death couldn’t tame?

    Or will her only child fall prey to the curse of Porter Mines?

  • Weekly Writing Challenge 01/28/2026 – I Am

    Weekly Writing Challenge 01/28/2026 – I Am

    They’ll be coming soon, they’ll let me out soon. The two thoughts chased one another through his mind as the night gave way to dawn and the sounds of a new day filled the compound.

    “What about the one in the box?” One of the farmhands shouted from somewhere nearby.

    “Leave him, he hasn’t learned his lesson yet.” Came the answer that sent the first waves of panic washing through his body. They weren’t coming to open the box anytime soon, not before he learned his lesson.

    What lesson?

    He hadn’t done anything and he fought to quell the panic that threatened to turn him into a raving lunatic that would batter its flesh against unyielding steel in a mindless foray into madness.

    It won’t be much longer. He tried to convince himself but that need to stretch his legs grew with every passing moment. The steel around him became warm as the suns rays broke across the horizon. Spilling through the countryside like a river unleashed from it restraints. Running wildly as it cast long shadows for the remnants of the night to seek shelter in.

    He focused on keeping himself calm, a nerve-jangling panic thrumming just beneath the surface of his consciousness as he pressed the palms of his hands against the warming steel that was mere inches from his face.

    It won’t be much longer.

    His leg jerked spasmodically, driving his knee against the lid of his prison, coffin, and pain washed up his leg as panic and rage swelled within him. He screamed as he beat against the lid of his prison, soft flesh turning to mush against the unyielding steel as flecks of blood rained down upon his face. He thrashed back and forth, bouncing his head from unforgiving steel, his screams filling the confined space, ringing in his ears as he pummeled the lid.

    He didn’t know how long he had been screaming before the lid was lifted, he was only dimly aware of the cold gray steel replaced by a featureless blue sky. Rough hands reached into the box and pulled him to his feet, standing him next to the box where he collapsed onto the ground.

    “On your feet boy,” that familiar voice shouted and he struggled to stand as gloved hands held him steady. He was whimpering in his throat as he gazed about the compound. The featureless gray buildings that surrounded him represented his future. Endless days beneath a relentless sun and the stinging whip of the overseer. Bent to his task until he could no longer stand up straight. Scrabbling through the remainder of his short life like a deformed crab performing tricks for its master for small scraps to sustain itself.

    No!

    He looked down, catching a glimpse of a well-worn handle, the butt of a pistol sticking out of its holster on the overseer’s hip. Before reason could stop him, he reached out and snatched the pistol from the holster. He fumbled with it in his hand, not sure how to use it, relying more on instinct as he wrapped one hand around the handle and pointed the muzzle at the three farmhands who had come to take him from the box.

    “Let’s get him back to the…” the man in charge began, the rest of his sentence dying as he turned to find the muzzle of the pistol aimed at his face.

    To be continued!