Violet Archer Horror

You Have My Heart

Tori and Bill met in college, at a party that Bill had organized in an empty field at the edge of town. Both from broken homes they had, as the saying goes, found each other in a wicked world. And while their attraction was intense and their love profound, they were not able to piece together the fragments of their damaged lives.

A tormented relationship followed–so toxic to both and yet… irresistible. Drunken fights had often lead to violence, but on this particular night in July, a friend had told Bill that Tori was having an affair. A charge she vehemently denied.

Bill, betrayed and ravaged by jealously, confronted Tori with the allegations. Their arguing raged until Tori could take no more. She asked Bill to take her home and, when he dropped her off she told him she never wanted to see him again.

That night, Bill went home and, after saying good night to his flatmate, he quietly climbed down his fire escape and walked across town to Tori’s home. The night was hot and she had left her window open.

Bill climbed in and shot Tori in the head, leaving the gun in her hand so it looked like a suicide. Bill was out of his window and back in his own room by the time her neighbors had found the body.

Tori was an organ donor and her heart went to a local girl who had contracted a fatal heart disease. It was eight months of recovery before Susan was well enough to enjoy her new heart.

She started to wonder where it had come from. Hospitals don’t encourage contact with victim’s families, but when Bill reached out to her, she was more than happy to meet him. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was in the hopes that it would help to ease his loss.

When Susan met Bill, she felt like she had known him her whole life. Rather than the awkward and emotional exchange she was expecting, the two fell into easy conversation and talked for hours.

Bill told her about Tori and she told him about her illness and about all the things she was going to do with her life now that she had a new heart. They talked into the early hours of the morning and left each other with a commitment to meet again the next night.

One date turned into three and on their fourth date, Susan went home with Bill. She woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of her own screaming. She was standing over Bill, a gun in her hand, his brains all over the bed. She had no idea what had happened.


Do you have a scary story of your own? Send it to me at and I’ll be happy to share it on the blog. 

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Learning To Count

My wife and I waited three years before we got to adopt. The process was harrowing, but we wanted to give a loving home to a child that really needed one.

Nikita was two when her father stabbed her mother in a drunken rage.

52 Stab wounds in all.

It wasn’t the first time he had become violent after a bender, but it would be his last. Nikita had been in the house at the time of her mother’s death, but no one knew if she had witnessed it. They found her hiding in the bathtub, with the door locked.

It took her such a long time to settle in. My wife worked tirelessly to coax her out of her shell. She was terrified of everything at first and would shrink from our touch. We never gave up. We showered her with love and affection and made sure that one of us was always with her.

It’s taken almost a year, but she trusts us now. She will hug us and hold our hand and she doesn’t wake screaming from the nightmares any more.

Perhaps it was the trauma, or perhaps it was neglect, but Nikita’s development had been slow. She was slow to talk and couldn’t communicate as well as other kids her age.

For the last two weeks, we’ve been focusing on counting. We count everything; “One, two, three peas on your fork!

Let’s put one, two feet in your shoes.

How many teddies are on the bed?”

We were making progress.

We were at a picnic in the park and talking to some of the other parents about Nikita’s counting when she emerged from the hedge.

One of the other mothers bent down and smiled: “How old are you Nikita?” she asked.

Nikita smiled and held up three fingers.

Now it’s eight o’ clock at night and we’ve been at the precinct for hours, but she still won’t tell us where she got those fingers.

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Daddy Dearest

It’s another grey November morning. The sun is struggling, unsuccessfully, to shoulder its way through a thick bank of cloud while a dull fog drains the colors from the landscape outside my window. I reach over to my husband’s side of the bed, but it’s empty and cold.

What time is it? 8:30? I smile. He’s gotten up and taken care of the baby so I can sleep in.

I turn up the volume on the baby monitor and sure enough, I can hear him whispering to our little princess. “Shhh,” he says. “You go back to sleep. We don’t want to wake mommy do we?”

The baby monitor is an old one I got second hand at the thrift store. It’s crackling and unclear, so I turn down the volume again and snuggle back into the duvet. Just ten more minutes.

I haven’t had a sleep in since our baby was born in July and this is a rare pleasure.

I slowly drift off to sleep. I awake with a start–my phone is ringing.

I fumble for it on the night stand and jam on the green phone button, still half asleep.

“Honey?” It’s my husband.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I’ve just finished at the gym and I was on my way home. Do you need anything?” He asks.

“What do you mean?!” I whisper. “You’re in the baby’s room.”

“No I’m not. I’ve been at the gym all morning. I started with my personal trainer today… did you forget?”

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Clowning Around

The second installment of our ‘frightful fable’ series is something that is inspired by all the clown sightings. I do find clowns really scary and this quick read isn’t for the faint hearted! You have been warned…

Clowning Around

After a sleepover at a friend’s house, the kids started saying that they were scared of the clown that lived in their room. Of course we don’t have any clowns in the house as my wife finds them creepy. At first we thought that they were just making things up, but after the second day, we started getting annoyed.

You see, the friend that they had had a sleepover with isn’t always the best influence and we became convinced that they had watched a scary movie while they were there. On the third night they refused to sleep in their own beds and cried until we let them sleep in ours.

On the fourth night, we insisted they return to their rooms, but they were terrified and took hours to get to sleep while we were made to look behind doors, under beds and in closets to prove that there was no clown to be found. Still, they woke up screaming in the night and there was no sleep for anyone.

And now it’s Saturday afternoon and the kids and my wife, exhausted from their nightmares, are napping. And there he is; leaning his forehead against the window. His eyes are yellow and bloodshot and the white makeup on his face is cracked and flaking.

His red mouth is more of a gash than a smile and a single black tear is painted on his cheek.

We stare at each other for a while before he turns and walks into the house while I’m out here, watering the garden.

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The Good Sister

Here’s a little frightful fable I wrote just for you. If you like scary stories, then this little horror will help keep you awake at nights. Enjoy…

My sister Sarah has been sent away again. I hate it when she goes away. And every time she comes back she stays for shorter periods of time. The doctors always say she is perfectly fine, but mom and dad say that she is just very clever and an expert manipulator.

Still they feel guilty and so they always take her back when the doctors release her with a clean bill of mental health. I think it helps that I cry and beg them to let her stay with us for a while. I tell them that I miss my sister and that they are mean and heartless to keep us apart.

They always say no at first. But then they start to break down. I can see the guilt written on their faces. They can’t help but feel like terrible parents who don’t want their little girl to come home. Sooner or later, they always give in and agree to have Sarah back again.

Of course, when she returns, they tell her this is the last time. That if it happens again they won’t let her out. That they will lock her up forever.

She cries and promises that she will be a good girl. But it never lasts.

Before long, the neighborhood cats start going missing and they turn up in her toy trunk. Their blood smeared on their owners walls in a kind of gruesome graffiti.

And mom and dad get very, very scared.

And then she goes back and they lock her up again.

I hate it when she goes away because I’m lonely and I miss her. I have no one to play with.

But most of all, I hate it when she goes away, because then I have to pretend to be good until she returns.

Things that Go Bump in the Night…

I just moved into a house that was built in 1857. My last apartment was a gorgeous studio above an antique furniture shop. It was built in 1862 and had been the undertaker’s for about a hundred years.

It was this somber fact that had encouraged me to take it in the first place. The real estate agent looked at me quizzically when I squealed in delight at this news; he had been sure it would put me off.

I lived in that apartment for two years and didn’t see a single ghost. No rattling of chains or unexplained footsteps in the night. It was a great disappointment.

But this house is different.

As I am writing this I can hear the floorboards upstairs creeping even though my dog is sleeping at my feet and we are the only two (living) entities in the house.

I’m not the only ‘ghost’ writer in town. This weird little neighbourhood sports two other horror writers on my street alone. Perhaps there is a reason we are all drawn here.

For Halloween, we wrote a collection of novellas, one of which was written by the brilliant Mason Graves. In it a couple are warned to get out of their house by scratchings on the walls. “Leave this place” these warning said. But of course to no avail.

No sooner had our stories been published than my builder broke a hole in the wall of an upstairs bedroom to find a plumbing pipe. This was what he found instead…

Violet Archer

What do you think it means?