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FEATURE LENGTH
HOME TO ROOST
Glynnis Joffe
RUNNERS UP
Gloom - Hendrik Hemmer
The Devil’s Chalice - SherLann D. Moore
Wolfeboro - Duncan B. Putney
The Den - Markus Guy Siegele
Walker's Game - Luke Ollerton
THE KID
Scott McGovern
RUNNERS UP
Count To 10 - Stephane Carpentier
Self Tape - Harry McDonough
Dead Air - Aaron Huffty
Contortion - Beau Cyrano Meevis
Crowe – Brendan Byrne
GRUBER
Shane Liddell
RUNNERS UP
Skeeters - Chuck Parello
The Mutilated - Jim Connell
Ghostbusters: Meddling with Mayhem - Sylvester Fryson Jr.
Aqualand - Luke Hunter
The Tragedy of Beth - Collet Collins
PANDORA'S BOX
Ekmel Cicek
RUNNERS UP
Night of the Witch - Jesse James Hennessy
Marionette - James Abney
The Wheels on the Bus - Marc Harlan
Among Us - Arturo Portillo
Necrotica - Wesley Steven Drent
GHOST WALKS INTO A BAR
Martin Oehl
RUNNERS UP
High Stakes - Stuart Creque
Trapped AF - Sylvester Fryson Jr.
Texan Werewolf in Manhattan - Terrence Ross
The Red Zone - Terry Luke Podnar
Dead Space - Michael John Chase
SHORTS
REMOTE CONTROL
Dylan Arrowsmith
RUNNERS UP
Senior Prank - Lisa Marie King
Improper Dosage - Adam McDaniel
The Hollowing - Javier Manuel Stone
R.E.M. - John P. Martinez
All Else Follows- Abigail Grace Clark
CROSSEYED
Janet Fairbanks and Steph Wan
RUNNERS UP
The Babysitter Slasher - Aaron Mendoza
Crime Scene - Matthew J. Cresta
Highland Terror - Mark Higgins
An Office in the Gray’s Inn Road - Mick Sims
One Shot Deal - Solvan Knell
A DIFFERENT VERSION
Andy Holcomb
RUNNERS UP
The Uncounted Kill - Sterling Gates
Briefcase of Grievances - Paul Corricelli
Death Imminent - Kevin Hosey
Abandoned Land: The Puppet Master - John Connor Cook
Enid's Pet - Carlos Perez
MARTYRS
Michael Kitts
RUNNERS UP
Emancipation - Todd Ryan Jones
Bountiful - Phil Longden
Your Skin in Mine - Vanessa Sant'Anna
Prank - Dylan Russ
Capybara.EXE - Bruno Sereno
SWEETHEART
Leah Chase
RUNNERS UP
Five More Minutes - Ben Cessna
Good People - Bert Goldsmith
Zombie - Egon Blix
Project Infinite - Warren Lane
Wit's End - Barry Staff
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SCRATCHES
Jiahao Hou
RUNNERS UP
The Devil's Parish - Chad Alden Fehr
Zandaya - Curtis W. Harrison
Simulacrum - David Bayles
The Honor Killing - Guy Quigley
The Funhouse Slasher Vol. 1: Murder Camp -
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Greetings, fellow conjurers of chaos and lovers of the dark!
Another contest, another harvest of nightmares. Frights Camera Action has wrapped for 2025, and what a glorious, blood-streaked feast it was. Our judges waded through a swamp of stories that clawed at the mind, rattled the nerves, and whispered in that voice that makes you glance twice at the hallway mirror. This year’s entries proved once again that horror is less about the monster under the bed and more about the one we live with, feed, and sometimes fall in love with.
There were tales of survival and madness, of lonely hearts breaking under the weight of their own ghosts, and of worlds ending not with a bang but a terrified whisper. We saw desperate souls trapped by science gone wrong, soldiers haunted by memories that weren’t theirs, and ordinary people caught in the quiet horror of grief, addiction, or guilt. Some stories made us flinch, others made us laugh nervously — a few made us check the locks twice before bed.
As always, the level of imagination was staggering. These writers didn’t just play in the dark — they built whole neighbourhoods there. And when we talk about horror as a reflection of what it means to be human, these scripts reminded us that fear is just another way of saying we’re still alive. Now, with the screams safely bottled and the red pen finally capped, we present this contest's report — a celebration of the fearless minds who turned their nightmares into art.
Below, you'll find some info on the winners and the runners-up in each category, explaining why their entries stood out. Each entry was read by at least two of our horror judges.
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SHORTS
Best Screenplay went to Remote Control by first-time screenwriter Dylan Arrowsmith. A man discovers his life is being manipulated like a television show, each choice preordained by unseen hands. When he tries to break free, the screen flips, and reality becomes unrecognizable. ​Several exceptional scripts nearly took the crown. Improper Dosage, administered by Adam McDaniel, unfolds like a fever dream, weaving the sterile precision of medicine with the messy, ancient pull of ritual. Its slow build and tragic werewolf-cult revelation feel disturbingly earned, the horror landing somewhere between intimacy and infection. The Hollowing is all muscle and menace — a film you can feel in your teeth. It takes the vampire myth and drops it into a high-altitude nightmare of silence, blood, and wind. Javier Manuel Stone's writing’s tactile precision turns every sequence into a visual assault, cinematic in the best, cruelest way. John P. Martinez's R.E.M. plays like a waking dream — a domestic drama constantly fracturing to reveal something programmed, something murderous beneath. It’s the violence of routine that makes it sting: quiet breakfasts and coded assassinations sharing the same heartbeat. Abigail Grace Clark put two hours to very good use and the end result was the fantastic All Else Follows. Her short explores family, addiction, and apocalypse with a haunting logic. Told through confessional fragments and digital detritus, it gives body horror an emotional pulse. It’s grimly inventive, almost tender in its decay. Lisa Marie King's Senior Prank delivers chaos with precision. Revenge, hauntings, and adolescent cruelty converge into a narrative that feels clockwork in its escalation. By the end, it’s not just the ghost that’s unstoppable — it’s the story itself.
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Teamwork made the nightmare work for Janet Fairbanks and Steph Wan, whose screenplay Crosseyed picks up the award for Best Twist. Two strangers meet in a quiet town, each hiding a secret they can’t fully remember. The truth surfaces in a glance, and suddenly everyone’s perception of who is prey and who is predator shifts. ​These screenplays also caught us quite off guard. Aaron Mendozas wonderfully named The Babysitter Slasher starts like a familiar knife in the dark but pivots hard, revealing itself as a vintage film within a film. The meta-turn is elegant and nasty, reshaping the fear you thought you understood. Crime Scene tricks us with a procedural calm, only to pull the rug with a revelation so clean it hurts — the detective we trusted is the killer. It’s an old magic trick, done with new cruelty, and writer Matthew J. Cresta uses his real life experiences to make this short feel authentic. Highland Terror turns folklore into enterprise. The so-called monster of the hills isn’t supernatural at all but human — entrepreneurial in the worst way. It’s a horror that trades myth for meat and one which writer Mark Higgins can be extremely proud of, although the Scottish Tourism Board might disagree. Mick Sims's An Office in the Gray’s Inn Road gives us heartbreak, adultery, and grief — and then makes them literally haunt the guilty. The supernatural reveal feels inevitable, like punishment waiting patiently to be earned. Solvan Knell's impressive One Shot Deal twists revenge into bureaucracy. What seems like a ghost’s righteous fury turns out to be a demonic business arrangement. The moral decay is slow, contractual, and brilliantly sickening.
The year’s best villains weren’t always monsters. Some were merely human — which, as ever, made them worse. For Best Villain, we awarded A Different Version by Andy Holcomb. Reality bends around a figure who rewrites history with every step. Those caught in his orbit disappear, leaving only whispers of what they once were. The Uncounted Kill by Sterling Gates gives us Adley Weaver, a podcaster who uses credibility as a weapon. His voice is calm, his motive methodical, his vengeance disturbingly plausible. It’s horror by way of influencer culture, and it’s chilling. In Paul Corricelli's Briefcase of Grievances, Eli keeps a handwritten ledger of wrongs — each one repaid in blood. The arithmetic of his madness feels both tragic and mathematical, like a to-do list from hell. Kevin Hosey's Death Imminent introduces a demon with the charm of a jaded professor. He’s bored, eloquent, and utterly convinced we deserve what’s coming. His dialogue drips with weary contempt — a connoisseur of human failure. In Abandoned Land: The Puppet Master by John Connor Cook, Emmet Odyssey turns his victims into permanent exhibits in his “attraction.” He’s the kind of villain who can’t distinguish cruelty from showmanship, and that’s precisely what makes him unforgettable. Finally, Enid’s Pet offers a domestic nightmare where entrepreneurship meets cannibalism. Enid and Jason feed men to a sentient rug, as casually as others might vacuum it. Their indifference is the true horror in this great short by Carlos Perez.
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Death came in many forms this time — poetic, revolting, and sometimes downright funny in its cruelty. This is quite clearly the prize a lot of the screenplays seemed pointed towards but when it came to Most Messed Up Death, nothing quite compared to Martyrs by Michael Kitts. Survivors of an unspeakable tragedy discover the price of revenge is more than flesh and blood. Every act of justice becomes a ritual of horror. There were several others that refused to fade, starting with Todd Ryan Jones's Emancipation, in which an ex-slave owner’s end is both vengeance and ritual. The Hag’s attack is described in such merciless detail it feels biblical — justice written in torn flesh. Bountiful gives us ritual slaughter disguised as devotion. Jason’s death is ceremonial and obscene, carved with both reverence and disgust. It’s body horror at its most sacred, served up by Phil Longden. Your Skin in Mine lingers long after the page turns cold — jars of eyes, heaps of remains, a collector’s devotion to his art. It’s not just one death; it’s an ongoing exhibition curated by Vanessa Sant'Anna. Prank hits harder because Dylan Russ ensures it feels real — the found footage format makes every scream feel sourced from truth. The camera doesn’t flinch, and neither can we. And then there’s Capybara.EXE, which starts as internet absurdity and ends as pixelated annihilation. It’s weird, disgusting, and one of the most original deaths we’ve seen in a long time, so take a bow Bruno Sereno.
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The Best Dialogue category proved that dialogue isn’t just about talking — it’s about rhythm, tone, and the uneasy laughter that comes right before the screaming. The winner is Sweetheart by Leah Chase. Two lovers argue over a secret that simply shouldn’t exist. Every sentence cuts closer to the heart and you somehow end up rooting for both of them... impossibly. Pipped at the post was Five More Minutes by Ben Cessna, which introduces Evie the zombie, who refuses to obey horror’s rules. Her voice is deadpan, hilarious, and human — a walking critique of her own genre. In Bert Goldsmith's Good People, two killers on the road talk philosophy with the comfort of old friends. Their mantra — “No Motive, No Worries” — is so casually psychotic it feels like something you might overhear in a diner. Zombie delivers cruelty with surgical economy. The power dynamic shifts in every exchange, and each word lands like a bruise. We're not doing a prize for best name, but if we were, Egon Blix would be winning it hands down! Project Infinite finds wit and warmth in science-fiction horror, turning ethical debate into emotional combat. Major and Doc’s exchanges hum with tension and intellect - Warren Lane makes the dialogue dance. Finally, Wit's End weaponizes humour. Wally Ditson’s inappropriate jokes become a coping mechanism, a defense, and ultimately, a death rattle. It’s comic relief sharpened to a knife’s edge by Barry Staff.
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HONORABLE MENTIONS (SHORTS)
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And then there were twenty — the ones that didn’t quite claw their way into the top slots, but refused to be forgotten. These short screenplays represent a rare mix of brains, guts, and ingenuity, each twisting horror into something sharp and personal. Oh No You Don't by Ben Cessna turned the zombie genre into a family therapy session from hell, while Petals Of Grief (William O'Meara) peeled back trauma like rose petals, one memory at a time. Binding Covenants (Eddie Clay Thompkins III) played with time itself, letting the dead call from the future, and Dead Ed (Samantha Hospodar and Chris Ethridge) took children’s television and made it quietly monstrous. Nothing Like Blood (Ronald Lawson Ecker) redefined vampirism as therapy, and Frankie (Rachel Thomas-Medwid) gave us a girl who finds her power in the basement — and it bites back. Vanessa Sant'Anna gets a second mention with I.A.M., which married grief and technology in a nightmare simulation, while Fibro (Kurtis Lindsay) rooted its terror in the Australian bush, thick with corruption and decay. Leak (Amanda Jerido-Katz) followed a killer who bottles the essence of his victims, and Second Honeymoon (Ken Teutsch) reminded us that marriage can be murder in more ways than one. Luma Was Here (Russell James Redl) offered ritualistic transcendence through blood and memory, and Dark Waters (Christine Marie Bush) proved that the ocean is still the best place to lose your mind. Ryan O’Dell's Anthropophagy took dinner-table philosophy to its cannibalistic conclusion, while The World of the Infinitely Small by Craig Pickens shrank both space and sanity in one elegant stroke. Tide of Souls (Simone N. Johnson) turned PTSD into literal haunting, King Size (Paul Weidknecht) found rebellion in a Halloween prank, and The Magic King (John Norris Ray) blurred the line between illusion and execution. Kylos August Brannon's Coriaria went full leather-and-blood commerce, while Robert Michael Neumann's Change the World spun paranoia through politics and memory like a fever dream. Finally, Where She Belongs by Alan Cross proved that the quietest horrors — a doctor’s diagnosis, a single click of his bag — can echo the loudest.
FEATURE LENGTH
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The most coveted award of the contest, Best Screenplay, recognizes exceptional craftsmanship in story, character, and concept—scripts that feel ready to leap from the page to the screen. This year’s top prize goes to Glynnis Joffe for her amazingly creepy Home To Roost. Returning to the house he inherited, a man finds more than memories waiting for him. The walls themselves seem to pulse with old grudges, and the past has claws. Several finalists made this decision excruciatingly close. Hendrik Hemmer's Gloom is one of them: part fashion-world nightmare, part found footage fever dream. It’s stylish, surreal, and sinister — like The Neon Demon shot through a broken camcorder. SherLann D. Moore's The Devil’s Chalice takes eco-horror and makes it terrifyingly plausible, where mutations and cult conspiracies intertwine under a thin veil of religion and politics. It’s the kind of story you’d swear you read in a scientific journal — right before it eats you. Wolfeboro feels classic in the best way: a law officer discovering her family’s monstrous past in small-town America. The folklore is thick, the history feels lived in, and the dread builds slowly like fog. Great writing, Duncan B. Putney! The Den by Markus Guy Siegele offers noir through a lycanthropic lens — lawyers, bankers, and werewolves sharing the same Rolodex. It’s smart, smoky, and unsettlingly real. And Luke Ollerton's Walker’s Game reminds us that survival horror doesn’t need spectacle — just two people, one monster, and a reason to live that hurts too much to let go.
A great twist doesn’t just turn the story — it flips the reader’s stomach. The winner of Best Twist, The Kid by Scott McGovern, did exactly that. He showed up at dusk, barefoot, carrying a photo of people who hadn’t met him yet. By morning, he’d told them things only their dead children could have known. Creepy... as... f&k! Count to 10 by Stephane Carpentier presents a high-stakes killing game that turns in on itself when the supposed first victim, Sean, turns out to have been running the whole bloody circus. His final message — “I am number 10. The game is over.” — lands like a hammer blow, rewriting everything that came before. Self Tape toys with truth in the age of viral horror; actress Summer makes her rise to fame by staging terror, and when she admits the whole ordeal was scripted, it reframes the nightmare as a cynical, career-making stunt. Great work by Harry McDonough. Then there’s Aaron Huffty's Dead Air, where a live talk show interview turns deadly when the host realizes his guest’s shoes match those of the serial killer they’re discussing — a revelation so visual and sudden you can practically hear the gasps from the studio audience. Contortion gets psychological, suggesting that friendship and evil might share a mortgage; Beau Cyrano Meevis's script leaves us wondering whether success itself can be parasitic. And finally, Crowe by Brendan Byrne closes with that classic cinematic gut-punch: the villain, presumed dead, wakes up in the back of an ambulance, mask off, face ruined, and yet... no bullet wound. Horror, reborn mid-ride.
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A horror story lives or dies by the strength of its antagonist, and we had a whole host of unforgettable villains. The award goes to Gruber by Shane Liddell. You know a villain’s good when you start to dread their scenes for all the right reasons. A charming stranger moves into town, but his kindness masks a calculus of cruelty. Everyone who trusts him learns too late the shape of true evil. Skeeters, by Chuck Parello, gives us Drusilla Byers, a Southern Gothic nightmare who quotes scripture between snake-handlings and family threats. She’s part preacher, part Antichrist, and all venom. Jim Connell's The Mutilated turns capitalism into carnage with Winston Tanner, a man so convinced he’s the apex predator that he builds an empire on mutilation-as-tourism. He’s the kind of guy who’d franchise Hell if he could secure the trademarks. Then there’s Ghostbusters: Meddling with Mayhem — a wild, dimensional sprawl of madness from Sylvester Fryson Jr., where the Hollow Gazer devours fear itself and smashes cities like toys. It’s villainy on a mythic, world-eating scale. In Aqualand, Luke Hunter brings things down to a smaller, crueler canvas: a drowned child’s spirit, Miles, turns a waterpark into a torture chamber of boiling slides and guillotine rides, laughing while the teenagers scream. And The Tragedy of Beth by Collet Collins proves you don’t need monsters to get horror — just ambition. Beth, a student with Cambridge dreams, kills for academic glory in a scavenger hunt gone terminal. Her evil isn’t supernatural; it’s the kind that hides behind a smile and perfect grades.
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Most Messed Up Death celebrates the horror screenplays that made even our seasoned judges wince. Topping the list: Pandora's Box by Ekmel Cicek. Curiosity leads a group of friends to a forbidden artifact. Opening it doesn’t release hope, but a chain of deaths too grotesque to predict. A very imaginative screenplay! There were plenty more grisly deaths clawing for the crown. In Jesse James Hennessy's Night of the Witch, we're served up a grisly art installation: bodies arranged on a stage like props in some infernal cabaret, heads on drum sets, entrails swinging from the rafters. It’s obscene, but you can’t look away. In Marionette by James Abney, murder becomes sport, with rich sadists stabbing their victims for entertainment. The detail that sticks — and it will — is the killer’s gleeful aim, a stab to the most vulnerable spot imaginable. Written by Marc Harlan, The Wheels on the Bus traps its victims in a literal death trap of rattlesnakes, metal, and madness, with the villain’s axe coming down right as the audience flinches. Among Us crawls under your skin — literally. In Arturo Portillo's itch-inducing screenplay, a worm-like parasite grows and writhes inside a boy’s body, resisting surgery, turning anatomy into horror show. And Wesley Steven Drent's Necrotica ends on a satisfying note of monster punishment: a log trap, a pit of spikes, blunt force and impalement until even the demon starts wishing for mercy.
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​Great dialogue is more than just words. It’s tension, rhythm, and soul. Ghost Walks Into A Bar by Martin Oehl. A phantom and a bartender trade words sharper than knives. Every line drips with wit, menace, and the weight of unfinished business. In Stuart Creque's High Stakes, Mitch tears into vampire mythology with the kind of dry sarcasm horror rarely allows: “For a super race, you sure have a shitload of Achilles heels.” You can practically hear the grin. In his second mention, Sylvester Fryson Jr.'s Trapped AF plays meta with horror tropes — Tinesha’s joke about “luring a black man with a white woman” lands awkwardly, hilariously, and then even funnier when she tries to explain herself. Terrence Ross's Texan Werewolf in Manhattan goes deep, letting its characters philosophize about the myth of the beast — lust, tragedy, and that old question of whether every man has a monster in him. The Red Zone by Terry Luke Podnar delivers its punches with journalistic precision: “Good-hearted American boy… or narcissistic jock with an axe to grind?” It’s as sharp as a press release and twice as cruel. And in Michael John Chase's Dead Space, Isaac’s desperate yell — “It’s not Chen, shoot him!” — hits like a thunderclap of grief and survival. You don’t just read that line; you feel it echo.
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An opening scene is a handshake — but in horror, it’s the kind that leaves blood on your palm. Best Opening Scene goes to Scratches by Jiahao Hou. It started with three marks gouged into the plaster, too deep for fingernails, too deliberate for chance. When he followed them into the hallway, the house had grown a room that wasn’t there yesterday—and something inside it was still carving. The Devil’s Parish wastes no time: priests hang from rafters like puppets, all wearing the same face, while steam rises from an altar of raw meat. It’s sacrilege with style from Chad Alden Fehr. Zandaya, by Curtis W. Harrison, stretches across centuries, stitching together curses and bloodlines in a montage of burning houses, black eyes, and flickering shadows. The pace is relentless, the tone instantly epic. David Bayles's Simulacrum begins with philosophy, quoting Gide and Turing — and then explodes into chaos, gunfire shredding through ideals. It’s cerebral horror that quickly remembers to spill some guts. The Honor Killing opens small but deadly, with two characters hiding cobras in a closet. You don’t need much more than that to know someone’s doomed in Guy Quigley's screenplay. And in The Funhouse Slasher Vol. 1: Murder Camp, Gerard Malachy Prenter brings it home with pure, unapologetic horror movie energy: fog, a carnival, and a moan in the dark that says, “You’ve come to the right place.”
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HONORABLE MENTIONS (FEATURES)
The honorable mentions for this round feel like a guided tour through horror’s many mirrors—each reflecting a different anxiety, a different obsession, a different thing we’d rather not admit we fear. Dana Wall's The Hollow Beneath the Pines digs into the hunger of every artist who ever wanted to leave a mark, turning that ambition literal as a curator feeds desperate writers to an ancient entity that tattoos their unfinished stories across their skin. Live Feed (Vanessa Giles) skewers the reality TV machine with a zombie outbreak so absurd it becomes believable; the cameras keep rolling because fame always trumps decency. Normal Thoughts From a Strange Mind (L.S. Strange) plays like a true-crime episode gone wrong—its podcast host chasing the perfect scare only to become the final recording himself, while his producer edits morality out of the picture. El Chupacabra (by formidable writing duo Tony Grosz and Trevor Larson) rips through the swamp like a fever dream of chrome and blood, its street-racing sinners and monster mayhem colliding under the neon haze of the bayou. In Tenebris (by Brandon Young), ambition is a religion and failure a sacrament; a writer builds a church in his own name, dons an antlered helm, and is devoured by the god he invented. Joseph Payne's Carver is a love letter to slasher lore, sharp with meta banter and soaked in nostalgia—its characters as obsessed with pop culture as the killer stalking them. Death Doula by Lukas Hassel takes us into the embalmed heart of grief, where the dead are staged like art pieces and souls are caught like fish in a psychic net. St. Patrick's Day (Jonathan Thomas Mayor) brings chaos to Chicago, where the patron saint himself returns not with blessings but with fire, turning green beer red. Bitchlorette (Randi Krasny) locks us in a house full of toxic friends and asks who’s the real threat—the pills, the paranoia, or the people. Sanguis Septem (Caprice Castano) peers into an occult economy where women are blood offerings and husbands count the profit; horror as commerce, ritual as transaction. Bad Dreams (Timothy Pitoniak) wades into the swamp of fame-seeking delusion, where a failed writer hijacks other people’s dreams for recognition—darkly funny, disturbingly sad. The Eighth Witch (Mick Sims getting another mention) stretches its curse across centuries, tying modern deaths to old hangings and proving the past doesn’t stay buried when it’s been wronged. Against the Devil (Timothy John) follows a journalist too rational for her own good as she infiltrates a Satanic cult; the scariest part isn’t the ritual—it’s when she finally believes. Hickory Hill (Steve Abramson and Jay Bryant) exhumes a different kind of ghost, born of America’s oldest sins, where vengeance isn’t racial but human, and hate eats everyone in its path. The Hungering Stones (Rankin Fithian) is haunted archaeology—trauma fossilized in walls, centuries echoing through a castle that remembers too much. Keeping Up With the Joneses (Mike Voss) peels back the veneer of wealth to reveal a family so polished they’d kill for the right kind of scandal, their morality embalmed alongside their brand. O.P. Rock (Michael John Chase) traps soldiers in a hell of their own making, a desert haunted by a Djinn freed by ignorance and pride—war and myth bleeding into one another. The Calm Dark (Jacob Lane) whispers its horror instead of screaming it, a town of shadows and scapegoats where the monsters look suspiciously like the neighbors. Fade Out (James Abney) is filmmaking as self-immolation, where a director’s hunger for realism becomes literal and his twin turns fiction into carnage; art as both weapon and confession. And finally, Skin (William Wright) crawls through procedural horror at its coldest—a missing detective, a skinned face, a rare venom, and a system eager to forget both the victim and the man looking for him. Taken together, these scripts feel like dispatches from the modern nightmare—different voices, different fears, all tapping the same vein beneath the surface.
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​To everyone who submitted a screenplay this year: thank you. Your stories terrified us, surprised us, and moved us. Whether you made us squirm, laugh, or cry out for mercy, your voice matters. Keep writing. Keep sharpening your blades. Horror needs you.​
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Our next contest is open now and we hope to see you in it!
Stay spooky,
David York & The Contest Judges