“What’s Inside” Goes Audio!

This is one of the most flattering things that has ever happened to me.

Last week I was approached by a voice actor interested in doing a reading of my short story, What’s Inside. I listened to one of his other recordings and signed on immediately.

It came out today and I am so excited to share it with you! Cody has his own voice, as does Mrs Chappel, and hearing the two of them together… I’m not gonna lie. I got goosebumps. (Or ‘goosey bumps’, as per one psychopathic little boy.)

So close your eyes. Settle in.

I think I hear someone screaming…


Check out Immunity Zero’s YouTube channel for this and other creepy stories, and watch for more collaborations between us in future!

Free Horror Story: Dump Room

Welcome new followers, I’m glad you’re here.

I’m reposting my free horror story, Dump Room, for those of you who haven’t read it yet. Let me know what you think!

This one’s silly and gross, and I had a blast writing it. Enjoy! -Stefanie


Dump Room

Melissa pried back the white plastic lid and tipped the bucket unceremoniously over a large sieve.

A hand flopped out and lay there in the plastic mesh, palm up, fingers curled.

She leaned over to get a better angle through her thick plastic mask. Female, looks like. Huh.

Once the hand had drained, she lifted the sieve and flipped it over into a lined container marked BIOHAZARD. The hand fell wetly on top of the sundry pieces already laying there; a gallbladder, a kidney, a tumour with the eye and lid still attached.

The mask she wore was chafing again. She scrunched her cheeks, trying to unstick the rubber gasket that was gouging a raw red ring into her skin. It wouldn’t budge, stuck slick against the sweat beading on her face. She sighed, the sound amplified oddly behind the industrial mask.

Better get a couple more done before break, she thought.

Sighing inwardly, she reached for the next bucket. The shelves were full this time; it would take her the rest of the day, easily, and maybe some of the next.

It hadn’t been her first choice, this job. It wouldn’t be anyone’s. But it was necessary.

An overtired supervisor had shown her to the dim room. It was cramped, tucked in behind the Pathology labs, and even through the door Melissa could smell the chemicals inside.

“This is the dump room,” the woman, Cheryl, had said. “Anything comes offa you or outta you, we keep it here in case someone decides they want to sue us. After six months, everything in here’s gotta be thrown out.” She’d swung the door wide and swept Melissa inside.

“Masks, here.” She pointed as she spoke. “Gowns, gloves, shoe covers. Buckets. If you can’t get them open, I can get you a pry tool, but I don’t like to use them. More chance of a splash.”

Melissa had hoped her grimace wasn’t obvious.

“Now, you need to know that these containers might hold anything. Breasts, feet, products of conception.” She’d looked at Melissa, her eyes softening a little. “That’s babies. Miscarriages, abortions. If you can’t deal with that we can find someone else.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Melissa said, her voice cheerful, wanting so badly to make a good impression. Anything to get a job here. Anything.

Cheryl had nodded curtly and slipped out, leaving Melissa alone with pieces of strangers.

That first time the job had been half done already; Cheryl said the intern before her had moved on suddenly. Melissa had made short work of the dumping, and had been given the dubious honour of “Disposal Attendant”. The job paid next to nothing, but her internship was unpaid altogether and she was nearing the end of her loan.

Now she peeled back the opaque plastic lid.

Weird, she thought, there’s nothing in this one.

She swirled the murky preservative around; still nothing surfaced. She shrugged and poured the liquid out in the dump sink beside the sieve.

An ear, badly burnt, plopped into the shiny steel sink. It lay there, shrivelled and raw.

“Gross,” she said to the empty room. She flexed one gloved hand and reached down to pick it up. Her fingers stopped just shy of the lobe; for a second she thought of what it might feel like and almost didn’t touch it at all.

She’d imagined hard brittleness, but what she felt when she plucked it from the sink was warm soft flesh.

Reflex made her fling it away; it stuck to the back wall of the sink and began, before her horrified eyes, to slide back down.

She gagged a little.

Finally it flipped end over end and came to rest again by the drain.

Melissa looked around for tongs, pliers, anything so she wouldn’t have to feel it’s warmth against her glove. She found a pencil lying along the back of the counter, but couldn’t bring herself to pierce the tissue.

Reluctantly, she extended her hand again. She exhaled, steeled herself, and scooped the offending organ up. She tossed it into the waste box, where it vanished down the side.

Melissa shuddered. Screw this. I’m taking my break.

She shucked her gown off and turned to hang it on the hook.

A sound, a very, very quiet sound, came from behind her.

She stopped, held her breath, waited.

It was muffled, but it was there. The crackle of shifting plastic.

She knew right away, but she turned to be sure: it was coming from the box on the floor. The big yellow one with all the…parts.

She moved closer, shoved the box with the toe of her sneaker.


Nothing. Stop being a dumbass.

She peeled the thick rubber gloves down and flung them onto the counter. The booties could wait—they were a pain in the ass anyway.

She nudged the lid into place with one denim-clad knee and turned to leave.


The lid had been on, firmly, before she took her gown off. Cheryl had stressed the importance of covering the…waste…as a personal safety precaution. Melissa had clamped the lid down, she was sure of it.

But then it had been open, just a little, tilted back on an angle.

You’re losing it. Get out of the fumes.

She turned


a long, slick piece of intestine coiled its way up her leg. Melissa shrieked and kicked, trying to dislodge the thing. It only snugged tighter, climbing higher until it reached her thigh. One end swung itself across her and wrapped around her other leg, rendering her immobile. The other end was still pinched in the lid of the hazard container.

She screamed then, the shrill sound dead against the insulating rows of plastic.

Her hands shook; her body shuddered. This isn’t happening.

She forced a quivering hand down and pulled at the ropey gore, but it was steadfast. And the lid was sliding back again…

Melissa tried to scissor her legs apart; to force enough slack to run.

A fingertip appeared. Two. The hand gripped the lip of the waste box and tensed, trying to pull itself over. Suddenly it fell, pushed by a blob of amorphous meat that splatted down beside it.

The intestine was squeezing harder, made stronger by the chemicals that preserved it. It was up to her stomach now. She gaped down in horror. Dark blue veins pulsed with hideous life. A wet trail of chemical fixative marked its ascent. The pockets in the intestine contracted and expanded, propelling it as it slithered up toward her chest.

Bits of gore rained down from the yellow bucket on the floor and began inching closer. The errant ear from earlier rode perched atop the gnarled hand, whose cracked and blackened nails clicked on the tile as it approached.

The hand reached her in seconds, it seemed, and began tugging on her pant leg. Its fingertips clenched the fabric, urging her back towards the spreading pool of excised tissue. The grisly stump at the wrist thumped against the floor as it pulled.

The intestines were almost at her neck now, cuddled into the hot pulse at her throat. The severed end reached up and lovingly stroked her face—

The door behind her swung open.

Instantly the undead tissue fell to the floor, harmless again.

Cheryl stood in the doorway, mouth open in shock as she surveyed the scene. Bits and pieces lay scattered around the floor. Melissa stood stiff at the centre of the carnage.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Cheryl demanded.

“It…they…attacked me!”

“They who?”

Melissa struggled to speak. The open end of intestine lying across her shoe burped, releasing a mouthful of fixative.

She ran, screaming, from the room. Cheryl watched her go with open disgust.

“They think they’ll handle it, but they never do.” She sighed, grabbed some gloves from her pocket, and set about cleaning the glistening mess.

Mr Buster’s Bodies: “4 Out of 5 Grilled Cheeses”

Haven’t read it yet? Click here.

My pal Leslie over at I Know I’m Not Normal Because… posted a review of my short horror story, Mr Buster’s Bodies, today.

“Mr. Buster, always “Mr” never “Jim” and never ever just “Buster” as the story will tell you, is an exceedingly well crafted character. His scheming and treachery will have you wrapped up in his twisted mind, start to finish.”

Continue reading at her new blog, then snoop around over there for a bit. She’s a funny girl.

It’s Our First Anniversary!

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One year ago I married my best friend.

We’ve been together for eleven years now, and we knew each other before that, in high school (ask C about how I stalked him). We did a lot of our growing up together, and we get each other. We often joke about how we can’t ever break up now, because we’re the same kind of weird, and we’re ruined for other people.

For example, not everyone would put up with this:

We first started dating when we were both 19. One day we decided to do some cutesy couple stuff together — this was still in the first few weeks, when everything GLITTERS and the very birds SING OF YOUR LOVE. We decided to buy colouring books and crayons. So cute! So quaint! His was Scooby Doo, I think, and let me take a moment to assure you it was the most manly of colouring books in the whole dollar store. Mine was some generic girly thing: unicorns and bunnies and…dolls.

We sat there for a while, colouring away. Looking back, he should have known something was up when I raised my book up on my knees and wouldn’t let him see it. He was busy colouring the Mystery Machine or something, while I…I had other plans.

The time comes that we decide to exchange pictures. (Adorable, right?)
He passes me his, and maybe it had a ghost or a cartoon monster, I don’t remember, but I do remember it was normal.

I began to have second thoughts. Now or never, I think, and I hand him what I had done.

The pretty little ragdoll now had green skin. She had red button eyes, and a bloodied swastika on her forehead, and I had written in my best crayon-held-in-clenched-fist style “I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVERRRR” across the top.

He said “Oh. That’s uh, interesting.” Then he took it with pinched finger and thumb and put it on the deck where it couldn’t touch him. But the fact that he stuck around, that I didn’t spook him, was pretty telling. I knew I’d landed a good one, a dude who can put up with my strangeness.

He stuck around, we fell in love, and last year we finally did the City Hall thing.
I honestly couldn’t be happier, and I’m incredibly lucky to have found such a great man.

Love you Dude. xoxoxo

FEED for Free! Round 2

Blood is thicker than water, and it’s my job to protect my little brother.
No matter what monstrous things he does.

What would you do for family?

If you haven’t read my short horror story, FEED, this is your chance! For the next three days FEED is free on Amazon. Click the pic to score the deal.

Tell your friends. Tell your neighbours. Tell your families (the ones that aren’t squeamish, anyway).

Turn the lights down and get ready. The pigs are hungry…

How It All Went Down

aka “The Twisted Ankle Tale”:

We had just gotten home from grocery shopping, which I hate hate hate to do (why can’t the food just, like, appear?) I was on my way to the soup drawer* to put away, well, soup, and Zoey, our ginormous female cat, got under my feet. I decided to gracefully sidestep her, thus sparing both of us any trauma whatsoever…it didn’t go like that. I stepped full on her (I still don’t know which part of her) and somehow came down wrong on my foot. Cue flashing lights and little cartoon birds. My husband, C, came to my aid but I was worried I’d broken the cat’s leg or something, so told him to go look after her.

She was cowering behind a chair in the kitchen, then came out growling and spitting and hissing. She ran into the living room and attacked our scaredy cat, Jade, who held her own surprisingly well. It was all National Geographic in there; claws and fangs and spiked black fur everywhere. C ran in there and pulled them apart. He was rewarded with nasty cuts all up his arms.

Then cat piss! Everywhere! Delightful! and both cats ran upstairs.

So Zoey is behind the chair in my office, making horrific noises, and I’m trying to lure her out as I’m bawling because I’m in pain and thinking I’ve caused her serious harm, and Jade is trying to come in the room and C is dripping blood everywhere.

Finally, after wet food and treats, Zoey comes out. She’s skittish all night, but otherwise fine. The cuts on C’s arms are not so bad once clean. Jade is her normal doofy self and seems relatively unfazed. I’m left with an ankle that throbs with my pulse and a huge goose-egg on my shin where a can of soup clonked me a good one.

Moral of the story: I am not a ballerina. And I need to watch where the fuck I’m going sometimes.

*I’m not sure how the soup drawer happened. It’s just a deep drawer full of cans of soup.

Short Sips, Featuring Yours Truly, is Available Now!

Short Sips just hit Amazon! I’ve been waiting ever so patiently for this one to be published.

Hah, not really. I’m not a patient person.

Anyway, this collection is the only place you’ll find my story, “If It’s an If”. It’s a little different than my usual; this one is more subtle, but just as chilling. It’s one of my favourites, not least because this was the story that got me started in publishing. Awww…

Writing Down the Nightmares

I’m pretty sure I’ve had a fever for the past few days, if my dreams have been any indication. I’ve dreamt of horrible, terrible things, things that honestly make even me feel a little uncomfortable.

I won’t be writing those stories.

But what I will take from them is the absolute, soul-shattering bleakness. I dreamt of terrors that threatened to follow me into waking, terrors from which there would be no escape. I think that’s the scariest idea of all: the idea of something that you can’t run away from, something that can follow you and find you no matter where you hide.

A number of new monsters were born of these last days’ nightmares, and once I’ve reigned them in I’ll invite you by for a tour of the freakshow. I’m sure I can manage to keep them chained in their cages.

For a while.

I’m sure you’ll be fine. Probably.