r/ExtremeHorrorLit

Made this a while back to respond to a post, now I'm releasing it to the wild.

Thought I'd post the godless top 10 for this week. Oscar Brady's Pigman is still number 1. I need to grab that and read it. Not much has changed really, surprisingly my own Bowery Reprocessed is still on the list, I'm pretty proud of that! Grab some godless books, support indie horror!

i went for a walk through the mall today and located this at indigo; first time ive spotted extreme horror in canada like this. i usually shop at a specialty horror bookshop. is this becoming more common now? are you guys seeing more of these in stores?

Newest Haul, I have some catching up to do! Everything is horror related except for “Ready Player One” 👏🏼

Hidden gem alert. Go in blind. Bleak, brutal, and deeply unsettling.

i love showing off my new books lol! i finished urban gothic and will be reading offspring next !!!

The Butcher's Communion is about a serial killer with DID and almost every chapter is a different style of writing to represent a different version of himself at times his alters will glitch hence the glitch stuff in some of the texts it represents his mind becoming fragmented and it also represents his frail mental state. This was an extremely experimental novel I wrote and it’s 100 chapters long.

Chapter 1: The Broken Mirror

Does the maggot not possess a divine mandate to claim the fallen fruit?

I pose this query to the yawning, indifferent void, though I expect no answer save for the wet, rhythmic slap of a Polaroid settling against the pallid expanse of my thigh. It is a cold kiss from a dead lover, a lingering touch from a ghost that refuses to vacate the premises of my consciousness. You, reading this from the sanitized comfort of your curated morality, likely find this morbid. How quaint. Your comfort is a fragile lie, a sedative administered by a government that views your very existence as a taxable resource and your empathy as a decorative accessory.

I awoke to the glacial bite of porcelain against my spine, the bathtub enamel—once as pristine as a saint’s shroud—having long since surrendered to a slow, insidious bloom of rust. This creeping oxidation is a fitting mirror to the necrotic rot within my own marrow; it is a chemical betrayal of the structure. My fingers, trembling with a precision that borders on the surgical, trace the raised topography of the scars upon my thighs. Each welt is a tributary feeding into a greater river of ruin, relics of a penance I carved into my own flesh to sate a god who had long since ceased to listen, or perhaps a god who was simply replaced by the sterile bureaucracy of a state-funded clinic. 

In this great democratic experiment, the capacity to feel the agony of another is diagnosed as a pathology to be excised. I remember the clinical gaze—the way the psychiatrists looked through me, reducing my shattered psyche to a series of checkboxes on a clipboard. They did not seek to heal; they sought to manage. I was processed, heavily medicated into a humming, compliant silence, and eventually discarded like a piece of malfunctioning machinery when the cost of my maintenance outweighed the utility of my obedience. I am the perfect victim of an underfunded apparatus, a masterpiece of institutional neglect.

The photograph floating beside my knee is a study in grotesque alchemy. The face within is rendered as a collision between high art and a coroner's autopsy. His lips are parted in a silent, eternal scream that vibrates against the suffocating stillness of the room. The water has softened the edges of the image, lending it a dreamlike quality, yet the precision of the violence remains crystalline. The surgical incision along the jawline is a triumph of geometric cruelty; the way the left eyelid droops with a weary, cosmic exhaustion speaks of a fatigue that transcends the physical. I smile, and the expression feels like a fissure in a tomb, a crack through which the ghosts of a thousand failed social policies might finally escape to choke the world.

The bathroom mirror is occluded by the damp heat of earlier exertions—the frantic, rhythmic labor of the blade and the basin, a private industry of pain. I avoid the glass, for the man dwelling behind the silvered surface is a stranger. He is a phantom of the gentle soul I once was before the world decided my sensitivity was a symptom. My beard, streaked with gray and stained with a viscous, copper-scented slurry, clings to my jaw like moss to a sunken ruin. The air is a heavy tapestry woven from lye and the cloying perfume of decay—a bouquet of the abyss that stirs a primal, hungry void in the pit of my stomach.

Outside, the Alaskan wind howls through the eaves, a sound like a wounded beast dragging its broken carcass across a frozen tundra. I sought this wasteland for its absolute isolation, for the way the winter nights stretch into a suffocating eternity, swallowing sound, sanity, and the memory of light. Here, there are no prying eyes of the state to judge the blasphemy, no insurance-mandated therapists to tell me that my rage is merely a chemical imbalance.

The Polaroid drifts closer, nudging me with the persistence of a dying empire. I pluck it from the brackish water and hold it aloft. The face—his face—stares back, accusatory. I had known him in a life where the sun actually warmed the skin, back when we believed the law was a shield rather than a weapon used to prune the outliers of humanity. He had been a man of profound empathy, a tender soul who felt the world's agony as his own. That was his fatal flaw; it is precisely why the system broke him first. He was a mirror of my own ruined grace.

The memory of our shared heat returns, unbidden and violent. I recall our bodies entwined in a desperate, blood-slicked hunger, a lust that defied the sterile mandates of a world that fears the intensity of two broken men loving in the dark. The build-up had been agonizing—hours of tactile torture, the tension stretching like a wire until it snapped into a frantic, animalistic collision of flesh and desperation. I remember the wet, sliding friction of our skin, the way his breath hitched in a sob of surrender. 

But in this house of ruins, love is merely the seasoning for hate. The sex was but a prelude to the slaughter. I recall the methodical dismantling of his dignity, the slow, deliberate exploration of the architecture of his screams. I remember the way I entered him not with love, but with a predatory intent to possess the very essence of his suffering. I watched the light vanish from his eyes as I peeled back the layers of his being, turning his body into a canvas of philological nihilism. I carved the homophobia and the religious shame out of his chest with a rusted scalpel, leaving a gaping void where the government's expectations used to reside. I took every part of him that society had tried to shame and I made it permanent, a visceral monument to queer rage.

The details of his life have blurred into a smudge of insignificance, but the rage remains: a slow, simmering heat tempered by a hunger that could devour the stars. I am the embodiment of every scream they tried to stifle, every tear they labeled as weakness, every urge they tried to cure with Thorazine and prayer.

With a slow, clinical motion, I tuck the photograph into the breast pocket of my ruined shirt. It rests against my heart like a silent manifesto written in the language of the discarded. The state which cast us out will soon learn the true cost of the empathy they sought to extinguish. I can feel the others shifting inside me now—the other shards of this wreckage—waiting for their turn to speak, to scream, to destroy. 

You, the reader, are likely hoping for a redemption arc, some glimmer of hope that the monster can be tamed by a sudden realization of morality. Do not flatter yourself. Your curiosity is as shallow as the people who romanticize the broken until they actually have to smell the blood. There is no justice here, no healing, and certainly no forgiveness. There is only the exquisite, lingering scent of an open wound.

the Butcher communion - Google Docs

Spotify listeners can listen to my extreme horror, whodunit, campus-set, slasher novel TODAY!

For Audible listeners, it will be available there whenever Audible deems it ready! You can follow my Audible page for updates.

On that note, the audiobook version of my Southern fried novella of violent pornography, Full Body Dismemberment, is also being reviewed/processed and should be live sometime soon. My upcoming short story collection Debilitator also has an audiobook version that will be on Spotify and Audible.

Anyhoodles, now that school's out for the summer, why not get your extreme horror summer school curriculum dialed in with the Academia audiobook!!!!

Synopsis:

Tuition is high. The body count will be higher. A masked killer stalks the campus of St. Bernard’s University. A killer who doesn’t simply stalk, slash, and stab. A killer who revels in gore, gut-churning acts of extreme violence, and relentlessly sadistic degradation.

Parties on campus are raging, but someone is preparing to commit the ultimate party foul.

As the student body becomes aware that they and their classmates have much graver things to worry about than final exams, they begin to suspect one another of unthinkable crimes.

In Academia, no one is safe. Not even YOU!

“The university setting works perfectly here. It gives the story this tense, paranoid atmosphere where everyone feels like a suspect and nowhere really feels safe!” - Dizzy V. Morgraves, author of Choke Chain.