Author: Lee Andrew Forman

Lee Forman is a writer and editor from the Hudson Valley, NY. His fascination with the macabre began in childhood, watching old movies and reading everything he could get his hands on. He’s a third-generation horror fanatic, starting with his grandfather who was a fan of the classic Hollywood Monsters. His work has been published in numerous magazines, anthologies, websites, and podcasts. He’s an editor for Sirens Call Publications and writes, edits, and is an administrator for the horror fiction website PenoftheDamned.com. He’s also a regular contributor of non-fiction articles for Living Paranormal Magazine. When he’s not crafting horrifying creatures and tales of terror, he spends his time playing guitar and writing music. For more information and a list of publications go to www.leeformanauthor.com.

Dark Spots

March 6, 2024February 22, 2024 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

The air hummed a pregnant note. My very bones resonated with its energy. The dark went silent; insects stopped their nocturnal chatter, leaves hushed their low whisper in the vacant breeze, even my footfalls went mute in the grass. Within my chest, my heart rattled with a thunderous beat. Sudden light bloomed from above – the field below glowed with unimaginable hues.

My gaze was drawn skyward to a bulbous horror that hovered there. Its luminous glare nearly stole my sight. As it began its descent, a sound thrummed from its underbelly forcing my limp frame to the ground. Sudden vertigo whipped my head to the left as my body rose to meet the flashing sphere. I was paralyzed; not a muscle would obey my instincts.

The fierce light ceased and darkness subsumed all. I lay there motionless, not falling nor rising, suspended by a force unknown.

A red glow crept over the black shapeless space. From a square opening came globular mounds of mishappen pink flesh. They stood atop countless tiny legs protruding from their undersides. Six half-moon shaped pincers attached to multi-limbed arms grew from their flanks. No head accompanied their sickly bodies, only a shifting ebon undulation where one might have rested. Their innumerable feet clicked as they approached.

The urge to scream slithered through my esophagus; a need to release fear in a frenzied cacophony. But I could make no sound at all.

Their insectile skittering raced beneath me as my body lowered toward them. As I got closer, their movement increased with fervor. Their sharp pincers brushed against my hands. Unable to pull away, I could do nothing to stem my torrid panic.

Lowered to a solid surface, they crawled over my body in ordered chaos—searching for what, I did not know. They poked and prodded, picked at my clothes with their spiny appendages. They seemed to sniff me with their rippling dark spots. I thought for sure their intent had been to feast, but they never split flesh.

A pounding came from beyond the dark threshold that shook the floor. The massive form reared to its full height as it entered the chamber. I understood why the small ones hadn’t eaten me. The juggernaut stood ten times their size, and where the little ones’ dark spot had been, colossal mandibles chomped and drooled their way toward me.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Snowflake

December 13, 2023October 20, 2023 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 2 Comments

Infinite snowflakes fall. Their pearl quilt builds upon pavement, tires tread, nerves tense. Sweaty palms grip the wheel. The picturesque wonderland glows in the headlights. Slow and steady, the destination of holiday cheer, of most special kin. The journey swerves upon beautiful danger. She tries to match the pitch and right the car. But nature draws her to its hold without release. As she watches the trees flip upside-down, the rose-colored box travels before her eyes, ejected from its place on the empty passenger seat. As metal crunches and glass shatters, she hopes that gift will reach her little Snowflake.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Remainder

September 13, 2023September 5, 2023 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

Gene looked at the photograph of his family. Death isn’t pure, he thought. It’s damn filthy. It chews and spits, leaving you half-digested until you eventually dissolve.

He watched the virus take them. Minions of quietus ravaged their bodies until souls departed through fevered brows. The infection killed them quickly. But it never let go. A collective consciousness still carried their undead frames. Shuffling feet and hands scraping against the boards nailed over the kitchen doorway were all he could hear anymore.

What little strength his mind retained had been used to pretend they weren’t there—trapped together, rotting away… But nothing remained in the world to divert his attention. He hadn’t seen another living person in weeks. He considered if he might be the last. In a way he hoped it were true. Then at least humanity would be unchained from the nightmare and could finally rest.

Guilt tightened his gut, more than pains of hunger. Why had he been spared? What made him immune? Was it punishment for some forgotten sin he committed? Maybe it was just shit luck. He preferred to assume it was only his misfortune; it made the most sense.

His eyes lazily rolled to the makeshift barrier keeping a ravenous, zombified family from eating him alive. He wondered how long it would hold; but realized it didn’t matter. Sure, he’d suffer an agonizing death if they broke through, but no one would ever know of it. He sat alone in a miniscule blip of time. Human life no longer held meaning. History had been erased and would never again be recorded. In a way, he didn’t even exist.

He found that to be a comforting thought. It settled his nerves, calmed his raging heart.

Fingertips released their grip. The picture of his family rested next to a shotgun on the table.

As a calm settled within, he picked up the gun. Peering into the box of shells to see how many were left, he made his choice.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Orchard of Bones

June 28, 2023June 23, 2023 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

A vast expanse lies before me. Its emptiness is broken only by ivory totems, arranged long ago by an unknown artist. Each one takes its own form; limitless shapes and arrangements construct the populace of bones. I follow the path without going astray. I know not to approach these structures. This land is cursed, forever soured by the evils it holds deep. A rumble sounds in the distant sky. The winds bring its inhuman voice to my ears. I hear it pure, unadulterated by the unnatural spires of mankind. It’s a calling, a welcome, an invitation. I must follow. The journey leaves my feet hot and blistered; my legs, weak and thin. But I know no choice existed. I come to meet the caretaker of this garden of death. And death, it is. My past is behind me. The present is here. My future, non-existent. I’ve arrived here not by folly, but by destiny. My life expired long before this trek. And this is but the final destination. My flesh dissolves, exposing the osseous frame which will be used to construct a new totem, my effigy, to be added to the growing garden of memories.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

The Widow’s Milk

April 5, 2023February 27, 2023 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 6 Comments

The sweet milk drew them to the widow, Mrs. Keller daily. Their lips silently spoke of thirst; a parching despair was evident each morning upon their arrival. Mrs. Keller smiled with each new sun as she watched them come in droves. She waited at the door of her barn, tin containers filled with the greenish-white cream. One by one, she’d fill each jug the locals brought. They’d leave with both their spirits, and wallets, much lighter.

They always asked to see the cows that produced her famed product. An off-kilter smile was the only response she ever gave. They talked in hushed rumors of what might be in that old, red outbuilding, what wonderous dairy cattle gave their delicious milk in secret. They imagined a majestic specimen, the fur a color never before seen by human eyes. Others argued she dyed the milk and put something in it for flavor, but they were buying it as well—thus it was unanimously agreed that wherever it came from, it was the very best.

Despite the general consensus on the milk’s quality, some were too intrigued to stay away. Their curiosity made them brave fools, ready to risk a gut full of buckshot at a chance to know. A plan formed, in preparation for the night of the month when the moon would be most dim. A group of three prepped their tools, headed out at nightfall, and waited, watching the barn and Mrs. Keller’s house.

Long after the lights went out, when all went quiet and they thought she must be asleep, they approached the barn. One cut the chain while the others held it and let it down lightly on the ground. They opened the barn doors just enough to slip inside and face the darkness within.

One of them lit the oil lantern they brought and revealed the source of their town’s milk; the commodity they so cherished—the near-godly nectar of some unknown animal’s bosom. Their faces went slack, as did their minds upon the ghastly sight that lay within Mrs. Keller’s barn. It was no cow that produced their prized milk, but a monstrosity they couldn’t have imagined.

In the stall at the far end, a man’s upper half was chained to the wall. His waistline was no more than a scarred line where stitches had once been. Below that, attached to that man, was something inhuman. Its physique didn’t recall anything they could identify. The flesh, if it could be called that, was dark and had the texture of motor oil. It stank of sulfur and burnt rubber. The three intruders held their noses and gagged against the stench.

The man attached to this multi-legged thing beneath howled in agony, raising both the attention and incalculable fear of the trio. His inexplicable bottom half began to shudder and heave. A slit of flesh opened up near its end, which they then noticed was attached to a hose. The human top wailed while that hose pumped green, viscous fluid into tin canisters lined against the other side of the barn.

When the event was over, the wretched smell intensified, and the man atop this beast fell to rest again. Two of the men heard a loud bang, something wet splashed the side of their faces. By the time they realized what happened, Mrs. Keller shot them as well.

As she began with a shovel to bury her unwanted guests, she had a thought: They may be the first to discover what became of my husband, but they most likely won’t be the last.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Utopia

November 2, 2022August 9, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

I beg to have this morsel of bread, my knees on cold stone. The clean hand which gives does so with apathy. This weary skeleton is not worthy. It shakes and rattles as it moves away in contorted gestures. Shame used to have meaning, now it is only the infinite permanency of a worn soul.

They know what’s best for me. They always have.

I’ve no coin or cloth; blood is the only currency I have to give. And so my debt is paid by suffering. The countless ways in which they thrill their hearts baffles the mind. No imaginings of one man could conjure how many ways there are to inflict pain. Never has it been said that they lacked creativity.

I once viewed a piece of art. I suppose this is theirs.

Feeble, frail, am I. No longer do I recoil at the thought of the black hood coming to take me. I’ve eaten my share and lived long years. Time is precious, gifted by the keepers of this world by keeping us unworthy alive. And greed has never been my vice.

I’ll see the reaper soon. And gladly give my head to his axe.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Pieces of Me

August 17, 2022July 26, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

It began with a finger. I relished the pain from the first slice. Warm blood ran down my palm as I pushed the blade deeper. Soon the digit left my body. I watched it fall with a pulsing vision of loss through waves of pain. But it invigorated me. Inspired me. I had to keep going.

Each additional cut gave me strength to endure the agony until it became pleasure. What I identified as a compulsion quickly became addiction. I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to.

With few fingers and toes left, I went for more non-vital parts. The feeling of sawing through the cartilage of my nose roused heavenly sensation. Both ears undone felt divine. With each new loss of flesh, I felt more free, more alive. With each peel of the surface from my limbs, a burden was lifted.

It took time and effort, but eventually I severed one foot. As I started on its counterpart, the front door opened and in walked my wife. She wasn’t due home until late. I thought surprise would have been our matched reactions. But my eyes looked to hers, and hers to mine. We spoke no words—none were necessary.

She gently took the razor-sharp tool from my hand and began to work on herself.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

The Change

June 1, 2022May 23, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 5 Comments

One arm lay in a pool of blood. My blood. The other grasps for it, reaches with needing fingers. They want to keep what is part of them. Part of me.

I know I’m in shock. The ping in my ears and lack of pain brings a strange clarity. Time slows. I see the carnage around me and watch, not in awe or disgust, but indifference. With calm I walk to the first person I see and beat him to death with my own severed arm. I whip his bruising face with the bloodied stump. I shove my radial bone down his throat and break his ribs with my boots.

I know I’ll bleed out if I don’t do something. That knowledge sits at the forefront of my mind, but emotion refuses to connect, urgency has been halted by whatever has changed inside. I know things weren’t always this way. But I don’t remember what they were before. And it doesn’t matter.

I walk past the crunched metal and burning rubber. Screams surround me but I pay no mind. My eyes are fixed ahead. I drop my severed arm. Blood no longer flows. Consciousness has not faded. I am alive.

Veins extend from my stump. They grow and lengthen, intertwine and stretch. They are as alive as I. A wide-eyed man in the street attracts my attention. I reach for him, take hold. His struggle is futile. I taste his insides as he’s torn apart and consumed. I hunger for more.

~ Lee Andrew Forman

Sweet Youth

March 16, 2022February 27, 2022 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 6 Comments

From within my gut it was born, its birthing chamber no more than a stew of endless glutton and rot. I felt life within, a tumor suckling my innards with indifference to a father’s suffering. This child would feel no mother’s loving embrace, for none existed. I alone would be its burden, and it, mine. Pain thumped in tune with its gestation. Bile coated my throat. As it thrust its way up my gullet, a worm-like head peeked out from between my lips. It heaved its way further into the world, inch by inch, until it hit the floor with a wet slap of carnage. I took in a long-awaited breath and gazed upon my newborn. It wiggled its tail and screeched, calling out against the agony of existence, the horror of birth. I lifted it with both hands and cradled it against my chest. Its black eyes stared into mine. I knew then it would grow up fast, and that I’d be wise to cherish the sweet youth while it lasted.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

No Gods Here

December 29, 2021November 23, 2021 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 6 Comments

Pale water rose and fell against the hull of my boat. The lonely ocean longed for color; all was gray, from the sky to the cold sea. Though my destination was said to be only two miles from the coast, fog wrapped around my solitary vessel—I had the sensation of getting nowhere but lost. If not for my compass, and faith that this land mass existed against the advice of all maps, I would have been.

I was glad to have left the company of the native tribe. The way their eyes stared, the knowing in them—too harsh for my subconscious to ignore. Though I knew they only followed lore and superstition, second guessing the risk of going where no one else would clouded my enthusiasm.

A dark mass appeared in the haze. It seemed my money and troubles had been worthwhile. This tiny rock in the sea was before me. I was there.

Jagged volcanic rock populated the landscape. No signs of life, plant or otherwise. The great chapel didn’t take long to find. Its oversized entrance was built tall enough for the gods to walk through unhindered. Inside, its vaulted ceiling reached into darkness above. Faint illumination entered the structure, no glass saints adorned its design. Only a stone block altar featured any symbolism of worship. A great triangle hung in thin air. No chains suspended it, nothing rested beneath to hold its weight. Magic, I’d heard. But I knew better.

Dust clouded around my boots as I approached. Each footfall shortened my journey, brought me closer to the mystifying object. My palms moistened. After all the knowledge I’d gained throughout my hunt, I still had no revelation as to its purpose. I reached out and put my hand against it. Unlike its cold stone surroundings, it radiated heat. My lips curled in anticipation of discovering its function.

Then a strange feeling arrested my entire body. Both feet lifted from the floor and I rose, weightless, hovered in the air alongside the object. Elation inspired endless possibilities, countless prospects. What power I would have.

White light brighter than the sun beamed from above. Even with both eyes closed, it relentlessly entered my retinas. The air around me boiled. I barely heard my own screams over the hiss of burning flesh.

Before life escaped my meaty shell, darkness returned to the chamber. My wrecked frame dropped to the floor. No longer alone, I looked up to the beings who emerged from the dark. As my limbs twitched with pain beyond pain, I understood the legends and rumors, the fears of the island natives. It all made sense. But these were not gods.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman