Excerpts from My Fake Horror Novel

“Of course I do!” Jessica screeched as she put the ring on her finger, “Of course I’ll marry you Stephen!”

Stephen climbed back off of one knee, popped out his Apple EarPods, and removed the avocado seed from his mouth. He hugged his new fiancée awkwardly.

“This is the happiest day of my life,” Stephen murmured.


The realtor, Eurydice Jones, glimmered. It was almost as if she was hiding something. They strode up to the oak doors of the Victorian mansion and pushed them open with confidence. The realtor smiled and spun around to Stephen and Jessica.

“So, this one is available at a great cost well below market value!” Eurydice screeched, “It’s a bit of a fixer-upper, but it has character! You’re getting in at a great time. It’s like buying an avocado that’s just about to ripen.”

Stephen smiled. The house was dusty and filled with cobwebs, but it came fully furnished. He pointed to a cedar ottoman and lost his shit.

“Oh, I see you’ve seen the furniture. The estate off the former occupants are selling it fully furnished. The former occupants were… in no condition to take it with them.”

“Oh what happened?” Jessica asked.

“Well…. Uh.. I shouldn’t tell you. It’s nothing that effects the house now. It’s all in the past. Like guacamole that’s gone bad so you throw it down the trash. Just like that,” Eurydice explained, almost as if she was hiding something, “They were the first couple to live here after the….. renovations. Don’t worry about the renovations.”

“K, lol” Jessica and Stephen responded in unison


“Tell me more about the lot, outside the house,” Jessica demanded.

“Well,” Eurydice began, “The hospi—the house, I mean, was built on an ancient india—I mean avocado farm, and there’s a gravey—I mean bone storage outside. The walls are thirty feet high and unscalable, so you can’t esc—I mean don’t have to worry about looters.

“That’s a nice feature,” Jessica murmured sexily.



“Don’t buy the house!” begged a homeless man as he grabbed Jessica’s arm on the way to Starbucks, “You and you’re darling fiancée will die. Terribly. Don’t buy it.”

“Get off me,” Jessica screamed as she spit in the homeless man’s mouth, “Don’t touch me you disgusting miscreant.”

“Please,” begged the homeless man as Jessica began to spray him with mace.

“Go away!” bellowed Jessica as she pulled out a pocket knife and drove it into the homeless man’s arms and chest.

He fell to the ground and continued to beg Jessica not to buy the house. She ignored him and ran away, muttering to herself: “When will this city deal with this fucking homeless problem?”


Stephen smiled, it was move-in day! He was excited, just like the green part of an avocado before it gets crushed and made into guacomole. He was walking through the yard, through his yard, when a glint of metal caught his eye. He strode over to look at it, pulling it out of the thorns and the weeds. It read: SAINT CHARLES BERKELY HOSPICE FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE.

“Hm,” Stephen murmured, “Whatever could this mean?”


Doctor Saint Charles Berkeley looked at his old-timey radio and looked at his period-specific monocle and laughed maniacally. He strode around his hospice for the criminally insane and wandered into the operating room where he did illegal and unlicensed medical experiments on his patients and orphans and the homeless and pretty much everyone who walked in.

There was a patient strapped to the operating table. Doctor Saint Charles Berkeley rubbed his hands together with glee and stopped to appreciate the fact that the year was 1922 and this was a flashback.

“World War 1 ended three years ago,” Doctor Saint Charles Berkeley murmured to himself as supplied authentic period-specific details to the reader, “Harry Truman is president, the great depression hasn’t happened yet, F. Scott Fitzgerald is writing The Great Gatsby, and Al Gore just started a little company called The Internet.”

“Yes, all those are facts beyond all reasonable doubt because the year is 1922,” the Nurse agreed.

“Shut up, nurse,” Doctor Saint Charles Berkeley screamed as he pulled out his scalpel and began to cut.

“No you can’t!” Screamed the patient, “Doctor Saint Charles Berkeley, please don’t kill me!”

Doctor Saint Charles Berkely began to laugh maniacally and screeched, “Just call me Charles.”

“What are you doing?!” the Nurse scroggled as blood began to spurt everywhere.

Charles broke into hysterical convulsions and yelled, “First of all, shut up. Secondly, get me a coffee. Thirdly, shut up. Fourthly, I’m doing a little experiment.”

“What sort of experiment?!” the Nurse screamed, horrified. She’d some of Charles’ experiments before, such as when he removed a patient’s pancreas to see if it could be equally used as a beach volleyball, but nothing this grisly. To the nurse, it looked as if the patient were an avocado having its seed and green stuff removed but a person.

“Shuuuuut uuuuuup,” Charles muttered as if he was losing his buzz, “This experiment is testing to see whether the patient can survive……”

Charles trailed off as he readied his knife and proceeded to scream, “DEATH!”

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