My family created an American pulp magazine titled ‘Official Detective Stories’ back in the 30s and early 40s. They were really dark and controversial like I am! LOL So I am going to start to honor my late first cousin Moe Annenberg by publishing some pulp stories that are tinged with horror that I wrote myself at my personal site.
The first 100 visitors will be allowed to read this chilling masterwork titled “The Witch on Walraven” FREE of charge and it is without a doubt some truly disturbing yet mind blowing content in the style of Raymond Chandler meets The Devil himself.
Here is more background on my family’s legendary media empire and the racket they got into with publishing magazines of all kinds, including creating TV Guide: https://www.pulpartists.com/Annenberg-P.html
The first few chapters are here included in this post to read before you decide to make the jump. Remember, y’all only get 3 free articles each month at my personal site, so if they get used up reading other stuff first you will have to pay the $9.99 monthly subscription to read all of the new killer Pulp Horror content I am dropping. Just to let you know there is definitely a paywall up and it will cut you off after 3 freebies like John 5.
LOL – Rocket #TeamHorror
Rocket’s Pulp Horror Story #1: “The Witch on Walraven”
Written by Randy “Rocket” Cody
Chapter 1: The Last Night of Paul Anspaugh
Elizabeth Knight never believed in fate. Fate, on the other hand, had a nasty habit of believing in her. The night Paul Anspaugh took a bullet to the chest, the world folded in on itself like a bad poker hand. A stick-up gone sideways, the cops called it. Senseless, as if anything in this town ever had any sense to begin with. The blood pooled on the sidewalk outside the liquor store, soaking into the cracks of the pavement as Elizabeth screamed, her hands pressing against Paul’s chest, feeling his warmth slip away.
The red-and-blue lights painted the alleyway in a hellish hue. Elizabeth clung to Paul’s lifeless body, her sobs breaking through the wails of approaching sirens. “Stay with me, Paul!” she pleaded, but his eyes had already glazed over, his mouth slightly open, the words he never got to say caught somewhere between his lungs and eternity. The paramedics arrived, but there was nothing they could do. One of the officers, a tired-looking man with thinning hair, crouched beside her. “Miss, you need to let go.”
She didn’t. Not until they pulled her away. Not until the world as she knew it collapsed in on itself, leaving her standing in the rubble of something she couldn’t name.
Detective Samuel Briggs was on the scene shortly after, his trench coat damp from the night’s mist, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked. He crouched beside Elizabeth, his deep-set eyes filled with something akin to pity. “Ms. Knight, we need to ask you a few questions,” he murmured, voice rough as sandpaper.
Elizabeth barely heard him. She stared at Paul’s body being loaded onto a gurney, her chest rising and falling in erratic gasps. “He—he was just getting a bottle of wine. I was waiting in the car.” Her voice was distant, as if spoken through layers of fog. “And then… then there was a shot. I—I didn’t even see who did it. It happened so fast.”
Briggs exchanged a glance with his partner, a young officer named Dana Mallory, whose notepad was already half-filled with scribbles. “Did he have enemies?” Mallory asked softly.
Elizabeth let out a bitter laugh, short and hollow. “Enemies? Paul taught high school English. He wrote poetry on the weekends. His worst crime was overcooking pasta.”
Briggs sighed, rubbing his temple. “We’ll find who did this. But for now, you need to get some rest. Do you have someone who can stay with you?”
Elizabeth shook her head. The only person she needed was lying in a body bag.
She barely remembered how she got home. The apartment felt foreign, hollow. Every surface was a reminder—his coat draped over the back of a chair, the half-read book on his nightstand, the indent on the pillow beside hers. The silence was oppressive, pressing down on her like the weight of the ocean. When she lay down, the image of Paul’s lifeless eyes bore into her mind, refusing to let her slip into unconsciousness. When she did finally drift off, the nightmares were waiting.
Chapter 2: Prescription Daze
The funeral came and went in a haze of condolences and cold coffee. The days bled into nights, and Elizabeth found herself swallowing little white pills just to make it through. They were supposed to help—the doctor said they would help—but instead, they left her floating in a sea of nothingness.
The walls of her apartment felt smaller, the air thicker. The television droned in the background, meaningless chatter from people who had no idea what it felt like to be hollowed out from the inside. She barely ate, barely spoke. The phone rang. Leif’s voice on the other end, “Liz, you gotta get out of there. Let’s go for a drive. Clear your head.”
She didn’t go. She curled into herself, another pill between her fingers, another sip of water washing away what little clarity she had left.
Leif wasn’t the type to give up easily. One evening, he knocked on her door, his usual lopsided grin replaced with a frown. “Come on, Liz. You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” she muttered, barely glancing up from her spot on the couch.
“Wasting away in here.” He sat beside her, his presence warm, grounding. “You think Paul would want this for you?”
She stiffened. “Don’t. Don’t say his name like that. Like he’s just—just some footnote in my life.”
Leif sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just want you to be okay.”
She wanted to be okay too. But the pills weren’t working, and the nightmares were getting worse. Each night, she saw Paul’s death in more detail, the blood spreading wider, the sound of the gunshot echoing longer. And each morning, she woke up more exhausted than before, as if part of her had been left behind in the dream.
One night, as she lay staring at the ceiling, her mind buzzing from the cocktail of medication numbing her grief, she thought she heard something—whispers curling around the edges of her thoughts, distant and indecipherable. When she turned on the bedside lamp, there was nothing there. But the whispers didn’t stop.
Chapter 3: The Book in the Alley
It was raining the night she found the book.
She had gone out for a walk, needing air, needing something that didn’t taste like grief. The city felt abandoned at this hour, puddles reflecting the dim glow of flickering streetlights. As she passed the alley behind her apartment, something caught her eye—a wooden box, half-rotted, nestled beside a rusted dumpster.
Curiosity was a dangerous thing. But she was past the point of caution.
Kneeling, she pried the box open. Inside was an old leather-bound tome, its edges frayed, its cover cracked. Strange symbols were etched into its surface, their meaning lost to time. The moment her fingers brushed against it; a shiver crawled up her spine. The wind whispered through the alley, carrying a sound that could have been laughter. Or maybe a warning.
She should have walked away.
She didn’t.
The book smelled of dust and decay, and when she opened it, the pages felt thick with age, filled with ink so dark it seemed to drink the light. She traced the symbols absently, something in her mind stirring in recognition, though she had never seen such writing before. The words seemed to vibrate under her touch, and for a brief moment, she swore she heard a breath that was not her own.
She closed the book, tucking it beneath her arm, and hurried home, rain washing over her like a baptism she did not ask for. That night, as she sat in bed, flipping through the pages under the flickering candlelight, she began to read aloud.
And something answered.
Chapter 4: Unholy Summoning
Elizabeth could feel the pull of the words on the page, a strange magnetic force that seemed to echo in her mind as much as her voice. The more she read, the clearer the feeling became—something heard her. The air around her grew heavy, like the very atmosphere was charging with electricity. She felt the weight of the night press closer, and as the candlelight flickered and swayed, shadows danced across the walls, twisting into shapes that didn’t belong.
She closed the book quickly, heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. What was she doing? What had she awakened?
The room fell into silence, and for a brief moment, she thought she was safe—safe from whatever had been lurking just beyond the edges of her consciousness. Safe from whatever the book had called to her.
But then, the whispers returned. Louder this time, closer. The sounds were no longer just in her head. The darkness in the corners of the room seemed to shift, as if something was moving within it, something that could not be seen but was undeniably present.
Elizabeth’s hand trembled as she reached for the bedside lamp, flipping it on. The light filled the room, but the whispers didn’t stop. They only grew more insistent, the words slithering through her mind in a language that felt ancient, malevolent.
She bolted upright in bed, clutching the book to her chest. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Was this some sort of mental breakdown? Had the medication finally taken its toll on her?
The answer came in the form of a cold gust of wind, a sharp contrast to the stifling heat that had built in the room. The curtains fluttered, but the windows were shut. Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat as she slowly turned toward the door.
A figure stood in the doorway.
It was tall, its form obscured by the shadows, but she could feel it. The air around it was thick with malevolence. It stepped forward, its presence filling the room like an oppressive weight. As it moved closer, Elizabeth felt the book in her hands grow warmer, pulsing almost—alive, somehow.
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
The figure didn’t respond, but its eyes gleamed with an unnatural light, a red glow that pierced the darkness and bore into her very soul. She could feel it. The creature—whatever it was—was connected to the book. Connected to her.
Elizabeth tried to move, but her body felt frozen, like she was being held in place by some unseen force. The whispers were no longer just words—they were commands, demands. She could feel them in the pit of her stomach, pulling her toward the creature, toward something much darker than she could have ever imagined.
Then, it spoke.
“You called me, Elizabeth Knight.”
The voice was deep, resonating with an authority that sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a presence, something that wrapped around her mind and made her feel small, insignificant.
“I didn’t mean to,” she gasped, her mind spinning. “I—I just… found the book. I didn’t know.”
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