Goodreads!

Rumors and speculation surround the possible inhabitants of Blackout Island, located just a few miles off the coast. Conspiracy theories abound while social media leaks surface about government experiments gone wrong. Certainly something or someone must live there, for haven’t we all seen the shaky home videos of the occasional wisp of smoke or recordings of eerie sounds carrying far across the water on a calm summer night? Something wicked has been let loose within its depths… And it’s time for the truth to be revealed.

Featuring seven dark stories by L.E. Aleman, Darren Diarmuid, Lauren Rylant, A.P. Christopher, -M. Taggart, M. Ennenbach, and Joann L. Berg.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/56147507-the-shadows-of-blackout-island?fbclid=IwAR0YwheiTaZ2BW3erev5obGr-YSabax0PjUPjISrX_Uta4WMoleURnyCx9k

America’s Emerging Horror Writers: East Region. Book Review.

I didn’t want to put the book down.

I didn’t expect that. But, that’s what happened. Z Publishing House editors selected 15 authors from the East Region and delivered, what I consider to be, a great read for the summer of 2019.

This book contains thrilling short stories ranging from haunted houses, spiritual haunting, Military spook, blood and brains, a dose of arachnophobia, and let’s not leave out the random split personality piece for a bit of spice.

I’m honored to have my short story, Only. Just. Here. within the pages of this book. If you are looking for a good summer read, this is it. Feel free to email me if you are interested in more information.

Link to purchase the book:
America's Emerging Horror Writers: East Region

A Finish Read

My email, matt@everythingcu.com

More of my published work:
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

For those of you that have already purchased the book, Thank You!

Matt

About Ghosts

I’ve never seen a ghost. Although I believe they are among us. Much like premonitions hidden within dreams. Now those, I’ve had. Forewarnings that have come to pass, some of which were uncomfortable. It’s all there. It’s only a matter of seeing them.

Have any of you seen a ghost?

Matt

 

Poem- Hello, There.

I have never seen a ghost.
I hope one has seen me.
I do believe I have felt
an impressive dedication
for me to have felt the presence
of one, but I cannot say for sure.
As I look out my window at the
wet and very grey afternoon,
I see how the many naked branches
could provide a very fine harbor
for my eyes to finally appreciate
the traveling of someone no longer
with us. IN the flesh and blood.
For now I’ll consider the steady rain as
a reminder of my affection for the unknown.

-M. Taggart

It’s just a dream

I had a very disturbing dream last night. I was unable to fall back to sleep. Instead I looked at the bedroom door, wondered what might be on the other side, and for the first time that I can remember I thought of Hell as an actual fact.

To the best of my daytime memory it went like this:

I was jogging in the inside of the circumference of a tennis court. The tennis court had a gate made of wood built around the entirety of it. The wood planks stopped roughly two feet from the ground. I noticed two homeless men sleeping under the two foot gap. They both wore blue jeans. Their faces were haggard. The men appeared to be sleeping off a large affliction of some kind.

I jogged to the exit of the tennis court where a third homeless man awoke as I came near. His eyes had dark circles under them. He meant to speak to me, but I jogged passed him and down the hill to the building below. I entered the building. The building resembled an old YMCA and was empty. I stood near the entrance desk. The form of a man I knew appeared, squatting, with his back against the wall on the other side of the desk.

“Hello, Matt.”

He looked healthy. He looked good.

I don’t remember everything he said. I wish I did. I asked him about the three homeless men. He told me they are stuck in a cycle and that they will be stuck. The three men were him, but not him. This was a healthy him.

The dream fluttered and I found myself outside of the YMCA look-a-like building with the man’s son. My best friend.

“I just saw your father.”

“What?”

“I saw your father’s ghost.”

His smiled. “Show me where.”

I took him into the building and showed him exactly where his father had been squatting against the wall. The dream developed into the oddity of being that it is, his father reappeared with a bit of a halo. Now though, he was standing, and his eyes shown a deep imprinted knowing.

“There he is.” I nodded my head toward his father’s ghost.

“Where? I don’t see him?”

“He’s standing right there looking at you.”

Scott was speaking, I can’t recall what he was saying.

“Why can’t I see him?”

Scott replied to both of us, “Because he’s still dead.” Only I heard.

“What did you say, Scott?” He replied. I can’t remember what he said. I wanted to know how I was dead. Scott then shook my hand and said something similar to, “I’m going now.” He then turned toward the wall and opened an unseen door. As though it was a portion of time, or fabric of time, itself.

I thought I might see the entrance to heaven. Scott stepped inside the most pitch black tunnel heading steeply downward that I’ve ever seen, dream or otherwise. He was gone.

 

-M. Taggart

 

 

 

The Old Dam – 1912

I remember the cement stairs leading down to the tunnel
I remember the dampness of the walls, the deepening darkness
It was after midnight-
I stood at bottom of the stairwell and at the beginning of the tunnel
I couldn’t see to the other side
I felt the strength of the entire river above me
along with the loneliness of the ghosts
I wondered if they were here
I wanted to believe the stories
The old dam had taken more than one-
The tunnel was built under the dam to house the pumps
which opened and closed the flood gates
I needed to walk the entire length of the tunnel
to open a valve on the very last pump
The hanging lights flickered as I waked underneath them
A few had burned out-
Water trickled down the walls
I could smell and even taste the mustiness
I was forcing myself to feel comfortable
My safety goggles had collected moisture
My ear plugs were irritating me.
I felt agitated. But mostly
I didn’t feel I was alone
I forced myself to look back toward the stairwell
What did I see?
Who knows. Maybe all of these words are fictitious
Or, maybe this is written it exactly as it was

-M. Taggart