Thehispanicpanic - Hispanic Panic

QUEER HORROR DAY 7 - GHOST

The ghost of her lover permeated the apartment — she could smell her in the shower, feel her empty spot in bed, hear the tinkling of her fork every time she ate alone. At times she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the garage, the scent of nagchampa in the living room even though she owned neither. She stared at the blank television as the sun slowly set against the cardboard boxes. It had been two months. They'd never found a body. The television, the radio, the icy window panes called to her, "Come... come here, lover... come be with me please."

QUEER HORROR DAY 12 - ULTRA-VIOLENCE

  After he fucked her with a knife, he applied a hot iron to the baby’s face — melting clean into its skull — and proceed to shoot both of his eyes as well as the bridge of his nose with a single bullet, pressing his revolver firmly against his left socket.

Scare yourself with  100 Days of Queer Horror — only at thehispanicpanic.tumblr.com 

QUEER HORROR DAY 13 - RIALTO

There is an old (now defunct) theatre in Ohio, called The Rialto, it has one of those old marquee signs out front. It got built on top of an old burned down tenement  — the landlord did it for money. He got the chair for killing 81 people in the process too.

Even before the fire, the tenement was a cesspool of drugs, illness, suicide, and shitty plumbing. Soon after they cleared the ashes, they erected the theater on the same ground.

Theatre patrons regularly reported a man playing with himself in the back row during matinees, but no ushers ever caught sight of him. The area around seat E on row 7 remained inexplicably cold and wet (no matter what), leaving management no choice but section it off permanently. On more than one occasion, women reported seeing a young girl passed out on the lady’s room floor — her skirt over her head — or a person hanging from the rafters in the balcony's flickering dark.

Today you can still hear noises from inside the theater, sounds of a movie even though it’s been empty for over 15 years. I'd reveal its location, but I’d hate for another fool to try and explore it again, only to end up missing.

QUEER HORROR DAY 17 - MIDNIGHT CHILD

When my pregnant lover fell into a coma, I began sleeping in his hospital room. A few weeks back he began sputtering and convulsing. Weird black squiggles (like dark veins) spread from the center of his abdomen.

“Your child is deformed,” the doctor concluded. “I want it,” I said, massaging my aching stump.

Every night at midnight, my lover speaks. He says, “Daddy, you dare? Is dark n coldie. Pwease hode me.” It’s not sleep-talking; the voice is not his. It’s a toddler’s, gurgling in fluid.

The black veins extend every day. “Daddy dying. Pwease halp.” I cry against the cold stomach whispering, “I promise I promise I promise,” as I fall asleep.

My lover has been brain dead for a few days now. His bedsores stink. I beg the doctor to cut our child from the womb. “It won’t survive,” she replies. Not he or she. It.

The sonogram display a writhing, squirming mass eating away at Ken’s innards — a wormy tangle, a pulsating brain. Please save me. It’s all we have.

“Daddy, I hungee I hungee I hungee,” he says. I rub my wrist  against Ken’s blackened belly. “I cannot wait. I will hold you. I will feed you all that's left of me.”