Ghost Writer


In January of 2018, a twice-weekly podcast hosted by the former sideshow carnival emcee turned sepulcher refugee, Charlie Barker will emerge.  The ghost host with ever an eerie toast makes his way from coast to coast.  Old Char relates three tales from the realms of alternate reality in the form of CreepyGrams.


A CreepyGram is a bizarre, scary, or otherwise morbid short horror story of exactly 365 words (such as these examples).  An offshoot of flash fiction, this is a unique story telling form not found anywhere else.  Sometimes based on urban legend or local folklore and sometimes just plain slices of original horror stories, these tales are as succinct as they are scary.  With a trio served twice weekly, you will barely have time to recover from one tale as Char goes into the next.  You may even hear a familiar legend in a CreepyGram from the subseries known as the “States of Fear”.  These are myths from every state in America.  A legend realized in CreepyGram format for each of the fifty states of the good old U.S. of A.

More details to follow.  Please come back for more updates.  The circus is coming to town.



The desert winds moaned softly like a child in the throes of a nightmare. A full moon spoiled an otherwise perfectly dark night.  The glow of the city and the setting sun were too far away from this place to be noticed.  It was isolated and remote.  Desolate.

Then, something stirred.

The sandy soil crumbled, its surface breaking apart like the sound of crackling bacon.  A skeletal hand clawed its way out, the bones bleached from a fire.  Another hand followed.  Soon enough of the two morbid appendages sprouted enough to find purchase sufficient to pull itself up from the gravelly depths.

The skeleton pulled itself out of the hole it had been buried. It shook off the earth like a dog from a bath.  The curse had begun.

From atop a large stone, the skeleton grabbed a white straw hat with a red, white, and blue band.  Nearby, a wooden cane hung from the limb of a Palo Verde tree from the crook of its hook.  Spindly bones grasped that item, as well.

The moaning winds changed pitch and tempo emerged.  The echoed music of a calliope followed.  The skeleton placed the hat on its skull.

“Ladies and gentleman,” announced the fleshless thing, “what if I were to tell you that there is no such thing as imagination. Suppose for a moment that everything people think of as a glimmer of inspiration is, in fact, a glimpse into another existence.”

The creature walked over the gravelly surface of the desert and swung out the cane for emphasis.  “That is the bitter pill, my friends.  The truth of the matter.  There is no imagination.  No creativity.  Only an uncanny extra-sensory perception into other realms.  Infinite realities which we think we dream up, but are only bled through radio stations to the receivers of our brains.”

“Everything that is written down as fiction is just another version.  With that in mind, allow me to take you through just some of those alternate realities.  Reflections of events, seen through the lens of other worlds.  Every one of the following is absolutely true.”

The skeleton held its arms wide.  It bowed.  Then, it began to tell three tales.


A circus came with wondrous bent
Yet amidst the folly and cheer
A fire consumed the sideshow tent
And thus, Charlie Barker, lost dear

Burnt to ash died the luckless gent
As he tried to salvage his gear
To the realm beyond he was sent
Though some nights he comes back right here

With form but a shadowy hint
On a moon filled night you might peer
His ghost appears to do a stint
If you listen, three tales you’ll hear

But be wary of wonderment
Or you might be shedding a tear
If trapped inside the fiery tent
Flaps closed and you didn’t get clear