Horror
The creepy ghost of a suicide: The main thing is don't turn around
8 years ago, something happened that for everyone the most terrible thing in life is the loss of a loved one. My father died. To say that I was grieving is to say nothing. He loved me more than other children (that is, more than my brothers and sisters). I remember how I didn't believe it when my brother came in and told me about my father's death, and how I cried when his coffin was in the apartment on the 3rd day. When we went to the cemetery... Yes, that's when my grief was replaced by interest in strange and frightening events around...
By Julia Njord3 years ago in Fiction
The Fireman
There was a small sliver of light calling through the little dark cabin like a trumpet but it was the scream of the steam which pulled me from my sleep and into a nightmare that has haunted me to this day. Constantly I wash my hands to try and get the smell of the stains out, scrubbing, scrubbing in vain and the steam whistle would be the only scream that I remember hearing from that day. The light focused on a golden nametag that read "Terry", a name that wasn't my own, pinned to a green uniform that wasn’t mine either. What was my name? In the confusion of a hangover unlike any I have experienced before, I squinted through the small hole where the light leaked through in an attempt to orient myself, and the wheels, the wheels turned relentlessly. We must have been going upwards of 60mph. I couldn't hear myself think. I was on a mountain, somewhere far away from the sun-kissed beaches of California, or maybe I was somewhere close. The verdurous foliage and abundant wildlife suggested somewhere else, but I had no idea. How long had I been out? Pines on the mountains reached towards the heavens, and purple flowers were standing tall, too, and optimistic, towards the sun that was hidden by the clouds, but the whole world was gray. I had no recollection of where we were going. I looked down through the hole and the drop made me nauseous, but down in the valley there was a line of horses all stopped and waiting for something. As the train descended the mountain, we approached what was holding up the line: a fallen horse and the rider who was tending to it. We were getting closer and closer, close enough to see that the man in tattered hemp and jeans, with arms stretched around its neck, was trying desperately to hydrate the horse with what was left of his canteen, but it wasn’t until we passed that the horror of the scene stole my breath for the longest minute of my life. The horse was choking on what seemed to be some kind of crude oil, black and horrible, spilling back into the ground. The horse was whimpering and struggling with what pathetic strength it had left to free itself from the embrace of his rider. The rider seemed to be screaming through tears, although the sound of his screams was swallowed by the chugging of the wheels. The steam from the engine, instead of lifting and disappearing into the sky, fell like a pesticide on the line of horses and devoured them instantly, leaving no trace of them except for their bones. I was sick in horror, and my head was spinning, and I pressed my eyes shut so that I may focus them better on the horror, to make absolutely sure that this was real; but when I looked on the spot in which the rider cradled his thoroughbred, there wasn’t a soul in sight, no horses, no riders anywhere, just the earth. To say I was confused doesn’t quite express the state I had been thrust into. My heart seemed to synchronize with the pumping of the pistons. I started to sweat. "Who the hell is Terry?" I wondered in a desperate attempt to escape whatever new world in which I found myself. I groped through the darkness of the cabin for answers: nothing, nothing, until my fingers dipped into a puddle of slime. Hesitantly, I raised my hand into the dusty sliver of light to reveal that the slime was oil.
By Andrew Jurden3 years ago in Fiction
My Candle
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. My candle. Out there, the nights were black and silent, and I liked it. It made me feel warm and alone. But I allow myself a little light sometimes. It was my candle and I loved it
By Roger Chappell3 years ago in Fiction
Monster on the Train
Frankenstein’s Monster was a vegetarian. I did a google search to see if Mary Shelley was a vegetarian and what came up was that she “shared her HUSBAND’s diet of being a vegetarian”. I didn’t like the way they put that. I mean, he didn’t own the fucking diet. It could be that he was a vegetarian first and she changed her diet to accommodate her partner’s lifestyle. That’s a thing that happens, but you know damn well she was the one making sure that he ate every day.
By Andy Rayner 3 years ago in Fiction
The Killing of the Tudor Rose.
The Tudor Rose Pub in Alfriston, East Sussex has four video surveillance cameras. One onto the quiet, cramped country street, one overlooking the main bar and another just above the cash register, more to stop employees slipping twenty quid into their pockets than to watch for trouble. All four cameras were cut at seven-fifteen PM. After all, Ivan was a creature of habit. And apart from the three months he was incarcerated, he’d walked into that pub at half past seven on the dot.
By Andy Flemming4 years ago in Fiction
Runaway Life
“Man do I have a headache! Where am I?” This question goes unanswered, but he can tell he is not alone. He can see bodies sitting in chairs all around him. He then realizes that he himself is sitting in a chair. The room is dark with only a small amount of ambient light coming from outside. He looks out the widow and realizes that he must be on a train because he can see that they appear to be moving through a dimly lit tunnel. He has no memory of getting on a train…nor of who he is for that matter.
By Matthew Weatherby4 years ago in Fiction
Whirr Click
There were ten of us. I counted three times as I took the slow climb out of unconsciousness. I counted my fingers over and over, and then as the room came into focus, I counted the other people around me, all taking the unhappy journey back to the real world.
By Alice Bethan Thomas4 years ago in Fiction
