Horror
Angelica and the New Moon
Inside a two-story cabin in Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, Vincent woke up to thunderous clangor of hammer and nails shortly before midnight. He sat up on a vintage couch and realized that his wrists were tied together with a rope in front of him. He could feel his bruised forehead throbbing in pain which was making him groan.
By Leona Valentine4 years ago in Fiction
Bones
Mottled pink light of the coming sunrise filtered through thick fog across a small lake. A huddled figure stirred at the base of a giant oak along the shore. The figure was an ancient looking woman, cloaked in a raggedy robe. Stringy hair hung over her creased face and touched the ground as she rummaged in the leaf litter. At last, her dry old hands held what looked like a lump of animal fur. Her thick grey nails tore into the pellet, revealing small bones, ribs, a skull. She examined the tiny rodent skeleton delicately. Running her fingers over the smooth clean bone, scraping into the crannies of each one with a sharp nail. Satisfied, she placed the bones and fur into a basket and stood up. Hunchbacked and stiff, she began to make her way along the shore to a narrow trail that met the lake. The eerie quiet was broken with an owl’s hoot. It was a sound that filled your ears and brought a heaviness to your heart. The woman looked up as a great barn owl flew overhead. Following the raptor with her eyes she watched as it landed high in the branches of the oak. Another hoot echoed across the lake. The sun was rising, burning away the heavy mist that clung to the trees and covered the water. The forager was gone. Birds began their songs, breaking the night into day.
By AA Kondrat4 years ago in Fiction
The House in the Woods
"Ticket, please." Riley shows her phone to the driver standing at the doors of the Greyhound bus she's about to get on. He gives her the go-ahead to climb aboard and she makes her way to the back of the bus, settling into the seat near a window.
By Jess Goodwin4 years ago in Fiction
Yellow Eyes
The night air is bitterly cold, each breath I take swirls around my face in heavy clouds. Despite the icy chill, sweat clings to my forehead as I hitch my duffle bag around my shoulder. I take a moment to breathe as I look around me. The trees in the dark felt more imposing, their crooked figures loomed all around me like thin decrepit limbs encasing me in. Their leaves long gone this deep into the season, leaving only the skeletal branches behind. They provided me with no cover from the thick heavy rain falling from above, and by now my clothes were sodden. I begin walking, trudging through the thick mud and forest debris. The rain was making it hard to determine a consistent path ahead of me. My bag, heavy across my shoulders, causes my muscles to groan with each step. The wind was getting stronger by the second, so much so that it whistled through the trees making me unsteady on my feet.
By Connor Meakin4 years ago in Fiction
INGRAVED
IT WAS AS THOUGH HE WERE INVITED BY THE HAUNTING ECHO OFF THRU THE FOGGED EVE, "Hoohoot hoohoot." Along the road were hand etched headstones. Engraved with the likeness of a carcass. A carcass of the previous person who was now reduced to nothing except a pile of slimed flesh reminiscent of things already long buried. Flesh which would soon resemble a layer of ash. Flesh once subtle with life giving juices. The fluid of life that runs dry with time. Flesh leaks fluid and eventually sags into self until there is nothing. Nothing but dust. Dust is to dust, and ever shall be. As the fog crept thick about them, mother and children huddled tightly awaiting notice of the man's return. He had stepped out of and away from the car suggesting that he would seek help for the stalled engine. He stepped away just before the first low "Hoohoot... hoohoot" pierced the heavy fog. Owls were common in the rural preserve, as such the sound never startled him. The overgrowth of plants hung low, never shorn for keeping what was inside them. This night nothing of substance was visible, including the man in his departure. Nothing except the occasional emergence of an outline of a headstone. He had stopped the car and stepped away. He'd not raised the hood or set a blinking caution light. He'd simply stepped away.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Fiction
THE ROOM
The brisk autumn air blew colorful leaves around me in a mini-tornado that seemed to pull me towards the house. A welcome or not, the push forward almost made me want to turn around and go home—but I didn't. Instead, I arrived on the Petersons' doorstep at precisely seven o'clock. In the six months that I’ve lived next door, I’d never stepped foot inside their home, so you can imagine my surprise when Mrs. Peterson approached me as I made a run to my mailbox asking me to babysit for her. This shocked me for two reasons. The extent of our interaction has always only involved the basic “Hello, how are you?” and “Have a nice day," nothing more. And two, the many times we’ve crossed paths, not once was there a child in sight; guided by my curiosity, I agreed to babysit, which is why I now stand on the porch shaking in bouts of nervousness.
By Farah Davis4 years ago in Fiction
Phantasmagoria
I wake to a sharp jab to my wrist. Light slices through my cracked eyelids and my surroundings swim into focus. A dark room with a blinding round white light. A door with blurry edges–is it the door that’s blurry or my eyes?--.A man with a pale face dressed in a white coat.
By Sarah Clawson4 years ago in Fiction
Through The Night. Top Story - January 2022.
I walked through the darkened halls, the candles that lined the massive walls would soon give way to the chilly air funneling through. The draft escaped through the grand tunnel that marked the way back to the more occupied area of my new home. What drew me this far, I could not tell, what feed my curiosity, I would not say; there were rumors of dark lore I dare not partake in, but they were only rumors, harmless to say the least. I wouldn't allow gossip to rule my life, nor creatures to send me running, so I kept walking.
By Latoya M.Delbridge 4 years ago in Fiction
Olly's Owls
Olly read somewhere that owls are an omen of death. If that were true, then he was in serious trouble. The church steeple was filled with them. They nested in the rafters and perched on forgotten Crucifixes. Their white, disc-shaped faces swiveled on ball-joint necks, capable of spinning 360 degrees as if it were nothing. Luminescent faces pierced through the dark, creating the illusion that they were a legion of floating demon heads. Worst of all, those dead, blank eyes watched him with morbid curiosity. Dozens of pairs of black hell-portals stared out from the floating heads, each one locked unblinkingly on Oliver's rigid form.
By Nathan Sanders4 years ago in Fiction
The Seven in the Trees
I was never good at stopping to smell the roses. My mother used to say that I should have been born a 30-year-old since even as a kid I was always on the go for the next big thing. I was a thrill-seeking goal-getter from the start, boring quickly of my accomplishments before racing off for the next shiny thing. It was the pursuits and the challenges that fed me. You could tell me there was a toenail that everyone wanted at the top of a mountain, and I’d leap for the chance to claim it if it meant being the first to do so. I always had a squad of friends because of how sociable my addiction for quests allowed me to be. They all described me as the “bright and fearless conqueror” that they aspired to be like and the “life of the party.”
By Tiara Morris4 years ago in Fiction
