Horror
Widow's Rest
This is not a story of fragile women trapped in towers. This is not a story about gallant knights and princes who sweep these same poor, trapped maidens off their feet and into another type of cage, just one more gilded. No. This is a story about wronged women who have no choice but to cut like shards of glass. This is a story about women who want nothing more than to see those who hurt them bleed for the pain they have inflicted. If this is not the kind of story you want to hear then go elsewhere. I am not here to coddle you like a mother does their child. I am not a guide nor a guardian. I am simply a storyteller. Still here? Then I shall continue.
By Cerys Latham4 years ago in Fiction
Shadows
Brian struggled to stay awake. Nursing cold coffee, the caffeine barely able to compete with the lullaby sound from the engine, the soft vibrations as it idled in the dead quiet of the early morning hours. He kept his eyes on the barn, occasionally he would flip the spot light on, and run the perimeter of the barn, and let it beam out across the open fields that surrounded it. He looked at the clock on the dashboard, the green lights blared 05:07 A.M. I’m giving him until 530, he thought to himself, and then it’s time to go.
By Brandon Boyer4 years ago in Fiction
The Box
It was an unusually cheerful day as the postman glided up the walkway. A strong sun commanded the sky, with no clouds around to challenge or dampen its ferocity. A light breeze steadily swept through the calm neighbourhood causing a handful of leaves to excitedly jump at the mail carrier's trousers and cling to the fabric, rustling as he handed me the plain brown box.
By Jake Xagas4 years ago in Fiction
The Box
It was an unusually cheerful day as the postman glided up the walkway. A strong sun commanded the sky, with no clouds around to challenge or dampen its ferocity. A light breeze steadily swept through the calm neighbourhood causing a handful of leaves to excitedly jump at the mail carrier's trousers and cling to the fabric, rustling as he handed me the plain brown box.
By Jake Xagas4 years ago in Fiction
The Popular One
All across America, on this Tuesday night, an event shall take place like no other, and it all starts with a box. The Popular One is the latest of reality trash television. A show that scratches at the itch to see strangers lust, consume an aberrant amount of alcohol and become belligerent, preach both lies and truth, and persuade to their own means. Twelve contestants, all from different walks of life, try to win one-hundred thousand dollars to be the final Popular One.
By Anthony Diaz4 years ago in Fiction
Casey's Magic Box
The most unnerving summer of my life started off so simply. It’s the middle of June back in ’87 and I was living on my own. Times were difficult and I made my living pulling two dead end jobs to barely afford an apartment I shared with two others. I was returning home after a double at dead end job number two, a dishwasher making one of the smaller links in the great Melvin’s Diner restaurant chain. Reaching the third and final level of the complex, a feat that seemed impossible from the ground, I turned down our hall to see what would cause the start of it all; a small, brown box at the door.
By Travis Pittman4 years ago in Fiction
The Trinket of Poppy Field
Dear Julian, How strange it is to write this by hand. I planned on just sending an email once the package arrived, but this seemed more fitting. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be a cool detail for your book. Should I have sealed this with wax and stained the paper with tea to give it more of a “haunted house” feel? Perhaps you can embellish the story when you tell it.
By Amanda Fernandes4 years ago in Fiction
The Suspicious Brown Paper Package Murder.
Anastasia Gault was a gullible young lady. She was the sort of trusting soul who made life profitable for conmen, charlatans, and snake-oil salesmen. There was no extended warranty she wouldn’t buy. No sob story that didn’t break her heart. And no plea for alms she wouldn’t honor with a few dollars. Although, in fairness, she had yet to send any money to a Nigerian Prince with cash flow problems. And for this, she congratulated herself on her common sense and perspicacity.
By Pitt Griffin4 years ago in Fiction
The Trail of Marigolds
There was a proud little house that sat at the edge of the forest, walls made of wood and covered in lilac Wisteria, the door a beautiful purple and the garden covered in a rainbow flowers; red roses, orange lilies, yellow buttercups, green carnations, bluebells and, of course, the purple wisteria.
By Indie Warren4 years ago in Fiction
The Curse of The Irish
Today’s just like any other regular day. I get up from my bed, after being rudely awaken by my phone’s annoying ringtone to go to the bathroom, to take a hot shower, brush my teeth and shave, then finally making a quick breakfast of scramble eggs and coffee. As I don my work attire, vest and name tag, to work at the super-market, I hear my doorbell ring. Placing the vest on my kitchen table, I walk over to the door to see who could possibly be coming to my house this early in the morning.
By Tay Gallagher4 years ago in Fiction
