Horror
The Barn
THE BARN A monitor in a kitchen flickers rapidly with distorted images. Voices speaking an unknown language can be heard on an intercom. Jacob Hollowood, a white-haired man in his early sixties, enters loading a pump shotgun. He looks over at the monitor, chambers a round, and exits through the back door.
By Lucifer Divinitas5 years ago in Fiction
Demons
Elizabeth Marge Henderson 04-25-1990 prison psych eval is accounted as follows; For so long I have never felt like I could give you a reason why. I will try today, although I can say you won't believe me. Jacob had always been able to bring me back from the dark places. In reality, Jacob was going through a much darker place than I ever would. It's been around fifty years since he'd gone, but the memory of what happened to him will never leave me. I was only eleven, he twelve. His birthday was September the seventeenth, a month before mine. He always used to tease me for being a month younger. I won't bore you with that though. You are here to learn about our old barn that burned down. Yes it was a peculiar instance. People from all over came to see the charred remains of that barn, and I can't say I blamed them. I would have too, if I hadn't known the story behind it already. Once the barn was completely burned to the ground, there were a small circle left untainted amongst the ashes. Nothing much special about it other than that no fire had gotten to it, and it were clear of debris. We always search for reason in these circumstances, but none were to be found. In this instance the truth is that much more unbelievable. Jacob and I were as thick as thieves, told each other everything, went everywhere together when we could. I knew his parents were strict but apparently I hadn't learned the half of it. We were just kids, but sometimes you could see the hollowness in his face, if only fleeting.
By Katie Oetzel5 years ago in Fiction
On the Beam
She had gotten up well before dawn so she could drive the 20 miles out to the ancient barn just as the sun came up and she’d been there ever since, taking pictures of every imaginable thing for her college photography class. Now it was after noon and the light was ugly, beating down mercilessly on the sere landscape. She grabbed the pack she had left lying by the barn door and went inside, standing in the doorway while her eyes acclimated to the sudden darkness.
By Arthur Vibert5 years ago in Fiction
One Dark Night
Everyone loves a good old barn. They have been around well, it feels like forever. And just about everyone in the country has one. Actually if your neighbour didn’t have a barn, you’d be forgiven for thinking something was wrong with them. Besides, where else can generations of children go and play til night falls and the sound of parents calling across the corn fields echoed that it was dinner time? Where else would teenagers find their first forays into the adult world of love and adventure of the human flesh? And where would the animals and occasional wandering gypsies find safety and shelter throughout the rain and icy winters?
By Sandie Edwards 5 years ago in Fiction
Red House
The icy gusts pushed at my back freezing the skin under my soaked overcoat motivating me further down the laneway in an ever growing hurry. Just as the winds became a fearsome gale throwing the rain at an odd angle I managed to seek shelter inside the old barn. Rickety as it was it seemed a fortress from the maelstrom outside and was a tremendous solace.
By Jake Xagas5 years ago in Fiction
What Lies beneath
My Mother always told me to stay away from the barn, It there, empty, dark and alone at the end of the field, and around it nothing grew. no birds nested inside, no moss grow up the sides, It just stood there forbidden and foreboding against the empty sky.
By Chatty Forster5 years ago in Fiction
SnapShot Fate
Hell is Real. Or at least that is what the sign said on our way up Interstate 71. Does that mean that hell is somewhere here in the cornfields of Ohio? How does the sign creator know it is real? I watch the sign fade away. Pressing my head against the cool glass and watching the world roll by from the middle row of our minivan.
By Tracy Ramey5 years ago in Fiction
Millie with all the freckles
It’s the smell that finally breaks me. I could handle seeing the old place again, and the creak of the ancient hinges as I forced open the doors – I could even handle stepping inside. But one deep breath is enough to bring it all back.
By David McClenaghan5 years ago in Fiction
Angelfire
“You smell that?” Jameson sniffed at the horse manure, giving Morgan a twinkling side eye, Morgan knew there was no way of disarming the loaded question, he was probably going to follow it up with some kind of defecation humor. In the vacuum he opted for his usual response; a grunt and a look that read: I am not amused.
By Dustin Scott5 years ago in Fiction
