Horror

Bottom of the Food Chain (Chapter 1)
A Story Bottom of the food chain Dechlan TOMSETT Prologue - “I can’t remember when my neighbours weren’t trying to eat me, when I could step outside without looking over my shoulder or surveying my arcs every couple seconds or so. I was never a stranger to conflict or gunfire but this... this relentless enemy that didn’t follow your conventional fighting methods, now, I wasn’t used to this.” - Corporal Christian Mathers, 2024.
By Dechlan Tomsett5 years ago in Fiction
Blood Equity
The woman reeked of rotten borscht. That was the first thing I noticed about her. The next thing I noticed was that she was Russian.
By Anton Crane5 years ago in Fiction
Dreamer
Alice filled her lungs with the cool breeze that wafted in through her dark basement window. She’d been renting this dank dungeon suite for nearly five years, but the house had been rooted here since 1946. Though the ceiling came down to just a few inches above her head, this was the one place where she felt she could stand tall. This was her sanctuary, her bat-cave, her anything she needed it to be. When the world outside felt like chaos, she could always slump solidly into her favourite chair or snuggle with the many pillows and blankets on her soft bed.
By Kharah Black5 years ago in Fiction
The Zombie Apocalypse Barn
The day the zombie apocalypse happened, Jared and I were working on our farm. He was running the tractor over the fields, to make them fallow, while I was going through the seed inventory to figure out what we needed to order. Neither of us were much for watching the news, but I had the radio turned on and was listening to some classical music when the music was interrupted.
By Taylor Ellwood5 years ago in Fiction
Gina's Storm
The letter said I would find her at the barn, 400 paces due north from the old wooden gate. Using the crudely drawn map in the envelope, it took me almost three hours to find that gate.
By Gerald Holmes5 years ago in Fiction
My favorite day
Today was Halloween, my favorite day of the year. Getting to dress up on top of loving all things spooky. Of course, most people just get wasted hoping to score on Halloween. I already had scoped out all the parties tonight to make sure I go to the one that will have the most people there.
By Melinda Cooper5 years ago in Fiction
Indigo (the second second edit)
*Family Before the reapings began, what used to be the United States, had been reduced to, for the first time, since horrible men had come to ravage, and rebrand, like so many cattle, a ruined third world. The plague left us with, after 3 months, only 30% of humanity "Estimated living," If you could even call it that. Because 29 out of that 30% had turned themselves from brutal, conniving, and hungry monsters of violence, into just blindly and numbly seeing to the necessary to survive. This was Because of the easily accessible drug called blue that was made so quickly available for human consumption right before the outbreak. Marketed as a 'cure-all' for the human condition,( general mental well-being,) so that humanity could stop focusing on the real physical causes.
By Nikki Trujillo5 years ago in Fiction
The Brass Bull
The little statue was the ugliest thing she'd ever seen. But, her Mother insisted that she keep it. For 'luck' her Mother said. Odette highly doubted the brass bull was lucky. There had to be zero luck in an ugly thing like this.
By Raphael Fontenelle5 years ago in Fiction
THE FINAL HOUR
THE FINAL HOUR Written by James D. Merrick , March 28, 2015 6:00 AM. Tilton Town. Allan’s gloved hand inserts the ignition key. The Malibu coughs, belches into the morning gloom, then sputters to life. It moves slowly away from the sleepy apartment building and sloshes down the potholed driveway onto rain-slicked County Road. It’s heading toward the truck dispatch office perched on Tilton Mesa and Allan’s delivery assignment for today.
By James Dale Merrick5 years ago in Fiction
BARTON'S PLACE
Youth is the spattering of dreams over a blossoming mind trying eagerly to discern that which is and which isn’t. The holy dreams are permitted well past youth unlike the gift giving dreams that maturity will wean. Given enough time, that which is and which isn’t can become entangled, and the past becomes like a dream, where uncertainty plagues the further behind one tries to gaze. When I look back, there is one thing that remains clear from my youth; my mother’s last words to me when she said,
By Brian Keith McMurray5 years ago in Fiction
The Nexus
This is the first draft for "The Portals." On a yellow moon night, at the end of a crooked trail, the old barn seemed to be no more than an abandoned and crumbling monument of a forgotten era.
By D. ALEXANDRA PORTER5 years ago in Fiction
Meeting Place
2021 The sweet scent from a solitary, mature jasmine vine grappled onto the dusty walls of the abandoned barn hung in the gentle, twilight breeze. A vine planted by lovers long ago, adrift in hopefulness but trapped in reality; destined to find shelter within these four walls until the end of time.
By Jasper A. Flintsmith5 years ago in Fiction