- Created By NoxRequiem
Don't Look
“What do you think’s in there?”
The shed rose crookedly from the leaves, its walls twisted crazily so that none of them leaned in quite the same direction. The forest grew close around the decayed structure, wrapping it in a tangle of vines rendered leafless by the autumn weather. The brown foliage rooted the building firmly in the dirt, binding its worm-eaten siding together and preventing it from caving in.
I shrugged as I stared into its obscure opening, warped by the shed’s protracted, interminable collapse. The feeble fingers of light that reached fading into the darkness revealed, barely, the edge of something—it was impossible to tell what by such inadequate illumination. “I’ve never looked.”
“Why not? Scared?”
I nodded, unashamed. Of course I was scared. He would be too if he had to live here. There were many dark places in and around the house—the east wing of the attic, the little closet in the bedroom, the dirt corner in the basement—and it was not good for a child to plumb their murky secrets. That was a lesson I had learned the hard way.
He laughed. I did not get angry. “Well, I’m not scared,” he announced, getting spryly to his feet and crunching through the leaves towards the shed. “I’ll tell you what I find.”
I watched him go. The trees groaned as the October wind bent them mercilessly. The vines ascending the shed’s diagonal walls shivered. He poked his head into the blackness. For what felt like ages, he stood there with his back to me, then, slowly, he turned around.
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Ghost Story: A Plea for Help
The first is always in the morning. I usually wake up a minute before my alarm goes off, 7:29. As soon as the numbers change, instead of reading 7:30, the display shows a row of dashes, --:--. Then, instead of the usual beep-beep-beep, I hear a baby crying. When I switch the alarm off, the time goes back to normal, 7:30, but the crying keeps going until I get out of bed, then it sort of…strangles away.
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Ghost Story: The Whistler
A house wife hears an unexplained noise while preparing supper, and her investigation takes a tragic turn:
A deathly chill encased me as I turned to face the front door. I could see it was still locked. Upstairs, the whistling continued. The tune was familiar, but it was so off-key that I had trouble naming it. It went on and on, halting now and then for a breath, rising and falling until I could stand it no longer. I found myself inching towards the knife rack on the counter, and before I knew it I had pulled the largest blade from its place.
Read the whole thing here.
Ghost Story: How's the Wife?
With the biography of Anastasia Darkrose done, I am moving on from the village of Hallowdale for a time. I'll be back before too long, though.
Tonight I present a more classic ghost story about a man trying to banish a tenacious spirit. Here's an excerpt:
The wind stirs the leaves at my feet, raising them in a slowly revolving cyclone of red and gold and brown. “How’s the wife?” they seem to sigh, but I know they don’t really. It’s just their frayed edges rubbing aginst each other as invisible fingers toss them through the crisp air.
Invisible fingers, like the ones that run through my hair each night when I try to sleep.
You can read the rest here.
The Life and Death of Anastasia Darkrose: Hollow
The biography of Anastasia Darkrose comes to a close. What is gone is forever lost. The emptiness of the vampire's un-life consumes Anastasia Darkrose, until a fateful night brings her face-to-face with what she may have been missing.
