Small Horrors: A Collection of Fifty Creepy Stories

by Darcy Coates

  This’ll be the last one, he told himself for the fiftieth time that day. The last one, then the book’s off to the editor. And, provided I picked the right house, it’ll be the best out of all of them.

  For the past three years, March had spent his weekends and evenings researching haunted locations in the Summerset area. The region was supposedly a hotspot for the paranormal; civil war battle sites, a mass grave, and the state’s largest disused asylum created fertile grounds for spiritual unrest.

  March’s research had been meticulous. Every fact was verified and each experience documented as thoroughly as possible. He’d spoken to all of the area’s ghost hunters, both hobbyists and professionals. And one very interesting interview had led him to the Red Oak House.

  While there had never been a verifiable ghost sighting in the building—the stories amounted to a friend of a friend’s account, of which there were versions for almost every old house in the country—the Red Oak House did have an exceptionally dark history. The Gable family had built it in the eighteenth century. Their eldest son had been considered odd, but no one had ever questioned his sanity until he butchered his entire family and buried their remains in the garden behind the house.

  The massacre went undiscovered for weeks. When the town realised his crime, the villagers had gathered as a mob to storm the home. But the son, rather than let the mob kill him, had hung himself from a window before they could reach him. From then on, every single family who had occupied the house had suffered tragedy.

  March tried the house’s front door first, but it was boarded closed. He glanced behind himself, to where the empty, moonlit rural road stretched in each direction, then he slunk around the house’s side to check the windows and back door.

  It was technically a private property, which meant he was breaking and entering, but no one had lived in the house in more than two decades. March suspected the building’s owner probably wouldn’t have minded if it was burnt to the ground.

  The Messenger family had moved in following the Gables’ deaths. Within a year of occupancy, the father choked to death on a fish bone. Barely two months afterwards, the eldest son was kicked in the head by a horse and died in hospital. When the youngest child drowned in the river behind the house, Mrs. Messenger had taken her two remaining children and fled the home.

  The back door was also boarded over, but the window beside it was missing its glass. Using his jacket’s sleeves as protection, March hoisted himself over the sill and dropped into the kitchen. The room looked almost perfectly intact. A layer of grime seemed to coat every surface, and dead leaves and insects were scattered over the wood floor. Pots still hung on their hooks above the range, and when he opened the fridge’s door, March found it full of long-rotted food. He took a few steps back and photographed the room.

  After the Messenger family, a young couple, the Stalleys, had taken up residence. Heavily pregnant, Mrs. Stalley had been attempting to draw water from the well behind the house when she’d stumbled and fallen into it. Her husband didn’t hear her screams, and only discovered her body hours later. He’d been so grieved that he’d turned the shotgun from the mantel on himself.

  March followed the kitchen through to the living room. The furniture sat where it had been left for two decades; the fabric was slowly rotting in the humid air. March examined the paintings on the wall then took several photos of the room before continuing to the staircase.

  The house had remained empty for nearly five years following the Stalleys’ deaths and was then occupied by the Volkers, an immigrant family. The youngest child swallowed lye. His sibling fell from the third-floor window. Mrs. Volkers overdosed on her medication. Mr. Volkers was run over by his own truck when he forgot to use the handbrake. All within the span of two years.

  The stairs groaned under March’s weight as he climbed them. The air tasted stagnant and sour, tainted by the decay of rooms that desperately needed tending.

  The second-last family, the Smythes, left immediately after the death of their nephew, who’d been staying with them. He’d fallen into the threshing machine while it was running.

  March turned left at the top of the stairs and began exploring and photographing each room he passed. There was a vast amount of history buried in them; he found a diary, which he pocketed, and several photo albums from the last occupant.

  Mary Jacobsen was the only single person to purchase the house, and she was the only resident whose death hadn’t been confirmed. She’d lived there for six months then abruptly gone missing. While rumours circulated about possible grisly deaths, her neighbours believed she’d seen something supernatural and fled. The day before her disappearance, she’d mentioned hearing strange noises at night and feeling uncomfortable in her home.

  If she’d left, she’d done so in a hurry. Her clothes were in the closets, eaten to shreds by moths and age. The police reports said her dinner plate was still soaking in the sink when the search parties combed the house looking for her.

  March opened the door to the final room, Mary’s bedroom. It was neat, but dusty. He took two photos then began methodically opening the wardrobes and searching for any details that could enrich his book. In one corner was a small frame set into the wall, holding a wooden door. March opened the door and glanced inside. It was a dumbwaiter; when the house was first built, the narrow chutes were common, used to carry food to the upper levels. March pointed his torch down the hole and said very quietly, “Oh.”

  At the bottom of the chute, where the box would have normally been, lay a pile of cloth. In amongst the cloth peeked little slivers of white bone.

  March drew back, his mouth dry, as the shock of his discovery battled with morbid excitement. The house had claimed Mary after all. Somehow, she’d fallen into the chute. Did she die on impact, or was she still alive when her neighbours searched her house the following day?

  March took a step backwards and raised the torch to photograph the chute. He was a second too late to hear the rotten wood cracking under his feet, as the house, long starved, claimed another victim.

  19

  Overheard

  “He-e-ey,” Kylie said, flipping backwards onto the couch and kicking off her sneakers. She noticed she had a hole in one sock, and wiggled the exposed toe.

  “Hey yourself,” Sarah said from the other end of the phone. “I miss you already, girl.”

  Kylie laughed as she stared at the decorative plaster bordering the ceiling. It was fancy. Too fancy, she’d decided, as though the house were trying to seem classier than a rural farmhouse had any right to be. “Nowhere near as much as I miss you. And Jem. And Tammy. I swear I’m going to die of boredom before this week’s up.”

  “Ugh.” Kylie could imagine her best friend rolling her eyes as she twisted the phone’s cord around her fingers. “Then come back. It’s not as if the house is going to die if it’s left alone for too long.”

  Kylie groaned. “Mum says it’s going to build character. I think she’s hoping I’ll turn into a country bumpkin while I’m here. Plus, she says we still owe the Joneses for that time they looked after our dog.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But there’s literally nothing to do here. It’s, like, an hour to walk to the shops, and there’s nothing there except ugly fashion and a really nasty milkbar.” Kylie rolled onto her side to look at the lounge room. She wasn’t sure if the house needed new bulbs or if it had been built by an idiot, but the building never seemed bright enough, no matter how many lights she turned on. As soon as evening hit, the shadows clustered in and dimmed the room until she struggled to make out details in the corners and behind the multitude of bookcases.

  “Hey, there’s got to be something fun to do there.” A teasing note had crept into Sarah’s voice. “Feeding chickens. Sitting in a rocking chair for hours on end. Sewing.”

  “Shut up.” Kylie made a face, even though her friend couldn’t see her. Sarah laughed. In the moment of silence that followed, Kylie thought she detected a nois
e in the background of the phone. What is that? Breathing?

  “Hey, did you hear that?” she asked. The noise was interrupted by what sounded like a fridge door opening and rustling as Sarah looked inside.

  “Hear what?”

  “Like, exhaling.”

  “Yeah, I do that sometimes.” A container thudded onto a bench, and a lid was pulled off with a pop.

  She’s into the ice cream, then. Her parents can’t be home.

  “Yeah, but this sounded really… never mind. Has Travis said anything about me?”

  “Forget him,” Sarah said, her voice muffled as she filled her mouth with ice cream. “He’s not worth your time, girl.”

  Kylie didn’t reply. In the few seconds of dead air, she heard the breathing again. That can’t be Sarah. You can’t breathe like that with your mouth full.

  “Hey, did you—”

  “Yeah, I heard it that time,” Sarah said, sounding annoyed. “That’ll be the brat listening in on our call again. Tyler, get the hell off the phone!”

  An exhale filled the pause in their conversation, and Kylie sat up on the couch, suddenly feeling cold. It had sounded… sick somehow, as though the person were breathing through a damaged larynx. She’d heard the sound before, years ago, when her grandmother was dying of throat cancer. She would have been happy to never hear it again.

  “Tyler!” Sarah repeated, sounding angry. “I swear I’ll beat your ass for this. Get off the damn phone.”

  The inhale, this time, was sticky and rattling. Kylie wrapped her arms around her torso. “Sarah, are you sure—”

  “Hang on. Let me go punch some sense into the brat,” Sarah said. “He must be using Mum’s bedroom phone. Be back in a tic.”

  Kylie heard a click as Sarah placed the receiver on the kitchen bench, then her friend’s footsteps thundered in the distance, accompanied by her yelling, “This is why everyone hates you, you ass.”

  Kylie let her eyes rove across the room as she waited. The shadows seemed to be thickening, as though they were seeping out of their corners and bleeding across the room. She had the distinct impression that, if she waited long enough, the darkness would swallow her. She closed her eyes and tapped her feet together, suddenly keen to hear her friend on the phone again.

  Instead, the rasping, rattling breath returned, followed by a voice. It was a sound Kylie knew she’d never forget: cracked and somehow bubbling, as though the sounds had been drawn through a mangled neck. Despite that, the voice seemed pleased with itself, almost taunting.

  “Hello, Kylie,” it said, accompanied by another rattling breath. “You left the back door unlocked.”

  Kylie’s mouth opened, though she didn’t make a sound. The receiver clicked as the caller placed it back in its cradle. Two beats passed, then Sarah picked up her phone again, sounding breathless. “It wasn’t Tyler,” she said. “He’s downstairs, playing video games with his friend.”

  The receiver dropped from Kylie’s hands as the door behind her opened.

  20

  An Empty Church

  “What do you think it is?” Clara asked, then corrected herself. “Was.”

  “Church.” Sam nodded towards the cross adorning the steeply slanted roof. “Must be old, though. I didn’t think anyone lived near here.”

  Clara turned to glance at the trees behind them. They’d been crossing from the town to Sam’s house, using the Potts Forest as a shortcut, when they’d become lost. Not that being lost in Potts Forest was dangerous; the woods were criss-crossed with hiking trails and roads. All the friends needed to do was keep walking until they came across a pathway then follow it back to town. Neither of them had been expecting to find signs of habitation in the forest, though.

  “Want to look inside?” Sam grinned, and her braces reflected in the low afternoon light.

  Clara sighed. “Really?”

  “C’mon, yeah. Let’s see what’s left inside.”

  The church wasn’t large. It was smaller than Clara’s house, even. Sam was first to the door, and she pushed it open then wiped her hands on her jeans. “It’s slimy.”

  “Wood’s rotting,” Clara noted. “Better be careful in there.”

  Sam made a mocking noise. “It’s not that derelict. C’mon.”

  Inside, the church was so dim that Clara had to squint to make out the shapes. Rows of ancient, carved wooden pews faced the front of the church, where a simple pulpit stood below a stained-glass window. Clara blinked at the image in the glass, but it didn’t seem to be any sort of religious scene. It showed a gigantic snake coiled in on itself, its mouth swallowing its tale so that it became a circle. The serpent’s teeth pierced its own scales, sending rivulets of blood onto the black ground below it. Clara shuddered and turned away.

  A communion table stood at the front of the church, its once-white crocheted cloth discoloured and tatty from age. Clara approached the table and looked over the ornaments. There were no communion cups or baskets for bread. Instead, a range of ornate, decadently twisting knives were laid out on the stained cloth, and a large bowl stood in the centre of the table. The bowl’s contents had dried during the decades the church had been forgotten, but it had left a black sediment in the base. Clara found herself imagining a congregation lining up to slice their hands and mingle their blood in the bowl. She forced herself to look away. This place is too weird.

  “Sam? Ready to go?” Clara hoped she’d kept the anxiety out of her voice, but she couldn’t stop it thundering through her veins as she looked about the room and saw she was alone. “Sam?”

  No answer.

  Clara crossed her hands over her chest and tried to slow her breathing. She moved to the centre of the church and looked up and down the rows of pews. A door—one she couldn’t remember seeing before—stood open below the stained-glass window. Clara squinted at it. She thought she could hear faint noises coming from the darkness: halting, stumbling footsteps, and shoes scraping across the stone floor.

  Clara reluctantly approached the door and held her breath to listen to the sounds. The footsteps mingled with a voice, but the sound was too low for her to understand what it was saying. She glanced down and saw the dust had been wiped off the door handle. Someone had gone that way recently.

  Clara cleared her throat, but her voice still came out as a whisper. “Sam?”

  “Yes, Clara?” Sam’s voice, placid, came from inside the doorway.

  “Sam, get out of there. I want to go.”

  Silence. Clara leaned into the doorway, hoping to see her companion. The faint light from the church’s entrance and the holes in the roof couldn’t illuminate more than the first few steps, but she could see a stone stairwell leading downwards. Does the church have a basement?

  “Sam?” Clara called again, but there was still no response. Clara steeled herself then stepped over the threshold and into the stairwell.

  Almost immediately, the darkness engulfed her, making her feel cloistered and smothered. She tried to draw breath, but it felt like inhaling water. She tried to call, but her voice stuck in her throat. Moving her feet felt like dragging her limbs through mud, but she moved forward slowly and deliberately as the blackness pressed in on her from all sides.

  Panic rose through her chest as she tried to call again and found her voice choked. She turned back to find the door, but all was darkness. She couldn’t see the light, she couldn’t see the door, and she couldn’t see Sam. She tried to scream, but the sound was doused before it could even reach her own ears.

  I’m suffocating. Even though she was still dragging breaths into her lungs, it felt nothing like any sort of air she’d inhaled before. Dead and heavy, it made her want to retch. She flung herself forward, towards where she thought the door had been, but her fingers grazed only the air. Her feet slipped out from under her as she fell forward. She braced herself to hit the floor, but instead, she slammed into the door, upright.

  Clara took a stumbling half-step back, but didn’t dare take her fingers away f
rom the doorframe. She scrabbled over it, searching for the handle—and a way out—as she fought to inhale the toxic substance that threatened to drown her. A choking sob escaped her raw throat, but the sound was perfectly smothered. She couldn’t hear a thing, not her heartbeat, not the sounds of her fingernails splintering as she clawed at the door with increased desperation, and not the sounds of her hungry, futile gasps. Then the door swung open on its own, and Clara stumbled through it.

  She was back in the forest, facing the path she and Sam had been following. She drew a sharp, gasping breath, relieved to feel real air in her lungs again. When she turned, she found the church just behind her, its front door wide open.

  That’s impossible. She rotated to see the forest again and caught sight of a figure near the edge of the trees. She recognised the jeans and slightly too-large sweater and stumbled towards her friend. “Sam?”

  Sam turned slowly. Her face was sheet-white and coated with sweat, and her eyes, normally a bright brown, were deadened, as though she’d seen things Clara couldn’t even dream of.

  “Sam?” Clara repeated, grabbing at her friend’s arm.

  Sam blinked at her once and drew a shuddering breath. “I want to go home.”

  21

  The Monster and the Moors

  Dale knelt in the soft ground to examine the animal’s footprints. They were nothing like he’d ever seen before. They seemed cloven, like a sheep’s, but elongated, like a human’s, and tipped with small holes from its claws. The imprints were deep in the earth—slightly deeper than even Dale’s, implying the beast was at least as heavy as a man.

  “And the prints have been the same every time?” Dale asked.

  The gaunt, haggard farmer who stood a few paces back gave a slow nod. “Aye.”

  Dale rose and rubbed his hands on his breeches. The farmstead was a twenty-minute walk behind them. To his left was the flock of sheep, protected in their gated field. To his right were the remains he’d been invited to see.