Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  “Odd!” I said. “Did I do that myself in a flash of absent-mindedness?”

  I walked back, relit one, and as I did so, I saw the candle in the right sconce of one of the mirrors wink and go right out, and almost immediately its companion followed it. There was no mistake about it. The flame vanished, as if the wicks had been suddenly nipped between a finger and a thumb, leaving the wick neither glowing nor smoking, but black. While I stood gaping, the candle at the foot of the bed went out, and the shadows seemed to take another step towards me.

  “This won’t do!” said I, and first one and then another candle on the mantelshelf followed.

  “What’s up?” I cried, with a queer high note getting into my voice somehow. At that the candle on the wardrobe went out, and the one I had relit in the alcove followed.

  “Steady on!” I said. “These candles are wanted,” speaking with a half-hysterical facetiousness, and scratching away at a match the while for the mantel candlesticks. My hands trembled so much that twice I missed the rough paper of the matchbox. As the mantel emerged from darkness again, two candles in the remoter end of the window were eclipsed. But with the same match I also relit the larger mirror candles, and those on the floor near the doorway, so that for the moment I seemed to gain on the extinctions. But then in a volley there vanished four lights at once in different corners of the room, and I struck another match in quivering haste, and stood hesitating whither to take it.

  As I stood undecided, an invisible hand seemed to sweep out the two candles on the table. With a cry of terror, I dashed at the alcove, then into the corner, and then into the window, relighting three, as two more vanished by the fireplace; then, perceiving a better way, I dropped the matches on the iron-bound deed-box in the corner, and caught up the bedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of striking matches; but for all that the steady process of extinction went on, and the shadows I feared and fought against returned, and crept in upon me, first a step gained on this side of me and then on that. It was like a ragged storm-cloud sweeping out the stars. Now and then one returned for a minute, and was lost again. I was now almost frantic with the horror of the coming darkness, and my self-possession deserted me. I leaped panting and dishevelled from candle to candle, in a vain struggle against that remorseless advance.

  I bruised myself on the thigh against the table, I sent a chair headlong, I stumbled and fell and whisked the cloth from the table in my fall. My candle rolled away from me, and I snatched another as I rose. Abruptly this was blown out, as I swung it off the table by the wind of my sudden movement, and immediately the two remaining candles followed. But there was light still in the room, a red light that staved off the shadows from me. The fire! Of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars and relight it!

  I turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals, and splashing red reflections upon the furniture, made two steps towards the grate, and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished, the glow vanished, the reflections rushed together and vanished, and as I thrust the candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye, wrapped about me in a stifling embrace, sealed my vision, and crushed the last vestiges of reason from my brain. The candle fell from my hand. I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous blackness away from me, and, lifting up my voice, screamed with all my might – once, twice, thrice. Then I think I must have staggered to my feet. I know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor, and, with my head bowed and my arms over my face, made a run for the door.

  But I had forgotten the exact position of the door, and struck myself heavily against the corner of the bed. I staggered back, turned, and was either struck or struck myself against some other bulky furniture. I have a vague memory of battering myself thus, to and fro in the darkness, of a cramped struggle, and of my own wild crying as I darted to and fro, of a heavy blow at last upon my forehead, a horrible sensation of falling that lasted an age, of my last frantic effort to keep my footing, and then I remember no more.

  I opened my eyes in daylight. My head was roughly bandaged, and the man with the withered arm was watching my face. I looked about me, trying to remember what had happened, and for a space I could not recollect. I rolled my eyes into the corner, and saw the old woman, no longer abstracted, pouring out some drops of medicine from a little blue phial into a glass. “Where am I?” I asked; “I seem to remember you, and yet I cannot remember who you are.”

  They told me then, and I heard of the haunted Red Room as one who hears a tale. “We found you at dawn,” said he, “and there was blood on your forehead and lips.”

  It was very slowly I recovered my memory of my experience. “You believe now,” said the old man, “that the room is haunted?” He spoke no longer as one who greets an intruder, but as one who grieves for a broken friend.

  “Yes,” said I; “the room is haunted.”

  “And you have seen it. And we, who have lived here all our lives, have never set eyes upon it. Because we have never dared …Tell us, is it truly the old earl who –”

  “No,” said I; “it is not.”

  “I told you so,” said the old lady, with the glass in her hand. “It is his poor young countess who was frightened –”

  “It is not,” I said. “There is neither ghost of earl nor ghost of countess in that room, there is no ghost there at all; but worse, far worse –”

  “Well?” they said.

  “The worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal man,” said I; “and that is, in all its nakedness – Fear that will not have light nor sound, that will not bear with reason, that deafens and darkens and overwhelms. It followed me through the corridor, it fought against me in the room –”

  I stopped abruptly. There was an interval of silence. My hand went up to my bandages.

  Then the man with the shade sighed and spoke. “That is it,” said he. “I knew that was it. A power of darkness. To put such a curse upon a woman! It lurks there always. You can feel it even in the daytime, even of a bright summer’s day, in the hangings, in the curtains, keeping behind you however you face about. In the dusk it creeps along the corridor and follows you, so that you dare not turn. There is Fear in that room of hers – black Fear, and there will be – so long as this house of sin endures.”

  Midnight Snack

  Michaël Wertenberg

  The winter wind swept through the forest, whistling through the bare branches, stirring the twigs and dirt on the ground. An owl turned its head and watched it pass. The insects stopped their nibbling and listened. In the distance, the howl of a lone wolf came to an abrupt stop.

  The frosted dirt began to splinter like a windshield struck by a pebble, cracks spreading outward in all directions. From the epicenter, a small bulge formed, then a second. Two sharp, curved claws pierced the growing mounds, then a third and a fourth, wiggling, twisting, trying to break free.

  Suddenly they stopped, then disappeared back into the ground.

  A still silence overcame the forest, as if nature itself were holding its breath.

  The ground began to rumble; grains of dirt bounced in agitation. A paw rose from the cracks, then a second. Between them, a head ripped through its earthly confines. Pebbles of debris landed like hail around the thing coming from the ground.

  Its skull was covered, with patches of dried, leathery skin, cracked like arid land. Its eyelids opened to hollow orbits, dark as a starless night. Its nose was flat and wide with nostrils flaring, quivering as they took in the various scents the wind blew its way.

  The animals of the forest brave enough for the winter cold were brave no longer. Some burrowed into the ground. Some climbed. Many fled. Even the moon didn’t dare look, and it summoned a thick grey cloud to hide behind.

  Long, thin arms – the color of the dirt itself – stretched up to the sky, each paw sprawled out, letting a stream of dirt trickle t
o the ground. Then the arms came crashing down.

  A shock wave shook the trees. A cloud of dirt rose from the ground. The head, as well, rose and the cloud dissipated, revealing the jaw, the mouth: the deviously wide mouth.

  The creature’s teeth were short, jagged and numerous; one row hid another, which hid another, which hid another. Each row moved independently like an agitated swarm of sharpened bone. Its jaw protruded slightly, giving it the impression – not entirely erroneous – that the creature was led by its mouth. With its head arched back, arms pushing down on either side, it pulled itself out of the ground.

  Maggots slithered out of its neck. Beatles and bugs poured out of its chest and back. The creature convulsed, spewing a horde of insects from its horrid, decomposing body.

  The wind passed by the creature’s tremoring nostrils – so many scents, so many strong scents: dirt, worms and decay; the smell of smoke coming from the West, the smell of stagnant water from the East.

  Its nostrils widened. Its whole being twitched in excitement. What a scent, what a wonderful, appetizing scent. From nearby, perhaps a mere thousand paces ahead, images were being conjured, words were being interpreted, emotions were being stirred, all in a majestic, mouth-watering frenzy.

  The creature crouched, hands on the ground, head back, mouth wide open, and let out a roar that sent a flurry of thin branches to fall to the ground.

  * * *

  “Billy, it’s time to put the comic book down and get to bed,” Billy’s mother called out from the kitchen.

  Curled up on the couch with a thick wool blanket, Billy looked up from the colored pages of the book he was cradling. He furrowed his brow. Judging by the melodious lilt in his mother’s call, he reckoned he still had a few more minutes of reading before he had to get to bed, really. Despite his mother’s repeated requests to the contrary, Billy had left the window directly behind him open. A thin stream of cool air crept in and touched the back of his neck, adding to the shivers the comic book was already providing.

  His mother continued putting the dishes away. Billy wished she would do it more quietly. He was sure the clanking of the dishes, especially with the window open, could be heard from far away. We don’t want whatever lurks out there in the woods to know there are people here.

  Billy jerked his head back toward the window. “Mom, did you hear that?”

  His mother did not answer.

  Kneeling on the couch, Billy leaned over to shut the window. He stopped for a moment, taking in a breath of the cold night air.

  The moon had seemingly vanished in the cloudy sky, and he could see little more than darkness and the faint outline of tall, leafless trees. The absence of moonlight prevented him from seeing the tops of the trees, giving the illusion that they stretched up forever.

  Billy listened again for the sound, but he could hear only the wind.

  His mother had finally finished with the dishes and was presently on the phone with a friend. Billy decided he was brave; he didn’t have to be scared of the wind, and he didn’t have to listen to his mother. He left the window open, and not without hesitation, went back to his story.

  * * *

  The creature stood upright. It extended its arms to either side. Veins and muscles rippled with activity. It shook off the dust and the dirt, and took a step forward.

  As it advanced, its dry skin cracked, releasing a puff of dust and dirt. Its rigid legs creaked forward, its joints grinding against bone like a rusty crank: “Creak, snap, thump. Creak, snap, thump.”

  Its nostrils – almost creatures in their own right – curled outward, stretching and pulling as if their host were not moving fast enough. The scent was growing stronger and stronger, brain activity now nearer and more elaborate. Accompanying it was that sweet musk of fear, just a hint. A pool of moisture formed around the creature’s teeth, dripping long, thin lines of yellow slime.

  Crows left their perches to find sanctuary in the sky. Insects hid under twigs, and the worms dug themselves even deeper into the earth.

  The wind was the creature’s only accomplice, pushing it from behind with a gentle breeze, at the same time, wisping in a trail of odours from the front to guide its way.

  * * *

  “Billy, I thought I told you to put that away and go to bed. And why do you have the window open? It’s freezing.” Billy’s mother stood at the doorway, hands on her hips. A strong odor of chocolate and fudge swept in from the kitchen.

  “What’s that smell, Mom?”

  “Those are brownies.”

  “Can I have one?”

  “They’re for the picnic tomorrow. And it’s late. You need to get to bed.”

  “Just one more minute, Mom. It’s getting to the end of the story.”

  “Billy, it’s almost midnight. You can finish the story tomorrow.” She grabbed the comic from his hands and set it on the table.

  “But Mom! The creature is just about to eat the little boy.”

  Billy’s mother winced. “My goodness. Why would you want to read a story where a monster eats a little boy? That kind of thing will give you nightmares.”

  Billy rolled his eyes.

  She leaned over the couch, and shut the window. “Come on, sweetheart.” She took Billy by the hand. “It’s bedtime.”

  “But Mom!”

  He contested as he was being pulled off the couch. He contested as he was being led up the stairs. And he contested as he was being tucked into bed.

  “But, Mom, how am I supposed to sleep if I don’t know how the story ends?”

  “It ends with the good little boy doing what his nice mother tells him, and they all live happily ever after…Oh, and the monster dies.”

  Billy scrunched up his nose and frowned.

  “Pleasant dreams, my little pumpkin.” She gave Billy a kiss on his forehead, smiled and walked away.

  When his mother left his room, Billy wiped the gross kiss mark off his forehead and slipped out of the overly warm covers. He lay in his bed and listened to his mother finish up downstairs then go to her room down the hall from his.

  The house was frightfully still, yet as he strained, he could hear faint noises coming from outside in the woods. Something was out there; he could hear the snap of twigs, growing in frequency and in intensity. It’s probably just some animal, he told himself, but what animal?

  * * *

  With its nostrils leading the way, the creature trudged through the forest. Its arms now hung low, its sharp claws grazing the ground. It opened wide its mouth, tasting the air filled with promises of things to come.

  A squirrel dared to stay but a few meters away from the creature whose nostrils pulled the head in the squirrel’s direction. A sniff, and the nostrils rippled. Hair particles stretched out from inside the dark cavities in hopes of procuring more of the scent. Brain activity low, was its assessment. Not worth the detour. Instead, the creature dropped to all fours and used its arms to propel forward faster. With each bound it was closer. With each bound it was more excited, and long strands of thick saliva hung from its jaw and waved in the wind. Not much farther. Brain activity intense. Sweet, nourishing brains!

  * * *

  Billy got out of bed and tiptoed down the hallway. He stopped at the top of the stairs and listened; not a creature was stirring, at least not in the house.

  To avoid the creaking steps, he slid down the banister on his stomach, but landed with a thud much louder than he had hoped for. His heart skipped a beat, as he expected to hear his mother come out of her room to investigate.

  After a motionless moment of silence, he breathed a sigh of relief. To his left he could spy the comic book on the table, to his right the kitchen. Comic book or brownies? Comic book or brownies?

  The scent reached his nostrils and propelled him into action. He slipped into the kitchen and snagged a brownie – the smallest one so
that his mother wouldn’t notice. He tiptoed back to the living room, picked up the comic book, grabbed his trusty flashlight from under the couch, and curled up to finish the story.

  He put the brownie whole in his mouth, yet still managed a devious smile. As if not devious enough, he twisted his body around, leaned back and cracked open the window.

  As he went from frame to frame, from page to page, he munched on the forbidden brownie, trying to pace himself so as to finish it and the story at the same time.

  The last bit of brownie swallowed, Billy smacked his lips and wiped his mouth. He set the comic book down, not without slight disappointment. The boy is saved and the monster dies. I hate happy endings.

  Billy got up from the couch, but when he saw the dark, empty staircase he was meant to take to go back to his room, he reconsidered. He talked himself into staying on the couch for the night, telling himself that it wasn’t out of fear, but rather that he was quite comfortable there, and that walking up those creaky stairs to go to his room would surely wake his mother.

  Billy wrapped himself in the wool blanket and lay back down on the couch. The window was still open, but he convinced himself to leave it, since he was so brave. He imagined and re-imagined the story he had just read, trying his best to come up with a more satisfying ending: one where, for once, the monster wins. How’s that for happily ever after, Mom?

  Content with his revision – a satiated and very much alive monster – Billy fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.

  * * *

  The trees gave way to a small clearing, and a bit farther still, stood a small house. Its ground-floor window was ajar, and the scent of brain activity was slowly streaming out. With each thought and each imagined event, an explosion of delectable odours came tantalizing the over-anxious nostrils. The creature was now at a sprint, its bones cracking in rapid succession like kindling being consumed by a fire.