#short

My son died yesterday, on an autumn evening, when the wind blew hard and the leaves hid from the first cold. The ambulance arrived too late. Since then, silence scratches my mind. But the worst thing was the wait every night, when he returned.

“Look at it go, sweetie!” the loving father joyfully called out to his little girl, pointing upward toward the kite flying high above the secluded beach. “Here baby, you try.” The little girl stood there shy, timid and melancholy as she stared skyward at the pale, flapping kite. This particular kite always reminded the girl of her missing mother; each of them, the mother and the kite, seemed to share the exact same colorful tattoos.

This is another I posted on /r/nosleep several years ago. I wanted to write something in the style of the horror anthologies I enjoyed as a kid in the '90s, such as Ask the Bones, The Scary Story Reader, or the classic Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. ----

His death was painfully slow. So slow, in fact, that he could see every single speck of his killer's features, as his eyes slowly started to become blurry. His brother's eyes. The colour of dark, dark coal. His friend's hair. The colour of a warm, dark brown layered with what he could have described as light browns here and there. His killer's lips. A pale rose tinted colour. The fact that those lips had folded back into a grin while his killer laughed maniacally had made him cry. Cry for his…

The old Kaymoore’s residence sat empty along Route 7, miles from town. It was a dreary night, the sky releasing an unrelenting mist when an officer was dispatched to check on the decrepit home. Officer Dawson walked up to the two story home, taking in the dark frame and vine-covered siding.

I stand at your window and watch you sleep. The whole night long I make no peep. You do not know that I am there. Just know that I could get you anytime anywhere. I open the window and in I crawl. I don’t want a drop I want it all. Up on the ceiling is where I shall hang. The thought of your skin soon pierced by my fang. The taste of your blood will be a treat. The feeling of my teeth ripping through your meat. Closer and closer here I come. Into your ear is where I hum. You open your eyes and…

In the shadowy, pine-filled countryside of Greece, there’s an old legend known to the older locals but half forgotten and unknown to the few young people living there. The legend centres around an eerie stone statue of a little girl named Magda, hidden deep in the local dark pine forest.