Read Online 13 Tales To Give You Night Terrors by Elliot Arthur Cross - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elliot Arthur Cross
Tags: Paranormal, supernatural, Young Adult, new adult, Ghosts, Anthology, free, urban horror, short collection, lgbt horror
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my
own.
My vision becomes his.
It’s hot here. My sweat drips,
collecting in the furry folds around my lips and chin. It’s moist
and I’m so thirsty.
I stumble out of the apartment.
Through the city.
Hookers and addicts own the streets
until the sun rises on the city. The tourists and professionals
reclaim the lost territory.
There are others like me in the
fringes. Batman. Snoopy. Wonder Woman.
Kids pose with me and parents chuck
spare coins my way.
People point. They jeer. Snicker.
Laugh. They shouldn’t push me too far; they wouldn’t like the
consequences. There’s been a long line from the first people who
pushed me too far. Each told someone about me and each had to be
dealt with.
It’s a precious chain.
Now you know my story and I can’t
break the chain. That’s why I’m coming for you.
7. STORE
MACABRE
Scott Clark,
Scotland
NO one noticed when the doors clicked shut and the locks flipped
in their chambers. The glass doors warbled in their steel fixtures
against the harsh wind tearing down the empty high street, and an
atmosphere possessed by dusk rapidly drew towards the bitter cold
of night.
Past the busy cash desks swarm
bug-eyed and ferocious patrons, each waving garments over-head with
ritualistic frenzy, cackling in tongues, demanding the attention of
sweating workers who do their best in a heat unthinkable. Over
discarded items and the litter of a thousand wretches, children rub
sticky chocolate across miserable smiles and cry for mothers who
sing at them whilst scrabbling at the last filthy dress on the
rack.
Feel the heat squeeze salty
beads of moisture from greasy pores. Feel the waves of noise bang
and clash against, what you might have once called fine hearing.
Feel every complaint or roar of vicious laughter race up to join
the atmosphere of panic induced by nothing more than this; a store
about to tipple into the eye of a storm, no more impeded by
harmony.
Back at the door the lights flicker.
As the shadows surge forwards and backwards, warded by the failing
light, it is almost possible to notice a figure of impossible
height. Wreathed in black, whining softly, the figure’s stuttering
form reaches out a ghastly arm and calls for attention. Its
knuckles scrape and crack on the hardened glass. The hollow noise,
enough to freeze the blood of any hardened soul, is a glimpse of
death’s embrace resonating in the knock of this doomed figure. And
yet it falls on deaf ears. The figure maintains a vigil.
The chaos of this atmosphere, the
clambering and the screaming and the heat, is so great that few
notice the developing horrors. Few notice the doors are now locked
and a figure beckons from the door, as you have. Even fewer smell
the smoke, or taste the bitter salt on the air, and register that
something is far wrong with this picture.
The lights dim almost imperceptibly
and flicker like candlelight in the chill breeze of eve. A rush of
wind, its source impossible to fix, rushes through the floor
chilling all who notice it to the bone. Teeth clatter and fingers
lose grip, children sink back slowly into the busy crowds,
grappling for their mother’s skirts. Breaths become bated, shallow,
vaguely strangled in the close, maddening, air.
By the side of the till there is a
large black sack, not unlike a suit carrier, which must be hauled
up to the Manager’s office as a greasy note dictates. As it is
dragged across the floor it leaves an angry red smear on the cream
tiles that no one—save a beady eyed brat—seems to notice. The
Assistant reaches the lift just in time. As she steps onto the
grubby corrugated floor of the rusted elevator, the floor almost
claims her shoe.
Back at the cash desk a spectacled
banshee shakes fistfuls of crumpled notes at a young worker,
glaring wildly as her legs are enveloped by the floor. The Cashier
instantly begins an accident evaluation sheet, because if these
things aren’t done properly, Trading Standards could have them
own.
My vision becomes his.
It’s hot here. My sweat drips,
collecting in the furry folds around my lips and chin. It’s moist
and I’m so thirsty.
I stumble out of the apartment.
Through the city.
Hookers and addicts own the streets
until the sun rises on the city. The tourists and professionals
reclaim the lost territory.
There are others like me in the
fringes. Batman. Snoopy. Wonder Woman.
Kids pose with me and parents chuck
spare coins my way.
People point. They jeer. Snicker.
Laugh. They shouldn’t push me too far; they wouldn’t like the
consequences. There’s been a long line from the first people who
pushed me too far. Each told someone about me and each had to be
dealt with.
It’s a precious chain.
Now you know my story and I can’t
break the chain. That’s why I’m coming for you.
7. STORE
MACABRE
Scott Clark,
Scotland
NO one noticed when the doors clicked shut and the locks flipped
in their chambers. The glass doors warbled in their steel fixtures
against the harsh wind tearing down the empty high street, and an
atmosphere possessed by dusk rapidly drew towards the bitter cold
of night.
Past the busy cash desks swarm
bug-eyed and ferocious patrons, each waving garments over-head with
ritualistic frenzy, cackling in tongues, demanding the attention of
sweating workers who do their best in a heat unthinkable. Over
discarded items and the litter of a thousand wretches, children rub
sticky chocolate across miserable smiles and cry for mothers who
sing at them whilst scrabbling at the last filthy dress on the
rack.
Feel the heat squeeze salty
beads of moisture from greasy pores. Feel the waves of noise bang
and clash against, what you might have once called fine hearing.
Feel every complaint or roar of vicious laughter race up to join
the atmosphere of panic induced by nothing more than this; a store
about to tipple into the eye of a storm, no more impeded by
harmony.
Back at the door the lights flicker.
As the shadows surge forwards and backwards, warded by the failing
light, it is almost possible to notice a figure of impossible
height. Wreathed in black, whining softly, the figure’s stuttering
form reaches out a ghastly arm and calls for attention. Its
knuckles scrape and crack on the hardened glass. The hollow noise,
enough to freeze the blood of any hardened soul, is a glimpse of
death’s embrace resonating in the knock of this doomed figure. And
yet it falls on deaf ears. The figure maintains a vigil.
The chaos of this atmosphere, the
clambering and the screaming and the heat, is so great that few
notice the developing horrors. Few notice the doors are now locked
and a figure beckons from the door, as you have. Even fewer smell
the smoke, or taste the bitter salt on the air, and register that
something is far wrong with this picture.
The lights dim almost imperceptibly
and flicker like candlelight in the chill breeze of eve. A rush of
wind, its source impossible to fix, rushes through the floor
chilling all who notice it to the bone. Teeth clatter and fingers
lose grip, children sink back slowly into the busy crowds,
grappling for their mother’s skirts. Breaths become bated, shallow,
vaguely strangled in the close, maddening, air.
By the side of the till there is a
large black sack, not unlike a suit carrier, which must be hauled
up to the Manager’s office as a greasy note dictates. As it is
dragged across the floor it leaves an angry red smear on the cream
tiles that no one—save a beady eyed brat—seems to notice. The
Assistant reaches the lift just in time. As she steps onto the
grubby corrugated floor of the rusted elevator, the floor almost
claims her shoe.
Back at the cash desk a spectacled
banshee shakes fistfuls of crumpled notes at a young worker,
glaring wildly as her legs are enveloped by the floor. The Cashier
instantly begins an accident evaluation sheet, because if these
things aren’t done properly, Trading Standards could have them
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