Fiction: Derelict

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creative writing, fiction, horror, stories

Occasionally I find that I completely forget about a story I’ve written, until someone else mentions it. That’s what happened with this particular piece of fiction – it’s something I wrote for a horror stories under 100 words competition I entered.

If you like your horror short and stabby, pick up the ebook by Popcorn Horror, where you can read the other story I submitted.

Derelict

“Leave her.”

I’ll never leave her.

I wrap myself tightly around her frail body.

He places various implements across the bedside table, one after another.

She shakes and judders violently.

“Leave her.”

Never. I barely recognise my voice.

I hold on tight, clinging to her pale forearms. I can’t let go.

He murmurs low inaudible words. But I won’t let go.

My claws scrape her arms, legs and cheeks. Drawing thick red lines of viscous blood.

He thrusts the crucifix in my face and I collide with the ceiling.

Then falling, falling.

Alone again in the black abyss. All alone.

A flash fiction horror story

Tags

creative writing, flash fiction, horror, story, writing

First draft of a little horror flash fiction snippet…it’s been a long time since I’ve written any fiction and I’ve only recently merged my writing blog with this here food blog. 

 

The ink black waters of the loch lashed violently at its bank on that bleak October night. The sharp air stung with cold and the teeth of freezing children chattered in their mothers’ arms. Yet not one fire was lit in the village that night, not one candle burned. No one wanted him to come thundering at their door. The village stood in a dark, sombre silence, as if it might almost disappear completely.

They’d snatched the young boy, on the orders of the wicked one. A bastard, an orphan, a lost soul, they were all the same; the children no one would miss. They’d have befriended him and made him feel safe, laughed and joked all the way there. Until they reached the cottage, where they’d turn on him like a pack of rabid dogs. Who knew what terrible things had happened to that boy, you’d try to stop your mind from thinking about it too hard, but the things you heard whispered on the wind in the village were impossible to forget.

I’d imagine the boy screaming, begging for mercy, until I’d pull my youngest close and pray for God to forgive all our damned souls. They would have offered him a chance, a glimmer of hope, by opening the door and exposing the blackness of night. He’d stand there blinking, naked and bleeding, disbelieving that they might actually let him live. They’d give him a head start. Off he’d run like a wild thing, running through the dark as the silent hills of the valley watched. The wicked one would never be far behind.

He liked the chase almost as much as he liked the kill. And the village held its collective breath, waiting for the distant cries to crack the silence. When they came we covered our wee ones’ ears.

When the stillness returned, we crawled into our icy beds, assuring ourselves that for another evening the wicked one was satisfied. That the unspeakable evil that lurked in the cottage was satiated. And, for now, our own were safe.