Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  Retreating backward, down the court, I faced him. I meant to escape by the entrance on the Rue du Dragon. His eyes told me that I never should escape.

  It seemed ages while we were going, I retreating, he advancing, down the court in perfect silence; but at last I felt the shadow of the archway, and the next step brought me within it. I had meant to turn here and spring through into the street. But the shadow was not that of an archway; it was that of a vault. The great doors on the Rue du Dragon were closed. I felt this by the blackness which surrounded me, and at the same instant I read it in his face. How his face gleamed in the darkness, drawing swiftly nearer! The deep vaults, the huge closed doors, their cold iron clamps were all on his side. The thing which he had threatened had arrived: it gathered and bore down on me from the fathomless shadows; the point from which it would strike was his infernal eyes. Hopeless, I set my back against the barred doors and defied him.

  There was a scraping of chairs on the stone floor, and a rustling as the congregation rose. I could hear the Suisse’s staff in the south aisle, preceding Monseigneur C– to the sacristy.

  The kneeling nuns, roused from their devout abstraction, made their reverence and went away. The fashionable lady, my neighbour, rose also, with graceful reserve. As she departed her glance just flitted over my face in disapproval.

  Half dead, or so it seemed to me, yet intensely alive to every trifle, I sat among the leisurely moving crowd, then rose too and went toward the door.

  I had slept through the sermon. Had I slept through the sermon? I looked up and saw him passing along the gallery to his place. Only his side I saw; the thin bent arm in its black covering looked like one of those devilish, nameless instruments which lie in the disused torture-chambers of mediaeval castles.

  But I had escaped him, though his eyes had said I should not. Had I escaped him? That which gave him the power over me came back out of oblivion, where I had hoped to keep it. For I knew him now. Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him – they had changed him for every other eye, but not for mine. I had recognized him almost from the first; I had never doubted what he was come to do; and now I knew while my body sat safe in the cheerful little church, he had been hunting my soul in the Court of the Dragon.

  I crept to the door: the organ broke out overhead with a blare. A dazzling light filled the church, blotting the altar from my eyes. The people faded away, the arches, the vaulted roof vanished. I raised my seared eyes to the fathomless glare, and I saw the black stars hanging in the heavens: and the wet winds from the lake of Hali chilled my face.

  And now, far away, over leagues of tossing cloud-waves, I saw the moon dripping with spray; and beyond, the towers of Carcosa rose behind the moon.

  Death and the awful abode of lost souls, whither my weakness long ago had sent him, had changed him for every other eye but mine. And now I heard his voice, rising, swelling, thundering through the flaring light, and as I fell, the radiance increasing, increasing, poured over me in waves of flame. Then I sank into the depths, and I heard the King in Yellow whispering to my soul: “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!”

  Crossroads

  Carolyn Charron

  Temptation looms in front of me.

  To anyone else, it looks like a bridge, a perfectly formed arch over a divided highway. Stone and concrete, iron and rust. It’s dense and heavy, yet somehow still light and airy.

  This bridge seems innocent but I know its secret. I can see below the surface, to where the spirit that lives here twines around the physical beams and spars holding the roadway aloft. I can see its decadent shadow, blending rebar and mist into a tantalizing thing that calls to me, begging me to join with it.

  Bridge and not-bridge. It’s contradictory, attractive and repulsive in equal measure.

  A truck rattles behind me, shaking the ground where I stand, staring at the bridge ahead of me, my heart pounding with anticipation. Two lanes of traffic snake under the concrete curve, metallic rivers that sparkle in the sun before flowing into the darkness and then out again in an endless stream of rolling wheels.

  Hidden in its wide concrete span, I know the shadow is alive. Not alive in the usual animal sense, but I feel something, a dark spirit. This darkness wants love, it wants me. It wants me as its lover. I am horrified by the idea yet a tiny part of me is curious and I return each day to listen. Some days the screeching traffic drowns it out and on sunny days I hear only the wind.

  Today is a lovely overcast grey day and that sweet darkness ensnares me easily, draws me forward into its reach. As I reach the base of the bridge, the air thickens, sticky with fuel and flowers. My first step onto the bridge walkway awakens an intense yearning inside me that leaves me breathless. With my next step, a tsunami of lust envelops me, blinding me to the world for a long moment.

  When I can see again, the shadow coaxes me to climb the gradual rise, high above the lanes of oblivious vehicles. I stop at the apex of the two-lane overpass. Behind me, a car drives by, the breath of its passage ruffling my hair.

  I’m alone here but I’m not. The shadowy spirit pulses under the bridge, a dark presence that urges me to mount the railing, spread my arms wide and step off, falling into its embrace. I can’t decide if this would be a good thing or a terrible thing but it is moot. There is a metal mesh suicide barrier attached above the hand rail, preventing me from lust-driven folly.

  Every time I step onto this bridge, I am seduced by those unknowable shadows. My reaction – intertwined loathing and longing – is the price I pay to cross this bridge and I pay it willingly every day. I could take a different route but I don’t. I’m testing myself against it.

  At least, that is what I tell myself when I’m at home. When I stand here, linked to the darkness below, I’m not certain I think at all. Flooded with strange, black feelings, my logical thoughts scatter, tiny mice hiding from a terrifying panther. Under the stink of diesel I can smell the jungle rain of the hunt. But am I the hunted or the hunter? Does it matter when you are full of love?

  I hear words in the whispering of tires on the wet pavement far below; jump, jump, you know you want to, everything you ever wanted is here in the shadows, jump, join us, love us.

  It is the most persuasive offer I have ever been given.

  I’ve never felt this anywhere else, only here.

  This place is an intersection, a crossroads between places, between the world I live in and the world of the spirit. I don’t know if the shadow presence was here before the bridge was built or if it came after, but this location is an open doorway, allowing something alien to peek through.

  I’m not the first to hear its siren call. Flowers line the sidewalks, along with photos, teddy bears, crosses. Mementos of other battles this shadow has waged; won or lost, I don’t know, nor do I care. I only care about my battle. Whether this is a summons to love or to death, it is a beguiling choice. I am wanted – so desperately that it hurts.

  I sway in place, mesmerized by the traffic flowing beneath me, my hands clenched so tightly on the railing that my fingers cramp with pain. The darkness below the bridge tugs at me, caresses my skin, raising goosebumps of pleasure.

  Dimly, I hear a car stop on the bridge behind me, a voice asking if I am okay. I nod my heavy head and they leave but the spell is broken.

  I unpeel my frozen fingers from the slender rail separating me from the promise of happiness, of love. I drag myself away from my would-be-lover.

  Stumbling off my bridge, a shiver of cold passes over my body and instantly the tugging sensation is gone, as ephemeral as mist. I have lost the seductive compulsion to fly into its embrace.

  The scent of decaying flowers follows me down the rain-washed street. I realize I am drenched – my shoes squelch when I walk – but I don’t recall when it rained or even how long I stood on the bridge this time.

 
I try to regain the feeling of standing high above that mysterious and welcoming presence. I imagine being part of it. But it is faint and disconnected from my regular life, the memory as hollow and short-lived as a rainbow-hued soap bubble.

  Tears prick at me, scald my cheeks. I want more than a transient experience, I want…I want…more. I want to always be enveloped in that sensation of homecoming.

  Lonely for something I can’t name, I prowl through the rain-washed canyon of buildings, searching.

  * * *

  I awake to sunshine and tangled sheets, missing the rain. My shadow never comes out in the sunshine, only misty wet days beckon me to its side.

  I wish the sunlight gone but in truth, I am relieved.

  I am unclean today, unworthy of its attention.

  Harold rolls over beside me, his heaviness pulling the sheets awry. He’d come last night for our weekly date. I’d been quiet, unsure how to break it off with him. What reason could I use that he’d understand? It sounds crazy even to me.

  While he was in me, grunting his passion, I’d felt adulterous. The smooth sweep of the arch of Harold’s foot echoed the arch of my bridge and I wanted to stroke it. My bridge, not Harold’s slick skin. The bones of his limbs and his spine reminded me of concrete and embedded rebar. Sweat dripped off his brow and I smelled oil-soaked pavement.

  I can no longer remember why I started seeing Harold in the first place. His flesh is too meaty. The shadows under his chin and arms resemble my beloved shadow. I remember a time – so long ago! – when I was excited to hear Harold’s voice and welcomed his touch. Now those days seem like a dream. Only my shadowy bridge seems real.

  Harold kissed me this morning as he left smiling, leaving me to slink my way here, to stare guiltily at my would-be-lover, hidden below its bridge skin, barred by the too-bright sunshine that scrapes at my eyes with tiny blades of light.

  I am going mad, I am falling in love with darkness. Somehow my steps have brought me back here but the sunlight has hidden my beloved from me and it’s only concrete and metal spars suspended over a roadway.

  I skulk back home, ashamed and lonely.

  * * *

  Days pass slowly and I wait anxiously for rain, hoping my shadow will return. I haven’t felt its damp touch since Harold. I haven’t returned any of Harold’s calls since then either. I can’t. I hope my lover will forgive me, although I don’t feel I deserve it.

  Harold leaves increasingly panicked messages that I ignore. He is not the one for me, I know this now. I need my shadowy love. I have begun to hate the sunlight as it keeps my beloved from me.

  At last the skies cloud over and the sunlight dims. My heels click happily to our meeting, I have dressed for our reunion. I arrive breathless and spend one last moment savouring the anticipation before I step up onto the bridge.

  A river of lust sweeps me up. My heart stutters.

  It is back and it still loves me. Dark tendrils swirl out from under the wet asphalt, happy in my return. I am forgiven for my transgression. It still wants me.

  Mist curls between my painted toenails and hides the roadway far below, muting the sounds. Oh, how I have missed this! I want to caress my shadow, inhale its thick air, recline in its clasp. My skin tingles with desire, my nipples so hard they hurt, wonderful pain that shreds my sanity.

  I rush to the top, eager, heedless of the flowers and mementoes. My fingers clutch the worn railing. My heart slams in my chest so hard, I am light-headed with yearning.

  I cannot wait a moment longer.

  I have prepared for today and I pull heavy-duty wire cutters from my purse, dropping the bag to the ground. Snip, snip, snip, the wires barring me from my love fall away, passing through the arms of my shadowy lover harmlessly and clanging onto the cars underneath my bridge.

  Screeching tires, both behind and below me. A far away scream echoes in my ears.

  I glance up and dimly recognize Harold at the foot of the bridge. He will try to stop me. I must hurry.

  I snip faster, my muscles bunching into the task, another piece of thick metal mesh falls free leaving an opening to my love.

  I lift myself up and over, cartwheeling into the abyss, liquid with need. Faintly I hear Harold screaming my name but it is too late, I have already let go.

  My shadow catches me, eases me into its embrace, and I explode.

  I am home.

  * * *

  The sun burns too strong, I can’t see beyond the glare. I wait for rain.

  * * *

  Grey skies loom overhead, twisted shadows ooze from behind parked cars and the occasional tree. The rain has stopped but a thick dripping comes from the struts of the bridge, joined by the tears of the weeping man above me.

  Above me.

  I float on the air, below my beloved bridge. The cars slip by under me, disturbing my limbs. I straddle the road and let them pass, I don’t want them. I want him. The weeping man.

  I can see his emotions as clearly as I once saw his face. For a moment I can’t remember his name, then it comes back to me. Harold.

  He’s confused by these wracking tears, his grief is too strong. He doesn’t think he has the right, he hasn’t loved this woman – me – deeply enough for such emotion. He hadn’t known me long enough. If he had, he should have known what was going on, would have been in time. He thinks he could have stopped me, could have saved me.

  Harold keeps his eyes lowered, not in respect – in fear. He doesn’t want to see that memory again but straining with effort, I push it to the forefront of his thoughts.

  The woman’s unforgettable happy waltz up the sidewalk, the casual snipping of the wires and her fluttering leap over the side, followed by his mad scramble to the ragged-edged hole screaming her name in time her body twisted around to smile up at him from below.

  Harold shies away from the rest of the vision. He hasn’t told anyone what he saw – he can barely acknowledge it to himself. It terrifies him.

  And that is the edge I need. I call his name but he doesn’t hear me. My voice, for now, is only a sibilant whispering at the edge of his hearing, enough to make him look up but no more.

  A patch on the suicide barrier draws his gaze. The patch is a repair is of woven metal strands, a different colour than the original, visible mute testimony to the fact of my existence and my leap. The smell of roses clogs his throat, his floral offering to me at his feet. It joins the others on my bridge.

  I whisper louder. He senses something, I can tell.

  He strains to drown me out with a useless prayer. He leans on the railing, pressing his forehead into the cold metal, denting his skin. This metal skein is meant to prevent my prey from joining me but it hasn’t worked and the many tributes scattered along its length say it never will. There are dozens of memorials, dozens of repaired holes.

  I remember every one. I am every one. My lovers surround me, are joined with me, watching avidly as I woo this man into our embrace. Each has wooed their own to join us. Our dimpled darkness is made of sparks of blackness, each a soul added to ourselves with love. We have been here long before the bridge, before the cars when humans avoided us and we fed infrequently – we are ancient.

  Harold leans harder on the cold barrier, it flexes gently, as gently as I did when I floated on the dark arms of shadow. This is the memory he can never tell anyone – the shadow is real; I’m not gone.

  He saw me join the darkness, disappear into it, smiling and laughing. He saw me blissful in my new lover’s midnight embrace and the memory of it frightens him.

  We eat his fear, sating our hunger. His terror will be my wedge, my way of inching into his mind, coaxing him to join us.

  Under a perfect grey sky, my shadow pulses in time to his heartbeat. He finishes his prayer. I whisper his name as he turns to go. He gives the flower-strewn, shadow-doused bridge one last look and in that look, I kno
w he will come back and each time my voice will be clearer to him.

  One day soon, perhaps next week or next month, he will climb over the railing and take his own leap of faith.

  And we will catch him.

  The Mourning Woman

  E.E.W. Christman

  I was seven the first time I saw the ghost.

  I woke up early in the morning. Or very late at night, depending on your perspective. I didn’t feel sleepy or groggy or anything. I was just asleep and then very suddenly awake, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck to my ceiling. Mom helped me put them in constellations. Libra, my astrological sign, was right above me.

  I sat up, more confused than anything. I looked around my dark room, and there it was. Tall and rail thin and disembodied. A girl, maybe? Her hair was long, but she was mostly featureless. I never learned her name because she never talked. She was standing in front of my dresser, just in front of my Jupiter nightlight mom got me for Christmas – are you getting that I was super into space as a kid? Anyway, I remember thinking, “How can I see the nightlight if she’s standing in front of it?” Let me clarify: there is a fucking stranger in my room watching me sleep, and all I care about is the stupid nightlight.

  The girl didn’t move toward me. She didn’t move at all. The more I looked at her, the more I figured out. She’s see-through, I thought. Like a jellyfish. She was pale, and I don’t mean she didn’t get out much. It was like all the color had been drained from her. And not just her, but her clothes and everything. It’s like her whole presence had been blanched. And I know this is the most cliché thing, but she kind of glowed. But that’s not quite the right word…it was like she reflected light that wasn’t there.

  I know, I know. It all sounds crazy.

  And then, seven year-old-me finally figured it out: that person was a ghost.

  Cool, I thought.

  So I decided I shouldn’t be rude to the jellyfish ghost girl. After all, I was her host. Mom was big on being a good hostess, so I thought it was important to make her feel welcome.