Supernatural Horror Short Stories

by Flame Tree Studio

  In the centre of the picture was a great irregular patch of brown canvas, as fresh as when it was stretched on the frame. The background was as before, with chair and chimney-corner and rope, but the figure of the Judge had disappeared.

  Malcolmson, almost in a chill of horror, turned slowly round, and then he began to shake and tremble like a man in a palsy. His strength seemed to have left him, and he was incapable of action or movement, hardly even of thought. He could only see and hear.

  There, on the great high-backed carved oak chair sat the Judge in his robes of scarlet and ermine, with his baleful eyes glaring vindictively, and a smile of triumph on the resolute, cruel mouth, as he lifted with his hands a black cap. Malcolmson felt as if the blood was running from his heart, as one does in moments of prolonged suspense. There was a singing in his ears. Without, he could hear the roar and howl of the tempest, and through it, swept on the storm, came the striking of midnight by the great chimes in the market place. He stood for a space of time that seemed to him endless still as a statue, and with wide-open, horror-struck eyes, breathless. As the clock struck, so the smile of triumph on the Judge’s face intensified, and at the last stroke of midnight he placed the black cap on his head.

  Slowly and deliberately the Judge rose from his chair and picked up the piece of the rope of the alarm bell which lay on the floor, drew it through his hands as if he enjoyed its touch, and then deliberately began to knot one end of it, fashioning it into a noose. This he tightened and tested with his foot, pulling hard at it till he was satisfied and then making a running noose of it, which he held in his hand. Then he began to move along the table on the opposite side to Malcolmson keeping his eyes on him until he had passed him, when with a quick movement he stood in front of the door. Malcolmson then began to feel that he was trapped, and tried to think of what he should do. There was some fascination in the Judge’s eyes, which he never took off him, and he had, perforce, to look. He saw the Judge approach – still keeping between him and the door – and raise the noose and throw it towards him as if to entangle him. With a great effort he made a quick movement to one side, and saw the rope fall beside him, and heard it strike the oaken floor. Again the Judge raised the noose and tried to ensnare him, ever keeping his baleful eyes fixed on him, and each time by a mighty effort the student just managed to evade it. So this went on for many times, the Judge seeming never discouraged nor discomposed at failure, but playing as a cat does with a mouse. At last in despair, which had reached its climax, Malcolmson cast a quick glance round him. The lamp seemed to have blazed up, and there was a fairly good light in the room. At the many rat-holes and in the chinks and crannies of the wainscot he saw the rats’ eyes; and this aspect, that was purely physical, gave him a gleam of comfort. He looked around and saw that the rope of the great alarm bell was laden with rats. Every inch of it was covered with them, and more and more were pouring through the small circular hole in the ceiling whence it emerged, so that with their weight the bell was beginning to sway.

  Hark! It had swayed till the clapper had touched the bell. The sound was but a tiny one, but the bell was only beginning to sway, and it would increase.

  At the sound the Judge, who had been keeping his eyes fixed on Malcolmson, looked up, and a scowl of diabolical anger overspread his face. His eyes fairly glowed like hot coals, and he stamped his foot with a sound that seemed to make the house shake. A dreadful peal of thunder broke overhead as he raised the rope again, whilst the rats kept running up and down the rope as though working against time. This time, instead of throwing it, he drew close to his victim, and held open the noose as he approached. As he came closer there seemed something paralysing in his very presence, and Malcolmson stood rigid as a corpse. He felt the Judge’s icy fingers touch his throat as he adjusted the rope. The noose tightened – tightened. Then the Judge, taking the rigid form of the student in his arms, carried him over and placed him standing in the oak chair, and stepping up beside him, put his hand up and caught the end of the swaying rope of the alarm bell. As he raised his hand the rats fled squeaking, and disappeared through the hole in the ceiling. Taking the end of the noose which was round Malcolmson’s neck he tied it to the hanging-bell rope, and then descending pulled away the chair.

  * * *

  When the alarm bell of the Judge’s House began to sound a crowd soon assembled. Lights and torches of various kinds appeared, and soon a silent crowd was hurrying to the spot. They knocked loudly at the door, but there was no reply. Then they burst in the door, and poured into the great dining-room, the doctor at the head.

  There at the end of the rope of the great alarm bell hung the body of the student, and on the face of the Judge in the picture was a malignant smile.

  The Bride

  Angela Sylvaine

  Something catches my hand, pulling me back toward the stall. I shriek, assaulted by images of tiny, porcelain hands clawing at me. My cheeks heat at the sight of my engagement ring caught on a piece of fabric.

  I’ve been meaning to get the bent prong repaired, but the store clerk will give me that look. Eli promised he’ll get me a real diamond someday. I unhook myself from the delicate lace and freeze as I register the single article of clothing hung beside the black-eyed dolls with their matted hair.

  A dress. My dress.

  I close my eyes and imagine myself as a bride, my auburn hair piled on my head, curls spilling down my neck and tumbling over my shoulders. The Victorian style gown of delicate golden lace and fine beading shimmers under the lights. The boned corset nips in at the waist, giving way to a full skirt that bursts over my hips and flows to the floor.

  The vision fades and I sag against the wall, gasping for breath. The sweet taste of cake and pleasant sting of champagne bubbles lingers on my tongue.

  “Rose, you’re losing it,” I say to no one in particular. I’ve finally cracked. My pre-wedding jitters are morphing into full blown psychosis.

  I lift the dress from its hook to check under each arm and inside the neckline for a price tag. My wallet holds fifty bucks cash and my bank account a measly two hundred, even with all the extra shifts I’ve been picking up at the restaurant. I clutch the dress to my chest and rush toward the front of the store.

  A stick of an old man in a flannel shirt, unnecessary suspenders attached to his polyester pants, sits behind the counter. He runs a finger down the page of a ledger book, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.

  “Hello, sir? This doesn’t have a price tag.” I cringe at the frantic wobble in my voice.

  He grunts and reaches toward me. I release my hold on the gown, letting him pull it across the counter. His hand shakes with tremors as he sweeps the dress for a tag.

  “I already checked.” I rub my damp hands down the front of my jeans.

  “Where’d ya get it?” he asks.

  “Sorry?” Has the old guy gone senile and forgotten this is a store?

  He glares at me over his glasses with eyes milky from cataracts. “Which stall?”

  “Oh, right.” I point toward the back of the store. “The one with the dolls.”

  “Widow Montgomery never was able to have kids of her own.” He tugs the ledger out from under the dress to flip through the pages. The binding of the book creaks with each movement and the musty smell of old paper tickles my nose. “Collected those damn dolls until they took her off to the home.”

  I reach out, ready to yank the book from his hands and find the darn page myself, but stop myself. What in world has come over me? I paste on a smile.

  He stops flipping and runs his finger down the page. “Nothin’ here.” His lips pull down at the corners, taking the rest of his face with them.

  “Maybe it got moved from another stall.” I stand on my toes, craning my neck to see the ledger. “Could you please look in the other ones, sir?”

  “I don’t remember no dress, and I know this place inside and out
.” He slams the book closed, releasing a puff of dust into the air.

  “Well, what would you want for it?” I swallow past the dryness in mouth and throat. “I don’t have much money, but I could make payments.” Please God, let me have this dress. I’ll do anything, pay any price.

  “The folks who rent the stalls set the prices. Can’t sell it without knowing where it came from.” He begins to pull the gown fully over the counter.

  “No, please.” I grab onto the skirt, curling my fingers in the layers of lace and taffeta. My eyes blur with tears.

  He sneers and points one bony finger in my face. “Are you deaf or just stupid? Can’t sell it without a price.” He mumbles under his breath. “Whelp bitch needs to learn some respect.”

  His words cut me like a switch against bare skin. I shove down my pride and ready myself to beg and plead, to promise anything if only he’ll give me the dress.

  I open my mouth to speak, when the lights in the store flicker. A second later the bare bulb hanging behind the counter shatters with a pop, sending a sprinkling of glass shards through the air to land in the old man’s thinning gray hair. He cries out and swipes his hand across the back of his neck.

  His fingertips come away smeared with blood.

  I tug the dress out of his reach. Cradling the gown in my arms, I stroke my fingers across the bodice. I must protect it.

  The old man glares at me.

  “Are you hurt, sir?”

  He pulls a rag from his pocket, wiping his fingers and neck. “Just a scratch, is all.” He reaches out for the gown. “Give it here.”

  I shrink back and tighten my hold on the dress as the lights give another flicker and go out. A frosty chill settles over me and I suppress a shudder.

  Sunlight streams through the glass front door of the shop, illuminating the area near the counter, but darkness encompasses the rear of the store. I take a step in that direction. “Hello? Is anyone back here?” The thought of being stuck alone in the pitch black with those creepy dolls sends a shiver up my spine.

  The old man gasps. “Goddamn pacemaker.” He slips from his stool and clutches his chest with one hand, while grasping the countertop with the other. “Don’t just stand there gawkin’. Call 911.”

  “Okay. You’re going to be okay.” I fish my phone from my pocket one handed and punch in the digits with my thumb. Stay calm, Rose, stay calm. “Help will be here soon.”

  He hunches forward and thumps his fist against his chest. “Goddamn VA piece of garbage.”

  I still cradle the dress in the crook of my left arm, and I swear it twists in my grip. My finger freezes above the send button. “So, how much did you say for the dress?”

  The lights flip back on, bathing the store in light.

  * * *

  I lie the dress, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, in the trunk of my beat up Accord and close the lid. My entire body is numb as I walk around the car, open the door, and climb into the driver’s seat.

  Red and blue lights flash atop the ambulance parked near the front of the store. The paramedics wheel the old man out on a gurney and slide him into the back of the vehicle, an oxygen mask covering his face.

  I grip the steering wheel, hot from the sun, and try to stop my hands from shaking. My stomach churns, sending bile into my throat. I gag but manage to swallow it back down.

  What the heck is wrong with me?

  That man could have died all because I had to have the dress. I rest my forehead on the wheel and I cry. Not a little sniffle, but a shoulder shaking, snot dripping cry.

  * * *

  Parked in a space at the front of the lot beside my apartment building, I pop open my trunk. My heart skips at the sight of the dress. It’s really mine. A flicker of guilt nags me at how I manipulated the old man, but I push it away. He still got help, and I got my dress.

  Arms wind around my waist from behind and I yelp.

  “Relax Rosie-Posie, it’s just me.” Eli nuzzles my neck.

  I giggle and spin around, slinging my arms around his neck. “You know I hate that nickname.” He gave it to me in foster care, after the nursery rhyme Ring Around the Rosie, and the darn thing stuck.

  “Liar. You like it.” He grins, his brown eyes twinkling with laughter. His blond hair is a little long and flops into his eyes.

  I try for a scowl but can’t pull it off. “What are you doing here?”

  “Decided to use my lunch break to come see my girl.” He strokes his thumb across my cheek.

  I push up on my tiptoes and plant a kiss on his lips. “Smooth talker.”

  “What’s that?” He angles his head to peak over my shoulder.

  I smile so big my face aches. “I found a dress.”

  “It’s a miracle.” He wraps me in a hug and spins me in a circle.

  I laugh and scream. “Put me down.”

  He releases me and reaches into the trunk.

  “No.” I back up, blocking him with my body. He’s going to try and take the dress, but I can’t let him. I have to protect it.

  Eli crosses his arms. “Come on. I only want a peak.”

  A nervous giggle escapes my throat. Of course, he wouldn’t take the dress. That’s ridiculous. “No peaking until the big day, you know that.” I lightly smack his chest. “Now get out of here. I still need to try it on.”

  “Alright.” He places a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Love you, Rosie-Posie.”

  “Love you, too.” I blow him a kiss.

  Sitting on my bumper, I watch him walk away. I still can’t believe we’re getting married. He’s been the only good thing in my life for so long, and I get to keep him forever. I barely manage to suppress a squeal of joy, wrapping my arms around myself to hold it in.

  Shaking my head, I return my attention to the dress and scoop it from the trunk.

  My apartment is on the top floor of a rundown brick building which used to be a motel. There is no elevator, just outdoor concrete stairs that connect each floor.

  Tucker, the little terrier belonging to Mrs. Patterson in 2D is tied to the railing at the bottom of the steps.

  “Hey, little guy.” I stoop to pet him.

  His muzzle wrinkles and he lunges forward, snapping his teeth and growling.

  I gasp and stumble backward.

  He growls and barks in my direction, tugging on his leash until I think it might snap.

  “What’s wrong with you, grumpy?” I frown and tromp up the stairs, Tucker barking away in the background. My arms ache from the weight of the gown, but I make it up the four flights to my floor, sweat dripping down my back.

  I manage to fumble my keys from my purse and open the door. The heat trapped inside hits me like a wall, and I flip on the ceiling fan before closing the door. Tenants are expected to furnish their own AC, but I can’t afford it.

  My convertible sofa bed sits against the far wall of the single room apartment, and I lay the dress across the faded blue cushions. I cross back to the single window, next to the door, and tug the curtains closed to block out the sun. A small table next to the sofa holds a lamp and I flip it on.

  I kneel before the dress and remove the protective garbage bag. Somehow, it’s even more beautiful than I remembered. Part of me panics a little. What if it doesn’t fit? I undress, discarding my hideous orange waitress uniform and apron in a pile on the floor. Parting the heavy layered skirt, I slip the dress over my head. The length is just right, the hem barely skimming the floor. The back lacing is tricky, but I manage to reach behind me and tug the ribbons tight.

  The dress fits perfectly, as if custom made just for me. The bodice hugs my body, accentuating my chest and narrowing my waist, and the intricate beading along the top is beautiful, with just a few spots needing repairs.

  A grin splits my face as I spin in the center of the room, the full skirts billowing like a bloom
ing flower. My bare feet dance across the carpeted floor, and warmth fills my entire body. I will be the most beautiful bride anyone has ever seen.

  This dress is going to be the perfect start to the rest of my life.

  * * *

  Something wrenches me awake.

  “Hello, is anyone there?” I sit upright in my fold-out bed, clutching the sheet to my chest. My heart thumps and fear hums through my veins.

  I feel eyes on me. I’m not alone.

  A shaft of light from the street lamp pierces the darkness through a crack in the curtains. The front door is closed and my cramped kitchenette is empty and quiet. The bathroom door to my left sits wide open, giving full view of the small space. Empty.

  My breath catches at the sight of my closet. The accordion-style doors are wide open, though I remember closing them. My dress lies in a heap on the floor, its hanger still swaying on the bar.

  “Is anyone here?” There must be someone here, hiding. I lean over the side of the bed, my hair brushing the floor as I peer into the shadows. Nothing, and there is nowhere else to go.