![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
So, in honour of Hallowe'en, I wrote some creepy stories. Enjoy!
The New House
Upon moving into the new house, Peter received a note in the mail from a previous owner. It was simple, only stating: Don't mind the scratching; if you ignore, it will go away.
Initially, Peter didn't know what the note meant; then night fell, and the scratching began, coming from the walls. And as instructed, Peter ignored the sound, turning on the radio before drifting off to sleep.
This continued for a year; the scratching would begin as Peter went to bed, and he would ignore it, either plugging his ears or turning on music to drown out the sound. He was never worried about the scratching; he believed it to be caused by mice or maybe squirrels living in the attic. And so for a year, he ignored it.
At least, until one night.
This night was unusual; rain pounded the house, wind shaking the windows, and unlike before Peter simply could not sleep. And when the scratching in the walls began, he could not ignore it. No matter how the music played, how he stuffed his ears, he could not drown it out. And so, he finally forgot the warning he'd been given and slipped out of bed, determined to find the source of the scratching. As the storm continued to abuse his house, he carefully crept through the halls, the scratching becoming louder and louder with every step. He stopped in front of a narrow flight of stairs, dusty with disuse. The scratching was loudest here, so he climbed. At the top of the stairs was a door, one he had never been through; for it led to the attic, a room he had little use for and simply pushed to the back of his mind.
But the scratching was coming from behind that door.
With a deep breath, Peter reached forward. And at the same time his hand reached for the doorknob, a note lay underneath the couch downstairs, having fallen out of the letter from the previous owner and missed. Its words were simple:
Never open the attic door.
Do not let it out.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The Late Train
Late at night, the subway is empty. It carries the minimum of passengers and creeps along through the dark tunnels, its lonely echoes reverberating on the dank walls.
It is the most terrifying time to ride.
Andrea had many late classes and would often go to the library afterwards until closing. She often found herself riding the subway at this time of night. However, it was always peaceful and she felt no danger.
But one night, the last night of October, something felt different. Her back prickled as she descended the steps into the abandoned subway station. As she stood on the platform, she felt eyes on her back, and found herself repeatedly looking over her shoulder. Nothing was there and she chalked it up to exhaustion.
As usual, the train was empty as she stepped inside. She chose a seat near the door and settled in for the long ride back. But it wasn't long until she felt those eyes on her again. Tightening her sweater around her shoulders, she fixed her eyes on the floor, determined to ignore the strange feeling.
Something moved in the corner of her eye. Startled she looked up, but saw nothing. Now getting scared, she decided to get off at the next stop.
The train suddenly jolted to a halt.
Then the lights went out.
Andrea muffled a surprised scream, clutching the seat as she looked around, trying to see through the dark train. The only light was from those in the tunnel.
Then something moved.
Petrified, Andrea stayed pressed in her seat, wide eyes fixed on the slowly forming figure. It slowly came toward her as more and more figures started to crowd the train. Her breath formed clouds in front of her. And as hands reached for her, she started to scream.
When the subway train rolled into the station, the doors slid open with a ping. No one got on.
And no one got off.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Soul Eater
The townspeople knew not to go into the forest on the night when the barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thinnest. For that was the night the souls of the dead were collected and brought to the other side.
It used to be a time of celebration, a time to bid farewell to those past and rejoice their rebirth in the afterlife.
It used to be.
But the soul collector had changed. Instead of guiding the spirits of the dead, it began to eat them. And the more it ate, the firmer its presence on the plane of the living became, until it could hunt those who were still firmly rooted there. And hunt it did; souls were swallowed and flesh rent from bone. Any who wandered into the woods on that certain night of the year were never seen again.
The creature would come to the edge of the forest at times, the boundary of its territory, and watch the town with its dark, hollow eyes. Witnesses described a hunched, skeletal figure draped in patches of roughly sewn together, decaying skin. As pieces fell off, new ones were added. The smell of rotted blood surrounded the thing.
But as day dawned and that certain night passed, the woods were safe once more and worries of what happened there were forgotten. The year passed in peace.
Then that special night came once more, the time when the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was thinnest.
The townspeople knew to stay away.
But the hikers didn't. And whenever they came to town at the time of that special night, they were told with smiling faces about the best paths to take and the best spots to camp. And as the screams tore the air at midnight, the townspeople didn't bat an eye.
After all, it was always hungry for fresh blood.
The New House
Upon moving into the new house, Peter received a note in the mail from a previous owner. It was simple, only stating: Don't mind the scratching; if you ignore, it will go away.
Initially, Peter didn't know what the note meant; then night fell, and the scratching began, coming from the walls. And as instructed, Peter ignored the sound, turning on the radio before drifting off to sleep.
This continued for a year; the scratching would begin as Peter went to bed, and he would ignore it, either plugging his ears or turning on music to drown out the sound. He was never worried about the scratching; he believed it to be caused by mice or maybe squirrels living in the attic. And so for a year, he ignored it.
At least, until one night.
This night was unusual; rain pounded the house, wind shaking the windows, and unlike before Peter simply could not sleep. And when the scratching in the walls began, he could not ignore it. No matter how the music played, how he stuffed his ears, he could not drown it out. And so, he finally forgot the warning he'd been given and slipped out of bed, determined to find the source of the scratching. As the storm continued to abuse his house, he carefully crept through the halls, the scratching becoming louder and louder with every step. He stopped in front of a narrow flight of stairs, dusty with disuse. The scratching was loudest here, so he climbed. At the top of the stairs was a door, one he had never been through; for it led to the attic, a room he had little use for and simply pushed to the back of his mind.
But the scratching was coming from behind that door.
With a deep breath, Peter reached forward. And at the same time his hand reached for the doorknob, a note lay underneath the couch downstairs, having fallen out of the letter from the previous owner and missed. Its words were simple:
Never open the attic door.
Do not let it out.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The Late Train
Late at night, the subway is empty. It carries the minimum of passengers and creeps along through the dark tunnels, its lonely echoes reverberating on the dank walls.
It is the most terrifying time to ride.
Andrea had many late classes and would often go to the library afterwards until closing. She often found herself riding the subway at this time of night. However, it was always peaceful and she felt no danger.
But one night, the last night of October, something felt different. Her back prickled as she descended the steps into the abandoned subway station. As she stood on the platform, she felt eyes on her back, and found herself repeatedly looking over her shoulder. Nothing was there and she chalked it up to exhaustion.
As usual, the train was empty as she stepped inside. She chose a seat near the door and settled in for the long ride back. But it wasn't long until she felt those eyes on her again. Tightening her sweater around her shoulders, she fixed her eyes on the floor, determined to ignore the strange feeling.
Something moved in the corner of her eye. Startled she looked up, but saw nothing. Now getting scared, she decided to get off at the next stop.
The train suddenly jolted to a halt.
Then the lights went out.
Andrea muffled a surprised scream, clutching the seat as she looked around, trying to see through the dark train. The only light was from those in the tunnel.
Then something moved.
Petrified, Andrea stayed pressed in her seat, wide eyes fixed on the slowly forming figure. It slowly came toward her as more and more figures started to crowd the train. Her breath formed clouds in front of her. And as hands reached for her, she started to scream.
When the subway train rolled into the station, the doors slid open with a ping. No one got on.
And no one got off.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
Soul Eater
The townspeople knew not to go into the forest on the night when the barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thinnest. For that was the night the souls of the dead were collected and brought to the other side.
It used to be a time of celebration, a time to bid farewell to those past and rejoice their rebirth in the afterlife.
It used to be.
But the soul collector had changed. Instead of guiding the spirits of the dead, it began to eat them. And the more it ate, the firmer its presence on the plane of the living became, until it could hunt those who were still firmly rooted there. And hunt it did; souls were swallowed and flesh rent from bone. Any who wandered into the woods on that certain night of the year were never seen again.
The creature would come to the edge of the forest at times, the boundary of its territory, and watch the town with its dark, hollow eyes. Witnesses described a hunched, skeletal figure draped in patches of roughly sewn together, decaying skin. As pieces fell off, new ones were added. The smell of rotted blood surrounded the thing.
But as day dawned and that certain night passed, the woods were safe once more and worries of what happened there were forgotten. The year passed in peace.
Then that special night came once more, the time when the barrier between the worlds of the living and the dead was thinnest.
The townspeople knew to stay away.
But the hikers didn't. And whenever they came to town at the time of that special night, they were told with smiling faces about the best paths to take and the best spots to camp. And as the screams tore the air at midnight, the townspeople didn't bat an eye.
After all, it was always hungry for fresh blood.
