Category: Horror

Horror and Thriller stories

Cold and Deep – Poetry Story

I’ve been considering doing voice over for my stories to broaden my audience. I’m an amature with anything conserning audio and video, so keep that in mind if you choose to listen to it on Soundcloud

Cold and deep

The skeleton lay

Wood enclosed it

Keeping treasure hunters at bay

Life was never the same

When old red found his grave

 

The seas went quite

Trade resumed

Wares from all over the world

Reached the shores without fume

 

But people never forgot

The horrors the old sea dog brought

His sabre high

And his spirits higher

 

For centuries seafarers would turn around

Whenever the mist went thick

A sea chanty they heard in the dimly night

The old sea dog’s voice echoed hoarsely

Chanting merry rhymes

of plunder and of booty

of life on the high seas

But also of his eternal soul

Who limboed at the breeze

 

But centuries went

And people they forgotten

Taking routes nobody dared

In the age of their grandparents

 

But when people learned of great treasure

Hidden in the sea

They dared old superstition

Nothing would satisfy their greed.

 

Greed brought them there

And greed made them stay

In the depths of forever

The captain sang, with new crew-members

in the cold and deep

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

Invisible Touch – Poetry Story

Gusts of wind sprayed water upon the wall, the wind howled between the narrow windows that looked down at the shore.

The walls had protected the city for many years, but this night no invaders would dare to show, for walkers roamed in the darkness and everyone stayed indoors.

The streets were empty, there was silence, only the wind grew louder with compliance. Yet a lone woman scurried down the hall, her steps echoed hollow on the marble floor.

And out she went this restless night, her feet caked the mud, yet she did not slow, for what hunted her would not let her go.

With fear she ran without looking back, the darkness was thick and she did not see where she sprang. The void tipped her over, an invisible touch, the walker had decided this hunt was ending, her cries unamending.

For she was marked, her life was not her own, it would never let her go, with glee it watched her sob.

The creature was invisible, in the darkness of the night, though there were texts that made guesses, for the mere sight would end their lives.

The rain drummed on her body, her gown was thoroughly soaked, the cold made her shiver and fear made her lips they quivered.

But she did not sit for long, this restless night, her skin turned pale and cold, until the walker was satisfied.

Her eyes were empty and her body was the same, not a single drop had spilled, no markers upon her skin.

But the creature did not grin for this was not a joyous night, they once ruled the world, but now, they make due with one restless night.

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Lonely Road – Very Short Story

Have you ever walked a lonely road at the dead of night? When a few leafs still sway on the naked branches, refusing to be whisked away by the wind? When all that is ahead of you, and all that is behind you, is darkness? Making you wonder why you braved such an ominous night, to begin with?

I have, and I wouldn’t have dared such a venture if it wasn’t for the charm that I clutch to my chest whenever I’m out and about. Looking at it now, it’s a strange item, for several reasons: it’s shaped in a perfect sphere with inscriptions in a tongue that look far too foreign to be pronounced. Not that I would be able to read it properly, anyway, for the charm is scorched in black, giving a scent of burnt flesh and lavender… It isn’t a pleasant smell. Yet, it held me strong several times through the forest and back again.

Charms aren’t something a gentleman ought to have, I understand this, for I too was one of those that held such a mind in these mysterious things; a mystery no less attributed to the ones that make them. However, I was lucky to have encountered one and I sincerely hope you’ll too change your mind after reading this: It all started one evening in east part of town where the soot from the factories lay thick on the houses and on the streets. It was not a path I usually took, mind; frankly, it’s the part of town a civilised person ought to avoid. Yet there I was, strolling about for no particular reason whatsoever. I can’t say what was on my mind that day, only that I had a strong urge, or perhaps it was a premonition? Whatever may be the case, the urge led me through the alleys until I found a strange looking shed made of wood that stood out amongst the brick walls and copper ceilings. The shed was heavily dilapidated, too, with loose planks and obvious infestation of fungus, yet, it emitted a sense of cleanliness for the soot hardly touched the shed – as if an aura of country-air emanated from it. 

I entered the shed without apprehension (though I should have), the inside seemed bigger than the outside, but not by much. Perhaps it was all the oddities hanging on the walls? The small figurines and jars filled with liquid and strange creatures that made it look bigger than it was? In either case, there was a lady behind the counter, looking at me as if expecting me. I pardoned myself, of course, for I didn’t know if it was a store or a poor home I’d entered. She assured me she was selling. And before I could ask what that was, she brought out the strange looking charm which I now clutch in stormy nights.

She was well versed in the horrors that had befallen the town, almost intimately so for she described vividly what was lurking… Perhaps I should have asked her how she knew this but I didn’t have the sense at the time as I was too enthralled by her words and cunning. I was certain she knew what she was talking about and accepted the charm without hesitation. She didn’t want anything in return, strangely enough. My gratitude, spoken verbally, was all she wanted. I, however, as the gentleman I am, promised to return the next day if the charm ended up working to give her her proper due. But when I returned, every trace of her and the shed was gone from existence, even the memory was gone, except the very fact that it was a woman and there had been a shed of some kind.

I chose not to question what I had seen and felt blessed for the gift. Even my beloved, who has had trouble conceiving, got pregnant a few weeks later. I pray that the child will be healthy and that we one day will be rid of the monsters which stalk our town so my child can move freely without fear, as all children should. 

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

God is Forgiving – Very Short Story

Year 1246 of our Lord

Orwald Shilling writing:

I don’t know why I feel the need to write this. Perhaps it’s a desire to be understood, perhaps it is just one of those selfish acts which we human are so famous for? All people are born sinners, after all, and even men of God are not free from sin, however, some sins are more grave than others, naturally. Perhaps this is why I write? For the small chance of redemption in the eyes of at least one person? Indeed, that would be enough; and if this letter finds itself in the hands of a heathen, or a denier, allow me to preach God’s world to you:

God is the creator of all things, heaven and earth. He created man in his image in the Garden of Eden where humanity achieved happiness without sin. However, humans betrayed God, and happiness is now only sin. Man is born evil and everything that makes us happy is a sin. Life is meaningless because it is only in death that we can achieve true happiness, in heaven. However, sinners may live happy lives even so, blissfully unaware, or chose to ignore, damnation that awaits them.

I always thought sinners should be punished in life. Even the promise of eternal damnation doesn’t seem to deter them, nor does it give me any satisfaction knowing this very fact, not yet anyway. I remember witnessing my first execution, long ago, a thief was being hanged; and as I saw life drain from his eyes I was filled with a warmth I could not explain, perhaps it was gratification for he had resisted my words before committing the theft. I would like to believe God made him commit the crime to hurry his damnation, but then, there are those that live in excess and corruption all their lives without consequence… I know one should not question God’s will or try to understand it, even so, All sinners ought to suffer, even in life.

But alas, I’m alone in this.

God never intended for life to have meaning, for life is meaningless when heaven is forever. Thus we suffer to prove our worthiness to ascend into paradise; a test of our vigour so that you can appreciate the splendour when the gates of heaven open to you. However, the ones who fail in this test, no second chance is given… or so I thought. Surely, an outrageous act of true devotion should put you in God’s good grace once more? At least, there is no harm trying – hell awaits you either way.

Life is just pain, after all.

It is the flesh that makes us weak and women are the creators of flesh. Capturing our souls into the torment of life…

Women are damned from the beginning, I believe, their souls are lost and cannot be reclaimed. No wonder they seek to bring men of faith down with them; they do not want to spend eternity alone in the fiery depths of hell. She will not have the last laugh, though, because God has called upon me a second chance.

Where else could this idea come from than from him?

I stopped counting the bodies, after a while, there was no point to it as the act became less and less vile in my eyes. It helped, at first, to see them just as numbers but that itself was a sin, to look down on human life, even sinners are humans, after all. One should feel bad about killing, even if it is righteous. The first few victims were… difficult. I didn’t have the right touch and they screamed and struggled before they collapsed at the cut of my knife. Now, I can slice a man cleanly while they sleep.

Sleeping through one’s death… I wish my demise would be that peaceful, but suicide is out of the question and I don’t trust anyone’s hand but my own. I simply have to wait for the angels to take me, when they believe I’m worthy… My hands are getting shaky now and it’s becoming more difficult to make the clean cut like I used to. Even my back and knees hurt constantly. Growing old is a truly terrible thing. The only solace is that I’ll feel the sweet embrace of death soon, which is why I write while I still retain my sanity and a steady hand.

Don’t think badly of me. I’m but a humble servant of God, who made a mistake in his youth.

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Walking Fear – Very Short Story

The mist churned on the paved street, engulfing the road until their was nothing but misty fog beneath our feet. People rushed inside their homes and barred the doors – like always when the moon was full. Was there ever a time when the mist was seen as nothing more than force of nature? When the imaginary mind could conjure the illusion of drifting high above the clouds as the mist was thick and all encompassing?

To my knowledge, this had never been the case, for my grandfather told what his grandfather had told – the chain of eternal past bounding us to this place. But grandfather also spoke of other things most adults forget in their elder years. He told of times when priests roamed the land, when they cast blessings of rhymes upon the houses and soothed the dead to their eternal rest. But time had not been kind to the people of Aeru as the forebears of those ancient rhymes was long gone and had never returned. Indeed, those without family ties – no matter how ancient – had left the country and now only those bound by the past is tormented by it.

I remember, at one of those nights, when resting my head on my mother’s lap as we cowered on the floor in the cellar with my two sisters beside me. My father had been slow to secure the door, that night, and he was still on the first floor when the mist came. I glanced at the window to my right where the mist seeped onto the floor. My mother turned my head from it and buried my face into her gown, for it is said that gazing on the terrible will terrible wrought!

But a young mind does not heed such words, curiosity, more than anything, occupies ones thoughts. So with worry for my father, and anxiety in sitting still, I did not listen to my mother’s warnings and left her lap and stood by the stairs where the sounds of the terrible hitting our neighbours doors reverberated through the streets. But somehow, ours was quite. Mother looked in terror and beckoned me back, but I could not leave it as it was, as I had never known true fright. In my naivety and belief in my own strength, I headed upstairs. Mother, too frightened to move, and concern for my sisters, remained on the floor. On the top floor, I saw our door, that ought to be secured, stood ajar, and there was no sight of my father.

The sounds, that had been vivid before, was now silent, yet the mist crept into our home. Through the opening in the door, I peeked out on the street and saw only white mist, and black figures standing about. At the centre of the shapeless black stood another figure, his arms flailing as if in distress – still, no sounds were heard. My first reaction was the towns folk had somehow braved their fears and gathered on the street, expelling the evil. So I approached fearless, but as I drew closer, my mind began to swirl, as if the mist itself made my head lighter and I saw one of the figures turned to me and looked with hollow eyes upon me. Despite his horrible visage, I felt no fear, as I noticed its moustache twirling in familiar loops of my grandfather.

I remembered nothing after this and I am now in my elder years. I don’t know if it is blessing or a curse when the mist draws over us, for though it hides what we don’t want to see, it mystifies it and makes it more horrible as our minds make up what isn’t there.

My father did return to us and he spoke as if he’d brought the past to the present for he spoke of things we had long ceased to believe and we now make homage to the dead and the dead has stayed in the ground ever since. But the mist would forever be associated by eerie gloom and people would still refuse to go about at night, except my father, who preferred the night’s best and he chanted the rhymes that kept evil away until his death of age. Now I bear the torch and I lull the dead, alone as the mystic, the priest, and the insane.

© Christopher Stamfors

Featured image by ChrisCold

by Stamphers

Chamber of Knowledge – Very Short Story

The darkness, all engulfing. The silence – thought to be everlasting – penetrated by a continuous thumping. The muffled noise drew nearer as the walls of limestone slowly cracked until it crumbled into bits. Wind gushed inside, drawing fresh air into a surrounding that had laid dormant and stale for untold millennia. From the opening, a man appeared. Wrapped with a piece of cloth around his mouth and his hair turned yellow by the dust, his flashlight scanned the interior, revealing only more darkness in its depths. Making an effort to remove the rubble from his path, two more people appeared; one a man, the other a woman. The woman, named Olga, clutched her husband’s arm, who was named Ivan, both grinning excitedly as they entered.

“Amazing, professor!” Ivan said. “You were right all along.”

The professor, having gone deeper into the darkness, ignored Ivan’s remark. Unconcerned with their approval, the professor just stared into the nothingness.

I was right… I was right… he repeated in his head.

Continue reading “Chamber of Knowledge – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

Life Undone – Very Short Story

It was oddly calming, being confined in this room, with nowhere to go and nothing to see; nothing to do but wait and to contemplate.

The knife pierced through his flesh, burrowing deeper and deeper until only the handle stuck out of his chest. The victim gurgled as his lungs filled with blood and with one last act of desperation, he grabbed the handle and tried to pull it out. But all his strength soon seethed out of him and his hands fell to the side.

Standing above the victim, a man watched the fruitless struggle with fascination as the light vanished from the victim’s eyes. His whole body trembled with both excitement and fear. His eyes unblinking – like the victims.

Continue reading “Life Undone – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

A Jog in the Dark – Very Short Story

The tempo was high and her breath stable. The wind chilled comfortably on her sweaty skin and filled her lungs with energy, making every breath propel her feet forward.

It was almost nightfall and the park was virtually empty, save for one or two couples on the wayside; but she ignored everything around her, focusing on a bench ahead.

She grit her teeth and sped up.

As she passed the bench, her chest swelled with pride and her legs kept running. Feeling her goal already completed, she decided to continue, to see for how long she could go before she croaked from exhaustion.

The street ahead was dark, and she could only see a glimpse of light sparkle by the path. She glanced backwards and hesitated, considering turning back. But she still had energy in her legs and they wanted to continue.

As she continued onward, the thickness of the dark surprised her, forcing her to rely on the feel and her memory to keep her on the path. She tensed with the extra effort to stay on the road and she could feel how exhaustion crept into her lungs.

Continue reading “A Jog in the Dark – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

Inheritance – Very Short Story

The sounds, oh the sounds that old houses make. Some of them he recognised, some he didn’t. But it wasn’t the sounds that worried him, but the how the very walls seemed to move as a particularly strong wind hit against the house, the house bending to the will of nature.

Nervously he looked out a window on the wall next to him. The night wrapped in complete darkness, the moon shaded by clouds. He tucked his blankets even tighter around himself as he heard the rain drum against the window. The bed creaking violently as he did, like the house.

Wide awake, he glanced around the sparsely lit room while trying to keep the weight of the storm out of his mind. The house was at least a century old and his grandmother had lived here all her life. Not as the owner – but as a maid!

She had been lucky, though, as the couple she’d served died with no heir, leaving everything to her. Yet, she had done nothing with the house, never leaving it, seeing nobody…

Continue reading “Inheritance – Very Short Story”

by Stamphers

In God (Fire) We Trust – Very Short Story

The fire flared in bright red and yellow, casting tall shadows on the grove surrounding him. With a step, he backed away from the flames as it was reaching towards his face, burning against his skin. He quirked his mouth in amusement, imagining his wife striking him beyond the dead. She and the fire had many similarities, he realised; they were both beautiful, energetic and unpredictable. Perhaps the flames were the manifestation of her? It wouldn’t surprise him. She always had a way of reaching him wherever he could not.

Perhaps that is why it ended this way?

She had it all, the power and the freedom to do whatever she wanted – to meet anyone she wanted…

He frowned as his mind drifted away. She had been with a lot of men. He was certain. He’d accepted it because she’d always been there for him in the end. Though, his friend always said he was paranoid… but, of course, he would tell him so, he was but one of many men she met.

She always beamed after coming home from one of those meetings. What else did she do but break her vows to me and to almighty god?

“Praise his name,” he mumbled over the roars of the flames.

Suddenly, the fire flared, forcing him to cover his eyes. The flames were so bright… another similarity, he realised – she had been his light.

A tear trickled down his cheek at the thought of the flames eventually dying, leaving him in the darkness of the mortal bound – his sins unattended.

He would never see his light again… yet, he was contempt.

As if fuelled by his emotions, the bonfire towered ever higher towards the sky. “You will be there soon,” he said aloud, raising his hands towards the sky, imitating the flames.

Suddenly, something rolled up against his shoes, breaking his revery. He lowered his head and narrowed his eyes, a burnt watch hissed in the cool air, partly melted.

He grabbed the watch and rubbed his thumb against the glass, it was still ticking. It was a nice watch, he realised regretfully. For a moment, he wished that he had taken it, but he quickly dismissed the thought and waved his hand airily; he would not add stealing to his sins, and he threw the watch back into the flames.

“Ungrateful bastard…” he muttered. “It is more than you deserve! a death far too beautiful.” he roared, raising his hands into the air as the wind blew against his back, amplifying his voice and making the flames flutter in response to his words. It really was a manifestation of them both, he convinced himself, feeling at ease once again. They knew what they had done, and they were sorry, he could tell. He was sorry too. But in the flames, their sins will vanish and they will be accepted onto heaven.

Standing by the fire he suddenly lowered his hands and his lips flattened. What of my own sins? he speculated. There were no loopholes in the laws of god. Murder in any circumstance would always lead to damnation, he was certain.

He stared deep into the flames, purposely avoiding the centre of the fire. Just a little more… then his sins will go away.

For there can be no a crime when there is no guilt, and if there is no crime, surely there was never any victims.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers