shortghoststories

[shortghoststories]

Is he free now? Yes, completely free. Germany Year Zero (1948) dir. Roberto Rossellini

[shortghoststories]

When the Abyss Stares Back

There was always a part of him that wanted to sit in the dark and stare into the abyss.

She saw him commit suicide every night since arriving at the isolated and rustic chalet. There was no leaving without guided help. Heavy winter storms limited time outside to unbearable minutes to gather wood for warmth or use the outhouse. No guide would brave the storms for someone in a fully stocked chalet. Even if help was sent, it would not arrive until the weather improved. It could be days. It could be weeks.

On the eighth day, she had fallen asleep on the window bench overlooking what was usually an idyllic winter mountain scene – a frozen lake covered in snow and bordered by spruce trees and steep rock walls that ended in jagged snow capped peaks scarred by endless battles against the elements. A view she had seen only once since her arrival.

Shivering awake in the dim glow of twilight, she hurried outside to cut and pile wood for the fire. While engrossed in chopping kindling, a voice whispered in her ear, "stay." Kindling and axe flew into the air as she stumbled and hit the ground heavily. Wheezing and gasping for air, she noticed a grey shape drift into the chalet and gradually form into the suicide victim seated with his back to the empty fireplace and his head resting on a shotgun, right hand on the trigger. The axe landed in her thigh with a dull thud. Already breathless, she lost consciousness as the pain overwhelmed her.

She dreamed of the first night she experienced the haunting. Startled, she told the stranger sitting in front of the fireplace that she had booked the chalet for two weeks. He did not answer. Bringing her lantern closer to his face, she began to cry. He pulled the trigger. In a white flash, the scene ended. Every spare moment was spent anticipating his arrival.

Excruciating pain and uncontrollable shivering woke her. Snow drifted into the sheltered wood cutting area and through the apparition towering over her. The storm raged.

“It won’t be long,” he whispered.

“I know,” she answered as tears streamed down her face.

[shortghoststories]

The Wake

Life pulled him hard. It broke all the blocks and locks that bind the dead to earth where they contemplate life as consciousness fades with decomposition. Some last longer than others. Few are given a second chance.

Wakes rarely wake the dead. His wake was no more or less different or the same as any other wake observed over time immemorial - a body in a corner, debauchery everywhere else. Hands in passion tore at the peeling cornflower blue wallpaper patterned with dark blue angels entwined with pale yellow mortals - wings and limbs covered the naughty bits. Upon closer inspection, it was difficult to determine if the angels were lifting the humans up, dragging them down, or if they were locked in coital embraces - maybe all, maybe none. Strips of wallpaper slumped into puddles of sick on the floor. He wouldn't have had it any other way.

One mourner close to release was the first to notice the wraith. Her scream brought other screams as they watched it walk from his body and out the door. It floated more than it walked. They followed in close pursuit.

Screams pierced the night as a shadow of the dead walked. One scream cut-through all others. It was an old scream announcing new life. He was drawn to it like a mob to violence. They tried to stop him - how do you stop the dead? Some prayed, some begged, some watched.

Nature conspired against them by shrouding his journey in a milk white mist that swirled and waylaid his pursuers. It was a deadly conspiracy. Mourners stepped into traffic, fell from bridges, or stumbled into the river. Before each death, he tried the coil on for size. No surprise to him, not a one fit - a contract he must fulfill before taking the one he truly wanted. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He entered the gowl's home with blast and song - an old song known only to the most recently dead and no others. He walked past the stunned lodgers and locked eyes with the screaming newborn. It stopped. All was silent. The mist swirled about the room. The newborn cooed and as suddenly as it came, the mist dissipated. He looked at the ring finger of the last remaining mourner and gave her a smile as drool bubbled at the corners of his mouth. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

[shortghoststories]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by rdsteadie (@rdsteadie)

[shortghoststories]

[shortghoststories]

Ghost in the Graveyard

Most adults think I'm stupid, but I read lots. My friends think I'm a genius cause I know everythin’ about ghosts. Everythin’. You know, like don’ panic if you see a ghost and try ‘n take lots of pictures and stuff. Everyone knows that.

Every Friday at the witching hour we meet and I tell ‘em ghost stories. I seen a lot of ghosts. Before we settle 'n for a story, we play a few rounds of tag followed by hide 'n seek.

One night, not long ago, I was cornered by a ghost in the Gaerlins family mausoleum. Their youngest son, DJ was the last one buried - is entombed better or is it mausoleumed? It don' matter, he had somethin’ to do with paper - you know, newspaper or books or the paper you write on or somethin’ like that.

I had to pick the lock on the old rusted gate to the mausoleum. It wasn’ too hard and lock pickin’ is important for ghost huntin’ and I’m damned good at it. The mausoleum was kinda gross. Spiders crawled in every corner, thick tree roots split the stone floor, and lichen and moss was everywhere. All the big stone sarcophagi - or is it sarcophaguses - were covered with decades of dirt and crap, except for one: DJ Gaerlins. That's when I heard the whisper. It gave me chicken skin and made my ears twist to the back of my head. I whipped round with my flashlight and couldn’ see a thin’. Maybe it was a kid bein’ funny, so I went outside and took a good look round. Nothin’. I went back into the mausoleum and a goddamned ghost was staring me in the face.

At first I thought it was a statue, but when it moved I jumped and screamed and accidentally slammed the gate behind me and the damned thin’ locked. The ghost jus stood there workin’ its mouth tryin’ to say somethin’. When it reached out to me with its pale white arms, I screamed again and cut my hand tryin’ to reach the lock through the bars. Then it sighed an awful sigh like it was dyin’ or somethin’. I was afraid to look back at it and closed my eyes and gripped the gate bars for my life. But nothin’ happened. It felt like forever, but I finally looked round and nothin’ was there. I opened the lock and ran home.

When I got home, I went to bed and hid under my covers. At some point I fell asleep. Somethin’ slidin’ in my room woke me up. It was the ghost of DJ shuffling towards my bed with arms out. I threw the covers over my head and screamed for my mom and dad. They burst into my room and grounded me after I told ‘em what happened and they also told me that I couldn’ do anythin’ with ghosts anymore. The whole time they yelled at me, DJ shuffled behind ‘em.

[shortghoststories]

Check out r/shortghoststories on Reddit. It's fun to read under your favourite tree. You can also post your own short ghost story.

[shortghoststories]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by rdsteadie (@rdsteadie)

Castle on the coast.

[shortghoststories]

Walk in the woods

[shortghoststories]

Warble Flies

Warble flies deceive by looking like bees. They are nothing like bees. They lay their eggs in hair and the larvae burrow into skin where they feed until they hatch. My most recent batch is ready to harvest.

The World War II bunker is only accessible through an overgrown and rusted hatch 20 miles from the nearest farm, seven miles from the nearest dirt road at the end of a meager trail buried between heavily tangled blackberry bushes that snag and rip clothes and skin, down thirteen flights of creaky and brittle metal stairs with landings the size of a coffin and orange incandescent lights that dim and flicker to darkness with increasing frequency as the electrical system corrodes over time. At the bottom of the stairs is a large cavern of rough-hewn bedrock. Along the walls are watertight storage containers for research equipment. The middle of the room is organized into rows with one row as my workspace, a second for warble breeding chambers, and a final row of four beds with sedated hosts kept alive with intravenous drips. Each row is lit by four suspended saucer-shaped lights with wires that extend into the darkness above. The light of a red exit sign pulsates over the only entrance.

I inspect nodules on each host - the ones on the last host in the row are plump and ready to hatch. I shine a light behind each nodule and smile to see life wriggling inside.

Each host has told me lies, thousands of lies - a warble fly for each of their lies.

I take no notice of the dead soldiers as I climb the stairs to leave - it's always this way after I spend time in the bunker. The dead soldiers line the trail all the way to the dirt road where I hitchhike back to the city. I wonder whom I will meet today?

© 2021 rdsteadie

[shortghoststories]

Drift

With each gust of wind, dry snow whips through a large crack in the wall and drifts over a small wooden box on a long-forgotten four drawer chest. The top of the weather worn chest has been scoured of its cream coloured paint to reveal the faint outline of a stick figure thrusting a small cross into the chest of another stick figure. Outside, the storm intensifies.

In the growing gloom, a dark shape rises from the floorboards and pauses over the wooden box. A tortured face briefly hangs suspended in the black mass. The door bursts open and the darkness recedes into the floorboards. A young couple, ill-prepared for the weather in their leather jackets and ripped jeans, quickly shuts the door behind them.

“How you feelin’?”

“How do you think I’m feeling? I just walked three miles in a snowstorm in high heels. I told you the forecast, but you’re a big man with a—”

“Like you never made a mistake in—”

“Oh please, you were more interested in partying than spending a quiet night a home with me and now we’re in Beleth’s creepy murder house.”

“Let it go. I’ve heard the same crap for—”

“And I’ll continue to tell you how stupid you are because you don’t learn. You’re lucky I forgot to take these candles out of the truck or we would be freezing to death in here.” She lights both candles and puts them on the small coffee table in the centre of the room.

Throwing up his arms, the young man mopes to the other side of the room where the wooden box sits on the chest of drawers. Absentmindedly he pulls the top drawer, but it’s too warped to move. Noticing the box, he blows off the drifted snow and tries to open it.

“Don’t steal anything.”

“I ain’ stealin’ nothin’. I jus wanna see what’s in the box.”

As he struggles with the lid, a dark shape rises behind him. The young woman’s face contorts as she freezes in terror. Popping the lid open with his penknife, the young man gasps at what’s inside.

“Holy crap, look at this.” He lifts a golden knife in the shape of a cross out of the box and holds it out to the young woman.

“What’s wrong with you?” Following her gaze, he jumps back as the black mass lunges at him. The cross flies from his hand and sticks between two broken floorboards, blade up. Unable to gain his balance, he falls chest first onto the cross. The young woman watches in horror as a second black shape leaves the young man’s body while the original black shape drifts upward and slowly dissipates.

Finally able to move, the young woman, screaming for help, bursts out of the Beleth house and into the stormy winter night.

Dry snow drifts over a small wooden box on a long-forgotten chest of drawers.

© 2021 rdsteadie