The Badger in the Vest
By Tony Eetak
A stifling, cluttered attic space filled with the detritus of a dead man's life, where the heat and dust amplify the tension between two estranged family members.
Explore Our Gothic Short Stories
5 Stories
A Painted Promise
By Leaf Richards
The winter evening pressed against the old sash windows of Agnes’s sitting room, a heavy, velvet-blue blanket of cold. Inside, the air hummed with the warmth of a dutiful, if slightly dusty, electric fire and the scent of old books and something faintly herbaceous, perhaps lavender. Outside, the town square had become an optical assault, a meticulously choreographed light show pulsing with an almost aggressive cheer, its synthetic glow seeping through the gaps in the drawn curtains. Agnes, perched on a floral armchair worn smooth by decades of quiet use, watched the orchestrated spectacle, a chipped teacup clutched between her arthritic fingers.
The Porcelain Tithe
By Jamie F. Bell
It wasn't a proper cold. Not the kind that bit your nose and made your lungs ache. This cold was smooth and quiet, like the inside of a glass marble. It didn't seem to want to hurt you; it just wanted you to stop moving, to become a still and silent part of the endless, frozen landscape. Before him, the chasm breathed out a plume of pale blue air that smelled of ozone and forgotten sugar.
Tangled Canopy, Jagged Metal
By Jamie F. Bell
The silence that followed the wrenching metal and splintering wood felt heavier than any sound. Cold seeped into Mya's bones, not just from the brisk autumn air but from the hollowness where solid ground used to be. The plane, or what remained of it, was a grotesque sculpture of bent aluminium and snapped timber, half-submerged in the boggy ground, its tail a ragged fin against the bruised afternoon sky.
The Chill of the Civic
By Leaf Richards
Four teenagers explore the decrepit, moldering basement of their town's old Civic Hall, once a bustling hub, now a forgotten monument to decay. Autumn’s chill seeps through broken windows, mingling with the stench of damp earth and forgotten paper. They are artists, reluctantly collaborating on a local history exhibit, and their artistic differences are as sharp as the chill in the air.