Cosmic Horror Short Stories - Unfinished Tales

The Deepwood Yield

By Eva Suluk

A crisp autumn afternoon in the Deepwood Land Lab. The air hung still, carrying the scent of damp earth and dying leaves. A thin, grey light filtered through the skeletal canopy of birch and pine, casting long, wavering shadows across the narrow, winding path. Thomas Caldwell, his breath misting faintly, adjusted the collar of his tweed jacket, his gaze fixed on a particular, unnerving anomaly. The land, usually so generous, seemed to hold a secret in its quiet dormancy.

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A Crack in the Foundations

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in the recreation hall basement hung thick with the ghosts of forgotten potlucks and decades of damp, an aroma somewhere between stale coffee and slow decay. Outside, the spring thaw had turned the rutted road to a muddy slur, but down here, beneath the creaking floorboards of community aspirations, the cold still bit with the tenacity of a northern winter. Dust motes, thick as tiny galaxies, danced in the anemic light struggling through the single grimy window well, illuminating a landscape of piled junk and the hopeful but weary faces of the town's most committed volunteers.

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Subterranean Hum

By Jamie F. Bell

The air in the recreation hall basement hung heavy and damp, a stubborn summer heat permeating even the earth-bound depths. Dust motes, thick as pollen in August, danced in the anemic light filtering through the high, grimy windows, revealing decades of accumulated neglect. A faint, earthy scent of mildew and something else—something metallic and sharp, like old blood—clung to the brick walls, a silent testament to forgotten purposes.

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A Fabric of Untruths

By Jamie F. Bell

A crisp, relentless autumn wind, redolent with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, clawed at the periphery of the ancient Blackwood. Beneath a sky the colour of unpolished pewter, two figures, small yet brimming with a gravity far beyond their years, commenced a clandestine operation. The world was cold and vast, indifferent to their monumental purpose, yet every crunch of frost-nipped foliage beneath their ill-fitting boots was a testament to their unwavering, if misguided, resolve.

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