The Beast in the Box

I thought it may be fun to have a section of the website for posting original short stories that members have written. Wasn't sure where would be the correct place to put it but I thought it is art, just not graphical, so I chose here. Please let me know Oli if you think it would be better suited somewhere else.

Please feel free to post your original masterpieces here and hopefully receive some helpful criticism or encouragement. I've called it 'The Beast in the Box' as thats the name of a story that I'm hoping to serialise at some point here once I've finished editing it (probs sometime in 2030, knowing me). It is probably best to keep any stories short to avoid very long posts or if you write something longer break it up into bite sized chunks and post them at intervals to maintain interest. All the work I post here is copyrighted to myself and you may wish to do the same with yours.

I'm gonna start the ball rolling (unless someone beats me to it) with a spooky story that came to me today. I'll post it as soon as its written. Watch this space...

Good idea, this could easily become a sticky if it is popular. i have a short story on my computer, I'm on my iPad at the moment so can't post it

Can't wait to hear yours :P

Drip, drip,drip.

Lizzie burrowed down into the bedclothes as she listened to the sound coming from the bathroom. There was a splashing sound as someone stepped out of the bath and then a gurgle as the plug was removed and the contents started to drain away. Water and dead skin. They were drying off. A towel brushed gently against skin, the sound was rough and scratching. It was over all too soon.

Things were being moved round the bathroom. Bottles and tubs, lifted and replaced, put carefully back into the positions they belonged, done so out of familiarity. The sharp hiss of escaping air as a body spray was applied and then a moment of silence. Lizzie pulled the bedclothes tight around her head.

The latch on the bathroom door slid back with a clunk. The hinges creaked as the door was pulled open. Then the soft padding of still damp footsteps on the landing carpet as they made their way to her bedroom door.

“Lizzie, Lizzie?”

She pushed her head down into the pillow as far as it would go and screwed her eyes tightly shut as if that would make them go away. The door handle turned slowly and then the door creaked open a few inches. She made to cry out to her father but the sound wouldn't come out, there was just a dry rasping noise in the back of her throat. The door was pushed open all the way.

Pat, pat, pat.

Footsteps across the thick carpet until they were standing next to her bed.

“Are you asleep, darling?” The voice was tender and caring. “You didn't say goodnight. Where's my cuddle?”

A hand reached out and pulled up the corner of the bedding. Lizzie didn't have the strength to hold it down. The smell of body spray and soap filled her nostrils, but there was an underlying odour that it failed to mask, something cloying and rotten. She froze on her back as the bed creaked and the mattress sagged as they climbed in beside her. Now the stench was unbearable and made her gag, the sweetness and familiarity of the perfume only adding to her repulsion. A bony hand clawed across her chest and squeezed her shoulder gently. The arm was damp against her nightdress as it embraced her. A head rested next to hers with a gentle plop and a strand of limp, lifeless hair fell across her face. Lips that were barely there nuzzled against her cheek. They left a trail as they moved up to her ear.

“Mummy's here now, everything is going to be okay.”

“But Mummy you died.”

“Shush, Sweetness,” the voice was still so loving but the breath was of decay. “I'll never leave you. I'll be here for always.”

GOOSEBUMPS!


i read that as i was thinking of going to bed.......















.........needless to say, I'm still up

Sorry if I disturbed your sleep, Missy

Thanks for the comment. I'm glad I got that one out of my system. Just a few more nightmares to go and then I'm done.

i rep'd u too, i do love a good creepy tale. <3 keep em coming please, you're good stuff

Thanks Misscheef for the rep
Today is turning into a very good day all round..

Rest assured theres plenty more dark tales were that came from. I don't know how I sleep at night but these new deluxe coffins help.

I was thinking of posting a story about the assistant GM whose brain gets eaten by her hair..don't know where I got the idea for that one from

Hmm... I wonder what her name is...

all dedications gratefully recieved


but srsly tho Alz, I want to read more! Stop basking in the glory and get those creative juices flowing (or bottle em, whatever makes u most money><)

P.S. glad ur having a great day

As promised here is the next story. Or the first part at least. It's already written but I don't want to make the posts too long. Let me know if I should make them longer or shorter. I think this will be over 3 posts.
'The Blame' was chosen by Granada TV as one of their short story competition winners. It was read out outside the studios by the actor Craig Charles. About one paragraph actually made it onto TV. One of the drawbacks of this was that Granada now own the rights and I'm unable to publish it elsewhere. Quite what they want with them after so long is a mystery to me but I'm happy to put it on here so that I can double its readership (and thats just if Misscheef reads it lol). Hope you enjoy it.

Shards of moonlight disappeared below the surface of the lake. Near the small plateau of dirt and a couple of trees that visitors to the park generously called an island, the moon itself was reflected in the water. It was a broken moon, half a plate, bent and cracked, its edges jagged and distorted. There was a film of ice forming over the surface of the lake, Clive realised, imposing its own variations on the reflections in the water.

The lake would be frozen by tomorrow, January the seventh, the anniversary...

Clive held onto the railings that bordered the tree-topped hills of the park; the hills on his right, the lake on his left. He had to concentrate to keep himself on the right side of the path, he didn't want to fall into the lake, especially not tonight of all nights. But it was difficult, his drink stupored body seemed determined to lurch over precariously to the left. He hadn't drank much, he decided, but it didn't take a lot. It was very seldom he drank alcohol at all. But tonight, just like it had been on this date ever since he was old enough to drink, he needed it. He supposed the drink had been the only reason that he had made his way home through the park; void of street lamps, it wasn't the safest or even the shortest route to his front door. But he had wanted to see it, possibly just to prove to himself that he could, before he went to bed.

Something disturbed a flush of mallards on the island and they took to the water in a cacophony of splashes and squawks. Clive reeled back against the railings, he thought he had seen a face peering out at him from behind a balding willow tree on the island. He strained his eyes to try and penetrate the gloom that enveloped the little land mass.

There! Was that a pair of spectacles that the moonlight glinted off for a second? No, his doped mind was conjuring up illusions, surely it was just a discarded tin can. There was a low murmur of voices up on the hill. Clive turned quickly, nearly causing himself to topple over, but in time to see an entwined pair of teenagers under the cover of a tree, their mingled shadows looking like a many limbed monster. He hurried on, his face burning despite the alcohol, he didn't want them to think he was watching them.

At the gate to the park, he allowed himself one brief glimpse back over to the lake. It stretched out further than the darkness would let him see, a kidney shape, with the island as close to the middle as the planners had been able to determine. It hadn't changed much since he was eight years old.

The glasses, or the tin can, glinted again as if signalling to him in morse code. He hurried on round the corner and half way down Broughton Road to his house. He fumbled around with the key until Gina came and opened the door for him.

“Look at the state of you,” she said as he stumbled into the hallway.

“I guess I had one too many.”

She helped him up to bed. He struggled as he passed Josh's room, he wanted to kiss his son goodnight, but Gina pushed him on into their own room. The bed whirled him round into sleep, and the alcohol saw to it that not even his dreams of purple spectacles and the Dork woke him up. Sometime during the night, he became aware of footsteps padding across the carpet. It's only an echo from a dream, he thought without properly waking, or Gina coming to bed.

He woke the next morning to the sound of Gina and Josh talking downstairs. It was a good sound to wake up to, he thought, and then he remembered the date. It felt like a black cloud descending over his head – January the seventh, twenty six years to the day. He lay still for a while and then forced himself out of bed and into his suit. Gina must have had a shower, the carpet felt cold and damp beneath his bare feet.

Before going downstairs, he walked across the landing and into the spare room. There would barely have been enough room to move around if it had been empty but the assemblage of old furniture and boxes rendered it almost impossible. The box for Josh's computer, an old rocking chair, the masses of seven foot long boxes for their bedroom furniture set; he had to fight through them all before he finally arrived at the old pine chest of drawers with the cracked top that squatted next to the window. He removed the bottom drawer and reached into the gap underneath it. He found the folded piece of newspaper and pulled it out into the sunlight.

Underneath the drawer of the chest was only the last of its many hiding places. He had kept the article in various safe places over the past twenty six years. For the first time since he had got up he noticed the dull throb at the back of his skull, a reminder of last night's drinking session. He carefully unfolded the yellowed paper. The lettering was blurred at the folds but apart from that he could read it quite clearly. Not that he needed to read it, the words were inscribed in indelible ink somewhere in a dark corner of his mind. Reading the article in the cold ink of a printer's press was just a punishment, a cruel reminder of what he had done.



Early yesterday evening police discovered the body of eight year old Robert Shore in the lake of Central Park, Wallasey. The alarm was raised by a friend. It is believed the two boys were playing on the ice when Robert fell through. Wallasey Police expressed...

(To be continued...)

:o don't keep me waiting too long.....

“Clive, come and get your breakfast.”

He hurriedly refolded the newspaper and replaced it in the bottom of the chest of drawers. He should throw it away now, he thought, he had mourned the Dork for long enough. Maybe tomorrow.

He kissed Gina's cheek and ruffled Josh's hair as he bypassed the bowl of cereal on his way to the cupboard containing the paracetemol.

“Mum, I'm going to Bobby's house after school,” Josh was saying to Gina.

“Okay, but I want you home for six”

“Who's Bobby?” Clive asked as he swallowed the pills and sat down opposite his son.

“I told you yesterday, Dad,” Josh said, his mouth opening to reveal a tantalising glimpse of half chewed cereal and milk. “He's a new boy. He's my best friend.”

“What happened to Matty?”

“Oh him, he's boring.”

What it was to be eight years old. Everything was black and white. You had little reason to doubt the fallibility of the adults around you. Friends came and went as frequently as the weather changed. He had been the same age as Josh when the Dork had died, that was one friend whose loss hadn't been so easy to handle. He supposed nothing had been the same since that day, his innocence had ended when he stared into those eyes, magnified by the...

“Wake up, Dad. I'll be late for school.”

To Josh's embarrassment, he kissed his son's forehead as he opened the car door opposite the school gate. He needed to be affectionate toward his son today, he wished they could have spent the day together.

“Dad!” Josh said, wiping his forehead.

“I know, sorry,” he said, holding up his hands, “it isn't cool. I'll try and remember for next time. Where's your new friend?” Clive scanned the crowds of children pushing and shouting as they entered the squat building. He caught a glimpse of himself, back as an eight year old amongst the throng, huddled close to the Dork. A hard lump formed in his throat.

“He doesn't go to our school.”

“Oh.” He had to form the word around the ball of saliva.

Emails and memos danced on the screen in front of him at work. It was no use he couldn't focus on the task at hand. It didn't matter, he'd catch up tomorrow. The Dork's face was waiting for him behind every new screen. It was no use, he couldn't rid himself of the image. He gave himself up to the memories.

Robert Shore had been the most unpopular boy in school. Nobody liked him. It wasn't that he had done anything wrong or that he was unfriendly. It was just the way he was. He was short, but instead of being lithe and nimble, he was clumsy and uncoordinated. His front teeth were bucked, and consequently he drooled and spat as he spoke. But worst of all were his glasses. He was forced to wear thick purple lenses that magnified his eyes twofold. The poor lad never stood a chance. He couldn't remember who had first labelled him the Dork, but it had stuck.

The Dork had never had a friend. Not, that is, until the summer of 1983. And then he'd met Clive. Most of Clive's friends had gone away or lived too faraway, and he had been lonely for the first week of the summer holidays. It was a relief to find somebody of his own age who lived close by even if it was the Dork. And the Dork turned out to be a good friend to have. Once he had overcome his initial shyness he was great fun to be with. It was him who had all the best ideas of what they should do and where they could go. They spent every day of the next six weeks together, they became inseparable. It had been one of the best summers of Clive's life. And then they had returned to school.

Maybe Clive had sensed a growing uneasiness in the Dork in the days preceding the end of the holiday, but it wasn't the sort of thing an eight year old dwelt on. He'd forgotten about the Dork's status in school. They'd walked through the gates together, he was proud to show off his new friend. He soon learnt that the Dork's condition was contagious. He became an object of derision to children that he'd once viewed as his friends. Now he had tasted what it was like, he felt too sorry for the Dork to let him go. He supposed at thirty four it would have been painful enough to be treated like he was, but at eight years old it was devastating.

His memories were interrupted by an awareness that it was time to go home. Winter had seen to it that there was little light left as he steered his car toward home, even though it was only five thirty. The heater did little to diminish the chill. The thought that there would be ice on top of the park lake deepened his gloom. He needed his family with him tonight, alcohol would be meagre comfort from the memories that were invading his head. He needed to see his family and to know that he hadn't turned out to be too bad a person. He especially needed to see Josh.

Josh wasn't home.

(to be continued...)

Almost none of my posts on this topic have shown up hopefully this will. great Tories, can't wait to read the ending to this one... I will post mine when yours is finished harmy :p

Thanks Oli
I was planning on leaving a gap between posts but I'm working tomorrow and then the weekend so I'll put it on now ready for yours. Can't wait to read it.

“He told you this morning, Clive,” Gina said when she saw the disappointment rest on his face like a mask. “He's gone to play with his friend Bobby. He'll be home in a minute for his tea.”

“I don't like him being out at this time. It's dark. Where does Bobby live?”

“Don't worry,” she said, but his anxiety was contagious, he saw doubt cross Gina's features. “He only lives round the corner in Deveraux Drive, by the park.”

Something cold uncurled in his stomach. He knew it was stupid, but he had to ask. “Have you ever met Bobby?”

“Sort of,” Gina replied, and his hand fell to the table for support. “I think he's very shy. He wouldn't come in the house. He looked alright, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He had those horrible purple glasses that you never see kids wearing any more and bucked teeth. Josh really...”

He was turning and running out the house before she had a chance to finish. Gina was behind him but he blocked her passage with the front door. All rationality was numbed by his fear as he ran toward the lake. The Dork had lived on Deveraux Drive. Facts as cold as the ice on the lake rushed in on him as he ran. The damp footprints on the bedroom carpet, the glisten of moonlight on spectacles the night before. Robert – Bobby.

And then the memories that he had tried to camouflage with excuses came rushing back, and with them the admission that he had been to blame for the Dork's death. He remembered his growing despair and with it his malignant hatred for the Dork, being unable to see any escape from his dilemma. And then, while they were playing on the ice twenty six years ago, the Dork had fell through. He could have pulled him out, but instead he had waited and stared into his purple eyes until the bubbles had stopped. And then he had fallen back onto the ice and, lacking a better emotion, had laughed hysterically. He was free, the Dork had gone.

But now he was back. And the lake was frozen.

The street lamp at the gate threw little light into the park. Although it was only early evening, the lake stretched ahead of him into the darkness. Ahead he could make out two small boys, walking hand in hand, nearly at the island. He recognised the back of his son's head and then the other boy turned round. A stray beam of moonlight illuminated the purple spectacles. The boy's eyes swelled beneath them. His bucked teeth were framed by spittle stained lips.

Clive started out across the ice, his fear twisting his innards. The boys had stopped walking. The Dork continued to stare as he closed the gap between them. Too late he realised the newly formed ice was too thin to support the weight of a fully grown man. The chill stopped his heart for a second as the water closed over his body. Algae and foam filled his mouth and eyes as he fought to find a footing. His feet scraped at the bed of the lake and he pushed upwards. His head hit hard against something firm and colder than the water - ice. He struggled, trying to find the gap that he had fallen through, his face nudging against the bottom of the ice.

And then he saw the faces. He forced his eyes away from his son and, for the second time in his life, he stared into the purple stained eyes of the Dork through the ice. His bucked teeth were barred in a mocking grin. He felt the eyes boring into him as the iced water filled his lungs and all around him went dark.

awesome

+rep times many.

Thank you kindly both of you.

Its great to get some feedback as too often you're left wondering whether you're wasting your time. I really do appreciate it.

I may put 'The Beast in the Box' up next week but I've got a few others that you might enjoy too, so I'll have a think about it over the weekend.

Get yours posted Oli if it will let you :P

I couldnt find anything wrong with it at all, i was gripped from the start and wanted more throughout! Really good twist at the end <3 ...i was convinced it would be Josh in the drink :o
so yes, awesomeness and rep rep rep + extra Cookies in the paypacket u have no reason to doubt.

misscheef wrote:...i was convinced it would be Josh in the drink :o...

I totally agree.

Also, don't expect anything from me... I'm hopeless with horror.

Sorry for not posting this week. I've been struck down by some horrible lergy of the nose. I will probably die. Or I may just take a Lemsip and go to bed. Either way I will post another story next week

awww poor you sending some e-hugs now ....get well soon harmy x

awwww..thanks Misscheef..feeling better already

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