Twisted: Four Paranormal Stories

By Jonathan Broughton

In these stories, the dark wings that flap at the edges of our mind glide into focus. There is horror here, ghostly revenge and malice aforethought. They are meant to frighten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Broughton
• Release date: Jul 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476005294

Jonathan Broughton

Jonathan writes fantasy, horror, paranormal and urban stories. Any story in any genre in fact, depending on the idea or the plot that pops into his head.For many years he lived in Hastings on the south coast of England and all of the stories in these books were written when he was by the sea.Many of Jonathan’s short stories have been published in Rayne Hall’s ‘Ten Tales’ books and April Grey’s ‘Hells...’ series.He has worked as a Poll Clerk and a Presiding Officer for various local and general elections, an examinations invigilator and as a puppeteer in theatre, films and television. He now lives in the University City of Cambridge, UKHis Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/jonathan.broughton.5And his Twitter handle: @jb121jonathan

Book preview

Twisted: Four Paranormal Stories

by

Jonathan Broughton

Copyright © 2012 Jonathan Broughton

(This edition Copyright © February 2016)

Cover Designed by Abdone/Dreamstime

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

The Stealth Of Spiders

Round And Round The Garden

Dark Reunion

You Have One Message

About The Author

The Stealth Of Spiders

The motor on my mobility scooter whines. Come on! Come on! I urge. The concrete ramp isn’t steep; the surface isn’t bumpy. It’s the length; one switchback after another. I’ve seen roads like these on telly, zigzagging up a mountain.

I can’t think that the ‘Mobility Access’ for Bulwer-Lytton House, a twenty-storied block on the Hastings Estate is the next best thing, but it feels like it.

The top, at last, and I trundle towards the square-shaped door. I’m panting, which is mad; it’s the anxiety and I reach for my inhaler.

Tilda’s voice echoes in my head. ‘Abigail, if I see your bitch-face anywhere near my flat I’ll tip you out of that scooter, tie you up and leave you to die in a cupboard.’

Charming, coming from my sister! What a pity you’re dead, Tilda. Now you won’t have that pleasure.

The metal entry pad beside the door is just within reach, though I have to stretch to press some of the higher numbers. The lock clicks and the door opens an inch. I ram it with my scooter and it swings wide. I accelerate into the hall before it has a chance to bang shut.

The air stinks of chemical lemon and the lights buzz. The bright bulbs make me squint. They sound like angry flies. A web hangs in tatters off one of the plastic ends. Did the spider think a fly was trapped inside?

I check my watch. Daylight is fading and I want to be gone before night falls. I’m vulnerable out alone in the dark in my scooter. I offer up a silent prayer; ‘Please let the lifts be working. Please!’

My prayers are answered, the metal doors open with a clang and I reverse the scooter. Beep, beep, beep. Floor seventeen. Some of the buttons are smeared with chocolate; seventeen, thank goodness, is clean. I think it’s chocolate. Trust Tilda to live in a dump. She always looked immaculate, always lived in a filthy mess; like a spider’s dirty nest.

The lift rises with a lurch and a rattle. There’s a grey web in the bottom corner where the doors slide open. No sign of the spider. I wonder if it’s the same one that spun the web on the light?

With an abrupt jump, the lift slows and my stomach turns over. The doors judder open and I trundle out into a long corridor. The lights aren’t so bright, in fact some of them are broken, and