Horror Anthology: A collection of short, scary stories

By Chris Welsh

Eight spooky, scary stories from British writer Chris Welsh, collected in one place.

Includes:
LEAVE A NOTE-
A man is dragged through the madness of his own mind by some unseen, unknown mischief makers. A tale of creeping, unsettling horror presented in the style of a 'found note'.

DIRECTOR'S CUT-
His movies are light, airy and romantic, but he's getting smashed by blogs all over and his producers are out for blood. Fake blood, because they want him to start work on a trashy horror flick to appease the studio. He'll do it, but everyone might be sorry he did...

CRIER-
A strange man wanders into a city centre, ringing a bell and calling out unbelievable headlines to distract the people as they walked from shop to shop. He knows things, the Crier, and he'll tell you what they are if you pay him.

EVIL EYE-
Some girls harbour secrets. Some girls harbour horrific secrets. Some harbour horrific secrets and carry a death toll that won't stop rising.

A STRANGER'S STORIES-
After reading an open 'Wanted' ad in a newspaper, Jenny meets an elderly man for a quiet walk along a deserted beach. She agrees to hear his stories, the ones he found and dug up himself, not knowing how harrowing or sad his tales would be, or where it would eventually lead her.

THE BEAST OF LEVEL 13-
In a dank, hidden dungeon, an ancient evil lurks.
The beast has been there for decades, maybe centuries, he doesn't remember. He spends his days chained up, unable to move and unable to feed. Boils on his body itch and bloat and send him into spasms. The cage bars build inches from his eyes don't allow him the room to stretch his aching limbs.
Life is a hopeless drudge. Until the sounds of battle approach from outside, from the other side of the chained dungeon door...

SEPARATION-
Max, the child of a dysfunctional family, receives a midnight visit from a man dressed all in black. The man, secretive enough to wear a mask and hat at all times, promises 'help' and an improved life. He doesn't mention his methods.
Unfortunately for Max's parents, the man doesn't intend to help at all.

PATSY-
Gregg only went to buy snacks. Some potato chips and a bar of chocolate maybe. He couldn't decide.
Then two men entered the station, one with a gun and one swinging a bat around, demanding the unlucky cashier fill a bag with cash and cigarettes.
Gregg decided to save the day.

52,600 words in total.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Welsh
• Release date: Feb 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301434824

Chris Welsh

I am a writer from Liverpool, UK. I've written three full novels and a whole bunch of short stories. I try to keep a blog but I'm not very good at it.I like horror, sci fi and absurdist humour. Also, I read a lot of comics.

Book preview

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HORROR ANTHOLOGY

A collection of short, scary stories.

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By CHRIS WELSH

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Copyright © Chris Welsh 2013

Smashwords Edition

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

LEAVE A NOTE

DIRECTOR'S CUT

CRIER

EVIL EYE

A STRANGER'S STORIES

THE BEAST OF LEVEL 13

SEPARATION

PATSY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

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Hello. I'm Chris Welsh, the author of these stories, and this is their short introduction. Just a few words about the style and genesis of each one, which may interested you. Feel free to skip this part.

The first story is my newest one, at the time of writing. LEAVE A NOTE - the story of a man being dragged through the madness of his own mind, presented in the style of a 'found note'. A bit like a 'found footage' film (The Blair Witch Project, Paranormal Activity, countless others...) but written down.

Next up is DIRECTOR'S CUT, which stars a famed Hollywood director (not a real one, I should add) who finds himself forced to pitch a horror movie to a group of manipulative producers. They want him to leave him romance work behind and start splashing the blood and gore. He'll do it, but they might wish they'd never asked...

CRIER is one of the quirkiest tales here, centring on a mysterious town crier who knows more about the world than he's willing to tell for free. Lives change when coins change hands, and he begins to spout his knowledge of the future.

EVIL EYE, the shortest of the stories here, is an intro to a possible novel I've yet to write. I wrote it to get a feel for the character - a strange girl with a strange secret.

A STRANGER'S STORIES is my best-selling story so far, which is something I didn't expect when I wrote it. It's a quick thing with a fast paced style full of snippets of smaller stories. An anthology inside this anthology, almost.

In an attempt to write a readable story with zero character dialogue, I came up with THE BEAST OF LEVEL 13. It's also the first story I published.

Around Halloween 2012 I decided to have a go at a haunted house story, but it ended up more about a tricky, charming demon instead. It's called SEPARATION and I guess you'll find out why by reading it.

Okay, I come clean. PATSY isn't *strictly* a horror story, but it has the style of one. It's more of a thriller that takes a left-turn half way through.

And now, without further ado...

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LEAVE A NOTE

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by Chris Welsh

...a short story...

Dear [Name omitted],

The following is an exact reproduction of a letter found in an East London flat on the 12th of November 2011, written on cheap office paper fed through a manual typewriter. Make and model unknown (not recorded in any official reports). Several blots of blood obscured the final page but best efforts were made to decipher the words. No other alterations were made.

We would greatly appreciate any insight you could give and await your report accordingly. I'm afraid our investigations have hit somewhat of a dead-end.

With regards,

[Name omitted]

#

-LEAVE A NOTE-

Is that an instruction? I'll take it as one.

I feel like I'm writing with a gun pointed at my skull, though I know I'm already dead. I can see my body and my blood. I can smell it. Does that make sense? Probably not. There's a few others bodies too. They make even less sense.

First off, I'd like to apologise for this, this whole thing. Such a long winded way to say good-bye, and to whom exactly? To you, whoever you are? Perhaps. I guess if you read it, then sure, I meant it for you, though I hardly think you'll enjoy it. I've never read a suicide note before, I'm not really sure of the format. Or of the proper content, when it comes to it. Do I apologise and tell people not to blame themselves? If so I especially apologise to whoever has to clean up my mess, and I apologise to whoever occupies this flat next. Not least because I might still be here, at this desk, in whatever cosmic state I'm currently in. I guess that has everything to do with the guy behind me with the gun who may or may not exist. I might not exist. These words could be figments of my imagination, typed up and beamed into my eyes only. Next person to come along might look at these pages and see them blank, maybe write on it themselves. I don't know.

Things are hazy right now.

On top of being unfamiliar with suicide notes, I've never read one written by someone already dead. Or maybe all such things are written by the spirits just like me. That's something else I'm not clued in on. I'm only writing because, well, because the title on the page told me to and because nothing else makes sense, and I'm sat at this typewriter and I feel like I can't move. Can't even turn around. That feeling of the gun pins me here, as dumb as that sounds now I know I'm already dead. But it hasn't shot me yet. Not the 'me' in this chair, typing. I think my true end will come as soon as I write The End. I'd prefer to never stop writing if that's the case, but I'm afraid this paper and ink is finite. Still, I'm going to enjoy another few thousand words worth of this world, if that's all the same.

Truth be told, I don't think there's a person there. But there's definitely a gun.

After I've told my story, I guess I'll leave.

#

I own an ancient apartment, on the top floor of a six floor building. A three-bedroom (plus two bathroom and one living room slash kitchen) with a Victorian bent; tall ceilings and wide rooms impossible to heat in the winter, doorways too thin to fit a modern couch through. I bought it with the advance from my first book deal, from my Uncle, who lived here for years before that. We weren't close, but he gave me such a huge discount I jumped at it. He laughed as I signed the necessary papers and I never saw him after the money transferred. He sent me a blank postcard once from some sunny isle, I forget exactly where, but he addressed it only to the apartment number, not to me by name. I always thought that was his way of letting me know how he was enjoying my money, without talking to me directly.

This letter is my postcard to the place, addressed only to the building, but free to read by whoever finds it.

Please don't publish it. As if you could.

Of the three bedrooms, I only ever slept in one. The same one my uncle did, because that's where the bed frame was. Couldn't move it without dismantling it and I could never be bothered. The second bedroom is where I sit now, at my typewriter, next to a cabinet full of half-baked book ideas. A whole three drawers of sequel ideas, spin offs and entirely new material, any of which could have followed my first book but never did. Feel free to publish those, if you want. Keep all the money you make, spend it on a home that isn't this one. I don't care. The third bedroom just has stuff in; it's one of those 'stuff' rooms. Labelled as a guest room but too full of junk to inhabit.

This place is too big for one person, too damn big.

In the first few months I hung a few pictures and painted the living room and kitchen walls in a brown shade that I instantly hated. It's still there now. Paint over it, I implore you. Better yet, burn the place down and smash the bricks; start again. Though I guess you can't do that. If you do, get Mrs Whateverhername from upstairs out, and her cat, don't burn her cat. Thanks.

Am I rambling? I think I do that now, or did that, rather. Since things got weird I ramble, like a homeless guy in a bus stop avoiding the rain, rambling about nothing. Just a collection of syllables. No discernible words. None anyone wants to hear anyway.

Gah.

The weird started on my birthday, which isn't really important except for the fact it made me get up and leave the apartment. I wanted a breakfast cooked by someone other than me so I went to a café down the road, a place I used to frequent before, well, before I stopped going out as much. I saw a guy outside with a sign begging for change. He asked me for a few coins to buy himself a cup of tea and I offered him a step up, proposed to buy him a Full English and as many cups of tea as he could drink in an hour. A waitress tried to usher us out until I explained he was with me and handed her two crisp £20 notes, and ordered two breakfasts and two pots of tea. I felt buoyed by birthday spirit, happy to do good for another human life. We sat in silence as he shoved food into his dry lips, chugging down tea by the cupful. Then he struck out and stole a sausage from my plate, then a rasher of bacon. He even yelled at the waitress for more tea, more eggs. She obliged but kept her eyes on me, clearly hoping I'd take him back out soon.

Eventually I stopped him, told him he'd had enough and was abusing my kindness. That's when he flipped the table, sending plates and a pot of hot tea through the air. I thought he was going to trash the place but instead he screamed something I didn't understand and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Do you see now why I didn't want him here? the waitress said to me, picking up bits of broken crockery. He speaks no English; I don't know what he speaks. He is always out there and always angry. It is a nice thing you did, but a nice thing for him only, not me or you, and he won't remember it.

She spoke with a thick accent that made her words harsher than maybe she intended, but I silently accepted her lesson and helped clean the place up. I then apologised to the few other customers, one of whom filmed the whole thing on his mobile phone, and handed the waitress another two £20 notes. I saw no sign of the man outside but I heard angry screams from an alleyway, less than a hundred yards from the café. I kept my head down and ran past the entrance, and didn't stop until I was back at my flat.

Had the first bad dream that night. A nightmare, I suppose I should call it. I always hated hearing about people and their mundane dreams, but I'm going to describe mine and I hope you don't mind. If it's any consolation, I can still see my body laying next to me and I still feel the gun aimed at my head, so I'm going to enjoy the experience of writing it much less than you will reading it. Still, I'm sorry;

I knew I was asleep, in the dream, but I couldn't move or wake up or even open my eyes. They felt cemented shut, or taped down. The whole of my body did, I couldn't even waggle a fingertip. Yet everything was so vivid and 'there' that I swore it was real. I felt a fly buzz around my head and land a bunch of times for a splash around in my flop-sweat; stalking across my forehead and trekking through the jungle of my fuzzy beard. A bluebottle, I guessed, from the minuscule but noticeable weight of the thing. I lay there and endured it as it zipped from cheek to cheek, inspected my nose cavities and digging its legs into my eyelids. The unwanted invasion dragged on for hours until I woke with a start, already sat up in bed. For a second I thought the room had tilted and the framed landscape painting had moved to the ceiling, but that was just my internal tilt meter out of whack. No sign of any fly, and nowhere for it to escape to. I double checked the window and door, and crawled back into bed for a few restless hours.

#

A day later, I visited a bar. A local; whose clientele consist of old men on the run from their wives, and students who sit in loud groups and disappear by 10pm. At 10:03, as I signalled for the bartender to drop another glass of golden liquid in front of me, a youngish woman pulled up a stool and perched on top of it, less than four foot away from me. I pretended not to notice, because I had no intention of letting a girl dupe me into paying for her drinks until her friends showed up. I laughed as I had this thought and handed over another couple of coins to the barman. The thought of someone even using me for drinks amused me.

What's so funny? she asked, almost playfully, which killed the smile on my face. Hey, do you mind if I kinda sit with you? I just want a drink or two in peace, without any old man bothering me. They won't if I'm with someone. What do you say?

I didn't say anything, but I raised my glass and gave her a polite nod, to say she could do as she pleased. Then I went back to staring at the hanging optics on the other side of the bar, wondering what short I should chase my beers down with.

I'd just about settled on some brand of rum when she piped up again, You can bother me, if you like.

She even bought me a drink, chatted to me about books and television, then ended up at my place around two hours later. She took everything off but her jeans, and we closed out the night asleep in each other's arms. I'd like to say more happened, but it didn't. I think my apartment, big but dank and shadowy, put an end to that. Good luck to you, reader, if you do live here and intend to attract the opposite sex. Paint the walls in white, get more lamps than you think you need and never turn the heaters off. The place hoards darkness and cold only to spill it all out at the first sign of company.

Of course, sleeping entwined with an attractive lady is when the second nightmare struck me. It couldn't wait for a night alone, or let me enjoy the closeness. Again it felt as real as anything, but this time the fly only stayed for a minute or so. I felt it, even heard it, buzzing its fat body around my ear, inspecting the hole. I wanted to slap it away but my body slept, trapped in ice, with