Midnight Terrors

By tellstories and Mark Robijn

Take a ride at midnight with ghosts, ghouls, and other creatures of the night. Horror stories and dark poems to thrill your mind and chill your spine. Enjoy Midnight Terrors..if you dare. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: tellstories
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224156566

tellstories

Mark Robyn is a novelist, screenwriter, filmmaker and short story writer. In addition to writing Dead By Midnight, he has also written a series of three young adult novels through Blue Forge Press that is currently available on Amazon called Johnny Apocalypse and the Nuclear Wasteland. He has written many short stories, some included in the anthology The Mighty Pen by Blue Forge Press, another in the anthology 100 Voices, also both available on Amazon. He is also a quarterfinalist screenwriter in the Page Screenwriting Contest and a winner of the Scriptoid TV Pilot Contest. Mark lives in the Pacific Northwest. 

Book preview

Midnight Terrors

By Mark Robijn

Dedicated to the men who terrified and entertained me:

Edgar Allen Poe

Ray Bradbury

Stephen King

Harry Harrison

Copyright © 2024 Mark Robyn.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Front cover image by Mark Robyn using Canva.

Book design by Mark Robyn.

Printed by Draft2Digital, Inc.

Second printing edition 2024.

www.markrobijn.com

Contents

The Bloody Tower

Page 1

The Dead Magician’s Curse

Page 36

Goodbye Grandpa

Page 40

Walkers- a poem

Page 45

The Haunting of Marvin Gale

Page 51

My Sweetie – a poem

Page 61

Two Heads are Better Than One

Page 63

The Man of Steel who is Me

Page 78

Wrong Turn on a Dark Forest Road

Page 80

Jack and Jill are Very Ill

Page 94

Take a Look at my Girlfriend

Page 95

The Gangle and I

Page 102

Wormwood

Page 104

Amontillado with Me

Page 111

Bad Flight

Page 113

The Bloody Tower

Gray light from an overcast sky streamed through the dirty hospital window, giving the room a pale and lifeless caste.  Near the window, a man in a soiled white lab coat sat at a desk. His short black hair and ragged beard were dirty and matted with blood.  A wicked gash ran from his forehead, across one eyeless eye socket and down to his chin. His remaining eye was rheumy and red.  His pale face wore no expression, like that of a man who has just walked out of a train wreck. His arms and legs were long and awkward, unnatural, like those of a stork, and he had trouble controlling them.

He read from a thick sheaf of paper held together with brads, and as he finished each page, he flipped it over impatiently and read on.  Every few seconds, another spasm would seize him, and he would pause and cough.  Then he would resume his raspy breathing.  Occasionally he would stop and spit blood on the floor. 

On the outside ledge of the window, a Raven watched.  Now and then, it tapped on the window with its beak against the glass, making a loud cracking sound.

––––––––

TOP SECRET

EYES ONLY

TRANSCRIPT 47662

File containing the psychiatric evaluation of patient Reginald Satherby on May 5th, 1964 by Doctor Harold Ludes at the Fullows Mental Hospital, Leeds.  This is Mr. Satherby’s account of the incidents that occurred on October 31, 1963 at the Tower of London that led to his incarceration.

Hello doctor. Welcome to my nightmare.  You’re the third to visit me this month.  I fancy I’m becoming something of a celebrity in British medical circles by now: Come and see the mad professor!  Come listen to his entertaining ghost stories.  That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to make me tell it all over again?  You fellows have no pity for a poor wretch trying to forget, do you?

But then, I really have no choice, do I?  They’ve locked me in this madhouse and don’t ever intend on letting me leave, I know that.  I shan’t ever walk the streets of London or see Piccadilly Circus in the rain again.  But it is only what I deserve.  So, like a tragic circus monkey, I’ll perform one more time for my cruel masters, though it causes me horrible pain.

First, let me give you the same warning I gave the others, though I’m sure you’ll simply laugh, just as the they.  My conscience will allow no other course of action.  Heed my words and they will save your sanity, if not your very life; ignore them at your peril: don’t go to the Tower of London!

You smile, just as I knew you would; you think it’s nothing more than a quaint old castle with a tragic history, don’t you?  Nothing could be further from the truth!  It is, in reality, a place of unspeakable evil.  It should be torn down and every piece thrown into the deepest spot of the Thames.  Maybe then the poor wretched souls trapped in its accursed walls could rest; maybe then Trevor, poor Trevor...

Trevor! The mere mention of his name sends a shiver of terror through me like a sharp knife or the touch of a corpse’s hand.  And this is very strange, for he was once my dearest friend.

My descent into horror began last year on the Saturday just before All Hallows Eve.  It was the blackest day of my life, and the last day I would ever know happiness, though I didn’t know it at the time. 

I was a mathematics Don at the University of Cambridge.  Trevor worked there as well, but in a much more glamorous position, as a professor/scientist in the Physics and Biochemical branches of the Research Division. 

We became friends while students at the school ourselves.  For reason I will never understand, Trevor took to me at our very first meeting.  This was odd because Trevor was both handsome and popular, as well as being a certified genius.

I, on the other hand, as you can plainly see, was not blessed with any of these qualities; five feet six, dreadfully thin with brown hair like straw and a receding chin I am not what even the kindest person would call attractive.  Members of the fairer sex have even told me that I have a haunting look to my eyes and that they are sunk too deep in my head. 

Maybe Trevor felt pity for me, or maybe I was a comic foil for him.  At any rate, we became fast friends, and through fortunate circumstance, both took positions at the school after graduation.

That particular Saturday, I took the train from the station near Cambridge to London to meet my friend for lunch.  Trevor asked to me to meet him at the Vestry, a restaurant overlooking the Thames.  I was curious as to whether I would be eating alone, for Trevor was involved in a project that seemed to be taking more and more of his time and he often missed appointments.  He was becoming quite secretive about it as well, even hinting that the government was interested in his work. 

I was pleased this time to see him at the very back of the restaurant in a booth, arms stretched out in an expansive gesture, looking ‘chuffed as nuts’.  He was, as always, dressed to the nines and looking fabulous. His short black hair and perfectly trimmed beard were immaculate as always. He wore his usual smile, the one that often-put people off, making them think he was arrogant.  He was, of course, but he was also very friendly, always joking or playing practical jokes. 

Reggie!  Sit down; you look exhausted.

I smiled and slid into the booth. 

I am, Trev, from trying to keep up with you.  Are you still juggling three birds at once, you old devil?  Don’t you ever feel ashamed?

Trevor laughed, a pleasant sound, strong and deep, like a Greek god amused at mortals.  Then he grinned.  Only one at the moment, Reginald, but she’s a top-notch filly.  How about you?  Do you still need me to fix you up, or has the Old Ladies Home taken you off their blacklist?

I happen to be doing just fine on my own, thanks anyway, I lied; I’m involved with a very attractive brunette.  But don’t expect me to bring her around, I want to keep this one for myself.

We joked for a few more minutes.  The waitress came by and we ordered.  After she’d left again, Trevor spoke.

I saw a cat on the way here, Reggie.  It had been run over by an auto.  It must have just happened, for it was still twitching in its death throes.

Trevor’s words might seem sick or strange, Doctor, but I knew they were perfectly in line with his character.  You see Trevor, though a normal chap in every way had one hidden facet to his personality.  It was an intense interest in death.  Not with killing, or seeing things die, or wanting to kill or anything maudlin like that; no, his interest was in Death itself, the event; the phenomenon.

In the lab at Cambridge ever since he was a student, he’d run experiments that might seem morbid, but were, in fact, simple scientific inquiry.

He cut the heads off mice, or drowned them in various solutions while their brains were hooked to monitors.  He administered lethal toxins and gasses to all variety of small animals while minutely recording every possible detail of their demise.  He routinely visited the morgue near Cambridge and engaged in long conversations with the pathologists and coroners there while studying the corpses.  Consequently, his comment didn’t surprise me, merely put me off.

I’m very happy for you, Trev.  Can we keep the discussion of dead pets on hold until after we eat?  I would appreciate it.

Trevor grinned at me.  I really think he enjoyed getting under my skin. Thankfully, he changed the subject.

We had a wonderful success this week, Reggie.  Bloody magnificent.

I frowned and played with a sugar packet. 

Please don’t tell me about it, Trevor, you might have to shoot me or have my mind erased or something.  Your work’s Top Secret, after all.

Trevor stopped smiling and his tone turned somber. 

Believe me, Reggie, it’s always bothered me that I haven’t been able to share my work with you.

Well, that’s life, I suppose.  I can’t share the phone numbers of the female students in my Maths class with you, though you’ve tried to pry them out of me more than once.  Don’t concern yourself.

He played with his fingers, staring at them, as if they held some deep dark secret. 

But I am concerned, Reggie.  I want to be able to talk about it with you, especially in light of what’s going to happen tomorrow night.

His statement, naturally, filled me with curiosity. 

"Reggie, I’m going to tell you something.  But you have to promise