Dead Souls by Andrew S French

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Andrew French, Andrew S French, Dead Souls, Ghost, Horror, Reading, Review, Review week, short stories, Spooky, stories

Just for a change (and in support of a few authors whose work I have been enjoying) I thought that I’d post a review a day for a week. Hopefully something might take your fancy!

Dead Souls by Andrew S French

Dead Souls is a fine collection of supernatural stories each with an original and unique perspective. Very little about each of the stories is predictable which makes them a joy to read.None of the stories are overly graphic, focusing on the unsettling rather than relying on horror or gore for their impact, which makes them all the more interesting and satisfying.
If you are looking for short stories which are ghostly but thoughtfully written then I would highly recommend reading this collection.

The Stories Inbetween by River Dixon

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Ghost, Horror, Reading, Review, Review week, River Dixon, short stories, stories, Terror, The Stories Inbetween

Just for a change (and in support of a few authors whose work I have been enjoying) I thought that I’d post a review a day for a week. Hopefully something might take your fancy!

The Stories Inbetween by River Dixon

I will preface this review by saying that I read a lot of short stories.

Having got that out of the way I have to say that I have never read a collection so original, so cleverly written or so affecting as ‘The Stories Inbetween’. Whether it is the dark humour of stories like ‘The Example’, the superb literary idea behind ‘The Diner’ or the unsettling nature of ‘Conversations in the Mirror’, River Dixon has managed to craft a collection of stories which will stay long in the memory. His style is very much that of a writer’s writer, using prose effectively and succinctly and knowing exactly what to include and where to leave spaces for the reader to fill themselves.

Many of the stories contained here are darkly horrific, but benefit from River understanding precisely how much ‘gore’ is needed to maintain the effectiveness of the  story – yet I would not lump this collection in with a horror genre. It is far more than that. So many of the stories are both insightful of human nature and  indeed, thought-provoking, and this is, without doubt, a collection that I will read many times.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough.

The Old House on the Hill (Part Three)

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Adventure, Childhood, creative, friendship, Ghost, haunted, mystery, old house on the hill, school, short stories, short story, story, writing

The final part of the story which I have posted over the past two days, (and thank you for your patience!):

This new room must, I thought, have been towards the back of the house, as it seemed darker and gloomier than the first, and I reached into my jacket for my torch. I switched it on. It flickered, faded and then died as if it too feared what it might reveal. In my frustration I shook it, banging it against my hand as quietly as I could. Still it refused to work. Realising that it was useless I stuffed it back into my pocket and squeezed my eyes tightly hoping that my actions would help me to see more clearly. Once more I was sure that I heard a faint creaking closer to me now than before, but, before I had the chance to say anything, a howl ripped through the house. We jumped as if we were one, none of us knowing quite what to do; my palms cold and clammy as I screwed them up into fists. The creaking sound gradually became louder and I realised that it was coming from the corner of the room that we were now in. I knew that we could all see the same thing – a figure, old and silent, shadowed in the darkness, rocking gently to and fro on a chair. I bit my lip, tasting the metallic tang of the blood in my mouth as my heart pounded. I tried to swallow but my mouth had become dry and sticky. The old man seemed to be staring straight through us, as if we weren’t there. Two small yellow lights appeared to one side of him, flickering with an intense fire. Then two more appeared, and I realised in an instant that they weren’t lights but eyes! In a heartbeat two fiendish hounds were racing towards us. But these were no ordinary dogs. As we stood rooted, too scared to move, we all realised the same thing at the same time – that we could see the wall behind them, as if they were transparent, ghost hounds. 

We turned, linked as one through our friendship, and ran. We ran through the first room, ignorant now of the books and animals. We ran, desperate to make our get away. We scrambled out of the still open window and raced across the gravel as if our lives depended on it. We hurtled through the gate without once looking back, flying up the lane and over the field with a speed none of us knew we were capable of. We slipped quickly down the gulley which took us through to the top end of our estate and stopped only when we were under the protection of the streetlamp which illuminated the end of the street where I lived. We, sank down, our hands on our knees, as we tried to catch our breath. I thought that I could hear a faint laugh floating down from the hill, but my heart was beating so fast that I couldn’t be certain. After a couple of minutes, and with our minds still racing, we swore a pact of secrecy, turned and went our separate ways. 

Shortly afterwards Brian too left the area. We had not once mentioned what we had seen and heard. Behind the house, at the bottom of the hill, there now stands a modern secondary school. What were the old fields have been turned into sports fields for the school, and there is only one small piece of waste land left; the one over which we made our escape all those years ago. At some point in the future, I am sure, even that will be built upon. The lane has been cleared now and widened but, if ever I walk along it, I can’t help but shiver and increase my pace, when I walk past the old house on the hill. 

The Old House on the Hill (Part Two)

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Adventure, Childhood, creative, friendship, Ghost, haunted, mystery, old house on the hill, school, short stories, short story, story, writing

Continued from yesterday’s post:

One day David told us that he and his family were moving to another part of the city soon and that he would be leaving our school. That night we had a small party at his house and, when it was time for us to go, he drew Brian and myself to one side, out of earshot of any lurking adults. 

“Before I go,” he said, “I need to find out about the house.” 

We both knew, of course, which house he was talking about, and instinctively looked at each other, our faces a mixture of excitement and trepidation. David caught our attention again and explained that he was planning a late-night trip to explore the house and to finally put his mind at rest – after all, once he had moved he would never have the chance again. For a while no-one said anything, but eventually Brian broke the silence and then we both agreed that we would go with him. David’s face looked as serious as I had ever seen as he outlined his plans; we would sneak out of our houses and meet by the park gates at midnight on Friday night. 

The week dragged by, but eventually Friday arrived. That evening I stayed in and told my mother that I was going to bed early. My mother was worried that I wasn’t well, but I told her that I was just a little bit tired because school had been busy, which she seemed happy to believe. Once I was safely in my room I made sure that my jacket pockets were full of everything that I thought I might need – a torch, a penknife, my front door key, a small note book and a couple of pencils in case I needed to take notes. I checked the batteries in the torch which, thankfully, seemed to be working well, and, after setting my alarm clock, and stuffing it beneath my pillow in case it woke anybody else, settled down for a couple of hours rest. 

At a quarter to twelve I silenced my alarm, quickly and quietly pulled on some clothes, and checked my jacket one last time -m there was no turning back now. Silently I crept out of the front door, slipping my key into the lock and turning it as quietly as I could as I pulled the door to. I raced to the park as quickly as I could, but was the first to arrive, and, for a moment, thought that the others weren’t coming. My fears vanished though as I saw them emerging from the darkness together and heading towards me. We looked at each other and, without saying a word, turned and headed up our lane. 

Soon we came to the blackness of the smaller, more mysterious lane; the lane which held the mystery that we were determined to solve. David whispered quietly as if he feared that his ghosts might be listening, and we set off, more slowly now, blaming the darkness rather than our own fears. 

I shuddered when we eventually arrived at the blackened gates of the house. It looked, if it were possible, even more terrifying at night, as if it were one enormous, ghastly shadow which was throwing a deathly cloak over everything beneath it. I heard Brian swallow hard. Without speaking we could sense each other’s fears but knew that we had to find a way into the house. 

We checked the silent driveway. There was nothing there, no vehicle and no sign of life, and, taking this as a positive sign, we set about climbing the gate. To our surprise, and horror, however, we found that the gate was not padlocked and, as we leaned against it, it swung open, noiselessly, as if it were new. Steadying ourselves we started to walk towards the house. The gravel beneath our feet felt hard and cold, even through our shoes, but made no sound as we tiptoed across it towards the front door. Before we knew it, we were standing directly in front of it. With an unusual show of bravery, I reached out and touched the wood. It felt cold and damp against the palm of my hand and I shivered – I had never touched anything which felt quite like it before. Brian stepped up next to me and leaned his shoulder against the door. He pushed as hard as he could, but we knew that it was locked and wouldn’t budge despite our efforts. Suddenly we heard David hissing at us. The sound, though it came as quiet as a mouse, nearly made me jump. He had discovered a small, unfastened window. Cautiously we pulled ourselves up and through it, our feet feeling tentatively for something solid to rest on. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark we collectively took in our surroundings. We were in a large, dust filled room whose walls were stacked high with books, stuffed animals and collections of mementoes which we couldn’t place. 

I stepped forwards to look more closely at the volumes of books that seemed to reach out in every direction. I saw that there were books about witchcraft, the supernatural and ghosts. I turned to show David and Brian, but nearly yelped out as my foot cracked against a stuffed crocodile which had seemed to appear from nowhere and now lay in my path, its gaping mouth baring its teeth at me. Too frightened to speak, but driven on by nervous excitement, we opened the door to a second room. I was sure that I had heard the creaking of floorboards, but said nothing, hoping that my imagination was playing tricks on me. As we entered the next room I could feel my pulse racing through every fibre of my body but nothing could stop us now. 

The Old House on the Hill (Part One)

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Adventure, Childhood, creative, friendship, Ghost, old house on the hill, scary, school, short stories, story, writing

Time for something a little different.

For the next three days I will be posting parts of a short story which I have (for want of a better word) serialised. I hope that you feel the urge to stick with it and enjoy it.

When I was young I used to live, with the rest of my family, in a quiet suburb on the edge of a large, sprawling city, whose streets stretched out like an octopus’s tentacles in every possible direction. It was a peaceful and pleasant area in which to live, far enough away from the hustle and bustle of the city centre, but still close enough to allow us to make regular trips to taste the delights of city life. At one end of the street in which our house stood was a large patch of land known to us as ‘The Green’; a place where my friends and I would happily waste away our hours playing football or daydreaming. At the other end of our street a tree-lined lane separated the glut of houses from a park which was large enough to house a miniature golf course but small enough to have no given name, at least not one that I, as a child, had any knowledge of. The park sloped heavily, taking with it a tiny stream which trickled gently down its slope before emptying itself out into a small brook which, in turn, flowed onwards towards the city. Here we spent the long days of summer holidays fishing for stickleback and searching for golf balls and the promise of the pennies they might bring us. 

On weekdays we would climb the long winding hill towards our primary school, everyday walking the same streets. We walked past the local shops, up the hill and past the local youth centre which used to show films on a Saturday morning, and into the crowded playground. When the school day was over and our ears were filled with the joyful sound of bells, we would race home as if nothing had happened and nothing had been learned, our minds emptying as quickly as they had been filled. When the weather allowed it we would gather on our beloved Green as if it belonged only to us, a football always at our feet, until our elder brothers and sisters were sent out to round us up like cattle to return to our homes for tea. When the cold, dark nights drew in, and the outside world became a stranger to us, my friends and I would try to spend as many evenings together as we could. We devised an unwritten rota of whose house we would visit on which evenings, always taking with us our respective collections of football or super-hero cards which we had lovingly retrieved from the packets of bubble-gum that had become our sweet of choice. 

Sometimes, when the summer evenings were long and hot, we would walk the long way back from our school, across the main road and along the lane which ran above our estate. At the top of the hill fields, overgrown with trees, bushes and unnaturally long grass, stretched out into the distance and it felt, here at least, as if we really were in the countryside. Between two of these fields a second even smaller lane twisted and turned, partially hidden by the undergrowth, and it was down this lane that we would walk on those long, lazy late summer afternoons. We knew, despite its tendency to disappear and reappear from view, that this lane would lead us back to the park where we could re-join the lane which would lead us back to our houses. It was a journey, however, that we never made on cold, dark, wintery days. 

About halfway along the lane, and set well back from it, stood a large, grey and imposing house. Its door was made from thick, dark wood, which reminded me of the timbers used to make the hulls of ancient ships, and the windows, dirtied by age, were criss-crossed by a leaden lattice. The house was surrounded by huge trees which, even on a clear summer day, cast eerie shadows across it. The only entrance, the only way past these menacing guards, lay through a pair of forbidding gates, whose wooden panels had begun to rot through lack of care and the passing of time, and which were always kept padlocked. We had never seen anyone near the house or at any of the windows, although, given the heavy coating of dirt that they bore, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, to make out a face even if one had appeared. At night, however, we had all heard the howl of dogs as it came floating over our houses from the hill above. 

My friend, Brian, who, even in those days, had begun to develop a fascination for chemistry, and was always experimenting with the set that he had had for his birthday, believed that the house was owned by a mad scientist. When we talked together we would imagine a dark and dingy cellar containing Frankenstein’s monster, or the mad scientist himself concocting a potion which would change its drinker into a werewolf or worse. Our friend David thought that the house was haunted and that the howling dogs were actually ghosts. He believed that their wailing was for their now dead master who roamed the house and nearby fields at night unable to rest. 

I didn’t know what to believe. My family thought that it was all superstitious nonsense, but I was sure that there was something that was not quite right about the house. I desperately wanted to investigate, to satisfy my curiosity, but deep down I felt too scared to even think about doing anything. 

Embrace

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creative, dark, Depression, Embrace, Ghost, poems, poetry, verse, writing

He follows you, silent

Gliding, dark-cloaked, invisible

As whispering eddies in the night.

Through streets shrouded

In simple shadows, and light

As pallid as the Sun in winter

Kissed skies.

Across cobble and path,

Through doorways abandoned

As cold as hoar-frost mornings

Creeping tentacles brushing

A shoulder of flame.

In ancient corners, windowless

Led deep within a labyrinth moon,

A face forms shapes melts

Features upon your flesh,

A windless sea carries call to home

Acceptance sighs to welcome.

A Ghost to Haunt

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A ghost to haunt, Belief, creative, Devil, faith, Ghost, Haunting, Nightmare, poems, poetry, spirit, verse, writing

I am the name you never said,

The one who slips from bed to bed,

The favoured book you never read,

A constant doubt within your head.

I am the cross upon your door,

The creeping root beneath the floor,

The tortured dress you never wore,

An icy vein that will not thaw.

I am the word you never spoke,

The mirror’s face behind its smoke,

The frozen time behind night’s cloak,

A laugh too late to catch the joke.

I am the time you never planned,

The days that slipped out of your hand,

The rusted icon on the stand,

An effigy on broken land.

I am the cry at dead of night,

The splintered dream lost in mid-flight,

The falling bird that knows its plight,

A final line you could not write.

I am the bridge you could not cross,

The path below grown old with moss,

The road behind grown cold with loss,

A ancient sign now lost its gloss.

I am the one you’d never court,

The fated friend you never sought,

The thief of time I’ll leave you naught,

A ghost to haunt your every thought.

I am the name you never said,

The one that fills your heart with dread,

The name in everything you read,

A ghost to haunt the days ahead.

Strange Return

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conscience, creative, Ghost, poems, poetry, Revenge, Strange return, Truth, verse, writing

And when I do return

Escape the arms that cannot hold

Me any longer in the dark

You will find me in the corners

Beneath the sheets

Amongst the cobwebs that you keep

Behind each action

Each choice you make

Haunting every move

And all those souls who wished me ill

Will quiver quake and never know

The eyes that burn

Upon their backs

I’ll pull the rug from beneath your feet

Sow the seeds you sought to weed

And choke your thoughts before they grow

I’ll hurt the ones you hope to hold

And foster doubt and fear and hate

I’ll scratch my name into your heart

And show you things you wished were hid

Then take my leave

To watch you fall

Disappear beneath the weight

Of all you tried to once deny

Until you find your place once more

Uneasy at my side.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019