20 Tales of Terror – Day 17: Beyond The Veil

Dearest Candice,

I hope this letter finds you in good health.

It has been scarcely two days since my departure, and already I find myself missing you deeply.

This morning, I was formally introduced to Dr. Cavendish, who gave me a personal tour of the institute and explained my duties in greater detail. I cannot describe to you the thrill I felt on meeting such a great man, and knowing that I will be working alongside him to broaden the horizons of human understanding and knowledge.

Dr. Cavendish is a man of great vision. Through his work, we may definitively be able to prove the scientific roots of the supernatural. If we are successful, all those old myths and superstitions will take on a completely new light! I know how dangerous that must sound, but do not worry. Dr. Cavendish is very thorough in his methods.

His behavior can, at times, be quite unorthodox, but that is to be expected of any ingenious mind. They operate on a level of thought we cannot begin to comprehend. He is very fastidious about cleanliness. Why, he even wore gloves while shaking hands with me! During our tour, we came across a stain on the floor. At first, I thought it to be blood, but later reflected it must have been a chemical spill. Dr. Cavendish was absolutely livid, however. He stamped his feet and roared at the top of his voice at everyone in the laboratory, stressing the important of keeping every surface clean.

I must confess, in that moment I felt a pang of fear, and thought I detected madness dancing behind his eyes. Perhaps that is the price of being truly passionate about something. Only moments later, Dr. Cavendish was in a good humor again, and resumed our tour as if the interruption had never occurred.

It was a most uneventful day otherwise. We had many discussions on the afterlife and its scientific implications that were quite fascinating to me, but I shall spare you the details.

Tomorrow, my work begins in earnest, and I greatly look forward to it. The coming weeks will be demanding, but I shall write to you as often as I possibly can.

Do give my love to Annabelle, and let her know that the both of you will always be in my heart.

With love,


20 Tales of Terror – Day 15: Haunted

She haunts me.

I see her face, jade eyes framed by raven locks, and I yearn for her.

The sight of her ruby lips curving into a smile would make the most arid desert blossom with life.

I remember the touch of her pale skin, like velvet. I can never forget the way she laughed when my fingers caressed her face. I would give anything to touch her again.

But I cannot.

Our love will only live on as a memory now.

All I can do is watch from afar as she walks by. She has a new life ahead of her, while I am doomed to wander the world, forever restless.

Forever haunted by memories of my life.

No Place Like Home

As she does every Wednesday, Kristi Simpson urged everyone to write something. One of her suggestions was a ghost story, so I thought, why not? I’d just published a creepy tale of desolation for the WEP challenge yesterday, so I thought I’d go for a different tone with this one.


It was the only word that came to mind standing at the old train station. Greyhaven had never been a busy town, but it got its share of visitors. Back then. Only memories and echoes inhabited it now, haunting abandoned buildings and gliding along empty roads.

A soft breeze dislodged a few chips of mottled green paint from the side of the train carriage, revealing a bit more of the rust underneath. At the same time, unseen hands pushed the station doors open, bidding me welcome. It was a quaint little building with a dark sloping roof and brick walls that were probably bright red once. Shadows danced behind broken window panes, creating the illusion of activity inside, but there was not a soul in sight.

I walked through the the station, surrounded by vacant chairs, past a ticket window that was overgrown with cobwebs and through to the other side. The town of Greyhaven lay spread out before me, now true to its name. Had it really been twenty years since life had left this place?

Rows of desolate shops stood before me, their wares turned to dust long ago. Whatever hadn’t been stolen anyway. I walked past the old bookstore. Its shelves, once carefully arranged, were strewn about in chaos. Dr. Carver’s pharmacy was unrecognizable. A place of healing, now a marker of death. The post office had collapsed on itself a long time ago, before the town had been lost. There were plans to rebuild it, but perhaps it was an omen for the troubles to come.

Neatly trimmed lawns were now a tangle of weeds and shrubs. A fallen tree rested itself on what had been Mrs. Simm’s garage. The breeze picked up, whistling through the leaves and over the bare streets. The sun was making its way toward the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. Night would come soon enough, plunging the whole town into darkness. Truth be told, even the dawn didn’t bring much light here anymore.

Just before the last rays of sunlight disappeared, I arrived at the house. It was so beautiful once. Simple, painted in plain beige with a dark brown roof. A cozy living room decorated with family photos and my wife’s knick knacks. Two bedrooms upstairs; the kids always complained about not having their own rooms, but they got along so well together. The rooms were home to only dust now, the house’s decaying walls a sorry reminder of what once had been. In spite of that, I felt glad to be home.

Tomorrow, I would go out again and walk around the town. The same walk I’d taken for the past twenty years, through abandoned buildings and along empty roads.

Spooky Science

“Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

“That’s a bit vague, isn’t it?”


“How afraid is ‘very’? Is there an exact measure?”

“No! You’re just…very afraid!”

“But how much fear is that? Like ‘spider’ fear or ‘wetting your pants in public’ fear?”

“Hauntings were so much simpler in my day.”


The room is a mausoleum.

On one wall, a lifeless heart.

Within the room sits a corpse clutching a rusted sword.

Ghosts, their snow-white forms dotted with dried blood, block the exit. Taunt him.

They know that a dead man tells no tales.

Neither does a writer without a story.