Short Horror Stories

Story 100

Cold and coughing I finally make my way back from the cramped stone space that was the cave.

The time in which I drew pictures now seems very long ago.

The book... right... I should probably burn it.

I don't want anything to do with it anymore.

But... I know it's too late.

Have I become part of the story or has the story become a part of me?

I cannot concentrate any longer, the world of fantasy and horror is awaiting me, I can hear it call me gently by name, begging me to return to sweet ignorance.

With a loud thud I fall onto the familiar wooden floor and swiftly I close the book that had taken me inside.

In the dark I bind it shut, not caring about the damp ink inside.

It takes a while for me to finally calm down, my heart won't seem to quiet down.

Blindly I search for the candle I had dropped and light the small flame once again.

I really am back...

Am I... really?

Whilst remaining seated on the cold floor I unseal the book again and flip through the pages.

Brother.

Masked.

The confession.

The invitation.

Iris Coldon.

The traveler.

And finally the one hundredth.

All stories, all pages filled with darkness.

I skipped many and drawings have appeared. I was sure I never drew at all.

I stop to stare at the last I'm holding open right now.

Another story which is calling me.

Another story which is unnatural.

Another story awaiting me to join it's world of horrors.

Without thinking I reach for the drawing on the page, my hand disappears right into it again. Just like what happened with the fifth.

I guess all of this was a story all along.

There are eyes in the dark.

Not glowing.

But they're there, I'm certain.

I feel something looking at me.

Finally my eyes register who it is and I start to speak:

"I hadn't noticed that it was you, but I have always known you were here."

Once again I close the book and hold it close to my chest. I don't want anything getting out or getting in.

"Without knowing, you, dear reader, have become part of the story or stories as well."

"Since you came to this, you most likely have read some or all of the one hundred."

I try my best to explain.

"In your mind you have shaped these worlds, these stories.

I mean, what do the characters look like? You know, because these stories have been played in your mind.

But the way you know these characters no one else does.

The same goes for the locations, did you see them?

Look, even this drawing I made of the one of the cave is one decided by you. I didn't draw it. You did. You did all that in your mind.

Did you give voices to me and the others too? Have they all been different or have many been the same?"

I sigh, making sure the book will never open again. You of all people shouldn't be lost in its darkness, but I know that it's futile.

You have your own after all, one that doesn't much look like a book, but still shows its many damned words.

"You're too late, you could have left, but you didn't."

Before I know it I'm yelling.

"Flee if you can, close the book! If you want a chance at escape! Don't look! Don't read!"

"Leave!"

"Don't come back!"

"Run for your life!"

But it's all for naught it seems.

"You didn't leave?"

Once again I sigh deeply, sounding more depressed than the previous one.

Slowly I sit back down: "Well then I guess we're both in it together."

"I guess the stories have changed us both, huh...

Thank you for being here."

"This is goodbye. Perhaps I will see you around, perhaps not. That is up to you."