A Collection of Gothic Short Stories

The Doctor Will See You Now

The silence was deafening. The place had a certain clinical, sterile, feel about it, and the heels of my boots clicked across the yellowing, white tiles with an echoing ring. Dust, grit, and what looked like specks of scarlet were ingrained into the cracks in the tiles, lacing across the floor like a spider's web. The laboratory was dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps, placed equally across the walls, the fuel within them gradually running out, causing them to dip and gutter, casting long, flickering, shadows, like some stereotypical monster rearing up from their grave. On the left of me stood a thick, granite slab, and on my right an ornate wooden desk covered in paperwork and strange equipment. As I approached the desk, I realised that the piles of paper which I had presumed were paperwork were actually photographs, grainy and distorted. However, the figures within them were still clearly distinguishable, despite the haze, and it seemed as though whoever owned and resided in this place was planning to do something with the victims of their photography. I picked up one of the photographs, and started as I realised that it was damp. It took me a moment to realise that the moisture was from a dark room; the photos had only recently been developed. Whoever had taken these photos, was still here, and at that moment each and every one of the oil lamp's fuel suddenly diminished, leaving the room in darkness except for the dull glow of the machinery surrounding me, and the occasional flash of sparks.

 My pulse quickened, and my animalistic instincts kicked in. I had to leave... immediately. I made a break for the arch from which I had entered, but my curiosity overtook me and I turned on my heel, sprinting towards the slab on the opposite side of the room. I placed my hand gently upon the cold stone, and shivers ran up and down my spine like ants on a log. But what really added to my fear was the spattering of ruby globules covering the table from head to foot. The blood wasn't dry, however, and was still congealing and glistening in the dull lighting, their owners obviously only very recently deceased. Above the simple, morgue- like table hung a rusting frame, strangely resembling an ancient, upturned tree, with thick black cables coiling around it like ivy and metal deviations sprouting off it like gnarled branches. But this tree didn't have leaves, oh no. Vicious, bloodthirsty instruments and paraphernalia reached out at me, only inches from my face, also sprayed with the same red liquid. Blades, tongs and scalpels, shone menacingly at me, crowned by a dirty tank filled with some sort of brown excretion. I had a feeling that this was what the surgeon had been looking for. And it didn't seem as though they would have used anaesthetic, either. I shook my head, my hands shaking uncontrollably as bile began to rise in my throat. "Equipment like this in the wrong hands... could be disastrous." I muttered to myself, speaking my thoughts aloud. A cracked giggle emanated from the archway, and I slowly turned my head, my eyes receiving a gradual, panoramic view of the room. My eyes finally fell on a silhouetted figure, draped in a long coat and wearing thick gloves. A shock of unruly hair framed his chiselled features, falling to his shoulders in matted clumps. He opened his mouth, and a sound like nails on a backboard screeched from between his lips, 

"You know what these are?" He held up his bony hands, "No? These... are the wrong hands!"