A Collection of Gothic Short Stories

Paper Cuts

The door creaked as I pressed against it, like the groan of some poor, dying soul, sweeping into the nursery and throwing up a cloud of dust, a tidal wave of dull, bronze particulates hovering at my feet. I took my first step into the room, and I realised just how long this room had been left abandoned for. More dust motes swirled in the air, highlighted by the great shafts of light which stabbed like daggers into my eyes. Cobwebs arced across the walls, from shelf to shelf, as though someone had strung tripwires across the nursery in hope of catching an aphid in the act. I crept towards a bookcase, it's shelves bowing under the weight of hundreds upon hundreds of leather bound tomes, each inscribed with the names of fairy tales in gold, decorative lettering. I outstretched my arm, and placed my forefinger on the spine of one the books. There was a rushing sound, like the air escaping from a child's balloon, and the room felt as though it had become colder suddenly, dropping at least ten degrees, or more. Ignoring this minor occurrence, I continued to prise the book from it's shelf, a grave mistake on my part, for as the final corner of the worn leather left the wood, a howling, gale- force wind began to storm through the room, through the house itself. The curtains which hung limply at the sides of the grimy bay window swung across the rattling panes, plunging the room into darkness. My legs, without thought, swung towards the door, adrenalin pumping through my veins, sweat beading across my forehead. Before I had chance to leave the threshold, the door swept ferociously into it's frame, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of a handprint, pressed into the dust of the wooden door. I blinked, and the dust filled the print as if it hadn't been there at all. That's it, I thought to myself...now I am truly doomed.

I stumbled in the dark for a moment, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realised just how doomed I was. The music box on the opposite side of the room was beginning to open without a hand to guide it, and tinkling, eerie music was beginning to emanate from within. In time with the beat of the chilling trill of the music, a frayed rocking horse with a singular ear and a mistreated expression and, I thought, an insane glint in it's glassy, staring eyes, began to slowly rock, back and forth. A thundering clatter shredded my nerves to tatters, and as I span on my heel I was caught with a sight which made my breath catch in my throat. The ornate wooden bookcase which loomed above me like a cumbersome guardian was tearing itself limb from limb, as one after the other, with quickening pace, the bookcase was ejecting the books from their resting place, flying through the air, their crumbling pages wings to propel them to my feet. They gradually amassed around my feet, drawing tighter and tighter around my ankles, until pins and needles began to creep in from the soles of my feet to the thighs of my legs, constricting my movement. I writhed within my paper bonds, but they continued to draw tighter, until I screamed, a blood-curdling screech which echoed off the walls. But my cries were cut short by a chillingly cheery sound, which boomed even louder than my voice... the heavy patter of a child's feet and it's accompanying giggle, which pressed into my ear drums until it was as loud as heavy machinery whirring away centimetres from my head.

 The rocking horse rocked faster, the music boxed played quicker, the books drew in tighter around my feet, a rusting bird cage in the corner of the room began to swing relentlessly, and the maddening caw of a raven joined the mix of sounds. A jack- in-the-box sprang from it's hiding place and the dolls on the shelves, their skin sallow and white, their eyes even whiter, began to draw themselves up and shift from their awkward position, raising their ceramic arms towards me like the dead rising from the grave. I screamed again, but my exclamation was drowned out by the cacophony of noises surrounding me. Then, as if someone had simply muted a television programme in which I was the leading role, the noise stopped, and the room was silent, except for the distant shuffling of a guilty child's feet. I felt a spindly hand on my shoulder, turning my blood to an icy slush and stopping my heart in it's eternal beating. I turned my head to my right, but before I could catch a glimpse of whoever was behind me, their voice, a rasping screech laced with poison, escaped their lips, 'You... have been a very naughty boy!' And the world around me ceased to exist.