The field was wide rather than long. Dead rather than alive. There was no farmer wanting to buy it. No one played in it. There was no sign of life other than a rock a solitary tree and a rope. I was told never go there. The area cursed. I had withheld the feelings but it got too much. My curiosity took over. I ran down. The rope spoke to me. Like nobody else. To dig a hole and find a book. I found the book as if i placed it. The rope spoke again. To share its contents with the world. However i must. That was my job. I grabbed my phone and sat on the rock. I typed up the stories without even a look. The final one done. I read through my work. The tales of death and murder and wrong. I felt like a monster. What had i done. The stories i wrote out there for the world. I could not take it. The thaught hurt. How many would cry by my hand. I took the rope. Pushed out a skull. And there i hung knowing i could hurt no more.
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Btw I'm back from holiday and writing again if you hadn't noticed the last few stories.
YOU ARE READING
the ride home And Other Short Stories
HorrorA few horror stories written by me. I know not all of them are good but im working on it☺ Shout out to verrycooljam. Good mate of mine. Very good writer. Go follow him.
