Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to share with you six fantastic horror short stories: the winning tales from the Spooky Tales competition organised by the British Horror Studio (BHS).
Before we delve into the stories, I would like to tell you a little about the writers themselves and where you can discover more of their creative work.
The tales are Sally Longtail by Denise Gorden, Hexcomb 1939 by John Robinson, The Artist by Alley Quinn, Whispers Beneath the Studio by Nick Miles and, last but certainly not least, Attachment by Josh L. Dean.
More than 100 stories were submitted, and becoming one of the finalists required each tale to survive fierce competition across two rounds of voting within the large BHS community.
Denise Gorden is a truly gifted artist and a loyal supporter of the British Horror Studio, so it came as no surprise that her original story performed so well. You can follow her work on Instagram right here.
John Robinson brought us Hexcomb 1939, which ultimately received the most votes and was selected for adaptation into a short film. That adaptation is slowly but surely taking shape right now!
Alley Quinn enjoys writing horror and fantasy. She also has an Instagram account where you can discover more of her work here, with further stories promised soon!
Nick Miles is a long-time friend of BHS and a talented cosplay actor whose portrayals of the Joker have made him a well-known figure on the North American convention circuit. He is now pursuing a traditional acting career while also writing screenplays. You can follow more of his work right here!
Josh L. Dean wrote Attachment, which performed extremely well in our competition. He is also a published author, and you can discover his novel, The Anubis Stone, right here.
Here at Amicus Horror, we’re delighted to welcome all of our authors, and we’re proud to share their fantastic tales with you!
If you would like to see us present more stories, we may introduce a new category of articles here at Amicus Horror, allowing us to feature and promote exciting new horror literature.
Sally Longtail
by Denise Gorden
Up above, the nighttime lights of Canary Wharf blazed out over London. But the glass canyon Ben walked down was oddly dark, dead aside from swirls of windblown litter. There was no signal on his phone, either, which was unheard of in the Wharf. And even without a map, how he could have got lost? But he was wishing, now, he hadn’t decided to try to walk back home.
Three in the morning. The rest of the team would be doing shots somewhere. They’d asked him along, once, and he’d said no. He hadn’t been asked again. Which would have been fine with him, except from that point on they’d taken the piss, had played endless jokes on him, especially Leo. Because Ben didn’t want to go out and get wasted. He kicked at a can rattling down the street. Because everyone on the floor knew that he was the best coder.
The street opened onto a lonely stretch of water. A girl, in a long, shiny dress, with hair that made him think of black-and-white movies, stood at the edge of the dock. She gave him a teasing smile, then stepped backward into the water, disappearing without a splash.
For a second, he was too shocked to move. But when he got to the dock, there was only still, dark water. Water unruffled by the wind, that reflected none of the surrounding lights. His skin prickled. It didn’t look like water. It looked like a hole had been punched in the world.
And then he ran, in an unaccountable, humiliating frenzy of panic, until he stumbled out onto a wide road, near-hurling himself into the welcome path of a taxi.
“That’s a bad place you came out of,” the driver, a grizzled veteran, said as they set off. “Back in the old days, when the docks were open, it was full of longtails. My granddad worked on the docks, said it was the Blitz brought ‘em up. Maybe the bombs cracked somethin’ open. Or maybe it was all of the dyin’.” He caught Ben’s eye in the mirror. “You saw one, didn’t you?”
“I saw a girl,” Ben said. “A young woman.” In fact, he didn’t know what he had seen. But he knew what he had done. He had run like a scared rabbit.
“Bit of all right, was she? Bit of a looker?” The old man laughed, not unkindly. “You just met Sally Longtail. That’s what they called them, during the war. Sally Longtails. But they can look like whatever they want. Whatever will get you followin’, down into the dark.”
That old-fashioned hairstyle and evening gown… but no. Ben didn’t believe in ghosts. And “longtails”… he wasn’t going to ask. He let the words wash over him, feigning sleep that became genuine, hearing the cab driver’s final words, as he paid his fare, through a haze of mental exhaustion: You mind yourself, now. And don’t go back, lookin’.
Ben sat by the window of the crowded bar, looking out into the dark. It was a good place to wait for the streets to empty, near to where he had seen the girl. He was going back. He had no choice. It was the only way to know for sure what he had seen.
“Hey, Ben. You got a hot date?”
Ben looked up. It was Leo, of all people, with two other guys. “I was just going.” He got up, too fast, knocking over the empty bottle of beer he had been nursing. Fuck.
Their laughter followed him out of the bar into the street. Ben stomped away. Why hadn’t he come back at them with a smart remark, at least? Because they wouldn’t know a smart remark if it bit them on the arse. Because he had better things to do.
The dock, when he reached it, was deserted. It was different, somehow, to the previous night. It was an ordinary place, and the water, when he ventured to look down into it, was only ordinary water. He felt foolish. But at least he could now go home and forget it.
He turned to retrace his steps, and that was when he saw Leo, just around a corner, two more figures lurking close by in the shadows. Fury boiled up. The girl had been one of Leo’s friends. It had been another of their jokes. They’d probably been filming him, and by now the video would be everywhere. Everyone would be laughing at him, running away from a ghost.
“Fuck you, Leo!” Ben took off in pursuit. He was done with running away. He was the dog, now, not the rabbit. He had never been in a fight in his life, but he was going to have one now.
He slammed around the corner, and then slowed, confused.
It was dark, like the street the previous night, but far more so. And not because the lights were out, but because they shed no light. The effect confounded his mind. Only the lights in the highest floors of the buildings looked normal, though they seemed impossibly distant, as far away as the stars. And then the darkness rose like a tide, up the walls of the towers, enveloping the beacon at the top of One Canada Square, and then finally the stars themselves.
Yet there was still light of a kind, a cold luminosity. He turned.
The light came from Sally, in her old-fashioned dress. A glutinous, pulsing tail emerged from beneath her gown, joined at a distance to a similar appendage that slithered out from behind the Leo-thing. The other two figures were barely formed, sluglike, their tails mere trails of slime.
The tails stirred, and the figures swayed, like puppets on the fingertips of a giant hand, fumbling toward him. Their bodies melted like candlewax, and their faces collapsed into toothy maws.
Whatever will get you followin’, down into the dark.
Hexcomb 1939
by John Robinson
Hexcomb Lodge was built in the 1830s, a folly constructed for Lord Devlin of Norfolk to his exacting design. It is situated near his ancestral seat in the south of the county and consists of six hexagonal rooms, connected one to the other in a ring, with a small empty space in the centre.
Before his disappearance, Devlin had a reputation for being both Satanic and bohemian, accused of holding rituals designed to conjure spirits within the walls of the lodge. After a time the building was abandoned and the lodge was of course reputed to be haunted. It became a wellspring of myths and legends, one of which I was to put to the test today. Locals would not approach the place, and it took a substantial bribe to the groundsman to allow me entrance to the field it was situated in.
The building sat silent and sullen, squat and grey in the dying day, as I approached. I had brought with me the typical tools of an explorer or a thief: pliers, matches, a hammer, and lockpicks. Less typically, I also had a bundle containing two-dozen chicken bones. As the sun dipped below the concealing trees I arrived at the double doors of the only entrance and grunted with effort as I heaved the rightmost door towards me by the copper ring of its handle. I entered with trepidation and found myself in a bare and hexagonal stone room, with one bare opening to the left and one to the right into the circling chambers. A small, solitary window allowed the last of the sunlight and the first of the full moon into the place, and I forced the exit door back into its frame.
The legend instructed that an offering of bone must be left in each room as one circled the entirety of the structure, and having returned to the entrance chamber a portal to another realm would appear, a realm of “wondrous and unimaginable powers”. According to the tales of the lodge, it was this precise ritual which Lord Devlin had partaken of at the time of his disappearance, 100 years ago to the night. In previous studies of the supernatural I had encountered spirits, poltergeists and possessions, but nothing so potent as this. Trembling, I deposited a chicken bone onto the centre of the cold floor and walked through the empty porchway into the next chamber, identical to the first except for the lack of an external door.
A change in atmosphere caused me to react and turn back to the darkness of the porchway. The darkness of night was now fully descended, and yet that blackness seemed to rise, to define itself as some kind of shape in the room now behind me. I lit and raised a flame to see more, and briefly descried a thing, close to the floor like an animal, black and yet with a flowing form, with points of redness which might have been eyes, and a maw that seemed to be a void. Yet there was little sound, just a scuffling on the stone, a slithering as of butchers’ meat. I backed away and the flame went out. Gasping, I lowered the second of the bones onto the centre spot of the room. The thing of blackness seemed to slow its approach, the darkness pausing on the threshold as I retreated to the third room.
As I shrank into the space beyond, I heard grotesque noises, like the movement of a corpse, as the second room was overcome with that living cloak. A crunching sound came as the centre of the room vanished, as the rot black maw fell onto the bone and the tribute was taken. I realised that the bone was the price of safety, for some short period of time, as the creature unleashed by my presence and intention followed me through the lodge.
I backed away, dropping a third bone, even as the shadow drifted forward, as it waited for my escape or for the spell of the last tribute to be broken, and as I also waited for the thing to creep and ooze towards me, seeking the sustenance it would inevitably take from me as it devoured me. I fell onwards, to the next room, and the next, the blackness impossibly growing and the sound of its progress louder, the stench from its mantle as of a thousand rotting carcasses, the sickening blooms of death.
I stumbled at last into the seventh room, surely also the first, throwing myself at the door, which was no longer there, the room just the same as all the others, the sour milk white of the moon, which had not moved, merely illuminating the nothing, the window itself too high to reach, too small. Into the next room, dropping again the bone offering which protects me for now.
It is much later now… perhaps it is later, perhaps it is forever as the moon never moves, as I stumble and crawl onwards, the infernal and decaying breath is closer, the festering fluids of the beast fall nearer each time I crawl across the threshold of the next room, bleeding and sobbing.
The last of the chicken bones was long ago discarded, my fingers trembling as I continue to harvest a grisly replacement, to maintain my protection. The hooded mantle is just behind now, slithering onwards on a carpet of rot and decay, waiting for the sacrifices to end, waiting to be free to fall upon me and drown me in filth and putrefaction.
I am grateful for the pliers I brought, for their dread utility, for the time they bring me, as I stifle agonised cries and choke on blood. The thing behind me rises over me now, the foulness overcoming my senses, as I drag myself onwards, safe only for now, but dreading the horrific death which must surely overtake me when I finally run out of teeth.
The Artist
by Allie Quinn
I arrived at the studio shortly after lunchtime. A huge Victorian house that had seen better days, it dwarfed the other buildings on its street. The door was open, and the lights were off. It’s not every day notoriously reclusive artists reach out for exclusive interviews, so I was willing to overlook some strangeness.
Before long, I heard a sound; dragging footsteps coming down the hallway. I peered inside and saw a shape approaching.
“Hello, sorry for the inhospitable welcome. Please, come in.”
I stepped forward and waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. In front of me stood Michelle Richmond, great artist of our generation, hunched over and wrapped in a heavy blanket. Her features were youthful, but her papery skin and thin hair gave her a geriatric impression. What little information that existed about her had led me to believe that she was in her mid-20s, but the person who stood before me could have been anywhere between 30 and 65.
I realised I had been staring.
“Thank you so much for reaching out, I-”
She waved a skeletal hand, batting my pleasantries out of the air.
“Not at all.”
She turned and started shuffling away, leading me inside. There was a sharp metallic scent in the air. It felt sticky.
She flicked a light switch, revealing a gallery lined with art. Painting, sculpture, sketches, all with her distinctive style. The art was technically proficient, exemplary even, but lacked the signature quality that had become synonymous with her success.
I darted around the room, unable to conceal my fascination with this trove of unseen work, taking furious notes as I did.
“An overnight success, that’s what they call me. But if they could see this, they would know how wrong they are. I’ve been slaving away for years, but it was never enough, it was never great.”
I returned my gaze to a particularly interesting piece that I had been studying. A landscape, clearly inspired by the skylines surrounding the studio, but layered, like looking at something through a double-glazed window, or after knocking your head. Where her recent, more successful work felt like a force of nature, this felt very human.
I turned to ask her a question about it but saw that she had vanished. I spun around, and saw an open door on the other side of the room, leading to a set of stairs. I ascended, and the door at the top swung open, revealing an immense canvas.
I was stunned, winded even. My mind was being pulverised by the sheer magnitude of the painting that stood before me. A swirling vortex of faces and figures, all rendered in textured acrylic. The pallete was angry, an inferno. This was a true Richmond. The scale and immensity that the public had come to expect and adore her for, but on a completely different level. This was not the first time I had seen one of her paintings in the flesh, but this was by far the most massive. Both in scale and intensity, this piece dwarfed all her others. It dwarfed anything I had ever seen.
“It’s beautiful.”
She emerged, or maybe she had been standing in front of me the whole time, invisible before this titan of paint and canvas.
“Yes, it is. But it is unfinished. I only hope I have enough time to see it done.”
“Even as it is, this is surely your masterpiece.”
“That was my intention.”
“Thank you for letting me see it.”
She gestured towards a chair next to the door, and I sat. She approached the canvas.
“As you saw downstairs, I spent years making art before I gained notoriety. Being beaten down time and time again by rejection and criticism left me broken. It was in that place that something revealed itself to me. A technique that I have carried ever since.”
As she spoke, she was hunched over, working on something. I could hear scratching, and a thick, wet sound. She turned, holding a pallete and brush. There was a stream of blood running down her thin arm, filling the wells. I gasped, but was unable to move or speak, hypnotised by her movement as she began to paint.
“Art is pain, and the best artists find a way to put a part of themselves into every piece. By incorporating my body into my work, I found a way to truly connect with my audience.”
She paused, reaching inside her shawl, gripping something deep inside her and ripping it out, emerging with a bloody mass that she used to blend her strokes.
“I found that this approach resonated with people, touched them in a way I was unable to do before. They seemed content to forget the old me, the unaccomplished child, and focus on what I had become. So was I. She was dead as far as I was concerned. That room downstairs is her tomb.”
She was a whirlwind, moving at a speed I would not have thought possible given her frame. She fell, hard, but stood again before the crack of her bones had resonated. She stretched herself across the canvas, her joints popping and dislocating.
“This technique is draining, but it will be worth it if I can create something of true beauty. What value is a life compared to the eternity of art? I will put everything I have left into this, my final piece.”
I could barely hear the words she was saying, hypnotised by her skill and ferocity, but was snapped out of my haze.
“Wait, final piece? You’re not- “
She turned at my voice, her concentration broken, a link severed, a thread snapped. Her eyes rolled into her head and she collapsed, a sack of bones.
I’m not sure what happened to that painting. Her collection was shown in a posthumous exhibition, but her final piece was omitted. Instead, the centrepiece was an uncharacteristically delicate landscape, praised for its humanity.
Whispers Beneath the Studio
by Nick Miles
An impenetrable murk shrouded me and my taxi on arrival at our destination in Kirkcaldy. From what I’ve heard, Kirkcaldy is incessantly covered, most likely due to being near the coastline, or rumor has it, a supposed curse. Its biggest attraction for me wasn’t Ravenscraig Castle, the beaches, or chasing tittle-tattle. It was Alaric Blackwood’s horror movie studio situated mid-center of the city. It felt like an honor for an aspiring filmmaker like myself to finally meet not just one of the most eccentric horror movie directors of all time but also his whole crew, who continue to show undying support for his cause: to build a movie studio that’ll stand the test of time. After showing support on social media platforms and hanging up flyers and posters his invitation to Scotland didn’t go unmissed.
We parked a few blocks away from our location near Pathhead Halls. Not a single soul meandered by except a cat, possibly the same cat Alaric and his writing partner Sorcha would sometimes chase out of their studio with shaking treats.I paid the cabbie his fare and departed for my belongings. A cold chill hit me with the putrid smell of the ocean as I grabbed my bag from the taxi’s trunk. Part of me should have dressed warmer even though it was the middle of May. For now, I am at the mercy of nature as the cabbie took off and I ascended toward Alaric’s studio.
The architecture of the dilapidated building was that of an old relic of a church established in 1838. Despite its wartorn appearance, it complimented the genre of films the now well-known horror movie studio produces. I knocked on the rustic, heavy blue doors. As I waited patiently, sitting up against one of the walls, I still couldn’t help but look back at the open streets. Still, there were no other headlights. Still, not even the clip-clop of shoes hitting the pavement. Nothing that dared penetrate the vastness of unbroken grey.
A faint creek of the door opened, Alaric himself answered along with Sorcha greeting me with the greatest enthusiasm as he wrapped me in embrace. I nearly kneeled to the ground feeling speechless finally meeting my heroes face to face. “So glad you finally made it,” cheered Alaric. “Come in, meet the family!”
Entering inside I shook Sorcha’s hand. Her cold grasp compared to Alaric’s warm hug was sudden, but compared to her well-known skills as a writer she is known for blazing magnificent words with her timeless creativity; no story is absent to her. They showed me to the main stage areas around the film studio. From the round room, the kitchen, props and makeup, and a dungeon set, also to the huge gothic set that they’re currently constructing. I was in awe of the reutilization while ignoring the frigid temperatures inside the ancient building.
As we walked I was greeted by the other crew members. Despite their peely-wally complexions, they greeted me with handshakes all similarly cold to the touch like Sorchas. I even got to meet their leading lady: Megara. As we shook hands I could see that her veins exploited through her skin. Compared to mine, hers was as translucent as her white dress. I had a curious feeling something didn’t feel right, but I kept it to myself assuming everyone had a role to play somewhere. Alaric and Sorcha then led me to their office area which I assumed to be their pitching room. She sat me down with a large parchment of what is formatted like a professional contract. I was unfamiliar with the text along with the insignia next to the signing line. “Just sign right here,” Alaric points. “and you’ll be an official member of our team.” Sorcha hands me a pen as she scoots it closer. With no hesitation I tried signing but nothing came out. Shaking it I accidentally stabbed my hand; blood drips onto the dotted line. “Oh, that’ll do just fine.” Alaric insisted.
With this authentication I felt ready for whatever task they wished. Alaric and Sorcha now lead me down what I believe to be a basement or cellar underneath the studio. It appeared more rundown with cracks drawing up the darkness within the white walls along with its supporting pillars, they looked like they could give way at any moment save the patchwork. “See if you can clear around the pillars so we can have ourselves a catacomb set for later,” Alaric ordered as he and Sorcha left me to do my duties. As I shoveled my spade hit something dense along with a rancid smell that hit me as the earth appeared more black than brown. Devolving to digging with my hands I shuddered to see Megara appear, but dead and buried. No…no.
A sharp pain hit my back. It was Alaric with a dagger ready to strike again as I sprinted out to the front door. It was wedged in the doorframe. I yanked hard as everyone crowded around me. It gave way as I ran out looking back to see everyone wailing for me to come back.
Having made it to my flat I tried to close my wounds, but I noticed a patch of white with black veins propagating across my skin faster than any lesion I’d ever seen. I ran to get help when Megara appeared. “You signed the contract,” She points to the contract on my bed. “You’re one of us now.” This revelation along with my agenda in the beginning made me realize the price of devotion has come due. Seeing no way out I kneeled and allowed Megara to embrace me in her hands as we faded away.
We appeared back in the studio. Everyone including Alaric, Sorcha, and the rest welcomed me back. I died, but I never felt so alive to be part of something big. Death isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning.
Attachment
by Josh L. Dean
Patrick and his wife Maggie were living in a small Scottish town in 1900. Patrick had an unusual problem, so Maggie suggested that he speak to a spiritual guru to which he finally agreed.
In the guru’s shop, the sweet smell of cinnamon incense permeated the room. There was an astrolabe, as well as various knickknacks, including witches’ stones, statues of various deities, and various types of exotic jewelry.
A bearded man dressed in a black outfit and with a black bandanna wrapped around his forehead, came into the room, smiling.
They exchanged greetings and introductions, finding out that the bearded man was Tarkov the guru.
Tarkov led Patrick and Maggie down the hall to his apartment, which was filled with various Thai vases and African wooden masks as decoration.
Patrick and Maggie took a seat and Tarkov sat on an expensive-looking chair. There was a coffee table separating them.
Patrick explained how they had visited a haunted castle and ever since that time there seemed to be this dark, negative energy that followed him everywhere he went. It never seemed to leave him, but sometimes he could feel it more strongly than others.
“Spirit tells me that you have an attachment,” Tarkov said. “There are energetic cords binding you to a demon. Spirit tells me his name is Beelzebub. Spirit tells me that you are a very powerful being. In fact, you are the reincarnation of an Egyptian deity. Therefore, Beelzebub wishes to siphon energy from you. In three days, I must perform the ritual to set you free.”
“I’m willing to try anything at this point,” Patrick said.
Three days later, Tarkov drove up in an old black car that looked like a hearse. Maggie was waiting for him on the porch and escorted him into the house.
“He was having a terrible nightmare the other day, but he has been steadily getting weaker since then,” Maggie said.
Tarkov nodded.
“I’m going to make a shield in order to protect us from any other entities.”
Tarkov first centered, allowing himself to go into a meditative state. He then grounded, drawing energy from the center of the Earth to provide himself with an energetic charge. Upon drawing in a significant amount of energy, he held his arms out to both sides in V shapes, his hands splayed out, and then he used the force of his will to push out an invisible, ethereal shield, protecting himself and Maggie.
He instructed Maggie to open the doors and windows, to which she happily complied.
He burned some Paulo Santo. He went through the rooms, cleansing their home.
The Paulo Santo smoke accumulated for a few minutes.
“Take me to Patrick.”
Maggie led the way into the bedroom where Patrick was lying in bed, running a fever. Tarkov pulled out a bottle of Florida Water and a small spung, which he then used to dab on Patrick’s forehead. He then proceeded to cleanse the room with the Paulo Santo.
“Yes. It is a strong attachment.”
Tarkov chanted a prayer in an esoteric mystery language.
Objects shook and fell off the dresser and the nightstand. A lamp dislodged itself from the wall and hurled itself toward Tarkov, and the alchemist used the force of his will to deflect the flying lamp. The lights in the room began to eerily flicker on and off.
A piercing hellish roar rang out from behind Maggie, and she jumped in fright.
The reflection of the apparition appeared in the full-length mirror standing next to the bed. It was a big, grayish green hulk. The body was shaped like a muscular man, except the hands were covered in long fingernails that resembled claws, it had enormous wings like a bat, and it had the head of a goat with long, upward-spiraling horns.
Maggie let out a scream of blood-curdling terror.
The ghostly outline of the entity, which consisted of black outlines defining the being against the setting of the room, created the appearance of a truly frightening apparition.
“In the name of all that is good I command you to leave my friend alone!” Tarkov shouted.
There was a high-pitched roar. The sound of strong gales of wind rang out in Maggie’s and Tarkov’s ears, and beneath those gales of wind, there was the sinister sound of a hellish whisper.
“He is mine. Be gone, sorcerer,” the voice said.
Tarkov flung Florida Water at the air from which the ghostly outline of the demon was visible. There was a grunt and a high-pitched roar that the creature emitted.
Tarkov used hand movements to draw in positive energy from the center of the universe. He pulled out a wand and pointed it at the entity.
Tarkov fired a red bolt of energy at the demon.
Beelzebub roared in pain and fell back.
Tarkov pulled out an ancient-looking steel knife and slashed it through the air.
“I cut the cords, demon. Now, in the name of the gods, he is free.”
The demon roared in absolute fury.
He fired an energy beam at the demon, and this time a clear vision of the creature was visible. The giant, grayish-green skin, the goat’s head, bat wings, and even the cloven hooves led Maggie to scream bloody murder.
“Be gone, demon!”
Tarkov flung some more Florida Water at the demon, and the hellish apparition fell back into the mirror, where the reflection of the demon was trapped behind the glass.
“Now, it is done,” Tarkov intoned.
He flung salt in front of the mirror. He wiped Florida Water and salt on the glass surface. The creature roared from behind the glass as though it were in pain.
“The cords are now separated. The creature has been banished. The cords are cut, and Patrick’s spirit team will watch over him.”
The apparition behind the mirror disappeared, and Patrick woke up, appearing well rested.
“What’s going on?” Patrick asked.
“Oh, darling!” Maggie exclaimed.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and they embraced lovingly.
About Lawrie Brewster
Lawrie Brewster is a veteran horror film producer with over 15 years of experience. He leads Hex Studios, serves as president of Amicus Productions and runs the British Horror Studio project in collaboration with filmmakers from around the world.
As a filmmaker, writer and journalist, Lawrie covers Gothic horror, independent cinema and genre filmmaking, while overseeing interviews, editorials and features published through Amicus Horror.
