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Burnt

by Rick Kennett

We swung into Norton Street with our lights flashing but no siren, the standard burglary-in-progress procedure. As it was I don't think the guy would've noticed us had Constable Lenski and I pulled into the driveway of Number 38 playing Tiger Rag on trombones.

Horror, 33 minutes; Tales to Terrify #422, 28th February 2020


Drowned Man's Kiss

by Christine Lucas

Last night, I dreamt of the drowned man again.

It starts with a murmur. A prayer, slithering through a sleeping shipmate's lips. Or perhaps a confession, or a memory caught in the fog of the ghostly hours before dawn. It lingers little down here, in the stale air heavy with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. Soon it rises higher, amidst the sails and the riggings, hungry for fresh air. Then comes the scratching against the ship's hull. Grip by grip, claw-like hands dig into the wood dragging upwards God knows what.

Horror, 31 minutes; Tales to Terrify #409, 29th November 2019


Gentlemanly Horrors of Mine Alone

by Donald J. Bingle

"Well played," muttered Rogers, the majordomo of the Wanderers' Club, amidst the gentlemanly utterances of "Good show," "Hear, hear," and even "Huzzah" as Sir Algernon Hogshead finished his tale with a dramatic flourish.

Though not so socially gregarious as to partake in the verbal bonhomie, I thumped my ivory serpent's-head cane a few times, myself, in collegial support of my frenetic friend as his bizarre, but well-told, tale had come to its breathtaking and remarkable conclusion. Truth told, the hubbub of excited utterances and exclamations regarding Sir Hogshead's fanciful quest were well-said, but, greater truth yet, I had become more and more pensive and apprehensive as the tale progressed.

I knew what was coming next. Not within the story, but after.

Horror, 51 minutes; Gallery of Curiosities #88, 20th November 2019


Lord Beden's Motor

by J.B. Harris-Burland

A hard man was Ralph Strang, seventh Earl of Beden, seventy years of age on his last birthday, but still upright as a dart, with hair white as snow, but with the devilry of youth still sparkling in his keen dark eyes. He was, indeed, able to follow the hounds with the best of us, and there were few men, even among the youngest and most hot-headed of our riders, who cared to follow him over all the jumps he put his horse at.

Horror, 34 minutes; PseudoPod #659, 2nd August 2019


Ravello Steps

by Chris Barnham

"You look like shit."

I cleaned myself up in the room and rinsed my mouth with some whisky from the mini-bar, but I obviously show signs of the afternoon.

"Like you care."

Horror, 45 minutes; Tales to Terrify #381, 17th May 2019


The Tenant

by Rory Say

I know that each of you here has already heard some version or other of this tale, and possibly you know it well enough to recount it yourself. But, since you insist, I'll tell you again what I know about the Tenant.

Horror, 16 minutes; Tales to Terrify #366, 1st February 2019


The Grave by the Handpost

by Thomas Hardy

I never pass through Chalk-Newton without turning to regard the neighbouring upland, at a point where a lane crosses the lone straight highway dividing this from the next parish; a sight which does not fail to recall the event that once happened there; and, though it may seem superfluous, at this date, to disinter more memories of village history, the whispers of that spot may claim to be preserved.

Horror, 35 minutes; PseudoPod #627, 21st December 2018


Looking After Shaun

by Chris Barnham

The doorbell rings.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

A woman's voice. Well-spoken, which worries me; in this area, anyone with an education is some kind of official.

I'm lying on the sofa and my mind's fluttering back and forth, settling on memories from before Shaun got ill.

Horror, 46 minutes; Tales to Terrify #336, 6th July 2018


Getting Shot in the Face Still Stings

by Michelle Ann King

Dom doesn't lose his temper as easily as his brother, so normally he's the one who deals with it when shit goes pear-shaped. But shit has been going pear-shaped a lot lately, and by the time Dom gets to the warehouse, Marc is already in full swing. Literally--he's gone after poor Jimmy with a nine iron.

Horror, 55 minutes; Tales to Terrify #309, 29th December 2017


Still Waters

by Cara Fox

The two siblings exchanged a look of grim comprehension over the breakfast table when the butler laid the broadsheet in front of them. The Morning Post's headline was painfully familiar to them now. In stark black and white, the proclamation that yet another child had gone missing on the shores of Lake Conmere drove away any hint of an appetite the two of them might have had.

Horror, 46 minutes; Tales to Terrify #283, 30th June 2017


Children of the Tide

by Dan Rabarts

The crack in the window let in the ghosts. They came with the night breeze, whistling their mourning songs and carrying with them the stink of rotten water that lay across the paddocks, down past the crooked fence that bent and bowed where the earth had sunk away to let the sea creep closer. Where the salt ate the grass brown, then grey, before the water swallowed it up.

Horror, 45 minutes; Tales to Terrify #272, 14th April 2017


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Matt Dovey is a professional writer of short science fiction & fantasy. He is very tall, very British, and probably drinking a cup of tea right now. His surname rhymes with “Dopey”, but any other similarities to the dwarf are purely coincidental. More →

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There weren't no good way to say Colin, mate, this is shit, you don't deserve it, but we bloody love you and we'll get through it, alright? Cos no matter how you said it his head was too full of angry buzzing to hear it.

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Summer nights in Beijing were brutal: hot, muggy, the air thick as the puddles left on the road after a shower, covered in iridescent patches of gasoline. We felt like dumplings being steamed, slowly, inside the room we were renting.

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