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The house had always been quiet. Too quiet, Eleanor thought, as she set her bags down in the dim hallway. The kind of quiet that stretched itself thin, holding its…
Eddie Trumbull hit something on the way home. He didn’t see it. One second the road was clear, the next there was a thud-thump beneath his tires, the kind that…
Eleanor arrives at Blackthorne Manor, confronting its eerie atmosphere and the unsettling presence of its steward, Mr. Pritchard, and Master Victor, a pale boy who warns her of something watching.…
The highway stretched in both directions, a black ribbon swallowed by the night. The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, the air humming with an eerie stillness.
The storm came out of nowhere, but something about it felt wrong. It bled into the sky, turning it a sickly green-black, swallowing the light with an unnatural hunger.
There was one extra window, a little to the left of where it should be. And behind the glass, something moved.
The house at the end of Foster Lane had always been there, though no one in town could quite recall when it had been built or who had lived in…
Just a home for my short stories.
Brett Eland 