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    Horror Stories: ScareStreet Horror Short Stories, #4
    Horror Stories: ScareStreet Horror Short Stories, #4
    Horror Stories: ScareStreet Horror Short Stories, #4
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    Horror Stories: ScareStreet Horror Short Stories, #4

    By Ron Ripley, David Longhorn, Eric Whittle and

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    About this ebook

    A young woman's night-time escapade goes eerily wrong. A man is forced to relive the horrible accident that tore his family apart over and over again. An underground thrill through ancient catacombs proves disastrously horrific. A young boy is haunted by the scarecrow in the fields behind his home. And a woman is revisited by the ghost of a psychotic killer in the most dreadful of ways.

    Scare Street brings you some of the best short horror stories by authors Ron Ripley, David Longhorn, Eric Whittle, Sara Clancy and A. I. Nasser, all in one book. Together, these stories promise more than just a shiver down the spine and a fear of the dark, but the soft caress of terror that comes with the unknown and the unexpected. 

    Join us through the pages of the best of what Scare Street has to offer, and be sure to bring a night light along with you. You definitely don't want to be left alone in the dark!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScare Street
    Release dateOct 18, 2016
    ISBN9781536585223
    Horror Stories: ScareStreet Horror Short Stories, #4
    Author

    Ron Ripley

    Ron Ripley is an Amazon bestseller and Top 40 horror author. He is husband and father surviving in New England, a place which seems to be getting colder every day. Ron grew up across from a disturbingly large cemetery where he managed to scare himself every night before going to bed. Mostly because of the red lights that people put in front of the headstones. Those things are just plain creepy to a kid.Ron enjoys writing horror, military history and driving through the small towns of New England with his family, collecting books and giving impromptu lectures on military history to his family, who enjoy ignoring him during those dreadful times.

    Read more from Ron Ripley

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      Book preview

      Horror Stories - Ron Ripley

      Horror Stories: A Short Story Collection

      Written by Ron Ripley, David Longhorn, Eric Whittle, Sara Clancy and A.I. Nasser

      Edited by Emma Salam

      Copyright © 2016 by ScareStreet.com

      All rights reserved.

      Thank You and Bonus Novel!

      We’d like to take a moment to thank you for your ongoing support.  You make this all possible!  To really show you our appreciation for downloading this book, we’ve included a bonus scene at the end of this book.  We'd also love to send you the full length novel: Sherman’s Library Trilogy in 3 formats (MOBI, EPUB and PDF) absolutely free!

      Download Sherman’s Library Trilogy in 3 formats, get FREE short stories, and receive future discounts by visiting www.ScareStreet.com

      Keeping it spooky,

      Team Scare Street

      Table of Contents

      Going for a Walk

      The Doctor’s Questions

      Urbex

      Museum Quality

      Tell Me Your Name

      His Neighbor’s Garden

      The Sin Eater

      Kimberly

      Scarecrow

      Graveyard Shift

      FREE Bonus Novel!

      Going for a Walk

      By Ron Ripley

      Night had fallen, and the air was cool. A few birds continued to sing from their nests in the tall pines along the roadside. Wendy’s footsteps were loud in her ears as she walked. The road was unfamiliar to her, as was the neighborhood, itself. Her new apartment was two miles back the way she had come, and she still had another mile to go before she reached her turn-around point. She kept a steady pace, her fanny-pack bouncing rhythmically against her behind.

      The occasional car raced past, some of them moving away from the shoulder of the road and others staying close. Wendy’s reflective safety vest and blinking light seemed only to alert the drivers who were actually paying attention to the road. It was a roll of the dice whether or not she would be hit every time a car came by, but she didn’t mind.

      The weather was pleasant, and it was good to get outside, away from her computer and the constant research.

      She began whistling to herself as she approached the closed off road to an old campground. A rusting chain stretched across the cracked pavement of the entrance was looped around two pine trees. From the chain’s sagging center, a faded sign reading No Trespassing hung limply.

      There was no breeze to move it. As Wendy drew closer, she heard a curious sound. Almost as though someone, or something, was shuffling towards her. When she reached the entrance, she paused and looked down the dark road. The alternating flash of red and white from her safety light illuminated the trees in a harsh way, giving the tree-lined passage a nightmarish quality.

      And Wendy saw movement.

      A large hunched over shape. It took her a moment to realize it was a person, one dressed in rags and with a backpack on. The stranger shuffled towards her, caught sight of the light and lifted its head up.

      From the depths of the hood, long, stringy white hair fell down, framing a face etched with age and sorrow. The stranger was a woman, and she looked as though she could be anywhere between thirty and fifty years old. Her gnarled fingers were hooked into the straps of the backpack, and she continued to approach the chain across the entrance with careful, measured steps. Her feet were hidden by the long, ragged skirt she wore, its color long since faded to a neutral, dirty beige. She smiled at Wendy, and Wendy smiled back.

      Can you spare some change? the woman asked, coming to a stop a few feet on the other side of the slim barrier. I want to go up to the convenience store and get something to eat. Maybe a pack of cigarettes. Hey, have you got a cigarette on you?

      No, Wendy said. I’m sorry, I don’t. I might have some change, though.

      Really? she said, taking a step closer. She straightened up slightly. Sure would be nice of you.

      Tough times? Wendy asked. She opened her safety vest, unzipped her hoodie and reached into the pocket of her shirt.

      Terrible, the woman said softly. Her voice was suddenly soothing, and she licked her lips. She seemed taller. She eased herself closer.

      Are you going to the Cumberland Farms gas station? Wendy asked conversationally.

      Yes, she murmured. She reached the gate and her hands extended from the ends of her sleeves.

      The fingers, Wendy noticed, were exceptionally thin, the forefingers longer than the middles. And each finger was tipped with a long, dull gray nail, the edges of which looked wickedly sharp.

      Wendy smiled at her, pulled her money out of her shirt pocket, and showed it to the woman.

      Thank you, the old woman whispered, her eyes locking onto Wendy. They were large and pale, lighter than the moon.

      Wendy looked away, with some difficulty, and focused on her money. She unfolded the bills, revealed a small, clear plastic bag, and turned it upside down, emptying the contents onto the ground.

      Thousands and thousands of grains of iodized salt fell to the cracked pavement.

      The woman’s eyes widened, and she let out a shriek of dismay.

      She dropped to the road, her knees striking the pavement loudly, and she began to count the individual grains.

      Why? she asked with a moan. "Why? Why?!"

      What’s your name? Wendy asked.

      The woman didn’t answer; she remained focused on the salt.

      What is your name? Wendy demanded.

      The woman snarled, looked up and spat, Mary!

      Mary, Wendy said, nodding. Nice name. Mine’s Wendy.

      Mary ignored her, carefully making a pile of the grains she had already counted.

      It was an exceptionally small pile.

      While she focused on her task, Wendy reached back into her sweatshirt and freed her pistol. It was a small nine-millimeter automatic. Wendy whistled to herself, brought her fanny-pack around to the front, and she opened it. From its overstuffed depths, she removed a suppressor. With long practiced motions, she screwed the suppressor into the barrel of the automatic and chambered a round.

      Mary glanced up at Wendy and snarled, Bullets won’t work. I’m no werewolf. I’ll shred your flesh before I’m through with you.

      Yes, Wendy said. I’m sure you’d like to.

      She took careful aim at Mary’s right knee and fired.

      The pistol gave a small bark and the right knee, the entire joint, vanished. The specially cast, gold, hollow tipped round destroyed it.

      Mary let out a shriek of rage, yet she continued to count.

      She couldn’t stop herself.

      Wendy stepped over the chain and kicked the severed lower leg away. A foul, stinking black ichor leaked from the wound, but nothing more.

      It has been a while since you’ve eaten, Wendy said, walking around to the other side of her. Guess the jogger who disappeared last month was your last meal?

      Shut up! Mary snapped as she continued to count.

      Wendy shrugged, lined up a shot on Mary’s left knee and pulled the trigger.

      Mary let out a torrent of angry words, which sounded vaguely Gaelic, but still she couldn’t turn away from the salt.

      Cautiously, Wendy kicked the left leg away, glanced at the salt pile, which was diminishing rapidly, and brought her pistol up again. Her heart fluttered. She had come to the most dangerous part of the task.

      A shot to the throat and even the banshee’s compulsive need to count would be overridden by the desire to survive. Mary might not attack her, but the creature could certainly slip away into darkness.

      Severing the arms would also free Mary of the compulsion to count, and, depending on how strong she was, she might be able to attack Wendy without her limbs.

      But she hadn’t been hunting Baobhan Sith banshees for thirty years to give up or shrink away.

      The explosive-tipped rounds in the pistol gave her an edge, as did her skill with the weapon. So Wendy took the same chance she always did. She could only hope she was faster than Mary’s instinct to survive.

      Wendy was.

      Four quick shots separated Mary’s arms at the elbows and nearly severed her neck.

      Mary fell back, her mouth working frantically in silent rage. A single artery kept her head attached to her body, and this, Wendy shot as well. Quickly, she took a plastic bag from her pack, shook it open and grabbed the banshee’s head by the hair. The hate in Mary’s eyes was powerful, and Wendy smiled at her as she dropped the head into the bag. She tied it off, set it down on the pavement, and went about the dirty process of dragging the various parts of Mary’s body down the driveway.

      She came to a worn and battered log cabin labeled, OFFICE in faded yellow letters. Wendy dropped Mary’s forearms onto the ground and returned for the banshee’s legs. When those had joined the arms, Wendy went back for the torso. By the time she had gotten it to the others, she was sweating and shaking her head at the stink coming off her clothes.

      Finally, Wendy went back for Mary’s head. She could see the banshee’s lips working beneath the plastic. With a sigh, Wendy picked up the bag by its knot and kept it at arm’s length. She didn’t need Mary to bite through the bag.

      And that’s how hunters die, Wendy

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