The only thing that comes close to winning our Horror Story contest, or the EWR: Horror Story Award is winning our 50 Word Horror Contest. Winner takes home $1000 ad package on our site. That’s email blast, social network promotions, and ads on our most popular pages. You can do all this for 50 words. We are looking for the scariest story. The rules are easy enough:
50 Words or less
Post in the comments
Deadline is October 29, 2016
Must be scary, clever, awesome….best story wins
Prizes are simple enough:
1st place gets full ad package worth $1000
2nd place gets $500 ad package social network and ads on site
3rd place takes home ads on popular pages a $250 value.
You have 1 year to use the ads. Ads must be on writing, books, literary, publishing or whatever. We reserve the right to deny an ad based on content or product.
Simple right. The winner will be announced on our movie night. Will will be watching House on Haunted Hill and chatting. Details to follow.
Start posting your scary stories now! Post them below.
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“Atonement”
They’d avoided the house since that night. Four sixth graders, plus Maynard. Nobody liked him much. They’d left him there, and he’d vanished. Older now, they’d wanted to return. Banged the door with shaking hands.
“Hello, old friends,” said Maynard, still a child. “I knew you’d come back for me.”
Night Terrors
A phantom alarm woke Patrick. It was a mistake to sleep. He lie on his back, paralyzed in the dark. From his bedroom ceiling, the indigo blackness congealed into tentacles that reached down to brush Patrick’s gaunt cheek. His heart tightened. He struggled against the cold but failed.
“Sleep”
She woke. She pinched the baby, but he was still sleeping. She wondered at his skin, almost green. She could not keep awake.
She woke. His skin was cold, or was hers hot?
She stood too quickly. She reached to steady herself, and his blanket slipped from her, unfurled, dropped.
There is Nothing Funny About a Clown in the Moonlight
Doorbell rings and rings; then loud knocks. I jump from my sleep, heart pounding. “What the hell.” I put on shorts and grab a baseball bat. I’m freaked. I peer from the door sidelite and see a clown holding black balloons. A sinister grin and he fades into the night.
“The Spectator”
Gary quietly observed the macabre spectacle unfolding before him. The paramedics were carefully attending to the cold, lifeless corpse on the floor. Limb after limb vanished from sight as the body bag covered them in eternal darkness. He caught one final glimpse of his cold, mortal eyes.
What was next?
“The Forgotten Contestants”
I wrote a poem. Many poems. I breathed life into their electronic coding. I posted them to a contest on this very site. There they lingered, arranged in a long row, growing cold, like corpses in a morgue. Anyone visiting that room will find they are still very much alive.
“They”
They are coming for me. I had noticed them watching me for weeks, eyes shining like red headlights from the darkest shadows. I can hear them now, their footsteps getting closer. My heartbeat floods my ears and my mouth is dry. The door to my cupboard creaks open.
I forgot to put this in the post. I love these 50 word stories, and we are going to turn these into cards for Pinterest and for our site. If you have an object, please email me, and I will not use your story. eds@everywritersresource.com
Tonka Toys™
Another morgue with its moldering row of soft tissue and skeletal supports. How long before the forgotten corpses warm to the lack of attention, ripening in a most ghastly manor, toe tags staining with the shit of worms? The awkward silence washes stealthfully over their tearful relatives and lonely friends.
“The Winter Storm”
The eager contestants had submitted their slim bit of qualifying paperwork. Minds racing with the excitement of the contest, they were ushered into the long narrow waiting room.
There they were asked to wait. Patiently. A decision would be made.
And wait they did. Starving for an answer.
Languishing. Forgotten.
Guilt
Six-years-old, and already the neighborhood troublemaker. I steer my son away as he runs to us in the mall.
“Go away.”
“Please help me.”
An adult scoops him up.
“Is that his dad?”
“No.”
Something is not right; I turn back. They’re gone. Later his body is found.
Typing this, I’m also looking at my body. The viens which once held blood, now meer decoration. The entities responsible for our ignorant existence. Our skin was used as suits. Our entire nervous system wired to use our instinctual innocence to envoke the awakening. The scientists whom passed, are the creators.
To promote the contest I’m making some of your stories, like the above, into tiles and posted them on Pinterest.
The Bogeyman
Within the silent depths of an ancient wood, clothed in dewy moss and tangled roots, something stirs. Formless, dark and empty of soul it waits. An angry storm claims the night, waking a thousand restless souls from their tormented dreams. All have heard the same three, dread words…I…am…come.
What does the black top know that I have not cracked with my mind? In this instance, the black top knows what blood taste like. The guitar riffs permeate my mind as I stare at my now dead lover. I smile as I watch the color drain from his face.
I smile as I watch the color drain from his face. Why did he have to tempt me? He knows that I quickly succumb to a jealous rage. All he had to do was divorce her like he promised. All he had to do was love me.
“Come now, you are the chosen one.” It flung at me and I prepared for the worst, my eyes and clothes gone in a burst. For I was the chosen, yes indeed, dressed in black, a hideous fiend.
My voice boomed out a shattering breath; “Now I am become death.”
Thunder rumbled and death stood before me; a tall skeletal figure cloaked in flowing black silk, silhouetted by the moonlight. I could no longer cheat him his bounty, his scythe forbid my escape. I collapsed into his arms. Beware, for he’s just ahead lurking in the darkness, waiting for you.
I needed her. She was my other half, my only comfort. Her light faded too fast before me, I only see a path to oblivion now. I shall sleep here, curl and warm her stone. I cried so hard I shook her. No, no, no…awoke her! Take me with you.
Two Doors One Room
“I tell you I can!”
“It can’t be, too much bias.”
“Nonsense.”
“Really. Only you to decide. Only you to judge?”
“I can be objective.”
“Now were talking nonsense.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not fooling anyone.”
“We are now only two!”
“Well now were one.”
“Oh shut up!”
(Gunshot)
Pause
(Thud)
An only child, her son was fifteen years old. His sole responsibility was giving her the crazy meds.
When he awoke he was taped to the bed. Mom stood over him with the power drill.
“You forgot my Medicine. Here’s yours.”
He screamed as the bit cut into his forehead.
You can now edit your comments/stories. This may help some of you, but once you post a comment/story, you will have 15 mins to edit it.
He tricked me into thinking our fallout was over. My old nemesis blinked, tear dangling in his eye. “I have been a fool. You are a decent being whom I owe an apology. “ His assured voice left the room and I saw a number on a bomb: 00:30 .
I peer down a crumbling well sitting beside an abandoned farmhouse. The gray stones fade until they’re swallowed by darkness. A low grumble sounds. Thunder? Or the well groaning? I stare, half-expecting hands to claw from the darkness. They don’t. I step back and butt against something tall and firm.
I look to the right as the stone cold body sits up and pulls the knife out of her chest. “Was that suppose to hurt?” As I begin to breath harder, because I had just seen the most terrifying thing any sixteen year old girl has ever seen.
“Guilt”
My father always loved to come visit us. New Years, Christmas, Thanksgiving, he never missed the opportunity to see us, but I can’t take it anymore. I love him, but 12 years after the accident and he still comes… Every single night… Begging us to let him in…
Inside The Closet
The closet slams open and I’m paralyzed with fear. I can’t move, and the figure is getting closer to me, but with the little bit of sound that is coming out of me I manage to cry out for my mom. But it seems nobody hears me.
“Menacing”
A mouth as wide as a bus as it looked straight at him, it’s mouth open to a snarling grin. It’s teeth were long and sharp as saliva and red blood dripped onto the grass. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Murdered Spirit
Samantha wasn’t afraid of the tomb-filled graveyard. She accepted the dare to spend the night. But as the spectre’s bloody eye sockets and demon fangs drifted closer, she ran like hellfire. Safely home, she saw her picture next to the morning paper’s headline: Girl’s mutilated body found in Ashland Cemetery.
“Finishing the Job”
“I haven’t seen him all week,” said her mother in law, giving Holly a hard look. The woman had known all about the abuse, even before their marriage.
“I hope nothing’s wrong, but I’ll hear something soon.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Holly said, raising her axe in the air.
DAZED
He beams through the streets, life is good.
He couldn’t have hoped for more; a good mother, rich father, dazzling fiancé and, Ladi is the best programmer in Africa.
Gleefully, he toddles across the road but got stopped by a speeding rogue. Lifeless, he lay on the black crypt.
PARADOX
He’s brilliant. He’s educated and dedicated but he’s poor.
Life isn’t fair, thrusting a load of wealth on the shoulders of an indolent lad while an assiduous one languishes in wants.
Life is a tragedy written to humble the mighty before the weak who’s celebrating an impossible conquest.
Transition of the Coo
The filthy man devoured the pigeon’s popcorn, giggled with delight as it filled him. His beard liquefied the snow dust on the tips of grass, hummm corn juice. He rolled over with satisfaction and bathed in the suns warm. Ears awoke to cooing, the numbers, the borrowing down his belly.
The Witching Hour
“Come over here Jamie, we want you to be in our story,” Groaned the young girl hardly moving her mouth. Jamie shut his eyes tight, he had no intention of being part of a dead girls story. Laying in the darkness, Jamie ignored the increasing coldness of the room.
Leaky Faucet
Drip… Drip… Drip.
The sound wakes her.
“The water is running” she mumbles.
Silence.
Drip… Drip.
She reaches the kitchen and screams.
A man is hanging upside down, throat slit, blood dripping into a bucket.
Drip….
Eyes wide in fear as she discovers her blood covered hands, holding a knife.
He ate the live spider. His mind asked why, as he ate another, and another. He tried not chewing, swallow them whole, imagining them crawling around inside. He ate another one, a large hairy one that fought but lost. Realizing he would never be full, he ate a bullet.
That Sinking Feeling
He struggled, the car sank, the surface of the water faded from view. He kicked and clawed but his dead lover held him tight. Confusion became panic, then certainty as the bubbles of his last breath rose out of sight. His struggles to breathe quieted as death welcomed him home.
The end
The air fills with thick black smoke, and the dark hallway is getting hot. It can’t end like this. I reach out to grab my sisters stone cold hand. Death… just another thing to be afraid of. This is, the end
Evil moves blindly, beaconed only by the power of fear. It started out innocently as a shadow in the closet at night. What lurks there? Days passed, the fear grew, and the shadow became a gateway. Right through the door they came. I feel their presence, too paralyzed to move.
Maleficent
No matter how hard you looked, no matter how hard you stared, you swore there was something there. The back of your neck felt hot scalding breath, but when you turned there was nothing there.
To late, you sensed the maleficent being, now your corpse rots beneath the stairs.
New house.
New me.
Cute girl across the street.
Say hello.
Ring on finger.
Shot down, mustn’t linger.
Go home.
Set mood.
Light some candles, get nude.
Make love.
Lips meet.
Two hearts, one beats.
My son appeared expressionless as I tucked him in bed. He pupils were dilated, skin clammy, head cocked unnaturally to the left.
“What is it?” I whispered, tucking a curl behind his ear.
Something jagged protruded from his scalp.
He seized my arm.
“They told me not to touch it.”
She used to be…
Her smell is like no other. Not her perfume, not that bodily sweat which is, undoubtedly, unique. If you saw her crossing the crowded square you’d know immediately it was her. Every nuance, every exacting detail of her has been taken into your heart. And now her lover is another.
TITLE: Father and son weekend
The sun set over the cliff.
The police officer addressed the boys.
“There was an accident. The other bus is at the bottom of the canyon.”
He read names off a clipboard.
“Your father is dead.”
“Your father is dead.”
“Yours too.”
“You’ll call your mothers when we’re in range.”
He smiled at her in that way. Her desperate foreboding abated.
“Help me,” she said.
“I have something for you,” he said.
“Thank you.”
With long nails, he slit down his chest, and reached inside.
He ripped out his heart.
“Here,” he said; then added, grabbing her, “Let’s trade.”
Jack yawned. The air felt dry. He probably slept with his mouth open. He looked around. Dark. He got up and banged his head.
‘Strange’, he thought. ‘Didn’t I sell the bunk bed?’.
He touched left. Wood. Right. Wood. Above him. Wood.
Then he realized.
He was not in bed…
Your style is very unique in comparison to other people I
have read stuff from. Thanks for posting when you have the opportunity, Guess I will just bookmark this web site.