After a month of stunning prose, creepy submissions and one or two changes of underwear, we opened up the Halloween Horror of the Month voting to you, the beautiful Cultured Vultures readers, and you didn’t disappoint. After hundreds of votes, we have our top three scary short stories. Check them out below.
3rd Place ‘Silver Dollar’ by Stephanie Laroche
School. Work. Talk to Leon. Sleep. Day in and day out, that was the sum of Fae’s life. Today was a normal day, like any other; however it wasn’t the day she was anticipating. Fae was looking forward to what was to come later in the evening. It was Halloween and her older sister Constance had procured a sitter for her three children. She was taking her baby sister out to the opening of a new bar after she took the kids trick-or-treating.
As George breakfasted with his back against the big oak, as he had every morning that summer; a breath of crisp, autumnal air shook him from his grogginess. Peering past his thick slice of still-warm granary bread; leaves were falling from the sky like burning embers, gently kissed by the dewy lawn as they landed. Wisps of phantom vapour drifted across the glass surface of the pond and clung to the walls of the manor house beyond. George’s antique fishing rod lay nestled in the reeds close to the bank; next to it a half-submerged keep net housed three squirming eels. ‘Time for work’, George thought to himself with his habitual stoicism.
1st Place ‘The Murder on River Valley Road’ by Anda Mars
I opened my eyes to see nothing but a concrete wall. Staring for a moment, I began to wonder where I am. Did I just wake up, or had I been aimlessly staring at the mortar all night? I shake my head aggressively to rid of that groggy feeling behind my eyes. My hands grip familiar material tightly. I glance down to see myself sitting up in my old La-Z-boy chair. Green with brown lines running vertical all around, I instantly feel comforted. I’ve always loved this chair. It’s only in the basement now because Norma didn’t think it “went with the rest of the décor,” whatever that means. I find myself running my hands along the arms of the chair. Memories surface of all the NASCAR races I’ve watched in this baby. Liquid fills my eyes to the brim of my lids, but I resist the urge. Sucking tears back through their ducts, I, for whatever reason, feel desperately lonely.
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