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    Six Scary Tales Vol. 1
    Six Scary Tales Vol. 1
    Six Scary Tales Vol. 1
    Ebook62 pages1 hour

    Six Scary Tales Vol. 1

    By Rayne Hall

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    About this ebook

    Six creepy, atmospheric, spine-tingling stories by Rayne Hall. 

      Volume 1 contains 'Only A Fool', 'Four Bony Hands', 'The Black Boar', 'Double Rainbows', 'Druid Stones' and 'Burning'. 

    These stories are more creepy and psychological than violent and gory. However, they may not be suitable for young readers without parental guidance.

    These horror stories have been previously published in magazines, ezines, printed books and anthologies. British spellings.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRayne Hall Ltd
    Release dateJul 22, 2013
    ISBN9781502291349
    Six Scary Tales Vol. 1

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      Book preview

      Six Scary Tales Vol. 1 - Rayne Hall

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Only A Fool

      Four Bony Hands

      Druid Stones

      The Black Boar

      Double Rainbows

      Burning

      ONLY A FOOL

      The clack-clack-clack of your heels echoes through the night-empty street. The drizzle paints needle-streaks in the light of the fake Victorian lamps. Already, the pavement grows slippery with roadside rubbish, rain and rotten leaves. You should have called a taxi while you had the chance. Now it's too late. Around here, the payphones are vandalised.

      You stop to consult your London A-Z in a street-lamp's jaundiced glow, bending low to shelter the pages from the rain. The map suggests a shortcut. If you turn left into that alley, zigzag through the lanes, cut across the wasteland, you'll get home in under an hour.

      Once you walked past that waste ground in daylight, and didn't like it. At night, you'll like it even less, but the drizzle thickens and creeps into the toes of your patent shoes. Why did you have to stay on at the party until after the last bus? Stupid woman. Better get home now, fast.

      You dip into the gap between the dark façades. The alley smells of rotten fruit and piss. Two shattered windows wink.

      Darkness folds around you.

      Steps follow behind you in soft squeaks. When you glance over your shoulder, a figure squeezes against a wall, as if hiding from your sight.

      You're a fool. Only a fool parties until after the last bus. Only a fool hesitates over the cab fare. Only a fool reveals ignorance by looking at a map. Only a fool walks alone into an unlit alley.

      Fool, fool, fool.

      You walk faster. Your heels echo louder, and your heart hammers in your ears. Da-boom, da-boom, daboom-daboom-daboom.

      Your pursuer's squeaking steps resume, get closer.

      You're too stupid to live alone. Didn't Paul tell you so? You should have listened to him, fool.

      Keeping your stride, you grope through the tissues and tampons at the bottom of your bag, searching. Only a fool carries her personal alarm out of instant reach. Only a fool forgets her mobile phone at home.

      Men always scent the victim smell about you. Lovers and strangers alike, they home in on you like wolves on easy prey.

      Paul used to beat you, bruise you, break you. He told you that, despite your protests, you really enjoyed it.

      Only a fool would have put up with it for seven years.

      Seven years of fearing your husband's touch. Seven years of shuddering in meek endurance. If only you could have turned tables just once, let him taste the horror and the pain. But a nice girl doesn't fight, and a good woman keeps her mouth shut. Then the discovery of the catalogue, of the items he had marked: The nipple clamps, the torture racks, the chain floggers with skin-tearing hooks. Knowing he planned to use them on you.

      Escaping that marriage left you without a protector, vulnerable. Paul would not have let you go out alone at night. With him, you would not have walked into this trap.

      Walk faster, now. Take bigger strides. Out-march the imagined danger.

      Your arm is grabbed. You're slammed against the wall. Hard. Both hands pinned above your head.

      A pimpled face leers down at you. Young. His breath smells of mint and beer. Your pulse pounds, and your tongue tastes fear.

      When you squirm in his grip, rough brick chafes your wrists.

      His thigh presses against yours. A knife at your throat, its edge a cold line across your neck. Don't move.

      You squeeze against the wall, into it, to get a fraction further away from the knife. Why did you not sign up for that self-defence class?

      Now pull up your skirt. Take your tights off. Your knickers. The attacker pants. But slow. Or I'll cut.

      No, your voice croaks, from far away. Then, stronger: No. You wouldn't like my kind of sex.

      Where did those words come from?

      The edge leaves your throat. The grip on your wrists slackens a little.

      Perhaps your attacker is not a seasoned rapist. Perhaps he's a boy trying it out. If you play this right, you may get away.

      Perhaps.

      What kind of sex? His eyes glint. Why wouldn't I like it?

      You search your fear-paralysed brain for the reply that will buy time. Few men have what it takes to please me.

      For three heartbeats, his mouth stays open. Then a tongue wipes his lip. Really?

      The grip around your wrist loosens more. The blade rests inches away from your throat. What caused this

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