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    The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror
    The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror
    The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror
    Ebook70 pages1 hour

    The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror

    By David Turton

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    About this ebook

    Three tales of terror that will keep you up at night, from horror author David Turton.

    The Gull sees an alcoholic author move to a remote Scottish island in an attempt to write his second novel and overcome writer's block. What he finds forces him to confront his demons, in the shape of a terrifying gull.

    The Demon's Stare tells the story of a dying man, who sees a demon at the end of his hospice bed. The demon forces him to recount the sins of his life with grave consequences.

    The Room of the Mad Nun sees Blake Baxter visit a haunted hotel as part of his TV series 'The Hotel Healer'. He stays in Room 18, the Room of the Mad Nun. What he thinks is just an urban legend turns out to be the most horrific experience of his life.

    The collection also includes the first few chapters of 'The Malaise', David Turton's post-apocalyptic novel, set to be published by Cosmic Egg Books in 2018.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDavid Turton
    Release dateNov 20, 2017
    ISBN9781370100873
    The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror
    Author

    David Turton

    David Turton is an author of dark fiction and horror. He has penned several short stories which have been published in magazines and anthologies. David was born in Yorkshire and graduated with a degree in Journalism. He now lives by the sea in the North East of England.

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      Book preview

      The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror - David Turton

      THE GULL

      And Other Short Tales of Horror

      DAVID TURTON

      The Gull and Other Short Tales of Horror by David Turton

      http://davidturtonauthor.wordpress.com

      © 2017 David Turton

      The Gull © 2017 David Turton

      The Demon’s Stare originally published in Massacre Magazine © 2017 David Turton

      The Room of the Mad Nun originally published in Dark Fire Fiction © 2017 David Turton

      All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by copyright law. For permissions contact:

      davidturton@hotmail.com

      Cover by David Turton

      SIGN UP TO

      DAVID TURTON’S

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      The Gull

      I suffered a most terrible year in 1954. Sales of my debut novel, The Boat that Sank had plateaued to such an extent that my income was non-existent, and I was living on savings. My wife had left me in the summertime, off to travel the world with her lover, Pedro. I don’t blame her really, I’m sure I had become insufferable. My mood, my demeanor and my general outlook on life had taken a drastic dip, while my alcohol consumption had flourished.

      The main cause of my depression had been writer’s block. While writing The Boat that Sank, words had flowed from my fingertips like they were being syphoned from somewhere else other than my brain. The joy of discovery as my characters came alive onto the paper, the satisfying sound of my fingers rhythmically tapping out the words on my Remington Typewriter. But, in the whole of 1954, I had only managed to sell two short stories for a total sum of ten pounds. Worse, my second novel just didn’t happen. I worked through a dozen iterations but each time I began, I just couldn’t see the story through.

      So, in mid-January 1955, after the most miserable Christmas of my life, I decided to take my writer’s block head-on. I booked a cottage on a most remote island off the North West coast of Scotland, on the advice of Johnny, a hard-drinking Scot from my local pub. The Isle of Faoileig sat between Lewis and St Kilda, a hunk of rock three kilometres by two. Legend has it, according to Johnny, that the island has only ever been inhabited by one man, a recluse who passed away in the latter part of the 19th century. His cottage, the sole building on the island, was now available to rent for the bargain sum of one pound per week.

      Only one catch, Johnny had slurred in this thick, Glaswegian tones, clutching a glass of whisky, there’s nothing there. No shop, no people, no pub. Would send most people mad. But if it’s solitude you’re after, there’s no place like that on the planet. Not a living soul around. Just you and the gulls.

      It sounded good to me. A week would be enough, I guessed. Even if I couldn’t finish my novel it could give me the push to actually start it, and get a good way through. And if I couldn’t write somewhere like that, I couldn’t write anywhere. Maybe it could even help me off the drink.

      It only took one phone call to someone called Stevie Black, a Scotsman who owns the small cottage and arranges transport to the island. I packed my typewriter and numerous tins of food, and was travelling the next day, a coffee-fuelled twelve-hour drive north from London to the Isle of Skye, where I met Stevie.

      Nutter? Stevie asked when I first met him and shook his large, rough hand.

      I beg your pardon? I asked, wondering if I had misheard, unused to the regional accent.

      You one ay these nutters, eh? I see ye type arl the time, lad. Wanna get away from it arl?

      Something like that. Just want to be by myself for a while, I suppose.

      I boarded his boat, and we set sail. Stevie skilfully navigated around the southern tip of Lewis while I dozed on a wooden bench on deck. He wasn’t much of a talker and I was glad, especially after a twelve-hour drive. It was six o’clock and darkness had taken hold. I was looking forward to my bed, no matter how hard and uncomfortable it may be.

      There sh’is, Stevie said, pointing. I looked over dozily and saw a grey rock, jutting out of the sea. The strong wind soon brought the world around me into sharp focus. Despite the late hour and the dark sky, I could make out dozens of seabirds flying and circling above the island. As we came closer, I could hear their loud wails alongside the crisp chorus of waves spraying against the rocks below. I shuddered at the noise and turned to see Stevie smiling at me.

      It’s their land, he said, pointing at the gulls. They were now close enough to make out the yellow color of their bills, glowing dimly in the pale moonlight. "See ya in a week. Same place, same time. Dinnae forget.

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