Gothic Short Stories

I walked in the weird kitchen and stood beside Nancy and grined and she beamed back at me. When nancy smiled at me she also started to laugh for a long time. When I went up stairs I found a frightening room that said keep out and of course I walked in it to look around and saw Mr mulholland and Mr temple dead so I panicked. When I started to scream she heard me and found me in the secret room.

“The houses mostly white frame, weathered grey with rickety outside stairs and galleries and quaintly ornamented gables to the entrances of both. It is the first dark of an evening in early May.”

The roof looked battered and dilapidated. The roof was pointy, like the point on a witch’s hat. The roof sloped at odd angles. So much so that you would look at it and wonder, what would happen if you skied off the roof in the winter? The house had droopy, wooden shutters on the windows that were hung crookedly on purpose. The house was a yellow beige color with odd leadlight

Rain hit my head, raced down my face and back. We trudged through the mud, sinking in our boots feet deep. All we could see was our breathe, all we could hear was the wind slapping against the trees, rain hitting, and our boots squishing in the mud. We expected the weather to be like this, the weather channel had been going crazy all week about a storm passing through our way around 5 pm today. Just as predicted the rain became heavier, fog thicker, and sky darker. But our search group did not give up; we had been searching months for the beloved missing girl named Emma Barrett in the Elliott State Forest in Oregon. She was last scene heading into the forest with her parents on a Tuesday afternoon for a hike, hours

The leather furniture was cracked, and if the chairs were sat upon dust rose about one's thighs. The house seemed to be submerged in shadows as if it also refused to admit the light of the future. It had once been part of the most stylish street in town. Now it was surrounded with the cotton wagons and the gasoline pumps. It had obviously become an eyesore compared to once when it had been so beautiful.

Far down a dusty highway sat a quaint little neighborhood in the rural sides of Indiana. This suburban edition went by the title of Stable Acres. The roads were old and scared with lines of tar and gravel to fill the streets riddled with potholes. The thin asphalt path snaked around trees and other houses. In my grey suede car seat, I could feel our maroon car, with interior the color of sand, come to a smooth complete stop. Outside there was a house painted a deep rich red and a concrete driveway that was also very tan. Past the windows you could see dainty ivory lace curtains that kept out the harsh sunlight. Suddenly, my car door would be opened, and my mother would place my one hand into my second home, my grandmother.

The Gothic literature movement began in the late 19th century and was a derivative of the Romantic Movement. Writers of the Gothic Genre were focused on drawing on the emotions of the reader and creating an atmosphere of suspense, mystery, terror and dread. The writers also emphasized the supernatural, and how horror can be present in many everyday situations. Gothic texts also place emphasis on emotions such as agitation, hysteria, mystery, venerability, suspense and panic. Many Gothic texts are based in places that are decaying, deserted, abandoned, isolated or that have a have a history of death, war and family feuds. The short story The Adventure of the Speckled

In this picture, Victorian style house stands alone in the field. A railroad track cuts through the foreground. There is a bare sky behind the house with no secondary objects in the immediate surroundings of the building. this enables us to keenly focus on the articulation of the building and its relationship with its environment.

In Gloomington, the sun wouldn't shine and the moon wouldn't bother. A cloak of gray clouds covered the sky, and yet it never rained, but everyone always had an umbrella.

Before the drought, the plowed fields were beautiful. The sod, dark brown and rich with moisture lying in neat rows, gave no inclination that one day the land would suffer a drought and the earth would all blow away, abandoning the wheat crops and the farmers who relied on them. The drought came; the land went without a drop of rain for season after season rendering the land a desert. Now in the drought-stricken land, the cramped farmhouse is an isle, surrounded by a sea of rippling dust and dirt. In the kitchen, the sunlight pours in through the shutters; dust and dirt particles visible in the streaks of light appear to cloud the air. The cool pine doors are smooth, almost soft with the years of wear. The

It was night-time in Arcadia Bay, but I figured it was past midnight. All the shops and houses were undisturbed by us. The ocean was quiet, the moons light reflected into it. It wasn’t long until we had it to our new home. The house was along other houses in formation, it didn’t look the same as the other houses. The house was two stories high with a garage on the left, outside the door was a dog house painted in dark blue, I guessed it would be brighter in day. The wood of the

one stage became slightly phosphoresent; so that nocturnal passers￾by sometimes spoke of witch-fires glowing behind the broken panes

The sun’s ebullient flares twisted to the ground, reflecting on the Michigan lake. A gentle breeze ruffled through the grass, catching dandelions and releasing them to the sky The sun was shyly peeking out from behind the mountain and painting the sky brilliant splotches of orange and pink. The leaves fluttering in the air greeted the clouds. A gaping opening in the mountains led to a small town, leading to a small house neatly tucked away beneath a Sequoia tree. The houses bricks were painted a lovely shade of yellow. Flowers were planted in the beautifully manicured lawn. Adeline awoke to the sun projecting through her large window with paisley curtains. She stretched out her arms and glided to the window. Adeline was enthralled by the sky draped in staggering colors. Her red alarm clock interrupted the magnificent view.

The passage was gloomy and cold. The kitchen lights were off and the only light came from the outside porch. When she opened the back door, a fine mist of rain whipped around the corner of the house. It sprayed her face like fairy dust from a rain cloud. And as she stood on the doorstep, Clog smelt the damp air and sought out the nearest bush. He hated the rain. And he hated the dark.

The rain was particularly heavy today, the clouds a gray cluster of mess. I look at my beaten down leather watch, it’s 5:30, the time we were supposed to meet up. With a sigh, I grabbed my transparent umbrella and walked out my front door. I had agreed to meet up with friends to work on schoolwork, not the most fitting weekend but staying at home alone didn’t seem much appealing either. The thunder shook the sky, as if letting off a warning, begging me to go back. The double story house greets me with an intimidating stare. It was a Victorian-style house, an old shabby, gothic building. That enough was an unpleasant sight in all the rain.