Gothic Short Stories

As he stomped down the hall dressed in all black, I timidly stepped to the other side of the hallway with my head down avoiding any type of interaction. When the sounds of boots and chains faded away, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing had calmed me more than this instant; nothing had been more soothing than the sound of pure nothingness. The fear that came over me was like being trapped in a small room with no way out. I felt helpless, defenseless, like something was going to happen to me in that hallway with the boy dressed in black.

The once sealed iron gates reopened, the assembly moved forth with their prince at the lead, excitement brewed throughout; but sudden like the striking of the ebony clock, fear struck for what they believed they had out done, for what they believed they had escaped, waited behind them inside the castle wrought iron gates. For no one could escape the scarlet blood and agonizing pain that waits. The figure stood and slowly like before he advanced; with every stroke of the clock, which you could hear from there, he took one step. Pale became the faces, fast became their heartbeats, and the whole of them quaked in fear, even the eccentric prince dared not move; for blood, scarlet blood, spread everywhere. “And one by one they dropped each dying in the despairing posture they fell. And in the darkness and decay and the red death held illimitable dominion over all.” (Poe,

The speaker stumbles upon a gruesome site-the remains of a scene of horrific violence. The evidence that remains-a skeleton, blood-soaked articles of clothing, a pile of ashes, and an empty liquor flask among other things-is all dormant, a fact reflected by the tranquil diction such as slumbering, cushion, vacant, and empty Still, the aura of the place of execution, particularly the "Scattered traces of tar, restless arrays of feathers, and the lingering smell of gasoline” brings the experience powerfully to life in both the speaker's and

After they had gone up stairs Mother lay back in her chair, the camphor handkerchief to her mouth. Father hadn't moved he still sat beside her holding her hand the bellowing hammering away like no place for it in silence. When I was little there was a picture in one of our books, a dark place into which a single weak ray of light came slanting upon two faces lifted out of the shadow. You know what I'd do if I were King? she never was a queen or a fairy she was always a king or a giant or a general I'd break that place open and drag them out and I'd whip them

The man had his hands clasped behind his back as he was looking out the large bay window. They remained that way even as he turned at the high priestess's bidding. The man had very large hands, and they were covered in matte black leather gloves that did not reflect the light. Even indoors the man was wearing a great coat of the same matte leather, and it had tarnished silver buttons that ran in two rows from the neck down and were done up. The coat had a high collar that was strained by a thick, bullish neck. Atop that neck sat a long face with high cheekbones, a lantern jaw, and a strong chin. The man's eyes were an unnatural blue that shone with their own luminescence. His hair was blue-black, cropped short at the sides and swept back like

Robberies’ in the villages began to take place nine out of ten nothings taken the shops moreover, destroyed, merchandise smashed and scatter, windows broken, shelving ripped to pieces. If by chance the owner was there his body mutilated, slashed to pieces. In some cases, the body hung on the wall like a trophy. Always the same story three men on black horses, all dressed in black, wearing black capes with hoods, their faces covered and black gloves, shoving people aside, never saying a word, as abruptly they appear they disappear. Farms raided their homes burned and again, the stories were always the same, describing the same three men, black horses. The three men and their horses would just vanish in a cloud of dust.

The servant ran into the room and had us follow him through the maze of beautiful halls and rooms. We eventually reached the throne room, it was a long spacious room with walls and pillars of granite. At the end of the room was a raised dais and a throne, in the throne sat a man whose hair was as white as freshly fallen snow. He seemed deathly thin and looked a bit like a corpse, but his eyes told me of a different story. For his eyes were young, alive, and full of energy, and seemed so out of place on the old man’s face.

The dirt felt uneven as the wooden wagon shook and jumped and the wheels rattled and creaked. He saw white clouds and a blue sky. The world is not dead. The stranger sat up and saw the buildings. The corpses were gone, to his delight. A tear ran down his cheek, but he rubbed it off. The driver was a man in a grey cloak and hood. My hooded saviour. ‘’Your awake,’’ he said. The stranger looked forward. We’re still not out of the town. The stranger pinched his arm. Great, I’m still alive. ‘’I am sorry. I tried to get here, but I was too late. Garland found me and tied me up, but I managed to escape,’’ the man said. The stranger preferred to be silent, but he had to ask. ‘’Why?’’ The hooded man probably tried to

This book tells the autobiographical story of a young boy living in South Africa during the apartheid regime in 1986. The story begins with focusing on the brutal nature of living in the township of Alexandra. Mathabane begins by describing the horrors of police raids that take place during the night or early in the morning. The only warnings available to the people of Alexandria, were the ones of people running and hiding from the police. These police raids were in order to sniff out violent gangs, or people who did not possess a passbook, or at least have their book in order. Mathabane and other children became panic-stricken hearing about the police, or the white men. He saw them worse than the boogeyman himself, "I gasped and stiffened at the name

A woman's terrified shriek rang through the cobbled alleys, before it was abruptly silenced the black night was quiet once again. The person standing over her had a deadly, Cheshire Cat like smile. Their white teeth glowed in the dim light of the night. Blood splattered the brick wall and their dark clothing, staining both. The woman that laid lifelessly on the ground had the long knife still stuck through her head. The killer pulled the blade out tenderly, wiping it with a dark, bloodstained handkerchief.

Intricate or secret passages in buildings further the plot by adding descriptive features that allow the stories to be more engaging and unique. Gothic writers focus heavily on details when describing the environment where the stories are occurring. This is especially emphasized when depicting intricate passages so that readers can paint a picture in their minds. Buildings with such features are a key element in Gothic stories because they keep the reader alert to every detail described as the characters in the stories discover and travel through them. “…she felt about the tapestry, and perceiving the wall behind shake under her hand, she lifted the arras, and discovered a small door, whose loosened hinges admitted the wind…” (Radcliffe 599).

Merlin and Arthur peered into the room, each peeking around a different side of the tapestry. The Great Hall was shrouded in cobwebs, an unearthly blanket for the sleeping guests. The guards were all asleep, too, and Merlin dearly wanted to tell Arthur “I told you so!” But it'd have to wait.

Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart is considered a gothic story because it involves dark subject matter; like madness, violence, fear, and the supernatural. The heart of the story, which establishes the conflict, is madness. The narrator of the story is a man already suffering from madness; this is known because he tells the reader he has a disease that “sharpened his senses” (317) and he hears “all things in the heaven and in the earth” (317). However, his madness is intensified by his neighbor 's unusual eye; it is described as being “a pale blue eye with a film over it” (317). The narrator explains that the eye makes his “blood run cold” (317), and he thinks the “eye of a vulture” led him to murder the old man. The narrator is clearly unsure of his reasoning for murdering the man, though most sane people who commit murder have a definite motive. The narrator also feels no compassion for the old man and obsesses over the power he has over him, which is a sign of a mental imbalance. He openly states the he recognized the man’s fear when he heard the narrator lurking, but he “chuckled at heart” (318). Additionally, the narrator spends much of the story explaining the ways in which he is sane; he declares, “Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me” (317), and “If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body” (319). Most sane people do not have to justify their sanity. In Poe’s The Tell-Tale

The sun was setting on what seemed like a normal winter day, but the people in the nearby town would never guess that on that very normal day they would find the remains of one of the bloodiest massacres ever to take place in their quaint, little town. Now, I’m sure that you want to know what happened, am I right? So, if I’m going to tell you the story, I’m going to tell it right. In order to do that we need to go back to the night before last. Now, I must warn you. This story is not for the faint of heart, nor for children or the elderly. This story is for those of dark hearts, those who are able to look into the darkness, unlike our dear killer, and not be engulfed. So, my dear readers, I must bid you ‘good luck’ and remember, don't look into the darkness that is contained in this story for too long, or I'm afraid you won't make your way back to the world you now know.

An icy breeze swirled into the great Hall of the king’s palace abruptly interrupting the colossal, lavish feast. A tall, thin, disheveled man with a filthy, tattered, coal-black cloak stepped into the hall. He looked as if he spent several days dragged through a landfill..