The Rush Boy Afraid Of The Dark Short Story

On Wednesday morning some tenants in Tank’s building were gathering outside his door. They hadn't seen him for a few days birthing a feeling of dread. Emanating from under his door is a faint, sickeningly sweet smell. They thought he had gone away and didn’t take out the garbage

The evening was ominous and gray. The cold wind blew softly, and carried a heavy scent of blood through the streets. A loud intense screech pierced the ears of its listener, leaving the body trembling in fear.

He goes to Boston to meet two cousins, Mrs. Luna, the elder, dynamic, and experienced widow, and her sister, Miss Olive Chancellor, ahardworking and reliable woman, wholly dedicated to the cause of female “emancipation.” Now Basil follows her to the meeting, and there he gets anacquaintance with the girl who gives a speech that day, Verena Tarrant. She is the daughter of a crude charlatan, who gains profit from his daughter’s gift of pleasantvoice and fluently flowing oration. Basil and Olive both attract towards Verena and later on fall in love with her: the rich Olive takes Verena under her security and gives the training for their cause, while Basil very skilfully wins her heart over; Verena eventually disappears in her lover’s arms, leaving Olive lonely to tackle her crumbled dreams and unfulfilled

Horror Stories are a very popular genre of books. Some can be exceptionally malicious and gruesome in nature while others are tamer and rely on suspense. People tend to read these stories for the adrenaline rush, to explore the unknown, and to conquer their own adversities. Studies show that us as humans like to experience fear. We read and view scary stories so we can experience artificial situations of “fight or flight.” These scenarios, whether real or imagined, get your body ready for action by giving you an extra dose of adrenaline. The thrill and suspense that hangs over us while reading, is a welcomed feeling. Scary stories also allow us to explore the unknown. In books there are boundless supernatural realms, where wonder and horror walk side by side- realms were people rise from the dead, and fight their own

As she opened the door, she hoped to herself that the inside was nearly as well done, to her delight... it was. The carpenters had fully replaced the banister and painted it and the blood trail was gone from the hardwood. All of the workers were huddled inside the cafe sipping on some coffee, they appeared to be taking a break. Her heart began to race as she ran up the stairs, it was rounding on five and they couldn’t afford a break...or could they. Cleo froze on the top step, it was unimaginable. Every fleck of wall and every particle of dust was in its original condition. No blood, no knives, not a single atom out of place. In stunned silence, she paced the hardwood floor, she walked from the railing to the bathrooms. She wasn’t sure how

Dawn’s early morning light crept over the city, the various shades of amber emanating from the horizon bringing life to the shapeless skyline. Outside Booker’s apartment, the resident sparrows began their morning song of joy, their cheerful chirrup filtering through the dark-haired officer’s dream, pulling him toward consciousness. Moments later, his alarm sounded, the annoying bee-dee-dee-deep, bee-dee-dee-deep shattering what remained of his slumber. With a sigh, he rolled over and hit the off button, returning peace to the cramped room, and stifling a yawn, he speculated about the upcoming day. He’d arranged to meet Tom at the abandoned warehouse before school so they could discuss strategies. But after the previous night’s events, he wasn’t sure where their friendship

“Really?” Adair asks, “okay.” He sighs and makes his way to the back; picking up the bag of trash slumped against the wall and carrying it to the back door, grunting and groaning. He pushes the door open and steps into the dim alley backing the restaurant, shivering against the bitter November cold. He fumbles with the keys in his pocket until he finds the right one for the garbage. He hears a banging noise and spins around. There’s a man standing behind him, he stares at Adair with fearful eyes. His thin sweater pulled tightly around his frail body.

Little Marie ran up them as fast as she could, skipping steps along the way. It was a little bit lighter up in the attic because of the small square window. She liked it up there much better even though it wasn’t any safer. First off, the thing that is chasing her could still be up there and second, the building is falling apart piece by piece. As she started to walk, the wood creaked and splinters of wood started to fall from the ceiling. She walked a little faster, but calmer this time. She heard noises from the other side of the room. She hid in and out of the junk that was piled up in the attic of the old Lidtke Mill. Marie

This simple yet significant deed shows us that she was allowed to speak out of her normal position as a reward for her character, but that she mustn’t hesitate to return to where she truly belongs: sitting quietly beside the

Frantically trying to find her way up the cold, dark stairs she trips over old, dirt covered shoes, dusty ragged dolls who’s dresses have been torn, and moldy glass bottles. As she gets to the the top she pulls trying to open the brown, wooden door, her hope of getting out anytime soon starts to vanish as the flickering light goes off behind her. Never being in the basement for very long , she never noticed how badly it had smelled of insects, and rotting mice. Deliberately she climbs back down the uneven staircase to the cobwebbed entrance.

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

“She ran pass that way and up the stairs…” He never finishes as the men take off, running again in the opposite direction I am. Joy flitters through me. He didn’t turn me in. “You’re welcome!” Flich yells after them, sarcasm thick in his words. Minutes later after the yelling and footsteps died down, the door opens and there stand Flich, holding his side in pain, but a smile is on his face. His face is slightly bruised and swollen.

I took a deep breath as I walked through the doorway. The door was stuck open, hanging on just one of its hinges. It was clear that no one had been near this place in a long time. As I entered, a stench hit me. It smelt sickly sweet, almost like rotten fairy floss. I looked around the room at the faded and ripped wallpaper, and the broken furniture. The air was so thick with dust it was almost impossible to breathe, and everything was thickly covered with dust. The little light there was came from the cracks in the yellowed blinds.

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not

As they walked through the forest, hearing the crunching of leaves beneath their feet, Leon drew weary of the quiet. The silence hadn’t bothered him when he was alone, but when other people were entirely quiet he found it difficult to read them. He felt as though the awkwardness was like a gas in the air, suffocating him. The two forest dwellers on the other hand appeared unperturbed.