i short story i wrote up... its a horror by the way 
The Croft
No one knew when it was built or who built it. It had always been there, a dirty smudge on the otherwise flawless landscape. Numerous people had lived in it over the years but none had stayed for any length of time. The last person to live there stayed for only two weeks, and promptly left the country. But that was twenty years ago. Now the building, known only as “The Croft”, stood there with its black walls, rotten floor boards and a dark reputation.
Late at night, down in the village pub someone might get talking about the place. If they did, then they would be sure to mention the rowan tree and what was underneath it.
Of course everyone said that it was just a story, meant to frighten kids, that witches never existed.
But farmers who worked late and woke at the crack would glance over to the croft and later they would swear that they had seen...something under the rowan tree, a black shape like a silhouette. A silhouette, standing and looking out at nothing.
Every now and again someone would walk up to The Croft, either for a bet or to satisfy their own curiosity. They might have a look in the window and then try the front door, which would always be locked. No one would go near the rowan tree.
The wind whipped at the two walkers as they trudged over the moor. The hour was late and there was a smell of thunder. One stopped and took out a map from the backpack and squinted at it.
“Say there should be a forest around here.”
They looked about the barren moorland. The only trees around were lifeless skeletons, fit only for a fire.
The other sighed. “Face it Eddie. We’re lost. Let’s just keep going and find shelter.”
Eddie grunted in agreement and they both set off.
Two hours passed and still there was no sign of shelter. The wind had become a howling gale and rain clouds loomed above them, threatening to burst at any second.
The two walkers cleared the brow of the next hill and came upon an old, rusty gate and beyond that an abandoned house, it’s windows dark and it’s walls black.
“Well… it’s not a hotel but it will have to do. Let’s get inside before the storm hits!” shouted Eddie above the wind.
Opening the gate the two walkers ran up to the front door and tried the handle. The door would not budge.
“Just kick it in. No one will care.”
Eddie took a step back and kicked the door, hard. It remained intact.
The two walkers turned to look at the dark clouds overhead. The first spots of rain had started, signalling the oncoming downpour.
A violent gust of wind suddenly blew over them and behind them they heard a violent bang.
Startled, they whirled around. The door to the house was open.
Eddie’s companion looked over to him.
“The wind? Well we may as well get out the rain” he said and stepped over the threshold into the darkness. Eddie hesitated for a moment, suddenly wary of the dark house but the rain was getting heavier and this was the only shelter for miles. He stepped in to the dark.
The place smelt of damp and moulding wood. Light was barely getting through the boarded up windows and what did get through seemed to be sucked into the blackness.
Eddie was two steps from the threshold when the door suddenly swung shut behind him. He spun around but only caught a glimpse of a silhouette before the light from the windows faded and he was plunged into blackness. The smell of mouldy wood was replaced with the stench of rotting flesh which drove Eddie to his knees.
A thunderous booming shook the whole house. Eddie felt the floorboards shaking underneath him. He heard footsteps, even above the noise. They were coming closer and closer. With them came a high pitched wailing and a feeling of absolute despair and torture.
The footsteps stopped just short of where he was sitting. A powerful force hit him in the chest and Eddie was flung into the door, which snapped open. Eddie hit the ground face first. He scrambled up and fled. He did not know where he was going but it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than The Croft.
Eddie lay in the hotel bed, afraid of the nightmares sleep would bring.
Police had been up to the Croft but couldn’t find any sign of his companion. They did find his pack though. It was hung in the branches of the rowan tree.
Something banged against his window. Getting up he staggered to the curtains and threw them apart.
The loose, empty skin of his companion, blood dripping from his nose, hung from the branch of a tree... a rowan tree...
Re: The Croft
good, just a liitle short.
Scarusto
Re: The Croft
it was the short story for the english folio thing... the short story thing. what did you do?
The Busker
I'll stick mine into the mix. It was for the same assignment.
John Burten had always loved music. It was his pastime, and he played the flute in a local Jazz quartet. That was, partly, why he noticed the busker.
He had been walking his dog, Sammy, through the streets, at just about twilight, with the spectrum of the night smoothly reflecting off the windows of the colossal grey boxes that were the buildings of the city asleep. He heard the scratchy, imperfect notes of a practised guitarist, tuning up for a tremendous performance. Taking a left through an ill kept alleyway, he found himself looking upon an aging gentleman, grey of hair, denim jeans faded from the sun, mouth hidden amongst the forest of silver whiskers that adorned his face.
And he was singing now, in harsh tones, each quavering word, an epic story.
John could have stared for hours, but the busker couldn’t sing for as long as he could stare. Eventually he ceased, in a severe, whisker-muffled coughing fit.
“What’s the matter, kid, ain’t you ever heard the blues?”
And with those words, John vowed to return to that spot every day. He would empty his pockets into the Busker’s travel-weary leather guitar case, the tingling of loose change, a rapturous applause.
The two grew to be good friends, John listening attentively to the Busker’s tales. Through these he was transported to the Bayous of New Orleans, to the subways of Manhattan, from the Nebraska summers, to the Alaska winters. John met with mobsters, and dined with the down-on-their-luck; felt his spirits rise at the finding of a Nickel; felt his head thunder as he was brutally beaten by his father, and his heart break as the love of his life left for a younger man. He felt the aching in the Busker’s bones as if it were his own, too tired to keep on travelling.
The tales the Guitarist wove with his throat and fingers enthralled the Flautist. Once or twice the Busker asked him about himself, but John always tried to avoid the subject of his exceedingly easy upbringing: plenty of friends, plenty of work…he’d been on easy street all this time. Yet he had never thought of other less fortunate people. It often got to the point where he felt physically sick with himself, especially during one of the Busker’s more mournful songs.
It was near mid-summer when John made his plan. He would record the Busker’s awe-inspiring music, sell it on, and give all the money to the needy. The first hurdle, however, would be recording it.
He had asked the Busker about recording before, and he’d been set against it like a…well, he’d been very much against it. Apparently he had had a bad experience involving the music business before.
So John took to recording in secret, a small second-hand walkman hidden in his satchel, amassing tape after tape of the old man’s Soul.
On the day John decided the impromptu album was suitably complete, he set out for the alleyway, Sammy padding along beside him. At first he noticed the lack of music in the air…he brushed this aside in his state of excitement.
On rounding the corner he noticed the silence, a cold, foreboding quiet. He stared for a while, and then turned stolidly away.
He headed for the river that ran outside the city.
Sammy was whining now.
His head felt like lead on his shoulders.
The moon was bright.
The Buskers eyes had been bright.
He came to the river, grey water sloshing under the light from the humming sodium lamps along it.
He reached into his satchel, drawing out the tapes, tossing them, with trepidation, one by one, into the depths.
John found himself singing one of the Busker’s songs. It was unpleasantly appropriate.
“Ripples on the water
Like this song that I sing
And the life that you live
They all eventually fade…”
John E. Burten was the only one who attended the state burial on the painfully bright and sunny morning. The man who had no name was laid to rest in the clothes he died in, in an unadorned wooden casket. There were no markings on the small stone at the head of the grave. John hadn’t slept…hadn’t been home since in days; he was still in the same clothes, unshaven, unwashed…even Sammy had gone unfed, tail no longer wagging.
After the minimalist service, the Minister came forward to shake John’s hand, caught the rank scent, and instead settled for crossing himself. Even the church wouldn’t accept a busker. Once he was sure there was no one around, John took out his flute, moistened his lips, and played a bar of a funeral march…that didn’t seem right. He tried out a few lines of folk…that was just wrong.
He settled for the only song he knew would fit…
“Ripples on the water
Like this song that I sing
And the life that you live
They all eventually fade…”
Yeah...I like it!
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