Place of Caves was my coronavirus lockdown project. I’d had the idea of a Nottingham-based horror novella bouncing around my head for years, with a secret order of priests and nuns sent to investigate demonic goings-on in the caves. But somehow, I’d never got around to it. Being inside for months and seeing the Black Hare Press call for underground-themed horror spurred me into action.
In life, Aunt Maud had no time for traditional funerals. “I want mine to be jolly! A celebration of my life. Nobody dresses in black!”
When the day came, Richard cried all the way to the church. Everyone turned to him as he walked in. He paid his respects by the coffin, then sat in the pews. As people whispered and stared at him, he began to wonder if he’d taken Maud’s words about the dress code too literally.
Still, it was nice to dress as a clown at times. It seemed silly to only wear the costume at Halloween.
Charlotte O’Farrell
Charlotte O’Farrell is a horror writer and lifelong horror fan. She writes daily flash fiction on Twitter and Facebook and her stories have appeared in several anthologies and magazines.
She lives in Nottingham, UK with her husband, daughter and cat.
Trevor arrived at the group’s HQ shaking, arms and face bruised from the car crash. In the distance, he heard sirens as first responders tended to the casualties he’d caused.
A week on from his eighteenth birthday, and he was done with running. If he carried on trying to chase a normal life he couldn’t have, he’d just bring more chaos.
No more hiding.
The assembled crowds of hooded figures turned to him as he entered their lair.
“I’m ready to embrace my role,” he told them, voice shaking.
They bowed down.
“All hail the Antichrist!” they chanted as one.
Charlotte O’Farrell
Charlotte O’Farrell is a horror writer and lifelong horror fan. She writes daily flash fiction on Twitter and Facebook and her stories have appeared in several anthologies and magazines.
She lives in Nottingham, UK with her husband, daughter and cat.
All my life, Uncle Harry’s name was spoken with a pitying hush. “He never recovered from his son’s disappearance.”
He lived thirty years after my cousin vanished. Harry was never at family events. Maybe he avoided them, maybe he wasn’t invited at all. People think grief and tragedy are contagious.
He left me his house, surprisingly. I was thrilled. His garden would be perfect for my dog, Fluffy.
The first day there, Fluffy dug for hours.
I called him in at sunset. He emerged from the flower patch with a tibia in his jaws. Degraded, child-sized bones littered the garden.
Charlotte O’Farrell
Charlotte O’Farrell writes horror and all manner of the weird and wonderful. Her work has appeared on the Horror Tree, the Drabble and the Rock N’ Roll Horror Zine, among others. You can find her on Twitter @ChaOFarrell or Facebook AuthorCharlotteOFarrell.