Thanks to a few spooky setting suggestions on my instagram, I felt dutifully inspired to write some micro horror! Only these turned into more of drabbles, some of them being twice as long as my normal micro horror stories. Oops! Oh well, welcome to the blog! Let me know your favorite spooky setting for a horror story below! Thanks, as always, for reading xo
She wasn't even sure she should be there. The building had been locked down for well over a month now, so it shouldn't be contaminated. She wore a mask nonetheless, and it was a little tight, digging at the flesh under her eyes where puffy bags now occupied. She had to prepare her lesson plans, and she'd left something, clearly not prepared to be under lockdown for the rest of the year. So, she unlocked the front door with the beep of her keycard and used gloved hands to open the door.
The little school was always eerie when empty, during summer or the weekends. This had a different feel though, like everything had been dropped and evacuated. Chairs in nearby classrooms still sat at little labeled desks, as though a full class at attention watching their teacher direct. Chills shot through her spine, and she made for her own classroom. The lock clicked under her key, and she swung the heavy door outward for entry.
Her room felt warmer than the rest, safer, more familiar. It was full of her decorations and smelled like the oils she diffused. She could almost hear the students calling her name. She looked up from her desk. A student had called her name. The little girl sat at her desk, hand raised, a ghostly white with bags under her eyes and a mask over her features. Again, she spoke the teacher's name. It echoed throughout the dark room and down the empty hallways.
The fog was thick that morning. He couldn't decipher a rock from a person, but he'd only ever missed one morning fish in his entire life, and he'd be damned to miss another one this time of year. So, he loaded his gear into his truck, made sure the boat trailer was latched tight, and headed on down the little beach entrance until the turnaround at the water's edge.
He couldn't quite see the water, ocean blending in with the soft gray of everything around him, but the spray splashed his face, and he just tied his hat tighter around his neck to keep himself dry. He threw on his rain jacket and listened for the swell, preparing to back his boat into the ocean. Only, when he backed up, his truck hit something.
He'd gone down to this beach every morning of his life except one. He knew every boulder and pebble, every piece of driftwood. With a grumble, he threw open his cab door, put the e-brake on, and moved through the fog to discover the obstacle in his way. He was shocked to find a car, out of town plates, white, fairly well-kept. The front end was pushed into the sand, soaking up the waves as it sunk deeper and deeper.
He grumbled under his breath, taking a peak inside. What he saw nearly made him vomit. The front seat, a light vinyl, was coated in thick, dark blood. A dark-haired girl was slumped across the steering wheel, eyes wide open in terror, blood sticking to every inch of her light denim jacket. Well, shit. Time to call the sheriff. He guessed it'd be the second day in his life he'd miss his morning fish.
Don't stop for anyone or anything on the moors. Everyone had been told so since they were wee lads and lassies. It read like common sense in those parts, and so no one traveled alone through the moors for fear of not receiving help when needed.
Only, packages needed to get from one end of Scotland to another, and just because you've chosen to build your home in remote areas, doesn't mean you're unentitled to access of the outside world. So one man, who knew the area well, would travel on a steady route, back and forth from the moors to the cities and back, delivering goods and services to those in need. It was an honorable job, most agreed.
He knew not to stop for anyone or anything on the moors. He'd seen dark horses in the fog late at night, heard wolves howling, saw a rouge carriage or two slipping sideways into the tall grass. He ignored them all, knowing his assistance would only lead in peril, so he continued on his merry way.
One time, however, he saw something he didn't expect. It was a particularly foggy evening. His cloaked was pull tight, horses whinnied before him, picking up their speed after a particular spook. He could feel eyes watching, could hear the wind whispering around him, but eyesight was all but not. As long as his horses stayed on the path, he knew they'd be safe. Then they halted altogether.
A woman stood on the road, shivering, teeth chattering, tears streaked down her face. Her hands were outstretched in plea. She called to him, called him by name, and explained that something had happened to her cart on her way home from the city. She'd be attacked and she needed a ride, and she knew him so she knew he'd come to help.
He had half a mind to leave the woman, to remember the rules of the road and stick to the path. Only the woman looked familiar, looked afraid, looked cold. He let her aboard his cabin, gave her a warm blanket and some bread from his sleigh. She thanked him and the horses carried on. The people of the moors never received their packages that night, or for the next month, or until a new carrier had been hired to trek the moors through the fog at night.
