After much deliberation, we decided that we couldn’t split the two top stories in this year’s Over 18 category so we have awarded joint first place to Dave Melde with ‘TAPS AFF AND UNDEAD’ and to Jenna Laird with ‘A SPLASH OF RED’. Both stories were very different but embodied the essence of Poe.
Our under 18 category certainly didn’t disappoint with some very chilling tales coming in from our younger writers! First place went to Adam Gilchrist with ‘INSATIABLE’ and our Runner Up was Anthony Parker with ‘COUNTING SHEEP’.
Our winning stories are just below and we hope you enjoy reading them as much as we did.
Thank you to everyone who submitted a story and congratulations to our winners. We look forward to even more stories next year.
“Taps Aff and Undead” by David Melde
I hadn’t touched a drop since my school days. Then came the reunion and seeing all of my old friends again.
We were reminiscing about our times together when the invasion started. Jessie went down first, right there on the gym floor. Zombies. One of them, still in his old rugby kit, tore her head off and tried to pass it downfield. Missed. Zombies couldn’t pass wind, never mind a ball.
I felt bad for her, but after Jessie fell they came fast. Faster than I thought zombies could move, and I didn’t have time to mourn her death, so I ran. I didn’t make it far. Zombie twins grabbed me. A third bit my neck. I booted the biter in his undead zombie bits, shook off the twins, and bolted again. But I’d been infected and nothing could change that. Six hours, maybe eight, before I’d be one of them.
Why couldn’t it have been vampires? They go to gigs. They moisturise. Sure, they drink blood, but at least they don’t eat brains. I could already see my future as a wheezy, grimy, half-decayed rookie zombie. Not all zombies wheeze, mind, but I had the vibe of one who would. As my stomach turned queasy, I wondered what raw brains would taste like.
Taps aff, I legged it for the gym door. Some zombie fan had torn my shirt clean off, like a roadie on tour with Biffy Clyro. What I needed was alcohol and plenty of it. It was the only known antidote for a zombie bite. “Feed a cold, drown a zombie,” my mum always used to say. I never understood what she meant until that moment.
I drove east, chasing the sunrise, stopping at cashpoints. Maxed out withdrawals like I’d won the Euromillions. I passed empty petrol stations, flickering streetlights, and a fox that watched me like it knew what had happened. When I had enough money for the cure I found a pub and laid down my cash. Thus began the zombie cleansing ritual.
The bartender set me up nice. Lochlea for depth, Ailsa Bay for fire, and a cheeky Buckfast chaser for chaos. That was my crew. Not the kind that fights beside you, but the kind that drowns the zombie inside. I drank until that inner rot was good and waterlogged. Until the bite stopped burning. Until the wheeze turned into a sigh. I vaguely remembered dancing solo, maybe on a sticky bar top? People had cheered me on.
Then came the silence.
I woke up on a park bench. It must have been late afternoon. Two ravens were looking at me like they’d seen this kind of resurrection before. Groaning and holding my head in my hands, I breathed in deeply. I was alive. I was still human. And although I was still taps aff, I was free!
Now, if only I knew where my breeks were.
**********
A Splash of Red By Jenna H Laird
The château was a viridian kingdom of ivy in the light. The wind gave its breath to once-silent hallways, coiling like a maze drawing Michael deeper into its labyrinth. What sunlight touched outside, shadow devoured within. Inside was decrepit with years of neglect, a dull shine that had once been a vision of sickly lavishness, old perfume clinging to forgotten décor that no longer sweetened the air.
It would take more than a smudge of plaster or flicker of paint to bring this rotting carcass of a home back from the dead. Michael lit a cigarette, the flame trembling as if afraid of being swallowed by the shadows lurking in every crevice. He barked a laugh. “Couple of weeks, I’ll slap on paint, cut a few corners,” he said to no one, kicking a loose tile. Smoke curled from his mouth in a lazy drift. “Owners will think I’m a miracle worker.”
He trudged through the corridors, boots scuffing over warped boards. Wallpaper peeled in long strips, the colour of old, scabbing skin. The place groaned with every step, and he snorted.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you” he said to the house, as if it were complaining. Then he saw it – a door that shouldn’t have been there. Not on the plan. Typical.
The handle was cold iron, ornate, shaped like a thorn. The hinges moaned, releasing a sound too human to belong to rust.
Inside, decay had not dared to enter. The room was draped in velvet darkness and old secrets. A grand fireplace loomed like a mausoleum, black and unlit. Heavy drapes fell from tall windows, letting only a slither of winter grey in. And there – above a chaise of dust-ridden satin green hung a portrait.
A woman, no older than thirty. Her beauty was unkind in its perfection: pallid skin, eyes the colour of overripe pomegranates, lips curved into a faint, private amusement. But it wasn’t her beauty that held him, it was her gaze. Eyes that, for the briefest of moments, seemed to have flickered. No...twitched. Or blinked.
Michael stepped closer, brushing cobwebs from the frame. It was thick, dark mahogany carved with crawling vines and tiny mouths open in hunger. He reached up to lift the painting, hands working beneath the gilded edge – and then hissed.
A thin band of metal had sliced his palm. Droplets of blood bloomed bright, trickling down in a lazy stream towards his wrist. It dripped once onto the painted shoulder of the woman. And the portrait drank it. The colour sank into the canvas, as if the work of art itself were thirsty.
Michael froze. He stumbled back, chest tightening, chill sinking deeper than bone. Behind him, the door he’d left ajar slowly closed and locked itself with a soft deliberate click.
The woman in the portrait’s eyes glistened, her smile lengthened slightly and revealed two pointed tips. Her lips gleamed red – wet, terribly alive and ravishingly hungry.
INSATIABLE by Adam Gilchrist
Before stepping into the kitchen, I could smell the heavy breaths of the oven. The sweet perfume of succulent meat welcomed my senses with a gentle kiss; my skin felt the heat radiating off the almost otherworldly food. Upon closer inspection, one could notice the glowing golden rivers of fat flowing across the pans, the small pools of juice dripping from the meat and bubbling upon contact with the piping hot pan, pure and perfectly flavoured. Butter slid on the metal, melting in the heat, long herbs sizzled in the mixture of liquids, leaking flavour into the food. In the oven, a larger tray of meat was cooking, with crusted skin and seared edges, still noticeable through the pale light shining through the fogged glass window. Pillars of scented steam curled up, reaching out transparent hands, only to dissolve when touching the roof of the oven's interior. Potatoes boiled in a bowl of water, a selection of greens blistered and grilled, the smells engulfed each other to create mystical aromas, forming entirely new scents.
It was a surprise to see the house in such a condition, it had been cold, empty for many days. we no longer talked. Every time we did, it quickly festered into bitter words and spiteful arguments. She was disloyal. But seeing this dinner, smelling the aroma, feeling my stomach roar in gluttony, I no longer cared.
it was nearly ready.
I bit at my bottom lip out of habit; beads of sweat ran down my skin, I dug my nails into my palm, scratched at my fingers, tearing the skin out of unrealised strength. It was as if I was going feral, my vision seemed to narrow, constrict like the yellowed crust shrivelling atop the food. All I could focus on was the meal. The thought of my teeth ripping the tender flesh, tearing it into shreds, tasting those carefully engineered juices, feel them run from my mouth down to my chin. I’d eat like a slob, with my hands if needed. I would not spear a drop of food, I'd lick my fingers, clean the plate with my tongue, anything to make sure nothing went to waste. I don’t know how she managed it, but she’d made the most exquisite meal.
Before I realised, I was sitting at the dining table, glaring over endless amounts of rich, bountiful goods. The meat spoke to me, begging me to come closer, steamed vegetables still sizzled in the heat, and the main course lay enclosed in a silver platter. Lifting the lid, the metal fought against my hand, biting and burning. Smoke spewed out, and I could no longer resist. Her eyes watched me. Her flesh was golden, cooked perfectly. Her jaw rested on the tray below; a scarlet red apple lay in her mouth. She oozed heavenly juices, red and pale. I inhaled, breathing the fumes in as deeply as I could.
“Thank you, my love.” I whispered, before feasting on her flesh.
Counting Sheep
Anthony Parker
March 1st 1979
I curse this affliction. I see every hour of this infernal clock. I cannot seem to focus,turn my brain off. Every night I curl up into a ball trying to pretend I can sleep but its gods biggest sin to put this on me. The-the-the monsters they-they tell me to do stuff in my sleep. TOOO MUCHHH NOISE!!TOO MUCH SUFFERING. [gasps for breath] to much pai-
3 hours later
“Vital signs are clear, anesthetic ready, and awating order-”
“NO STOP, Dr Erskin he’s not ready for the injection yet we still have to run the diagnostics so he is ok with project catalepsy and it won’t make his insomnia and sleep paralysis worse.”
“We will do that now. Running diagnostics, all clear for injection.”
“Excuse me patient number 9 what is your name?”
“My name is… erm Alex, Alex Dunn. May is ask where on earth am I?”
“You are in Jackson Memorial Hospital, Miami, sadly a rainy day”
“Well what happened to me?”
“well Alex because of your insomnia and sleep paralysis your brain stopped working.” “We will run tests on you then send you back home.”
After the hospital Alex felt uneasy. They gave him injections and he didn’t know that, later that night he thought he was cured, he got to sleep for 20 minutes then woke up. He saw something In his room it was a shadowed figure wearing a black cloak and and had a shiny sharp like object, it didn’t seem real. This was a hallucination which he didn’t have before the injection. He lived far away from Miami as he lived in NYC,”the city that never sleeps” not ideal for someone with sleep paralysis, but good for the demons that wants to haunt him. “Whatever the hospital gave me has ruined my body and temporarily fixed my Sleep Paralysis.” He tries to turn on the lamp and it wasn’t there, he fell to the floor but in his mind he was still falling and then his bookshelf fell on him, crushing the oxygen and c2o out of his lungs, gasping for breath he propped his crowbar underneath and pushed all his weight against it and could finally breath. He snapped, he got a propane tank, lighter, a knife and a gas canister,He took the next train to Miami.
3 hours later.
He arrived at Jackson Memorial Hospital. “I WILL KILL EVERYONE IN HERE, INCLUDING THE PATIENTS”
“LOCKDOWN ALERT, LOCKDOWN ALERT ALL PERSONEL TO LOCKDOWN QUARTERS IMMEDIATELY.” “ALEX STOP you don’t have to do this, you don’t kill everyone!”
“ WELL THE PROPANE TANK IS SET INSIDE THE BURNING WARD SO THINK QUICK.YOU RUINED MY LIFE EVEN WHEN I DIDN’T THINK IT COULD GET WORSE!”
“Calm down Alex, its ok we can make it bette-” Dr Erskin gets brutally stabbed 45 times and gushed blood everywhere Alex went on to do that another 12 times then the hospital exploded killing everyone inside but the only bad thing he still kills but cant be caught because his followers cover the killings up by blaming his horrific diseases.