Gothic Horror Writing

As I ventured further on into this tunnel of foreboding darkness, the rocks kept pushing into the soles of my cheaply-made boots. The wind was blowing past the creaking trees. It felt like the trees were telling me to turn back, telling me to flee and get away from the suspicion that this forest brought to me. As I got closer to the edge of the old woods the light filled my protection - for the moment - like water filling a glass.

I cam across the depressing sight of a smashed up cottage. The bricks were falling out of their places, causing one another to fall, then another. I looked around and slowly and cautiously moved towards the broken window. I took each step carefully in case a shard of glass pierced my boot. In the inside of the house the cupboards were open and some of the handles and the doors were falling off. On the left of the house there was a cross poking out of the ground, obviously signalling the grave that lay under the soil. Then I felt a hand rest on my shoulder ...

J Fitzpatrick