This is a short story I submitted to a ‘Young Writers’ Competition a few months ago. The task was to write 250 words on the subject of ‘ghost stories.’ You can still submit your writing to this competition here.
He lay, shivering, under the bed. His body was drenched in fear, his skin stark white and shining with sweat and tears. He was so afraid. So afraid to leave his home and venture into the unknown.
His teeth were chattering, and he was fighting back the urge to scream. Not to scream in terror, but in fear. You can only feel terror when you know what you are scared of. All he was scared of was the fear itself. The fear of the unknown. That’s all anyone’s scared of really.
On top of the bed, that was where the monster lived. Often, the monster left it’s lair, but he still didn’t venture out- he was too scared. Too scared.
The monster was tall and thin. It walked on two fragile shapeless legs with gnarled talons as feet. And it had claws. Great big scarred claws that picked and poked and probed. It had a wrinkly mouth, a short stumpy nose and little piggy, watery, sickly-white eyes that shone in the darkness. The worst part was it’s colour: a pale, bland shade of pinky-white.
It was the worst creature imaginable, or that was what he had been told. Sometimes, but only sometimes, he had thought about talking to it– maybe it wasn’t quite as bad as everyone made out.
But no, he must not. He must not venture on top of the bed, because he was a ghost and every ghost has a human on top of his bed.