It is a beautiful cemetery, small and compact, a private family place of rest with an old chapel that splits the burial plot into two but is tightly locked and bolted at all times against the visitors from the city.

The plot is situated at the side of a country road, in a dark valley and surrounded by woodland, and it is not a welcoming place for strangers.

However, the stories of ghosts from this country churchyard are rife throughout the land, and the stories instill fear intothe very souls of those who delve deeply into the paranormal world.

Many visitors have come to this lonely place in search of the woman in white. The ghost of a mother who lost all her children and now searches for their restless souls.

In the dark of night, she has been seen on the road by unsuspecting drivers who are traveling too fast through the trees and are approaching a sharp bend in the street. Legend says that this strong woman, this white lady, has saved countless lives.

I have set foot in this famous graveyard, both day and night, when the owls fly silently by and the bats swoop and dive, hunting for prey, and sadly, I have not had the pleasure of the company of this fine young lady in a white gown.

But this is maybe not entirely true.

I stopped at the chapel on a hot summer day with friends eager to see the famous graves, and we walked among the stones, stopping and reading the inscriptions. The sun was beating down, and we took photographs of our exploits, and in one, just one picture, there arose a white mist of equal proportions to a human figure.

Had we met the lady in white, had we been in her presence, but only to find out hours later as the picture appeared on my monitor at home?

 I believe we did.

But it’s now a few years since our experience, and we haven’t returned to the chapel in the dark valley or the gravestones surrounded by trees. 

We have left the good lady to search in peace for her lost children, and we have left her to save the lives of speeding drivers who have no thought for themselves.

I hope this dear woman will soon find her children, and they can rest together for all eternity.

Based on a true story.

i wrote this quite quickly for my blog on Medium. I’ve been neglecting it for the last few days, and really wanted to get something uploaded. On completion, I really liked it, and thought, well, it’ll look nice on the website.

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It was early evening and just starting to get dark outside, and I stood, sending the cat with a meow of complaint jumping to the floor. I stretched my arms and legs, then headed out to the kitchen. I turned the light on, walked to the kettle on the worktop, and flicked the switch. 

I dipped a teabag into the cup of hot water, burning my fingers in the process; I let it brew for a few seconds, then threw the hot wet bag into the bin beneath the counter. I added plenty of milk and sugar, then stirred the pale brew.

I leaned against the solid wood kitchen table and started sipping my weak tea as I gazed out of the window, down the length of the garden, and to the woods beyond.

Suddenly, caught in the fading light, a figure appeared, all in black, a hood pulled up. The person just stood at the end of the garden, barely visible against the black of the woods, and appeared to be watching me.

I thought at first that my eyes were deceiving me, as moments later, the figure disappeared into the blackness of the trees.

Grabbing my coat from the hook in the hallway, I unlocked the back door and stepped outside. I waited for a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkening skies, then strode confidently up the garden path, past the swings that my son loves so much, and further toward the end of the garden. 

I looked around as I reached the fence bordering the garden and the trees, cursing silently for not bringing a torch. But there was nothing to indicate that someone had been there. Sighing, I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and returned to the kitchen’s warmth.

I turned the kitchen lights off and returned to the living room and the TV with its awful game show. I couldn’t concentrate on the questions and wasn’t attempting to answer any either. All I could think of was the figure in black. 

With the evening at a close and nighttime upon us, I rose and headed back into the kitchen. Leaving the lights off, I peered out the window and into the dark. The furthest reaches of the garden were in darkness and invisible without light, but from what I could see, all appeared to be quiet.

I double-checked the locks on the doors, turned the TV and the lights off, then headed upstairs to bed.

I awoke with a start. Something was wrong, but I was not fully awake; I didn’t know what. I looked at the clock; it was just after two in the morning. Why had I awoken so early?

I lay in bed listening to the silence, then arose, pulled a dressing gown over my pyjamas and went to the window. And there it was, the figure in black, barely visible in the darkness. Quietly, I took a torch from the bedside drawer and tiptoed through the house and down the stairs.

I shuffled slowly into the darkened kitchen and looked again at the figure in the garden. Quietly, I unlocked the kitchen door, pushed slowly as the hinges creaked, and stepped silently into the night.

Taking a longer route than before, I kept to the garden’s boundaries where the shadow from the hedges lay blackest, and from there, I skirted around my prey, sneaking quietly ever closer. I picked up a rock from the grassy floor; its smooth contours felt comfortable in my hand.

I was now behind the figure, so close that I was sure that my beating heart was loud enough for him to hear, but he didn’t, and I raised the rock above my head, then brought it crashing down upon him.

This person, this watcher, all in black, crumpled to the floor, and I grabbed his arm and dragged him over the grass and back to the house. I struggled with the kitchen door, but eventually, I got the prone figure into the kitchen. From there, I dragged him down the hallway, past the coat hooks and up to the cellar door and the steps leading to my favourite space.

I flicked the light switch and dragged my new friend slowly down the wooden steps and into my dungeon; I locked him in a small cage and headed back to bed, certain that he would not be escaping.

The following day, I awoke with the sun shining through the window and refreshed, I hopped out of bed and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where I prepared breakfast for my son and then called him from the bottom of the stairs. I sat back in the kitchen and sipped my first coffee.

Antony came bounding down the stairs and dived straight into his bowl of cornflakes. The bitterness of the coffee brought my senses back to reality, and the events of the night before returned, and inwardly, I smiled.

After breakfast, I ushered Antony out of the house and off to school, then quietly unlocked the cellar door. I was keen to have some fun with my captive, but before I got to the cage, I knew that he was already dead. Disgruntled, I unlocked the cage and dragged the watcher’s lifeless body onto the floor. I checked for a pulse, just in case, but there was none, so I dragged his corpse over to the white enamel bathtub, and with effort, I lifted his body up and let it fall with a thud. I sighed as I looked at the crumpled figure, grey and lifeless in the bathtub. I really was looking forward to torturing him, killing him slowly, listening to him beg for mercy, but maybe the blow to the head had been too hard. 

It wasn’t the first time that the initial blow had crushed the skull and caused almost instant death, and I made a mental note not to be so aggressive in the future.

I walked to the cupboard in the corner and selecting a key from the loop in my pocket, I unlocked and opened the door. The metal cupboard screeched as it opened, a sound that I loved but one that brought only fear to my victims, or at least those who were still alive.

I reached in and selected the saw, still red on the serrated blade from my last victim some months ago. I plugged it into the wall socket, then dressed myself in a disposable white suite. I pulled the hood tight, then pulled on the green rubber gloves. 

I admired myself in the dirty mirror for a few moments, then switched on the saw and watched with delight as the blade dug into the pale white flesh.

The post Stalking at the wrong house appeared first on Rob Joseph .

He hung from the old wooden cross; the blood and sweat ran in rivers down his side. It oozed slowly beneath the white cloth wrapped tightly around his waist and crept slowly down his thigh.
The blood from his hands collected in large drops around the nail that kept his hand firmly in place and fell, one at a time, from his palms.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, the blood from the thorns on his brow dripping, running and blurring his vision.

Nasir, a young boy from the village, ran to the foot of the cross; he reached up and clasped the feet of Christ tightly and wept. The blood from the feet ran down Nasir’s hands and arms, and in extreme devotion, he licked the blood of Christ from his fingers, savouring the metallic flavour and feeling the liquid on his tongue.

Nasir, a quiet boy, stood, looked up to the blue sky, and murmured a prayer silently to himself, then turned, embittered with an unexpected fury; he leapt from the base of the cross and snapped the neck of the nearest soldier. He grabbed the spear from the dead soldier’s hand and thrust it deep into the chest of a second guard before taking his sword.

The people from the village, local farmers eager to see the crucifixion, crouched on the floor as Nasir ended the lives of everyone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake before emitting a scream and bounding down the hill to the village.

With manic eyes aglow, the pupils a deep blood red, he searched the village for more sinners who had abandoned Christ in his hour of need.
He searched high and low through every house, slaughtering the innocent until no one was left to punish.

Satisfied that the job was complete, Nasir knelt on the dusty floor and begged forgiveness for his merciless killing, and with deadly precision, he turned the blade on himself and thrust it deeply into his stomach.

The blood pooled around him, and slowly, as Nasir crumpled forward, it soaked into the earth.

Suddenly, his eyes opened, and his red pupils glowed in the burial chamber where he lay. His hands felt for the wound in his stomach that must be there but found nothing. What was this madness? He thought as he kicked his legs from off the earthen shelf. His shroud, stained copper red from the wound, fell to the floor beside him.

Nasir made his way past the bodies that lay, each alone and on an earthen shelf until daylight guided him to the exit and fresh air. A door barred his way, so he turned the iron ring and pushed. With a squeal of complaint, the hinges moved, and the door slowly opened.

Nasir looked around at the scene that lay before him. Stone gravestones, overgrown and tilted, inscriptions barely legible, markers for the deceased. Wearing nothing but a cloth around his waist, Nasir walked through the monuments in search of anything.

At the edge of the graveyard was an iron fence and, beyond that, a church with a steeple covered in ivy.

Nasir passed through the wrought iron gate and descended the path to the large wooden church doors. He pushed, and the door swung quietly open, revealing a dark interior lit only by large stained glass windows and candles burning near the altar.

From a back room, a priest appeared; old and bent, he shuffled his way to the altar and made the sign of the cross before turning to Nasir and saying,
“Come, my child, we have been waiting for you.”
And Nasir just smiled.

The End.

I’m not sure how this story will go down, it’s not meant to offend, it’s just a story. I did plan to have Nasir wake up after 3 days, but I finally opted for 2000 years, although the timeline is never mentioned.

The post A crucifixion and the blood of Christ appeared first on Rob Joseph .

To be a real short story, my work needed a minimum of 1500 words, and mine was just a lowly 900 words.

But my dismay was not permanent, for I had unwittingly created a work of Flash Fiction, which is a work of about 500 to 1000 words.
I was elated, I had found my new niche, and my comfort zone had a name and a cool name it is.

This blog is for me to publish, and for you dear reader, to enjoy my writing, my works of fiction, and flash fiction.

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