Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It was a chilly autumn night in the small town of Willow Creek, where the streets were empty, and the only sounds were the whispers of the wind through the bare trees. Old Mrs. Turner sat in her creaky armchair by the fireplace, the flames casting flickering shadows across the walls of her old, dusty living room. She lived alone, ever since her husband had passed away years ago.

The only company she had now was the old grandfather clock that stood in the corner, its steady ticking filling the silence.

As the clock struck midnight, a strange noise broke the quiet. It was faint at first, like the rustling of leaves, but it grew louder, more distinct—a scratching sound, coming from the front door. Mrs. Turner's heart skipped a beat. She wasn't expecting anyone, especially not at this late hour.

With a shaky hand, she picked up the flashlight that lay on the small table beside her and made her way to the door. The scratching continued, more insistent now. She hesitated, her mind racing with thoughts of what could be on the other side. But curiosity got the better of her, and she slowly unlocked the door. Read latest chapters on empire

As she opened it, the cool night air rushed in, sending a shiver down her spine. There was nothing there—just the empty, dark porch. She stepped outside, shining the flashlight around, but there was no sign of anything or anyone. Just as she was about to dismiss it as a trick of the wind, she noticed something on the ground—a small, crumpled piece of paper.

She picked it up, unfolding it carefully. The note was hastily written, the ink smeared in places, as if it had been written in a hurry.

"Do not let him in."

A chill ran down her spine as she read the words. Who could have left this? And who was "he"? Mrs. Turner looked around, her fear growing, but the night was still and silent. She quickly stepped back inside, bolting the door behind her.

She returned to her armchair, trying to calm her racing heart. But the peace didn't last. The scratching started again, this time more frantic, more desperate. It wasn't coming from the door anymore—it was coming from the windows. All the windows.

Mrs. Turner's hands trembled as she turned off the flashlight, plunging the room into darkness except for the dim light of the fire. She could hear the scratching moving from window to window, something—or someone—was trying to get in. The note's warning echoed in her mind.

She tried to stay calm, telling herself it was just the wind, just her imagination playing tricks on her. But deep down, she knew that wasn't true. The scratching was too deliberate, too real. It felt as if something was circling the house, testing every possible entry point.

Then, the scratching stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, and in the quiet, Mrs. Turner could hear something else—a low, guttural growl, coming from just outside the living room window. Her breath caught in her throat, and she dared not move.

Suddenly, the window shattered, glass spraying into the room. Mrs. Turner screamed, her heart pounding as she saw a dark, shadowy figure at the broken window. It was tall, with long, bony fingers that scraped against the window frame as it slowly began to climb inside. Its face was obscured, but she could feel its gaze on her, cold and malevolent.

Remembering the note, Mrs. Turner gathered every bit of courage she had and bolted for the door. She had to get out, had to escape whatever this thing was. She fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking uncontrollably, but she managed to get it open. As she threw the door wide, she felt a sharp, icy grip on her shoulder.

She turned, her eyes meeting the creature's. It was grinning, its teeth sharp and gleaming in the firelight. There was something ancient and evil in its eyes, something that spoke of endless hunger.

With a scream, Mrs. Turner tore herself free and ran out into the night. She didn't stop until she was at her neighbor's house, pounding on the door, screaming for help. When her neighbor, Mr. Davis, finally answered, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

He called the police, who searched Mrs. Turner's house from top to bottom. But they found nothing—no sign of the creature, no sign of the broken window, nothing. It was as if it had never happened.

But Mrs. Turner knew what she had seen, and she never returned to that house. She moved in with her daughter in the city, leaving the memories of that terrifying night behind. But every now and then, late at night, she would hear the sound of scratching at the windows, and the note's warning would come back to her.

"Do not let him in."