No flower was supposed to bloom in the barren soil.

Yet, a single Black Rose blossomed every winter, its petals pressing too closely against the window of widower Bob Vance.

Eleanor Rise was a seamstress with a relationship with the dead was—

Beyond the pale.

Eleanor had a seeing eye–her left. It discerned shadows that wore gowns–not with exquisite sheer–and far from elegant.

They fit.

Like coffins.

The skilled embroiderer knew not only her craft–she understood the lost souls of those who had crossed the inevitable bridge.

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Late that evening, the rose’s shadow lengthened, almost stalking, across the workshop. Candlelight flickered, forming its long shape.

A man entered Eleanor’s workshop, face covered in tears.

Bob Vance. The recent widower.

“I have something to ask, Eleanor, and I must know.” Distress was in his quivering voice.

With his distress came shadows–darkness that only Eleanor could discern.

Then, whispers.

With a frosty chill.

“You’ve tried to bring back the past, haven’t you?” Her eyes passed over him, wary.

He touched his quivering fingertips, not meeting her gaze.

Abruptly, he rose. “Thank you for your time.” An almost indiscernible mumble, and he stalked out of the room.

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Bob returned to his mansion, its detailed, arched windows shuttered and shadowed.

Casting furtive glances around his garden, he planted a small thorn–one from the black rose in Eleanor’s store–and began to tend it.

It grew.

Petals, black.

Beautiful.

Thorns–unweidly. Sharp.

And whispers began.

Short. Just barely discernible.

The mirrors in Bob’s home didn’t just reflect–they came to life.

At least, the reflections within them did.

Chairs in the dining room were–

Misplaced.

As the roses’ petals drifted onto the wooden floor, there was a faint whisper.

Almost a taunt.

“You called?”

Bob’s mother, who had come to assist with his laundry, laid eyes on the dark flower.

A shrill cry.

The plate she carried clattered on the wooden floor.

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Night turned to dawn in Bob’s mansion.

The whispers grew louder.

The silverware Bob laid on the table changed positions on the dining table when he laid eyes on them.

Bob had an inkling of the reasons for the events.

He tried to uproot the single black flower in his garden.

But the plant remained rooted.

Defiant.

Its petals dropped.

Protesting.

Scattering themselves across the floor–each time he cleared them.

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At his mother’s insistence, Bob resigned himself to leaving the rose alone.

But he still heard whispers in the hallway.

He turned to look, expecting quiet.

After all, he’d left it alone.

But in the mirror, a face.

A stretched smile.

His.

And hers.

One.

The rose lingered in his garden, petals fiercely rooted in the soil.

Elegant.

Black.

Faint whispers.

“Still here.”

Across town, another black rose pressed against a window’s glass.

Eleanor Rise passed it with a grim nod.

Unheard, they grow.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Based on actual circumstances. Names have been changed.

Beware the website you visit – it may not welcome.

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Tara was a sceptic –the paranormal was more than financial fodder for her blog. The horror junkie combed through bytes of data daily to keep her website thriving –debunking paranormal myths for a living.

The introverted and avid writer had few friends –save for two dogs, Mop and Cloudy. The black-and-white duo kept vigil by her side –Mop calm and loyal, Cloudy, senses tingling.

And so it was on a typical Wednesday afternoon –Tara was drawn by demonologist Lara Chong’s legacy, with Mop and Cloudy perched close by.

Lara Carter’s website opened. Then, a sudden growl.

Mop had turned to face the wall. Typically placid, she growled louder than ever.

Cloudy had joined her, teeth bared, gaze fixed on the same spot.

A photo on the wall tilted at a slight angle –but there was no wind.

Tara’s screen flickered in unseen anger –the air was an iron against her chest.

The snarling went on for a full ten minutes. Then, barking.

Unrestrained.

Angry.

The usually muffled Mop bared her white teeth in a tense snarl. Cloudy’s stretched fully across her face.

They stayed by Tara’s side that day — refusing to leave for dinner.

She slammed the laptop shut and slept with the lights on, nerves in tatters.

The placid black Mop passed some time later. In one of Tara’s dreams, a voice.

Low.

Dissonant.

“Life is always gentle and soft…”

She adopted another black dog, Zorra –but she has never barked like that since.

Tara is still the sceptic –with a twist.

She knows some websites keep. And never opens them.

After all, logic cannot explain the truths tucked away in the heart’s recesses.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

Never let anyone lead you astray.- Michelle Liew

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Dance steps still echoed through the halls of Encore Dance Studio, flowing with the eerie rhythm of the chandeliers.

Only shadows moved beneath them, synced to the charming, yet poignant chorus of the Blue Danube. It flowed through the vacant halls, a tune drenched in memory, donned like a ghost’s lullaby.

From a forgotten music box in the corner, the tune whispered, a shattered musical promise, fragile as glass. It whispered, not a melody, but a beckoning.

Young Johann discovered it carefully buried beneath a loose floorboard. He wound it—he believed it offered comfort.

Curiosity won- it spawned Johann’s tune, its notes a web of silk threads winding around him in a cocoon.

A dark shadow danced with the blissfully unaware Johann, shifting and stretching, ever-changing.

And she appeared–pale, gaunt, hollow eyes filled with yearning. She extended a frail hand.

Thinking it would lead him to a land of wonder, he took it.

Her grip was ice, hard, fastidious.

It wouldn’t let go.

So he danced with her–and danced, passing between light and dark, slowly fading as he moved.

As they danced, she told him his name.

She bore his surname.

She had been a top dancer at Encore–bright, graceful, envied.

But she had vanished beneath the floorboards—they say he had pushed.

The three shared the same surname.

The two flowed with the melody, without stopping—until Johann no longer existed.

Just his movements. Only his memories.

He had taken her hand without question. He trusted it–they shared the same surname.

Now a mere shadow, he lurked beneath the floorboards. All because he followed, without asking where.

The music box still waits under the floorboard, waiting to be opened.

Not every hand leads the right way.

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If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights on! ☕Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

A lone candle flickers in an abandoned study, its wax gathering in a pool on the rosewood table. Layers of dust shroud the room,  undisturbed for years. A tattered journal lies open on the table, its yellowed pages filled with frantic script. The air is dense with something intangible—not just with time and dust, but with a presence unseen.   

Historian Bob Thorne and his wife, in search of the perfect abode, come across the rustic wonder. 

The rooms were vacant, its halls silent—but it was inviting. 

They come across the journal, resting in wait on the study table. The words should have faded over the two decades that anyone was last seen in the room—but the ink was gleaming, wet beneath the candlelight.  

Bob thumbed eagerly through its yellowed pages. The entries seemed run-of-the-mill, nondescript at first—daily reflections and complaints about the heat. 

Until his fingers stopped at a page dated 50 years earlier. Fifty years of silence, pierced by a page that should not have existed. The ink was fresh, as if penned only moments earlier. 

A draft crept through the room, although its windows were completely sealed. Bob’s eyes hovered over the final entry quickly, wanting to reach its end—but prompted Bob to freeze. Dated that day, the journal documented his movements, sentence by finely penned sentence, as though unseen eyes were watching. 

The writer of that entry never meant for anyone to read it. But now that Bob had, he understood why.

The candle flickered violently; there was a shadow on the wall, not its own. It shifted, morphing into a shape so distended that Bob fell back. 

The journal’s pages slowly turned on their own, with a new line:

You are not alone. 

Bob felt it—a cold, chilling breath creeping down his neck. The breath of another person in the room. Unseen. 

He stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest, with the flame becoming—taller. Extending. Coming closer to him. 

The ink bled onto the journal’s page, forming words not there before. Darkness swallowed Bob whole, and a whisper came from the place he least expected–his own mind. 

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If you like what you read, do visit me on Patreon—join my community!

The past is never really gone. Michelle Liew

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The apartment would have put most tenants off– flickering lights, a musty odour that clung to the air, and shadows that slithered across corridors.

But for single mother Lina Crew, content wasn’t an option–only survival. With her bank account nearly empty and six-year-old Eric to support, a cheap rental like this was all she could afford. Besides, all she wanted–and needed–was a fresh start.

They settled in as best they could, clinging to the promise of some stability after a bruising custody battle. To the relief of the financially-stretched but dedicated mother, he began to make friends.

Perhaps too many. Some…were wrong.

Muffled whispers came from his room. Lina thought nothing of it and let them be; they were nothing but harmless playdates and sleepovers.She didn’t want to be the sort of mother who appeared at her son’s bedroom door in the middle of the night.

Then one night Eric murmured: “The girl in the closet doesn’t like darkness.”

The whispered voices grew louder, bolder. Darker. As if they were not just speaking, but waiting.

Eric’s complaints grew like repeated recordings; soft scratching, like nails clawing desperately on wood, behind the walls. The closet opening and closing. Lina still dismissed them as child’s play. The busy mother always threw herself onto the sofa after a long day, falling asleep in front of him.

Time passed, and young Eric became a mere shell of himself. Odd, rake-like scratches appeared on his arms. His arms, once plump and full of energy, now hung limp. Cold. He stopped talking.

The rakish marks finally caught Lina’s divided attention. Muffled whispers came over the baby monitor one midnight, and she raced to Eric’s room. The little boy was fast asleep.

But the closet door stood ajar. Open, a fraction of an inch– she knew that she had closed it herself.

As if inviting her to explore.

And so she did. But that was all it was–a closet, albeit old, dank and dark.

The scratches on Eric’s arms were becoming deeper, more blood seeping from them with each passing day. She pushed her way into her landlord’s office.

“Ma’am, I don’t think there’s anything to fret over” He waved his arms and pushed her to the door. “Besides, the apartment’s ancient….hey, you knew that when you rented it.”

She found herself at the town library, fingers flicking through countless records in desperation.

A young girl, Sophie, had lived in the apartment decades ago–but had vanished. Her parents had appeared on television, hollow-eyed, grief wrapping them like a second skin.

Clipped behind the the torn pages of the news clipping was another photo- a yellow grainy picture of a man whose sunken eyes stared.

Straight at Lina.

Her throat caught. The man in the photograph was an older version of Eric. The same pale features, the same haunted demeanor.

Lina’s pulse raced as she slammed the file shut. Was the past was talking to her son?

Then Eric’s voice: “Mom, who’s that?”

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