Winner of our LRC Horror Story Competition

The 13th

The night was cold and wet, but in the parlour of Beaumont manor the blinds were drawn

and the fire burned brightly. The Arnolds were apprehensive, for it was the evening of the 13th. The

two girls, Elizabeth and Judith, sat quietly in the corner. Beside them, Mr and Mrs Arnold stood

absently holding empty glasses; which were not so long ago filled with fine aged tasting brandy.

Though not the superstitious type, many fearful tales of unfortunate happenings on this ‘cursed’

night, led them to ponder whether or not sinister forces grew powerful on this day. Each creak,

scrape or knock echoed throughout the house, causing sudden jerky movements and fresh waves of

unease.

Elizabeth surveyed the grandfather clock at the far end of the room. The hands struck eleven and

the chimes that followed resonated like eerie footsteps. Nervously glancing at her family, she stood

up to pour herself some water; perhaps that would help wash down her fears. Making her way past

the fireplace towards the kitchen, she slid past her mother who in turn, gave her a reassuring nod.

Striking a match for the oil lamp, the immediate burst of light and warmth gave Elizabeth some

courage. The silvery water glittered dully in the soft light that emitted from the flickering lantern

flame. Shaky hands drew the glass to her lips, dry and quivering. Closed eyes left the other senses

to guide the glass. The first drops of water, this time, gave Elizabeth some reassurance. Finishing

her third glass of water, she glanced out of the faintly stained glass window, into the dark night

ahead.

The chimes coming from the parlour declared midnight. Elizabeth felt a tap on her shoulder. She

shuddered. Immediately she clasped her shoulder only to discover, much to her horror, it was wet.

Faint whispering filled the air sending chills down Elizabeth’s spine. Large drops of warm vicious

liquid dropped all over, soaking her nightgown. “W-was this b-blood?” Mustering the remaining few

ounces of courage left in her, Elizabeth turned, eyes closed, ready to face the sinister unknown.

With her heart in her mouth, her pulse throbbing almost as loudly as the chimes of the grandfather

clock, she waited with baited breath. With all wishes put forth, she looked up. Her eyes widened in

horror and the glass slipped out from under her grasp, shattering upon impact, into a million pieces.

Elizabeth stood in a paralysis of fear and with one last breath, she closed her eyes.

Mr Arnold tended to the fire, gradually feeding fresh oak logs into the crackling flames. How silly had he been to believe all of this talk of the supernatural? At the moment of the thought fading away, an eerie chill washed over the family and they turned, in unison, to face each other. A blood curdling

shriek emanated from the kitchen. Throwing the hot poker into the fire and dropping his glass of

brandy over the sheepskin rug, Mr Arnold ran into the dark kitchen where his daughter lay in a

crumpled heap, her eyes reflecting nothing but the darkness in which they stared. The night was

cold and wet and in the parlour of Beaumont manor, the blinds were drawn and the fire burnt out.