top of page
  • nettlesanimation

Micro Horror Stories #1

I've been having a grand old time writing micro horror stories for the last couple weeks. I'm recording a few of them as TikToks (@laura_nettles) and YouTube shorts (Laura Nettles). I thought I would share a few of them today.


By Laura Nettles

Her breath caressed the shell of my ear as I laid under the stifling covers. I dared not come up for air, in fear it would break the connection. My other half, my heart was back. She was no longer rotting in the grave, but next to me, under the blankets, my own tomb, where the gaze of the moon could not touch her. A phantom of light and shadow. Fingers carded through my hair, leaving the prickling of needles in their wake along my scalp. "I've come to take you with me," she whispered.


By Laura Nettles

The child looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes. Dead family surrounded her. The plague. Unbidden, a pang hit my inhuman heart. I would look back on this moment with regret later, but I was drowning in her deep, sorrowful eyes rimmed with jaundice. I did the only thing I could think of. My fangs gently pierced her wrist as I partook to initiate the ritual. The black blade gifted me by my sire slid through my own flesh, the blood of eternity welling sluggishly at the wound. She drank. And was cursed forever to the body of a six-year-old. Never to be recognized or considered an adult despite her hundreds of years of experience by my side. And a hundred more away from me, hunting me for revenge. I deserved it.

Tree Roots

By Laura Nettles

The tree roots looked like babies rising from their shallow graves. Fat, pudgy bodies coated in dirt, disinterred and crawling towards their mourning homes and distraught mothers that never were. The tree roots, were just tree roots. Until I heard them scream.

Sibling Soup

By Laura Nettles

Stark white bones poke from the tomato base of the soup, swirling the cream in. He had annoyed you for the last time. The brother you never asked for. The brother you never liked. You sprinkle in some garlic, just to spite him. His least favorite flavor. The bay leaf bobs atop the concoction, officiating the offering. You will eat well for weeks.

Slit Pipes

By Laura Nettles

Ebony and ivory are never meant to be played by the hands of the dead. Hands of coalesced ectoplasm dancing along the length of the organ, coaxing the most haunting of tunes screaming from the slit throats of the pipes. The pain of the damned pour through those fingers, minor arpeggios offset by angelic descants of what might have been. Dissonant melodies, like grating chains, set teeth on edge. Nuns cross themselves when they hear the music float through the air from the rectory. They know what fate awaits them, should they poison the communion wine.


By Laura Nettles

People line up for communion, reverent and contrite. Holy wafers dissolve on tongue, the transubstantiation cleansing them all. The wine is offered next, priest partaking last. One by one, they all drink the watered-down concoction. Throats close and souls ascend. All but the priest’s disembodied ghost. A poisoner cursed to haunt the church. Pay his penance, and play the organ.

26 views1 comment

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page