Ben Whitelake
Bio
Author, game designer, and happily married geek.
Stories (5/0)
Chivalry
Some people swore that the house was haunted. We believed it. Set far back on the property, at the end of a drive long since broken up into weeds and gravel, the place had been abandoned about forever. Three stories proud when built, decades of weather and neglect had brought sagging and collapse. Now it seemed hunched over, like a kicked dog, black windows bared like fangs, challenging anyone to approach. Because it was that kind of night, the door opened as we pulled up, slow as a death rattle and just far enough to make you wonder if it was the wind.
By Ben Whitelake3 years ago in Horror
The Angel
“Oh my, what has you working so late, dear boy?” Mrs. Delacroix leaned down to peer over Jackson’s shoulder, the peppermint on her breath contrasting with the slightly musty smell of her clothes. The table was piled high with books, old town ledgers mostly, along with a scattering of copies of newspaper articles taken from blown-up microfilm. Brightly colored adhesive notes flagged important passages, looking like the recovery flags planted by investigators gathering evidence at a crime scene. Which wasn’t too far off, truth be told. “I told you, I could have gotten those ledgers for you! You didn’t need to trouble yourself!”
By Ben Whitelake3 years ago in Horror
Ghosted by Bigfoot
I guess Bigfoot isn’t going to call me back. I put down the branch after three more solid swings against the tree – TAK! TAK! TAK! – and even though it’s the third set I've done it’s still way louder than I expect for wet wood striking wet wood. I sit back down on the rock, check my watch, and wait some more anyway. Cold Oregon rain taps on the hood of my insulated parka, gentle but insistent, reminding me that I am a very long way from the cozy little lodge I’ve rented for this jaunt. The last leg of my great American cryptid tour. I sip some coffee from my thermos and get comfortable, or as comfortable as you can when you’re sitting on a rock getting steadily rained on in the middle of the woods.
By Ben Whitelake3 years ago in Humans
Blackout
Billy’d died, so he was out. Two left. I couldn’t see what’d killed him, not until I flipped him over. A deep stab wound at the base of the skull, ripped sideways to create a ragged flap. God only knows what she’d done it with. His needle was missing. Shit. Billy made four; Jane wasn’t fucking around. Back home, any needle violation was a summary decant, with a thousand compressed hours of behavior therapy thrown in to make sure you learned from the mistake.
By Ben Whitelake3 years ago in Horror
Take My Hand
I don’t think she sees me. Ever walked in on something and immediately known it’s supposed to be private? That you’re intruding? I’m not talking about surprising someone coming out of the shower, or accidentally walking into something spicy after your roommate forgot to hang a sock on the door. Those are obviously situations where you’re clearly not wanted or expected.
By Ben Whitelake3 years ago in Humans