Charles Robertson
Bio
A British author.
website:
charlesrobertsonauthor.wordpress.com
Stories (10/0)
Wither
Moss grows throughout these long-abandoned walls, as the wood and bodies that once thrived within them---one with aesthetic, the other life, both function---rot away, consumed by the earth beneath it, forgotten by all but one: the king of the small castle, whom lives on for so long as the castle remains. He sits upon his throne, his body too weak to be raised from it, starved and thirsted, sleepless and withering, still not dead after many centuries had passed, but nor was he living.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Fiction
It Awakes
Upon the fourth millennial anniversary of when it entered its lengthy hibernation, the occultists joined hands to encircle the ground it slumbered beneath: a great white rock, with many great and little holes that ran right through, found upon a cliff with a steep drop, marked the spot of its self-burial; in unison, they sang the chants of a language that did not belong to Man, as the Moon began to take its course betwixt the Sun and the Earth. In their white robes, as clean as their shaven bodies, the occult master bathed his flock, one by one, with a full bucket's worth of whale shark blood each, painting them red. The light continued to fade away, and the chanting grew louder, as the master climbed to stand upon the great white rock, in the black robes that were stained by his sweat and tears and urine and faeces and blood, a second coat to his long, unwashed hair and beard, that engulfed his body entirely. Only as the Sun was covered fully by the Moon, did the occultists each pull a wooden rod from their robes, aligned jagged, loosely fitted blades, and slit their throats, falling as to let the blood flowing from them pour into a hole of the great white rock, staining and lubricating the inside, as well as forming red puddles beside the exits. The occultist master continued the chanting alone, emptying his bowels and stomach as he did so, a sludge oozing from each end of the hollow tube tube ran through him. His eyes rolled back to white, and he dropped his robes to reveal his mouldy, rotten form.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Horror
Sepia Revolver
Within its frame, the old photo of his great-grandparents sat, depicting a wholesome scene of a couple: the husband sat upright upon the bed, one leg crossed over the other, which swung off the frame, smiling blissfully; the wife's smile was more subtle, but easily sighted, as she sat upon a stool in her nightgown; this was taken before they had their sixth of eight children, who would move from New England to old England, eventually becoming the grandfather of the man that now had this photo framed upon his wall, in his London house.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Fiction
I Went Swimming
It mocked him, the cheap trophy labelled with the number three, displaying a boy in goggles and trunks, in a leaping position, as if to jump into a pool, glaring at him each time he looked to the rear-view mirror. Unable to throw it out, but unwilling to display it pridefully as one oft would with such an object, it was always left in the back of his car, behind the back seats, to be drowned in dust.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Fiction
A Greater Man
It is said that a good man is not a harmless man, but a dangerous man who has himself under voluntary control; a great man, however, some say is a good man that utilises his danger to the benefit of the wellbeing and safety of his loved ones and his neighbours; a greater man, or a foolish man in the eyes of some, is a harmless man that will that will, in spite of the lack of danger he possesses, still utilise what he can offer exactly as a great man would.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Fiction
The Man and His Routine
Oh how The Man did enjoy life; each morning a clear summer sky he could see, a perfect setting for his simple breakfast meal of two crispy bacon strips, an egg and a slice of fried bread. To stab his fork in to a piece of bacon, then the white of his egg, and finally some of the fried bread – which had a hint of bacon itself, as it was fried in the bacon fat left behind in the pan – brought such a joy to the man, as he truly loved his breakfast, which he had each and every morning. And after each breakfast would come his daily routine, a simple one yet he cherished it so: first he would go to walk around the neighbourhood, often greeting many a familiar face; secondly, he would watch television, oh how he would laugh at comedy, edge on his seat at thriller, and so on; then lastly came simple, but vital, task—sleep.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Horror
The Man Caught in a Loop
Thud! That, along with some prior tugging of his feet, was the noise which woke a man, and in his mind-aching tiredness he heard a shortly following chinking sound. The man laid on his stomach; he had dazed vision gradually coming to clear sight, which allowed him to see what caused the second chink sound—a clear, glass bottle, with some papers rolled as one within the bottle. Letters and numbers alike could be spotted graffitied all over these papers, which hooked the man’s attention on to the bottle, he lifted himself to inspect further, noticing that what notes could be read formed a string of beauty, only to very fastly grow dull in his vision. While his interest in what was written on these papers lessened, he still decided to carry the bottle in non-dominant hand by the neck.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Horror
The Investigation of Mr. Blakesly
I: The Evidence My suspicions began on a Monday after I had been sent to the headteacher’s office for a small fight in class, one that I won, mind you. Whilst waiting to be seen to, I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation with two police constables; a pupil two years below me—I was in year 10—had been killed on Friday, mutilated even, presumably walking home from school as he was in uniform still. Horrifying was the information I had heard, and queer I found it how Mr. Blakesley seemed to be in control of the conversation, riddling and questioning the police himself at times; he even managed to get information out of them, when one would think it ought to be vice versa.
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Horror
The Briefcase
Strange whispers strayed the man from his path; they were unintelligible and soothing noises of which spoke no true words, yet he could sense their intended meaning, this way and that they would guide him under branch, over root, through boggy mud, and around bushes. Though walking calmly throughout, so wearied was he, he took no notice of no longer being betwixt house and road, but within forest. The whispers grew joyous as they seemed to cheer 'he found us! He found us!'
By Charles Robertson3 years ago in Horror