Matthew Batham
Bio
I love horror movies, even really bad ones .
My short stories have been published in the UK and the US in horror and literary mags and websites and even weekly women’s mags in the UK .
Stories (57/0)
The Face I Can't Forget
“Why do you keep staring at that man?” Jason looked from the lone diner on the table nearest to the door and back to Toby. He was pulling his indignant expression, mixed with a dash of confusion and an irritating dollop of vulnerability.
By Matthew Batham2 months ago in Fiction
A House of Plenty
There is a distinct lack of enthusiasm emanating from Patrick. In fact, as I say my piece on the subject of whether or not Brexiteers are inherently racist, he is picking at the remaining, now cold, chips on his ketchup smeared plate and glancing around the pub as if he might discover someone with whom he had more in common.
By Matthew Batham2 months ago in Fiction
The Boy Who Cried Blood
For a hideous, elongated moment, she thought one of the estate kids had broken in and cut off his face. He wore a dry mask of blood and his white pillows were drenched in sticky red. It was only when he moaned and his sealed eyelids began to undulate like boiling pasta parcels, that she screamed with relief and ran to his bedside.
By Matthew Batham3 months ago in Fiction
Nothing is Sacred
“I still can’t believe it,” said Monica, staring at the mug Pat had just handed her as if it might be contaminated. “I believe anything of people these days,” replied Pat, sitting across the kitchen table from Monica. “I was mugged last year right outside the house. Just grabbed my bag and ran. I suppose I should have chased after them but I’m not as agile since the operation on my knee.
By Matthew Batham3 months ago in Fiction
Lay It To Rest
Rachael had always dreamed of living in a house in its own wood. Granted, in her fantasies, the house would have a tower and the wood would be expansive, sweeping down a hillside to a small village where she would buy organic vegetables from a little independent shop. But sometimes you had to compromise on dreams, and walking down the mulchy path towards the third house on their agenda that day, surveying the almost naked copse of silver birch and, she guessed, oak trees, she thought this could just be that compromise.
By Matthew Batham3 months ago in Fiction
A Houseful of Ghosts
1982 Sam tucked his stash under the loose floorboard in the airing cupboard and backed out into his bedroom. He needed to brush his teeth and wash his hands to get rid of the smell of smoke, but his sister, Julie, was having one of her ‘long soaks’ which meant the bathroom would be off-limits for at least an hour, depending on when she had submerged herself. Meanwhile, he needed to change his jumper, because the one he was wearing stank of weed. He wasn’t sure if his parents even knew what weed smelt like, but he wasn’t going to risk it. At least they were out, probably doing the weekly shop at the new Sainsbury’s, so he hadn’t had to face them when he got home. By the time they saw him he’d be less out of it and, he hoped, smelling of the awful coal tar soap his mother had started buying. Apparently, it reminded her of being a little girl.
By Matthew Batham3 months ago in Fiction
