Sylvia Shults
Stories (9/0)
The Song Remains
His name was Johnny Marshall, and he was the scariest guy I'd ever met. Not scary like an ax murderer or Boris Karloff or anything like that. This was more like the feeling you got when you looked at the yearbook pictures of those nurses Richard Speck killed, or a painting of a clown by John Wayne Gacy. It was a feeling of something that wasn't quite right, some lethal undercurrent just below the quiet sparkling surface of the ocean. It was sort of a brooding freakiness, like some low-level electric throbbing you could feel in the fillings of your teeth whenever you were around him. Mixed in with the weirdness was a melancholy resignation, a world-weary knowledge that showed in his eyes. It always seemed to me like he was waiting for something to happen in his life, and he had the sinking feeling that when it did happen, it wouldn't be anything good.
By Sylvia Shults3 years ago in Horror
Footprints in the Snow
It was a cold winter afternoon early in the last century. A mother huddled in her cabin on the west fork of the Little Pigeon River in Tennessee. She held two of her children in a tight embrace … but one was missing. Her two-year-old son had wandered away from the cabin earlier that day. Since then, the temperature had been falling steadily, along with a heavy snow.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror
Christmas Carols in the Woods
The old man had retired from the Baltimore and Ohio rail line. The engineer had been known for his love of the Christmas season. Every December he’d buy sacks of candy to toss to the children who lived in the houses along the tracks, like a rolling Santa Claus. And he would bellow Christmas carols as he worked, filling the railroad cars with cheerful song.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror
The Frozen Lovers
A few days before Christmas 1850, a small boat dropped anchor off Jameson’s Point near Rockland, Maine. The captain was not on board; rumor had it that he had gone ashore for a drink, and not his first, and that the schooner’s owners had fired him for his hard-drinking ways. Whatever the reason, the boat was lacking a captain.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror
Guides in the Snow
It was just a couple days before Christmas, 1860. Dr. John O’Brien, a country doctor practicing in rural Missouri, had just sat down to supper with his wife, Elizabeth. The meal Elizabeth had made was perfect fare for a cold, blustery winter’s night—hot fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and bread fresh out of the oven. But Dr. O’Brien could only pick at his food.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror
Bartholomew Rudd's Christmas Guest
It was snowing heavily that Christmas Eve in Fountain City, Wisconsin. The small town, still a bit rough around the edges in this year of 1866, lay nestled near the Michigan River. Good people lived here, and Christmas Eve services were held at midnight. The songs and quiet worship brought a sense of peace and contentment to the frontier town.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror
Dolly Dearest
Shadows blanket the house where the family sleeps. A neighborhood cat prowls the bushes under the windows, seeking an unwary mouse. A few crickets still buzz in the dark yard, strumming a sleepy tune in the sandbox. A bicycle waits patiently for the sunny summer day, standing hipshot on its kickstand. The swings stir lazily in the cool night breeze.
By Sylvia Shults4 years ago in Horror