I recently noticed the volume of people that have short stories, many of them are posted on the flood. I thought that it would be a good idea to create a thread where anybody could post there own writings. It can be about anything you want. I'll start things off naturally; this is a short horror piece (about 1,500) words inspired by H.P Lovecraft named 'The last night at Tarbragh' Enjoy! The last night at Tarbragh: It was on the 3rd of February, 1927, that it occurred. A wan and waning crescent moon was cutting a particularly low arc across the dark sky, strewn with the grey clusters of cloud that seemed to hang perpetually over the peaceful and pious community of Tarbragh; a small, remote village, far flung to the northernmost reaches of Scotland, a near uninhabited and well nigh forgotten part of the earth, Tarbragh was nestled in a hidden valley between two towering hills of verdant greenery. A small river with waters of a calm and ancient quality cut through the valley, its winding form skirting the western border of the small village. Midnight was approaching as the moon hung about midway across the sky, its dimmed radiance caught by the ashen grey steeple of the small church upon the humble green mound which passed for a hill: the eastern boundary of the village. Tarbragh slept as it drew near; the terrible happening that would be remembered ever after and selected, for its singular peculiarity, as a night upon which local folklore would go on to build a vast collection of indistinct and portentous tales. As the clouds parted, emitting the full brilliance of the downcast moon, it happened. A tremor shook the valley, emanating from the village; it roused all the habitants who hastily arrayed themselves in suitable clothing and rushed out into the streets in some pitiful and futile gesture, believing they could perhaps find the source of the quake. They all gathered together, talking, whispering, all the while the ground still rumbling and shaking beneath their feet; they huddled in a close group and spoke in hushed fearful voices, debating the possible source of the queer happening. Earthquakes never struck this remote region. Eventually, with no sign of the tremor stopping, they resolved to go to the flat-topped hill upon which stood there holy place of worship and piety. It seemed a short pilgrimage indeed, within minutes they had crossed the village, travelling always in the moon-cast shadow of the diminutive steeple which crowned the sight of their supposed salvation. * * * Even as the village folk rallied to the safety of their church, bearing with them guiding torches to pierce the gloom and stout dogs, who barked ferociously and rather disquietingly, the vicar, an aged and grey haired man struggled out of his bed, fearful of the wrath of his god, believing some sin had called down this sudden anger. The old man groped in the darkness for a light to guide his path through the small house at the back of the church, so that he may find clothes and so rush to the aid of his subjects. He found his garments and hurried to the creaking wooden door, along the chill stone corridor of his hall, past the kitchen and living room. Pushing through the unnatural chill of his familiar dwelling he seemed to flee the tremor that shook his home to the core, dislodging antediluvian books from their stagnant residency of dust tainted shelves and tipping precipitously perched antique vases that smashed upon the dark wooden floor without the Vicar seeming to notice. No doubt he explained his irrational haste through the desire to calm and reassure the dependable folk of Tarbragh, the truth was he was just as eager as them to be amongst other souls in this unnerving hour. He finally reached the door; swinging it open he was met with a horror lying beyond the efflorescent flowers of his garden and something that petrified and froze his aged bones, rooting him to the spot. * * * The citizens of Tarbragh crunched as one up the stony path leading to the church. Huddled and hushed they crested the hill, sighing with relief at the though of safety. The tremors still shook and convulsed the ground beneath them as they hurried over the summit of their climb. They began to breathe again and warmth kindled in their hearts once more. Only to be met with a vision of pure, unnatural grotesqueness; a terrible sight of actual horror that took the legs from underneath some as they fell to the trimmed grass of the hill that swarmed about the church. The others stood and gaped at what they saw; the clouds high above parted allowing the haunting glow of the moon to accentuate what they all saw before them. The church stood pale grey as it always did, humble and stable. About it were gathered the usual trimmed blades of grass: the bare plain that was the plateau of the hill. But there was something else, something new that swarmed also about the church; writhing and twisting out of the ground were dull growths of silver, malleable branches that rose all around the church in cluster, a roughly circular formation forming as they grew further and further out of the ground with tumultuous fury and speed. The ground quavered as even the most devout fell to their knees and stared helplessly at the scene before them; their eyes were fixed upon the dull clusters of tentacles that were rising up and up from the ground. Thin at first did they appear but gradually they grew thicker and thicker till they were like the trunks of great towering trees rearing out of the ground, forced up by some unnatural phenomena. Indeed the thin growths that pushed aside the dirt and flailed wildly, whipping the turf and tearing chunks of it from the ground, appeared first like twigs and branches, but certainly not of this earth where such plant life is stirred only gently by the passing breeze. These hideous feelers clawed at the earth as they forced their way out of it. All the citizens could do was watch the macabre scene with morbid fascination as the dawn drew nearer. Each member of that small community stood, stunned and silent, just staring in fearful awe with an unshakeable sense of dread growing in each of their hearts, seizing hold of them with an icy grip. All as the nameless terror flung its great, hideous appendages toward the sky, climbing ever upward, split at the ends like the wretched branches of some nightmarish tree; shaking incessantly, clawing and raking the air with unhallowed fingers, it quickened the wind to great noisome gusts that swept over the petrified audience. How long they had been stood none could say as they stared up at those towering monoliths of dull silver; tentacles that wavered slightly, their thinner and uppermost reaches stretching high above the holy cross which crowned the steeple of the church. They were all consuming and as they grew in size and might so did the villager’s fear and horror, the convulsions of the earth matched this as the ground began to tremble like never before and the foundations of the church, the ancient building of grey stone, failed and the walls came crashing down around the writhing tentacles that were reaching towards the heavens as dawn began to break over the land. Finally the citizens regained their wits; they had stood frozen for hours stirred neither by the visceral growling and barking of their dogs which gradually faded to frightened whimpers as the unknown tentacles grew larger. They all fled in an instant as the sun cast its first rays into the valley, the tentacles making slower progress but still lurching ever upward. None of those people ever returned to that quiet village that had once been Tarbragh; they had fled madly south through the streets of their old village, now strewn with the bricks and mortar of their former homes. Seldom do people visit the ruins of Tarbragh now, though they speak of it often in dark whispers and rumours or tales. Those who do come are profoundly struck by the disaster. The silent village of tumbled stones possesses a distinct quality of the unnatural; the tumbled bricks are now moss grown and tall slender grasses have leapt up where once only mud paths lay. Yet as they near the church, climb the stony path and step onto the hill they are met with the sight of the decimated church, its steeple of ashen grey still stands tall upon the front façade of the building while all the others have crashed around it. They gaze in a shocked wonder as they survey their beautiful surroundings; their eyes lead upwards to the towering menaces yet they find only branches, grey, gnarled and never bearing leaves; birds whistle from these singing to the departure of the visitors who feel cheated having seen no ‘tentacles’ or nameless horrors, only the twisting trunks and many boughs that sometimes, under the radiance of a crescent moon, quiver and stir and sway in response to no winds or earthly source.