Hours went by before he had heard something shuffle in the room and looked up. There was noone there but there was something in the room that want there before.
A handle on the door.
He leaped up and charged over to the door and yanked it open. He was free. Sike. He was not. In fact, he was now in a large dark corridor that only lead one place. Forward. And at the end of it was a door. He cautiously crept through the dark halls towards the door only to notice that blood leaked from the ceiling edges and down the walls. He felt sick and ran down the hall with the hope that the door lead to an exit. But no. The more he ran the more the door seemed to get farther and farther away. He tripped and fell but he got up as quickly as he got down and looked behind him. There was a figure in black. And it was holding a needle. A needle as big as his arm and it was filled with a liquid as dark as the blood that leaked on the walls. He sprinted down the halls in a weak attempt to get away from the figure and to the door that was now miles away. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe and the muscles in his legs were screaming at him to stop, to give up. But he ignored the pain and the aching and didn't stop moving down the blood soaked corridor. He heard splashing as he ran and looked down to see that the corridor was filling up with blood. He was going to die. He knew that he was going to die and there was nothing he could do. Then he woke up.
YOU ARE READING
Gothic Short Story Collection
HorrorUnder the willow tree is where death sings it's song under the willow tree is where love goes wrong under the willow tree is where rope is common under the willow tree is where she ends your soul lovers go under the willow tree...and don't come back...
