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Introduction

A glimpse into the world proves that horror is nothing other than reality. ~ Alfred Hitchcock

Here at Tell-Tale Press, we hope to entertain you with quality stories from talented writers around the world. Some stories may include graphic violence, erotica, or both. They have been indicated as such before the story begins. Thank you for joining us, and happy reading!

COMING SOON - DECEMBER 20 - WINTER HOLIDAYS 2018

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We are extremely excited to present to you fifteen horror stories that explore various winter holidays, from Christmas to Fet Ghedé, the voodoo Festival of the Ancestors. Our authors have presented us with tales that explore various realms of the horror genre, from personal to apocalyptic, from dark beauty to terrible truths.

Our first publication of stories will be available to read right here, for free, starting on December 20 at 12:15 am, MST. Just come to this page and click on the title of the story of your choice. They will be numbered in the order we chose for the digital anthology, but you're welcome to read them in any order you wish.

The stories will also be available in digital format on Amazon for your Kindle. The price is only 99 cents. A great gift for those friends and family who like a bit of horror to slightly taint their holidays.

We'd love to see your comments on the stories, so please feel free to let us know what you think by using the Comments section af…

The Monkey's Paw by W.W. Jacobs

First published 1902 in The Lady of the Barge short stories collection
Posted here as assumed to be public domain

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Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

“Hark at the wind,” said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

“I'm listening,” said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”

“I should hardly think that he'd come to-night,” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

“Mate,” replied the son.

“That's the worst of living so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlookedfor violence; “of all t…

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

First published in The New Yorker, June 26, 1948.
Posted here as assumed to be public domain.

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The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 20th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and …

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Written June 6 and 7, 1890, first published in The New England Magazine, January 1892.
Posted here as assumed to be public domain.

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It is very seldom that mere ordinary people like John and myself secure ancestral halls for the summer.

A colonial mansion, a hereditary estate, I would say a haunted house, and reach the height of romantic felicity—but that would be asking too much of fate!

Still I will proudly declare that there is something queer about it.

Else, why should it be let so cheaply? And why have stood so long untenanted?

John laughs at me, of course, but one expects that in marriage.

John is practical in the extreme. He has no patience with faith, an intense horror of superstition, and he scoffs openly at any talk of things not to be felt and seen and put down in figures.

John is a physician, and perhaps—(I would not say it to a living soul, of course, but this is dead paper and a great relief to my mind)—perhaps that is one reason I do not get well faster.

You see, he do…

The Statement of Randolph Carter by H.P. Lovecraft

Written in December 1919, first published in The Vagrant, May 1920
Posted here as assumed to be public domain.

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I repeat to you, gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here forever if you will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candour. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind—that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.

Again I say, I do not know what has become of Harley Warren; though I think—almost hope—that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this w…

The Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allan Poe

Published 1843
Posted here as assumed to be public domain.

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True! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for…