Inviting Terror

The door opened slowly where it rested silently against the rubber stop. Moonlight flooded onto the symmetrical tiles of the hall floor. The only sound oozing from the parlour, where chanting could be heard – the words inaudible, foreign perhaps, no – pagan – and other.

On the bannister rail, a hand illuminated by the arc of moonlight gripped the mahogany – its knuckles white and gnarled. Slowly it unfurled, retreated into the shade where its owner steadied her ancient body against the wall and slid: toe pointing towards the next step, continuing down – careful, each joint creaking from lack of use.

In the open entrance, moths gathered and swirled in a beam of moonlight, casting shadows across the tiles, reminding the ancient of her days of gaiety when she was the belle and suitors lined up to take her in their arms and twirl her round and around the ballrooms of the great and the mighty.

The chanting from the parlour took on a melodic tone causing her muscles to tighten. She took in a breath, felt it expand her ribs and exhaled stale air before placing a foot down and onto the next step.

The moths attracted more, their mass filling the beam of light becoming almost solid – taking form. The ancient reached the mid-landing of the staircase and, taking hold of the rail once more, slowly walked towards the last flight. The voices from the parlour were changing their pitch – their mantra becoming urgent causing the ancient to turn her head, to listen to the words.

Fools – what are they doing? Amateurs – meddling in powers they know nothing of.

She turned her gaze to the column of moths then to their shadow cast on the tiles – ebony and ivory designed to resemble a giant chessboard. Memories of her childhood made her look to the hall’s magnificent fireplace, its mantle supported by two knights – black on white tile – white on black. And the carved manes falling in thick locks down their slender necks. Moonlight and flickering moths caught the black knight’s eye making it appear to wink. The ancient’s jaw opened to reveal a tombstone grimace.

You shall let me pass.

But the knight’s eye held her gaze, momentarily preventing her from descending further. The chanters stepped up their rhythm – their urgency ringing beyond the closed parlour door. From behind her, the column of moths continued to solidify, forming into the shape of a man – no, perhaps an angel, or worse – an avatar. But the ancient’s form was also changing – skin plump, gait less awkward and oxygen pumped from lung to heart onward, through her veins. She was alive but in their stupidity those amateurs had summoned other forces – forces with the power to send her back – back to that dark, cold grave.

You shall let me pass.

WE SHALL NOT!

The narrative’s strength lies in its atmospheric building of tension, from the initial quiet descent to the climactic supernatural standoff. Barnett’s use of sensory details – the creaking joints, swirling moths, and urgent chanting – creates a vivid, haunting scene that draws readers into this liminal space between life and death.

“Creatures” is Pat Barnett’s latest collection of supernatural tales, drawing from her rich experience as a writer in both Australia and Yorkshire. Born in post-war Manchester, Barnett’s journey from punch-card computers to published author is as fascinating as her stories. Her work with the Castle Writers and co-founding of ‘The Wordbotherers’ has helped shape her unique voice in horror and mystery fiction.

This anthology showcases Barnett’s talent for finding the extraordinary in the ordinary, transforming everyday observations into spine-tingling tales. If you enjoy stories that blur the line between the natural and supernatural, while maintaining a distinctly British flavour, you’ll find yourself unable to put this collection down.

Read “Creatures” on Amazon