Night Terrors Vol. 11: Short Horror Stories Anthology

Listen to a sample here: 🗣 Narrated by Johnny Raven and Stephanie Shade The music of the night calls out to you… A sinister force threatens a teenage horror fan, and only a team of B movie monsters can come to his rescue. Fear stalks a group of punks when a scarecrow proves that birds aren’t the only things it can terrorize. And all hell breaks loose when a man discovers that his next-door neighbor possesses the power to reanimate the dead… Celebrate the music of the night with Scare Street’s latest collection of diabolical horror. Thirteen tales of paranormal horror haunt this new volume. More than enough to keep you reading long after the sun goes down. As you turn the page, the symphony begins… A wolf howls. The wind moans. Claws tap against your door. Powerless to resist, you open the door. The music calls… And you must follow its haunting melody. Where will it lead you? No one really knows, but one thing is certain—as you step into the mist and the world of the living fades away, one more song is about to join this medley of fear. Your own terrified scream… This volume features the following: 1. How I Adopted a Demon by Melissa Gibbo 2. Wrong Address by S. B. Duncan 3. Zia 14 by Karl Melton 4. Lots and Lots by Carl Hughes 5. A Problem of Hair by Justin Boote 6. Of Prey, Of Death by Joe Scipione 7. The Monster Game by Joel R. Hunt 8. The Playhouse by Georgia Cook 9. The Road Headed South by Fritz Coleman 10. Luke De Foncé Du Nuage by Tim Cummings 11. Monsters Follow Him Home by Eric Del Carlo 12. Neighbors by John W. Leonard 13. Local History by Ron Ripley PRINT LENGTH AUDIO LENGTH 7 hours and 19 minutes NARRATED BY Johnny Raven and Stephanie Shade PRODUCT DIMENSION ISBN LANGUAGE English PUBLICATION DATE March 22, 2021 Read a Sample   THE PLAYHOUSE BY GEORGIA COOK It was nearly nighttime, turning the garden into a thing of shadows and jagged shapes. The bushes surrounding The Playhouse rustled as we made our way through them, already thick with the first autumn berries. The Playhouse stood before us, silent in the dark. The setting sun cast great webs of gold across the shingles. My grandparents had made tiny additions over the last few days—lace curtains in the windows and a proper welcome mat by the door. My grandfather had even found an old weathervane for the chimney, and it spun gently round and round in the breeze. Casey glared at it then at me as if I’d been the one telling stories about Mr. Bridges. Then she marched to the door, shoved it open, and stepped inside. It was dark in The Playhouse. My grandparents hadn’t installed lights yet, and the few mornings I’d spent playing here had been bright and frosty. Shadows pooled in the corners, arching up toward the ceiling, making the room feel much larger than it really was. My grandmother’s table and chairs stood in the middle, looking rather sad in the gloom. Casey stood next to them, her arms crossed as she stared at the plain white walls and wooden floorboards. She sniffed as if she’d expected better but wasn’t surprised. Her cheeks, I noticed, were flushed pink. Her gaze flickered to the door as it creaked shut. For a moment, I thought she was going to snatch it open. I didn’t enjoy the darkness either as it turned The Playhouse into something I didn’t recognize, something I was sure my grandfather hadn’t built. The walls were too close, the corners were too deep, and the windows—covered in their thin lace curtains—obscured the view. A sound came from outside. We froze. Someone was walking down the path toward The Playhouse with long, even strides. At first, I thought it was my grandfather, but the steps were too heavy and too solid. The footfalls grew louder as they entered the grove, crunching the fallen leaves with every step. They halted by the door. Then the knocking began. I stared at Casey. Her eyes were wide in the darkness. Someone was knocking on the door of The Playhouse with the same steady pace as the night before. “Granddad?” I called and instantly regretted it as the knocking stopped abruptly. We stood in a new terrible silence, too frightened to move. There was something standing behind the door, and I didn’t need to see whoever it was to know it wasn’t my grandfather. I could feel its presence in the same way I felt the night pressing in against the windows or my grandmother crossing the kitchen in the morning. It was tall and thin and very, very still. With a bang, the knocking began again, faster this time. It knew we were in here now. It knew where we were. I stumbled back as the door trembled under a barrage of blows. Dust floated down from the ceiling. The curtains fluttered. “It’s Mr. Bridges!” Casey whispered, backing up against the wall. “It’s Mr. Bridges come back for his door! I told you! I told you!” I’d never seen her look so terrified. I’d never seen anyone look so terrified. All suspicions of this being a cruel prank vanished—Casey was just as scared as me. I ran to the door, my heart pounding. But I’d said I was sorry! I’d thanked him! This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. “Stop it!” I screamed. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”