Gris Lee Stories

Despite my sorrowful adventure in the Grey Forest, I didn’t feel ready to leave Mistwell straight away. Couldn’t quite put my finger on the reason why; pity for the poor deer person, a fascination with the village itself, or perhaps the nagging feeling I was going to miss out on something if I left too soon. Even disregarding all that, maybe the elders would appreciate a hand from someone of relative youth. I say that, despite the fact I’d glamoured myself to look closer to their physical age.  To my luck the local tavern still had free rooms in the back. They hardly got guests anymore due to the village’s reputation. Perhaps occasionally you’d see a passing traveller, I was told, but little more than that. Even rarer still would you see anyone younger than their thirties roaming around. Some of the rumours surrounding the place spelled out danger for the youth unfortunately. Children, teens or young adults playing around in the fields or forest years ago and going missing, the bar...

Sometimes, I regret ever entering the Grey Forest. If I hadn’t, I never would have met the deer, nor spent the rest of my life regretting that I could not save him. I should’ve known it the moment I arrived in Mistwell. This small village was tucked away in Britain’s countryside, hidden under literal smoke and mirrors. The field and forest neighbouring the place possessed a perpetual fog. Though many warned against it, the mystery had piqued my curiosity. Thus I chose to seek it out, since not much else had quite caught my attention. At first, I had chalked it down to the strangeness that already seemed to be English weather. Even the locals liked to use that excuse, devising nicknames to play off the unique phenomenon. The field, for example, was known as the ‘Cloud’, which led itself into the Grey Forest.  However, the further I wandered, the thicker the fog got, and the less normal it seemed. Though they seemed disapproving of my desire to journey into the forest, many of the vi...

A horror piece I'd written to submit to anthology but forgot to submit it on time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Everyone anticipates the future, for good or bad. We as humans strive for development. We want the biggest, the newest, the best version of everything. We grow and gorge until the body of our society becomes a bloated mess, with stretch marks so thin they almost tear under the pressure. Perfection is not all it’s made out to be. Every day it was bright lights and business deals. Screams and smiles. Death and order. Repression before riots. The same three songs and adverts looped endlessly over the loudspeakers. The same three colours on everyone’s clothes. No swears. No heart. No choice. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. Only the seven of us seemed to have any sense. We tried to save them. Oh boy, did we try. Each one came back with the same response. “But…they wouldn...

Another taster from my ongoing horror novel project, From The Grey Forest. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Mr Adley’s just sort of hanging there, flopped over the branch like a fish out of water. There’s no sign of a struggle; just the haunting distortion on his face. Every one of his wrinkles looks creased and broken. If I didn’t know better I’d just think it was an old mannequin someone tossed out to save on trash takeout. But I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies in my time. In worse states too. Shanked, beaten and bruised, left to bleed out on the concrete. They never died under my hands at least. I would’ve gotten so many more years if that were the case. Still, none I’ve seen were anything as…disturbing as this. His eyes are more glazed over than a corner shop doughnut. Okay, that was a disgusting comparison. I can’t stop focusing on them though. They’re just so slimy. The way the light shimmers off th...

On cold days like this one there’s nothing quite like curling up in dressing gown with the fire on. I’m bundled up in my chair along with my darling child. She snores gently, like a kitten. The way she wriggles from dreaming in that sunshine yellow onesie warms my heart on a winter’s day like this one. Her presence seems to also have caught the attention of Maurice, who’s peering gently over at Lucy in my arms. His large frame barely stays settled on the couch as it is and it’s reaching the point where I’m concerned he’ll topple himself over. In spite of this, his focus seems solely set on little Lucy. Not even the cartoons on the television have his attention. When he’s not with Nigel I can usually plop him right of the thing so as to keep him out of trouble. Lord knows what problems would arise if he were without supervision. That childlike glimmer of curiosity in his eyes is starting to play into my motherly instincts however. I cave in. “Would you like to hold her Maurice...

A little taster inspired by a short challenge from creative writing class. I might expand of the idea of this one day, but this is it for now. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I feel…surprisingly numb. Time and time again in my youth I wore down the hours playing all manners of murder mystery games. I played them pretty straight faced, following the procedures laid out by the gameplay mechanics. Sometimes I felt a twang of empathy for the digital victims and a sliver of satisfaction when the culprits got their comeuppance. But those games were never real. So how am I supposed to feel when it is? The sound of static overwhelms my hearing. Through the small crowd of my class, I squint to get a better look at the half of the person I could see dangling from the window. The window itself is quite literally completely covered in blood. The legs hang limp against it. I can only gather th...

The tang of iron rustles the hairs of my nostrils and the buds of my tongue. It kicks me awake. I don’t know where I am. My vision is blurred. My hearing is muffled. My taste and smell are muddied with blood. I can only rely on my touch. Invisible hands weigh down my limbs, leaving them sluggish. I settle for wiggling my fingers. They feel restrained, stroking only at the cool metal they appear bound to. This is frustrating. I want to scream for help, twist, turn, struggle, find a clue, find help, find anything. Someone help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. Help. I start falling asleep again… AH! A jolt of surprise adrenaline snakes its way through my veins. All of a sudden my heartbeat erupts in action, thumping at an insane rate. The mugginess that masked my senses dissipates, revealing…so little. The room I’m in is dimly lit, aside from some otherworldly glows clawing in from the corners of my eyes. I can make out shapes of basic furniture and unusual e...

Before the birthday when I would turn three. These are the things that mum said to me. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late to ski. It’s too late to plant a brand-new tree. It’s too late to look out the window baby. So hurry my child, move quickly. It’s too late to dance. It’s too late for prance. It’s too late to try and save both of the aunts. It’s too late to take that vacation to France. It’s too late to give your sweet mummy a glance. It’s too late for pie. It’s too late to fly. Just go with your sister and daddy outside. It’s too late to cry. It’s too late to try. Don’t try and save me if you don’t want to die. Please don’t try and plea. Just take the car key. Go with the rest of the family and flee. It’s too late for tea. It’s too late for me. Your mummy has turned into a zombie.

Well, here’s an oddly pleasant surprise. Finally, I see something shifting in the small clearing just a short distant ahead. I try to tread gently over in my heavy combat boots. A few leaves and twigs crunch under the sheer weight of them, but luckily the sound doesn’t catch the attention of the thing nearby. With some less than graceful manoeuvring I shamble behind one of the rotting trees on the edge of the clearing. I place my gloved hands upon it. Even without the roughness of my grip some of the bark flimsily snaps off just by brushing against it. Luckily I’m not one to flinch easily so I steel myself to peer around the tree. My head moves less than an inch before I’m paralysed by a flash of images needling the back of my mind. Every scratch, the lack of breath, the smell of decay conjures up a distorted image of…something. Against my own judgement I’ve gotten accustomed to my boring, dare I say, ‘normal’ life in Mistwell. Normally you couldn’t stop my behaviour but give...