The year was 1792, and Dunwich Gaol stood like a rotting tooth against the English moors, battered by time and countless secrets buried beneath its stone foundations. Inside the courtyard, the gallows awaited.
Edgar Mallory, the last official executioner of Dunwich, adjusted the noose with practiced ease.
His rough hands, scarred from years of work, worked the rope with mechanical precision. To him, death was routine, a matter of function, not feeling.
As he stepped back, his gaze drifted to the condemned man, a tall figure, unnervingly calm despite the jeering crowd.
Lord Henry Ashcombe, convicted of treason and witchcraft, climbed the steps without protest. His eyes, a piercing, unnatural grey, locked onto Edgar’s.
“You think you bring justice,” Ashcombe murmured, voice low, carrying far despite the wind. “But you’ll find that some necks snap back at you.”
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “Words won’t save you now.”
Ashcombe smiled. “No. But they’ll damn you.”
The lever was pulled.
The rope held.
Ashcombe dangled, body twisting, yet those grey eyes remained open, fixed on Edgar until the very last shudder.
Shadows Beneath the Stone
Two weeks passed. The gallows were taken down. Life moved on, or so it seemed.
Edgar began hearing things. Not voices, worse.
His cottage creaked with unseen footsteps at night, heavy and deliberate, floorboards groaning under invisible weight. Doors that he latched shut in the evening stood ajar by morning.
His food soured quicker than it should, and his reflection sometimes didn’t move as he did.
Sleep became a stranger. His eyes darkened with exhaustion, but every time he closed them, he saw Ashcombe’s face, not twisted in death, but smiling.
The townsfolk whispered behind cupped hands. Children crossed the road to avoid him. Even the local vicar, Father Whitaker, hesitated before offering blessings.
“You’ve been… different, Edgar,” the priest said, eyes darting to the shadows that seemed to flicker around them. “Perhaps confession might ease your soul.”
“It’s not guilt,” Edgar snapped. “I did my job.”
Father Whitaker hesitated. “Sometimes, a man’s soul knows things his mind refuses to see.”
That night, Edgar sat by the fire, bottle in hand, when the temperature dropped without warning. His breath fogged the air.
The fire sputtered.
And from the darkness beyond the flickering light, two grey eyes stared back at him.
Scratches That Won’t Fade
The next morning, Edgar awoke on the floor, head pounding. His cottage felt wrong, as if the walls themselves leaned closer.
His arms itched. Pulling up his sleeves, he found scratches running down his forearms, red and fresh. They hadn’t been there the night before.
Trying to calm his racing mind, he ventured into the village.
But no one met his gaze. Shops closed their doors as he passed. Even old Mrs Penrose, who’d sold him bread for years, turned away with a shiver.
Back home, he scrubbed at the scratches until his skin burned, but the marks deepened. Not random now.
Letters read:
C-O-M-E
His heart clenched. “No,” he muttered. “You’re dead.”
Outside, the wind howled, yet the trees stood still.
He ran to the barn, searching for the noose he’d used on Ashcombe. Buried under hay, the rope lay coiled like a sleeping serpent.
Except… it wasn’t old.
It was new. Freshly woven. And it smelled faintly of ash and blood.
His pulse pounded with horror. He backed away, but his boot caught on something hard.
A single boot print, pressed deep into the dirt, facing him.
Steps in Hollow Places
That night, Edgar bolted his doors and windows, dragging a chair to wedge against the front door.
His lantern flickered, shadows crawling across the walls like black veins spreading through the wood.
He sat with his back against the door, knife in hand. Hours passed. The fire died.
Then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
From the ceiling above him.
His blood ran cold with horror. No one lived upstairs.
The tapping became footsteps, pacing slowly. Measured. Patient.
Edgar’s chest tightened with dread. He rose, lantern trembling in his grasp, ascending the stairs one creaking step at a time.
The upstairs was empty, dust motes swirling in the lantern light. No footprints. No intruders. But the door to his late wife’s sewing room, locked for years, stood open.
Inside, the rocking chair moved, creaking in lazy arcs. On it sat the noose, looped and swaying.
Above the chair, Ashcombe’s face stared from the mirror, those grey eyes gleaming.
“You brought this upon yourself,” the reflection said, lips curling.
Edgar stumbled back, knocking over the lantern. Flames licked the floor, smoke billowing.
Coughing, he fled into the night air. His house crackled with fire behind him, smoke curling into the black sky.
And through the flames, a figure stood watching.
Where the Gallows Stood
Driven by desperation, Edgar ran to Dunwich Gaol. If the curse started there, perhaps it could end there.
But the prison, abandoned after Ashcombe’s execution, was now half-collapsed, stones swallowed by weeds and moss. The air smelled thick with rot, like old meat left to fester in the sun.
He pushed through the crumbling archway, boots sinking into the mud. The ground pulsed beneath his feet as if something massive breathed just below the surface.
Reaching the courtyard, he trembled with fear.
The gallows, dismantled weeks ago, stood tall once more, wood dark and slick as if fresh from rain. The noose swayed gently, though the air was still.
A voice, not his own, spoke inside his head: “It never ended.”
Hands trembling, Edgar climbed the steps. His throat was dry, pulse drumming in his ears. He turned and saw them. Hundreds of faces in the darkness beyond the courtyard.
No bodies. Just faces, pale, empty, mouths agape in silent agony.
Ashcombe stepped forward from the crowd, eyes glinting.
“Your turn.”
The Curse Comes Full Circle
Edgar’s mind reeled. “I did my duty!” he shouted. “You deserved it!”
Ashcombe smiled. “Justice? No. You took pleasure in it. You twisted the rope tighter, watched us fall, and called it honour.”
Edgar shook his head, backing away. “I was following orders!”
The noose swung closer, not from the wind, but from something unseen pulling it towards him.
“You hung a man innocent of your charges,” Ashcombe hissed. “And now… you swing.”
Edgar turned to run, but he was too late.
Invisible hands gripped his arms, cold as stone, hauling him to the trapdoor. His boots scraped against the wood, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The noose slipped around his neck, the rope rough against his skin.
“Wait—please—”
Ashcombe’s gaze darkened.
The lever dropped.
A sickening snap echoed through the air.
Comments