Friday, 9 December 2016

Cold on Christmas Eve | Written by Michael Whitehouse

Watch above, read below, or listen here

It should have been the perfect Christmas Eve. A thick layer of snow had floated down gently from the sky all day. Wishing my colleagues at the office a Merry Christmas, I put on my long winter coat and scarf, and walked out into the snow. It crunched beneath my feet, and as it did so I was reminded of being a kid; of how special it was when the snow came. Then I thought about my own two kids back at home, waiting for me with my wife. That made me smile... That was... Until someone grabbed hold of my arm from a darkened doorway.

I recoiled at the sight of a homeless man in front of me, his face worn and grey, no doubt from countless nights sleeping in the cold; and his long matted beard gave both the impression and stench that he hadn’t bathed in an age.

Thursday, 27 October 2016

Roadkill | Original Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

He liked to kill animals. It was a game he’d play during the longer drives. Jones wasn’t a bad guy entirely, he wasn’t particularly rotten, at least not to the core. He’d never kill a dog, for example, that would of course be wrong. Dogs were part of the family, they could be loved and they could love in return, no, dogs were like people - you couldn’t kill them, not even the smaller, louder, more opinionated ones. Cats? Well, cats were something of a middle ground. Jones had no doubt that they could be loved, but he wasn’t convinced that they could return that love. Not like a dog. A good dog would be loyal, but to Jones a good cat was one that just did its business outside. Cats would go where the food was, they’d never love their owners, not really. Martinez, one of Jones’s coworkers, reckoned that if a dog was as big as its master it would still show love, but if a cat was as big as its owner, it would be dinnertime. But they were still a pet, so he wouldn’t aim for them, but he wouldn’t brake for one either - that seemed fair.

Deer? He would avoid, but only because hitting one would wreck his car, and in its current state of disrepair such an impact would all but finish the old girl off. Most people seemed to consider deer to be cute like a cuddly toy, but to Jones they were vermin, along with every other untamed creature roaming around out there. Squirrels, frogs, mice, rats, hedgehogs, they were all fair game. Foxes? In his mind they were like dogs, but after one of them had been bold enough to wander into a house on the other side of the city, and gnawed off a baby’s finger before being chased away by a horrified mother, he decided that they were viable targets. Kids should be protected from those dirty, filthy beasts.

Wednesday, 26 October 2016

Podcast Section Open

Hey, all. Just a quick note to say that the Podcast section of the site is now live. You'll find links to the podcasts I've been a part of, as well as links to the narrators who have adapted my stories on Youtube. It's a work in progress, so let me know if I've missed anything.

~ Mike

Friday, 21 October 2016

Chapter One | The Sins of Abigail Flesh

Read Previous Chapters. *Feedback encouraged*

Detective Inspector Harnley pulled the white sheet back over the body. The woman had been dead for several days according to Jansen, the pathologist. He was glad that she had no children, heaven knows what she would have done to them if she had.

‘I’ll send you my report in the morning,’ said Jansen in his usual nasal tone, wrinkling his nose up as he often did when concentrating on something.

Harnley stood there for a moment. Usually, that would have been the end of their business for the night, but it was clear that something was on his mind. ‘Jansen…’ 

‘Yes, detective?’

‘Have you ever had experience with mass hysteria?’

Jansen laughed under his breath: ‘ So that’s what’s been bothering you. Three violent incidents in as many nights and you think this is some sort of panic?’

Harnley didn’t know what to think, but he’d never known anything like it. A few days earlier he’d attended the death at Queen’s Cafe; the next night another at the football game; and now this: One Miss Freud - no relation - 63 years of age, worked part time in a local charity shop. Heavily involved in the church, and while the town knew her as a gossip, most thought her harmless. She’d never married and was the first to remind anyone about the dangers of living in sin, but no one would have thought her capable of such violence.

Monday, 17 October 2016

Footage Found: Rorschach and the search for Great Horror

A Genuine Surprise
Being a fan of horror can be frustrating. At times it can feel like a never-ending trudge through mediocrity. Horror is one of the most easily accessible genres out there. Everyone can relate to being afraid of the unknown, and this fear of what's in the dark makes it fertile ground for independent filmmakers. You can do this on the cheap, boys and girls, no need for a $150million budget. Just a spooky soundtrack and some teenagers running around in the dark, and before you know it you'll have a viral hit.

The truth is, however, that horror is one of the hardest genres to get right.

Maybe it's because we're so used to seeing every trick in the book. A slow build up, then a jump scare. Loud noises thrown at the screen. People lost in the woods. Vampires roaming the Transylvanian countryside. Mad scientists unleashing their horrid experiments on the world. Terrifying creatures from another world picking off the isolated crew of a spaceship one by one. We've been there and seen it all, so we cannot be surprised. This translates into an ever-receding unknown which no longer holds fear for us because... Well... It's no longer unknown.

Sunday, 16 October 2016

On Hallows' Eve | A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse

Each Halloween, 
as the leaves start to fall. 
Treats laid out sweetly, 
for the tricksters who call. 

That long lonely night,
where the dead rise once more;
something warped, twisted,
creeps close to your door.

And on Hallows' Eve,
should you pass glowing eyes,
or a candlelit grin
'neath black darkened skies 

Walk on weary traveller,
to another path tread,
for a vile vengeful spirit
might just take your head.

Saturday, 15 October 2016

The Sins of Abigail Flesh: Prologue on Sander's Street

The Sins of Abigail Flesh

Prologue on Sander's Road

It took place on the 12th of November. Two cars were strewn across the street, their crumpled bodies silent. I guess everyone else had been asleep. Part of me wishes I hadn’t been there to see it. I’d lived on that street for 47 years, my husband alongside me. We’d raised our kids there. They’d played in the park on the corner of Bolan Crescent; no doubt falling in love with someone at the high school before learning about life’s little cruelties. Sander’s Road was a special place; anywhere is when you make it your home.

I hadn’t slept for days, not well at least. Geoff and I had loved each other, he was my world and I was his. But that was all gone now, taken away by that torturous disease. On the 10th I patted what was left of his white hair resting on the hospital pillow, and kissed him on the head before he breathed his last. Our kids were there, grown now. My boy Sam even has a slight wisp of grey coming in at the sides. I guess life takes its toll on everyone, even the young.

There I was sitting in the front room of our empty house, trawling through old letters and photos at 2 in the morning. I’d cried every night since Geoff had been taken into hospital, by the time he actually up and left I couldn’t cry anymore. I was numb. I wanted to feel something: anything. The photos were reminders of times past, good and bad, and I was hoping they’d bring my grief back to me; not feeling anything seemed a betrayal. The only emotion that came was one I was ashamed of — relief is a terrible feeling when it’s for the passing of someone you love. But I got so tired, so weary. Not just for me, but for him.

The Sins of Abigail Flesh | A Horror Novel by Michael Whitehouse

It started with random acts of violence. Disagreements which would usually have been quickly forgotten, now bloodbaths. Grudges which warranted nothing more than a disapproving look turned into brutal scenes of torture and murder. Yes, the sleepy town of Hengeworth had never seen anything like it, and neither had Chief Inspector Harnley. An outsider, Harnley soon suspects that these twisted acts of hatred are connected somehow. Convinced that he can stop the bloodshed, Harnley races against time to put the pieces together, but can he do it before the town consumes itself? 

* All chapters of this book will be made freely available. Feedback is encouraged*

Friday, 14 October 2016

The Nostalgia of a Typewriter

Jack Skellington Approves this Message!
When I was a kid I started writing stories at about the age of 5 or 6. I'd take some A4 paper - sometimes lined, sometimes not - and fold the pages over in the middle so they looked like a book. If I was really lucky, my mum would staple the pages on the book spine so that they held together better. I'd draw the name of the book on the front cover, accompanied by a picture, usually something badly drawn using bright colours which wouldn't look out of place on a Jackson Pollack. After I'd finished the cover I'd move on to the blurb at the back. It would only be then that I'd really think up what was going to happen in the book. Then, I would fill the pages inside with all the pictures and stories a child's imagination could conjure.

And so I'd make those books during some free time in school. The corner of a playground, in a quiet class somewhere; the stories would just come out. I'd sit on the carpet of my bedroom surrounded by toys, and in my stories they'd come to life and have a part to play in the real world. Usually, the stories would be science fiction, pastiches of the stuff I loved. Intruders was a blatant rip off of Transformers, huge mechanical robots fighting it out to decide Earth's fate. I wrote thinly veiled recreations of The Goonies, Explorers, The Lost Boys, Indiana Jones, Ghostbusters, Back to the Future, Star Wars... I was quite the hack plagiarist at five years old.

Soon, I started to share my stories with my friends. Not so much the books - it would take an entire university of Egyptologists to decipher my handwriting. No, I didn't show many people the books. They were for me more than anyone else. My little worlds to play in. But I did share them in a way. I told them. I would tell people about the stories I made, but quickly I realised what really grabbed the attention of my friends. It wasn't stories of weird and wonderful far off lands where the spiders were as big as a car, or the little island off of Russia where all the people had three arms and were expert goalkeepers. No, what really captivated my friends were the stories they could relate to; the myths surrounding where we lived. I populated our suburb with many weird and terrifying creatures, and over the years I got pretty good at scaring my friends so much they'd keep looking over their shoulders on the way home. In some ways, I believed the stories myself.

Monday, 19 September 2016

Perfume | by Michael Whitehouse, Narrated by Whitney Walker

Tonight's horror tale is one of memory and tragedy. Follow the scent as it leads you to your doom in, "Perfume"...
(I asked my good friend Whitney to narrate this one as the main character is female. She did a fantastic job. You can find her channel here.)

Watch the video above, or download the MP3

Friday, 17 June 2016

Second Hand | Written & Narrated by Michael Whitehouse

Tonight's horror narration wanders the quiet streets, to a charity shop which contains a foul memory of what went before...

Download the MP3 or watch below...

Tuesday, 24 May 2016

12 Minutes to Midnight, Renamed!

Hi everyone. For those waiting on my anthology horror series 12 Minutes to Midnight, I just wanted to announce that the series has been renamed. You can now expect to see the episodes as part of Near Midnight.

Why the change?

Simple, really. My original aim for 12 Minutes to Midnight was to produce episodes of that length. It was to be a tester for creating longer radio dramas. But! This significantly reduced the freedom I had to tell the stories I wanted to, and for that reason a longer runtime was required. While some of the episodes will be around 10 - 15 minutes long, others are at least 30 minutes in length. This frees me up to make the episodes as short or as long as a story required, rather than sticking to an arbitrary length.

The good news is that the first two episodes have been recorded. I am scoring and editing them as we speak, and you can expect to hear them in June!

I think there's heart in there, and a good helping of terror, and so I will see you later when we find the night has fallen upon us, and we are perilously Near Midnight...

Tuesday, 17 May 2016

Joe's Cup | Written & Narrated by Michael Whitehouse

Tonight's horror story takes to a long stretch of empty motorway, to a group of road workers, one of whom is missing... Or is he?

Download the MP3 or Watch the Video Below...

Thursday, 28 April 2016

Thursday, 7 April 2016

Beneath the Garden | A Short Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

Frederick loved his garden, almost as much as he loved killing. He would spend hours each week feeding, cutting, maintaining and nurturing the lawn and the flowerbeds, taking great pride in having what was widely regarded as the most impressive garden in the entire town. 

It was May, and it was Frederick’s hope that in the coming weeks he would be judged by the local Garden Enthusiast’s Association as the best amateur gardener in the area for an unprecedented 6th year in a row. It was true that the judging committee could arrive on any day with absolutely no advance warning – surprise visits were their speciality - but he was confident that his floral displays and pristine lawn would once again rule supreme. All he had to do was sabotage his nearest rivals with a little weed killer at night. Of course Frederick expected to win regardless, but he never liked leaving anything to chance; just as long as things did not get out of hand as they had done two years before. 

Lucy Rindridge had cared for and produced a wonderful floral garden display that year. Even Frederick admitted that she had done herself proud, as he cast his eye over her luscious tulips, roses, and carnations, smiling kindly, of course, while talking to her, but in reality thinking that he ‘could not allow a nigger to best him’.

A week before the judging window opened, he did what he had to do. It was difficult not to arouse suspicion, Frederick’s victims were normally those he thought no one would miss; the homeless, drifters, illegal immigrants, but of course runaways were his speciality – children could be so easily manipulated. 

Lucy Rindridge was different. 

Friday, 1 April 2016

It Nears | A Horror Short Film

The first Ghastly Tales horror short, which was designed to be a trailer for our Youtube channel. A big thank you to CreepyPastaJr and Miss Shadow Lovely for providing their excellent voice acting skills to our humble little project. 

Project Notes (Coming Soon)
Script (Coming Soon)
Commentary (Coming Soon)

Thursday, 31 March 2016

Bedtime: A Novel | Update

Hello intrepid readers.

As some of you know I've been working on a novel version of my short story series, 'Bedtime'. Working on it for over three years! Yes, the amount of time I've poured into it has been a bit ridiculous, and one of the main reasons I would strongly recommend to my fellow writers NOT to go down the crowdfunding route unless you have your plot locked in. In any case, for those following the development of the book, let's have a little recap, and outline where we are now.

Monday, 28 March 2016

Three Men in a Dark Room | GT Live Stream, March 2016

The latest Ghastly Tales live stream where Mik, Calum and I played a very strange horror survival game. Great fun, and thanks to everyone who joined in!

Nearby | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

The street I lived on at the time was like any other. Not an affluent place, nor one mired in poverty; a mix of kind, selfish, nosey, and apathetic neighbours, some taking interest in those around them, others not. It was a relatively quiet area, but I had a fondness for it, as the large birch trees which occasionally drooped over hedges and fences from both cared for and neglected lawns, reminded me of my childhood. Only the occasional car came plodding through to disturb the peace, joined at times by sporadic domestic arguments which resonated from home to house, unhindered by the quiet; and so children played outside in the summer sun, some more pleasantly than others. Anyone would have described the street from top to bottom as quite, quite, ordinary. I’m sure you can imagine then how shocked I was to find something so utterly terrifying, surrounded by the mundane.

I should correct myself here; it was not what I found, but rather what my neighbour initially discovered which chilled me to the bone. His name was Bill, and he had moved into the house next door only a few months previous. In that short time we had grown to be firm friends; neighbourhood barbecues, Friday nights at the local pub, a shared fondness for classic films - we got on well. One Saturday night I invited him over for a game of cards with a few of my colleagues. I’ve never been particularly brilliant at poker, but I’ve always enjoyed the well-intended banter when placing bets against a good crowd. That night, neither luck nor skill was on my side and I found myself out of the game fairly quickly, so I sat back, had a few drinks, and just enjoyed the good natured name-calling.

The night flew in, and before long the first suggestion of daylight whispered across the sky outside. Everyone else had stumbled home drunkenly by then, with the exception of Bill, so both of us sat in my living room and drank a few more beers - something I was sure to regret in the morning. We talked about many things, his job as a nurse in a local old folks home, and our favourite Alfred Hitchcock films, particularly what we thought he would be making at the time if he were still alive.

Saturday, 26 March 2016

A Way Through | Unproduced Horror Script by Michael Whitehouse

* Background: This script was a commission. I was approached by Vadim Falk who wanted to make a short film about a soldier coming back to his home town to catch up with a friend. After an evening of drinking, they get lost and come face to face with a demonic force. I had to significantly flesh out the idea and the resulting script is below. I always liked some of the imagery and think it would have made an effectively creepy horror film. Unfortunately, the film has never been made. But why let a script rot in the darkness? At least now it can be read.*
                                 A Way Through                        
                              Michael Whitehouse                      
                                     Based on                                  
                    An Idea by Vadim Falk and Chris Rogers            

The Last Laugh | A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse

In a nearby town, there lives a clown
whose laughter fills the air,
and  in crowded places, with his painted faces
he shocks with skill and flair.

Through a comic fall, and tales grown tall,
those watching delight with glee,
to forget their worries, of bills and moneys,
as the clown performs for free.

Friday, 25 March 2016

When the Circus Comes to Town | A Short Film by Michael Whitehouse

"When the circus comes to town" was a little short I made with my friend Alan Graham many moons, and many trouser sizes, ago. It was the last of 5 episodes of a web series I made back in the day, and while most of them aren't up to much (and hence don't appear here) I always enjoyed this particular episode.

Production Notes (Coming Soon)
Commentary (Coming Soon)
Mike Falls Over... Again: A Retrospective (Coming Soon)

Wednesday, 23 March 2016

And Last on Today's Agenda... | A Science Fiction Short Story by Michael Whitehouse

The Universe was about to end. This was, as they say, 'it'. The boardroom fell quiet.

'You can't just tell us the Universe is going to end, Stan, and then just sit down!' chairman Parkes barked. Parkes, though abrasive, overweight and often ruthless had a kind and fair air about him.

'Well see...I really don't want to cause any trouble', Stan replied slumped in his chair wishing he had said nothing. Looking around the room at the other board members, Stan could see everyone biting their lips while hiding their faces like children in a classroom trying not to laugh. Stan was a timid man, not used to attention, never wanting it in fact. Most did not notice him, sometimes he did not even notice himself, and when anyone did, ridicule swiftly followed.

Monday, 21 March 2016

Revenge of the Pumpkin | Script

This is the script for the short film Revenge of the Pumpkin. Click here to watch it before reading on

Revenge of the Halloween Pumpkin
Michael Whitehouse

Michael Whitehouse, 2015                            


Fallen leaves stir on an evening breeze. Pumpkins are carved, treats laid out, televisions display black and white flickers of old horror films.



Sunday, 20 March 2016

Bits & Pieces | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

If you are interested in the weird and wonderful, then you might already be familiar with the strange case of the Uist mummies. Discovered in 2001, the mummified remains of two ancient residents of the Scottish island of South Uist have perplexed and puzzled archaeologists ever since they were unearthed.

Buried deep in the ground of that remote corner of the developed world, the most recent scientific data estimates that both corpses were placed there over 3000 years ago. Their skeletons were found to have been contorted into an unnatural foetal position, and the photos, which appeared in the national newspapers at the time, were enough to make anyone uneasy. It was said that such a deliberately manipulated pose was common in ancient burials, but it was clear during those first few weeks of the excavation that one of the bodies was anything but common.

The archaeologists exhuming the corpses placed great importance on the burials being the first concrete indication that the ancient peoples of the British Isles did indeed mummify their dead. This has created quite a stir in the academic community ever since. As we speak, the hunt to find the estimated hundreds, if not thousands, of similarly preserved dead ancients dotting the land beneath our feet continues.

Friday, 18 March 2016

Revenge of the Pumpkin | Short Horror Film

A pumpkin isn't just for Halloween you know...

Directed by Martin Yates, Calum MacPhail, and Michael Whitehouse
Written & Music by Michael Whitehouse
Starring Michael Whitehouse, Martin Yates & Donald Trumpkin

Production Notes (Coming Soon)
Commentary (Coming Soon)
Outtakes (Coming Soon)

The Sealed Building | A Ghost Story by Michael Whitehouse

When I was a child, the school I went to was a peculiar and fascinating place. Whether it was the overgrown bushes which flanked it, the strangely crooked wood which lay opposite, or the funny, eccentric, and sometimes fearsome, teachers and kids who populated the hallways and classrooms, which ignited my imagination, I do not know. I’m not sure when it was built, but it certainly stood out from the houses and quiet streets which lay nearby, covered as it was in a bright fiery red paint which drew the eyes of passersby. I attended Kings Park Primary School from the age of five up until I was eleven or twelve, and, like most adults looking back at their playground days, I have both fond and hurtful recollections of it. One memory, however, has haunted me all these years, through dreams and fears I cannot fully comprehend.
Each day with a rucksack on my back, I would wander past the crooked wood and wave to the ‘lollipop lady’ Mrs Collins - a kind old woman who’s job it was to stop traffic with her bright yellow sign, letting us cross in safety. After meeting my friends, we would walk through the rusted brown gates into one of two playgrounds before the school-day began.

Thursday, 17 March 2016

The Figure | A Short Horror Film by Michael Whitehouse

On the night Jack splits up with his girlfriend a meteor crash lands in his back garden, bringing with it something unearthly. Will he escape its clutches and right his mistake, or will he be consumed by the darkness forever?

Production Notes (Coming Soon)
Commentary (Coming Soon)
Extra Footage (Coming Soon)

Written & Directed by Michael Whitehouse
Director of Photography Alan Graham
Score by Michael Whitehouse
Starring Stewart McDonald, Craig Astley, and Kirsty Russell

The Laird of Dungorth | A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse

Your cities will crumble;
Diseased covered glens
The strong falter, stumble
At the end times of men

Monday, 14 March 2016

Pass It On | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

Henry worked in an office. It was an ordinary office in an ordinary city where he was paid an ordinary wage to do ordinary things. For many this would have been tedious and frustrating, but not for Henry, because he too was ordinary, and he enjoyed being so. Life was predictable; get up at 7:00 A.M., shower for 15 minutes, toast two pieces of wholemeal bread, poach an egg, eat with a minimum of fuss, watch ten minutes of morning television, listen to an audio-book on the train, get to work, sandwich for lunch, back to work, home, watch a little TV, read something light, go to sleep, and repeat day-after-day.

He liked his weekends to be just as routine. On a Friday night after work he would treat himself to an Indian takeaway and a good film. Saturdays would be spent exploring some local car boot sales for items to add to his collection of old video games, while Sundays would be specifically put aside to play them. Life was simple for Henry, and he preferred it that way. Being mildly tainted with an obsessive compulsive streak, he avoided anything which would take him out of his comfort bubble and away from his routine. He always avoided the extraordinary, but on this day, the peculiarly extraordinary found him.

Sunday, 13 March 2016

In the Dead of Night | A Short Horror Film

Something stirs in the night...

A security guard spends the night in an empty nursing home hoping to quickly pass through the mundane hours. Little does he know that he is not alone, and that the building contains something extraordinary, haunting, and chilling...

Production Notes (Coming soon)
Commentary (Coming soon)
Outtakes (Coming soon)

Written & Directed by Chris McMahon & Michael Whitehouse
Starring Chris McMahon & Michael Whitehouse
Soundtrack by Michael Whitehouse 

Saturday, 12 March 2016

The Shadows of Samuel Craven | A Horror Poem by Michael Whitehouse

In the sleepy town of Windarm,
a street where no one goes,
a child of wondrous prying
was deadened in crooked pose.

His name was Samuel Craven
a boy no older than ten,
sneaking out from the safety
of his home, a reluctant one then.

The breeze of the night engulfed him
as he ran free and clear to his doom.
To a place which never existed
but he'd found it, no less, in his room.

Thursday, 10 March 2016

The Passenger | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

A friend recently alerted me to a terrifying incident which took place in an urban area of the city where I live. Being a bus driver, he had heard many of the usual tall stories exchanged around his local depot - muggings, broken windows, the occasional couple attempting drunken sex; but some of the drivers had far more sinister and puzzling tales to tell. A few spoke of ghostly passengers who would pay their fare, take a seat on the upper deck, and then vanish without a trace.
Those latter stories were of a kind which my friend enjoyed hearing but never took seriously, considering them cheap entertainment shared amongst his co-workers, alleviating the tediousness of an empty depot at night. That was until a fellow driver told him about Ruby. When the story was relayed to me I was so intrigued by the account, that I took the time to contact all involved, piecing together what occurred as best I could.

Wednesday, 9 March 2016

One For the Road | A Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

I woke to my friend, Tom, climbing through my window. It was a summer’s night, around 2AM, and the heat had been unbearable for days. For that reason I had left my window open slightly to let what cool air there was filter into my bedroom while I slept. It was a scrambling, panicked noise which brought me to consciousness and immediately I thought someone was breaking into my home. In the darkness I couldn’t tell who it was, but as soon as I heard ‘help me’, I recognised my friend’s voice.

After turning on the light I pulled Tom into the room and sat him down on my old brown armchair, which had seen better days.

‘Close the window!’ he  seethed, half shout half whisper, completely occupied by the nighttime scene outside. ‘Switch the light off’.

Tuesday, 8 March 2016

'Perfume' | A Short Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

The perfume haunted me. It fluttered through the air, teasing me, leading me towards an obscured end. I ran down hallways bathed in red tapestries, my night gown shuddering in the cold. Moonlight showed me the way as I searched for the perfume's source. Around blind corners, through doorways of solid oak, into rooms once filled with laughter and terrible deeds. With each step the scent grew stronger. Roses. A sting of ginger and citrus. Never quite putting my finger on the familiarity of it all.

And then I entered a chamber. An old room which differed from the rest. One solitary candle sat by a large four poster bed. The light cascaded out, revealing a room dark and brooding. The floor was cold, the wood warped slightly, my bare feet losing what little heat they once held. A huge fireplace lay opposite the bed, unlit, devoid of life. And above it, a large portrait dominated the room. In the painting a woman sat, wearing a dark green dress of many decades past. Her hair was pulled tightly in a bun, her pale skin like languid pearl, and her eyes cold and cruel with dispassion.

Monday, 7 March 2016

Tunnel 72F | A Short Horror Story by Michael Whitehouse

I once knew a man who was afraid of nothing. No monstrosity man made or fictitious could subdue his spirits, and the mere mention of the word ‘supernatural’ would elicit a most cynical example of laughter. This bravery was both his greatest strength and his most profound weakness, for ignorance and heedlessness can often be disguised as a deep and foolhardy sense of courage. He was to learn the limits of his bravery under the earth, down in those oppressive tunnels, deep below the streets of Amsterdam.

His name was Henke, due mainly to his Finnish ancestry on his father’s side, and although his parents had passed away at an early age, he believed with conviction that his courage came from them. It was a matter of pride, a connection to the family he had lost, and it was this above all else which drove him into places and situations where others would fear to tread.

Sunday, 6 March 2016

Perfume | A New Nosleep Story

Hi everyone, I've just posted a new story to Nosleep.  It's called 'Perfume' and is a good old fashioned ghost story. Please do check it out. Hope you enjoy it. Feedback welcome :)

Read it now, with the lights on!

Tuesday, 1 March 2016

On A Hill: 100 Amazon Review Retrospective

Today is special for me. My novella, On A Hill, has reached 100 reviews on Amazon in the USA. This blows my mind. For a little self published writer like myself, it's a difficult milestone to imagine. Even for writers with a publishing machine behind them, getting 100 reviews is a big deal, and that doesn't even take into consideration the 60 plus other reviews the book has received in different regions. This has been due to some luck, and a readership which has been amazing to me.

Monday, 29 February 2016

Second Hand | Written by Michael Whitehouse

I've always been curious about the histories connected to belongings. I buy many of my things second hand from charity shops, retro speciality stores - those sorts of places. You can call me cheap all you want, but for me things have feelings. The vinyl record you listened to the night you were dumped, scratches and all; the shoes you wore as you staggered home drunkenly last Birthday; that old guitar you never bothered to learn to play; all real tangible objects, all with a story to tell, all with a unique view of the world.

Saturday, 27 February 2016

Can Something Be That Frightening? | Written & Narrated by Michael Whitehouse

In this horror tale we find out how fear can affect us all. Paralysis, nausea, nervousness, all can be elicited when faced with the uncanny. It can evoke an unease so severe that it may even take your voice...

Watch the Video Above or Listen to the MP3

Tuesday, 23 February 2016

Author Chapter 2: The Nursing Home

For Previous Chapters Click Here

The next six weeks were filled with self recrimination and sleepless nights. I was continually haunted by the sound of that poor child crying in the night, and of what I could have done to protect her. Shamefully on my part, my guilt was eclipsed by the fear of what those two dreadful words seemed to promise: “You Told”. My days were increasingly engulfed by thoughts of someone watching me - eyes staring out from around corners, whispers in the dark. The paranoia was only fuelled further by the apparent lack of details; the police had released little information about the dead family, and had yet to even declare their deaths the result of murder, which I was certain they were.

Saturday, 20 February 2016

The Face of Fear | Written by Michael Whitehouse

Twice I saw the face in the window, pressed up against the surface, its icy breath fogging the cold glass. At first it appeared strange to me, the skin beneath its eyes drooping in ripples of flesh, exposing the red sensitive strata underneath.
It was the winter of ‘83, and I had booked the cabin for three nights - only three. A break was needed, somewhere to relax, somewhere to recover. I’d had a heart attack two months earlier; a painful, excruciating experience which I would not wish on my worst enemy. Lying there sprawled across my kitchen floor, the sharp agony had syphoned through my veins - chest - arm - jaw. I lost consciousness only to find myself in a hospital bed days later. It was my daughter, Jen, who discovered me. Thank God for her.

Friday, 19 February 2016

King's Drift | Written & Narrated by Michael Whitehouse

Another horror tale to keep you company at night. In tonight's episode we delve back to childhood, to a rain soaked street, and a terrible event which cuts deeper than any knife, on King's Drift...

Watch the video above, or listen to the MP3 for free...

Sunday, 14 February 2016

Among the Trees | Narration

Let me tell you a story... You can listen to me narrate my horror tale "Among the Trees" on Youtube or MP3 download. I hope you enjoy discovering what mysteries lie out there in the forests and woods of the old world...

Or Download the MP3 for Free

Sunday, 7 February 2016

Near Midnight

The Midnight Hour Approaches

Synopsis: As the clock nears midnight, you are encouraged to join us on a journey into a world inhabited by strange creatures, frightening coincidences, and supernatural powers beyond human comprehension. Struggle all you wish, for time marches on mercilessly, and the seconds extinguish like a flame in a torrid wind, for the clock hands close in on their destination, as do you, dear listener.

Prepare for nightmarish deeds and malevolent forces, for it is now Near Midnight!

Saturday, 6 February 2016

Author: A Psychological Horror Thriller

"Author" is a psychological horror thriller about a writer called Sam who receives unusual messages from a dedicated fan. Over time, these messages become cryptic, and yet they seem to predict terrible events before they happen. As Sam follows a twisted trail to identify the author of the messages, his life is plunged into disarray by a series of horrific deaths happening around him. Caught in a perpetual chase, Sam must unravel the truth behind the messages to prevent more innocent deaths, a pursuit which will lead him to the source of the messages, and a shocking, devastating discovery.

**This is a serialised novel, with new chapters appearing monthly. Feedback is encouraged!**