We love setting our communities creative writing competitions, and we’ve been especially impressed with the results of this one. We challenged the members of Just About Books & Comics - a community full of avid readers - to write short stories in the style of their favourite authors. Our winners’ stories are all radically different, but each of them captures the spirit of the author admirably while still finding space to tell their own tale. Grab yourself a mug of your hot drink of choice and settle in for three excellent reads.
First place: The Feigning Terror by Horror and Cats
“Her heart leaped into her throat and she stepped back several paces, despair and disbelief culminating in a medley of nausea and adrenal tremors.”
Our resident horror lover has chosen H.P. Lovecraft as his author to imitate, and has written a chilling tale that’s left us feeling unsettled in the best of ways. They’ve imitated Lovecraft’s propensity for minimal dialogue, atmospheric description, and a sense of hopeless foreboding in the face of unnameable horrors. Expect death, fear, and sleepless nights ahead as Horror and Cats guides your trembling hand through a house of Lovecraftian horrors. What? You weren’t expecting Enid Blyton, were you?
We think Horror and Cats has done a fantastic job. Nightmares for a week aside, we loved reading it and think it’s more than earned our first-place prize. You can listen to it, complete with chilling soundtrack, or read the story below
Warning: The following story contains some scenes that readers may find distressing.
In the dusk of a summer eve, gentle breeze coaxing the limbs and leaves of trees to sing a tender lullaby for a quiet neighbourhood, Sarah placed the final piece of flatware into the cupboard, freshly washed after supper. She dried her hands and surveyed the space, expelling a sharp exhalation from her nostrils along with a nod of satisfaction, derived from a job well done.
She stepped with purpose from the kitchen to the hall, lifted the needle from the record player which had kept her company during the washing up, and ascended the stairs to the second floor. Her next task at hand was to bid goodnight to Todd, her son whom she had sent to prepare for bed after dinner. Sarah approached the door of Todd’s room, finding it ajar. This was not unusual; the lad was only six years of age, long before the propensity for privacy instils in a young man. She spread her fingers apart, gently pressing the door open in case the boy had already fallen into slumber.
The room was dark, but not quite pitch black, the final pinkish-orange hue of the sky eerily silhouetting the branches which tickled the glass of the bedroom window. Sarah stepped forward, quietly swinging the door back to its ajar position as to not let light from the hall into the room for too long. She approached the bed as her eyes adjusted. Coming into view, she made out the shimmer of her son’s eyes, wide open and unblinking, the bedding pulled up just below. His eyes pierced hers and she slowed, immediately sensing something was amiss. His gaze did not deviate from hers, his eyelids never blinking, his hands gripping the edge of the blanket tightly, ensuring the bedding remained his cloak against fear.
She came to a stop by the bed, her mind racing as she prepared to speak, to ask her child what on earth petrified him so. As her lips parted, a hand shot out from beneath the bed, small but strong, grabbing her ankle. She shrieked and stepped back, tripping in her shock and falling to her backside, hands outstretched behind to keep from collapsing further. What she saw beneath the bed robbed her of breath.
It was her son’s face she saw, peering from the darkness just above an outstretched hand.
“There’s a monster in my bed,” he whispered.
Sarah trembled, petrified and confused, her mind unable to parse what she was seeing, what she was hearing. Her eyes darted to the surface of the bed and beheld the image of her son sitting up, back unnaturally straight. The panic which had painted his visage only moments ago absent, replaced by an emotionless, empty stare, still ever unblinking.
She acted, reaching out and clutching her son’s hand, pulling him from under the bed and into her arms in one smooth motion, maternal strength and reflex driving her. As she did so, the thing in the bed, what she now knew only wore her son’s likeness as a mask, tore the bedding to the side and prepared to give chase.
Sarah clutched her son tightly with one arm and ran, swinging the ajar door open only enough to fit through, then pulling it shut with a slam which shook the home. She held the handle for a moment, expecting a frantic attempt to wrench the door open once again, but it never came.
She held the door shut and quickly pressed her ear to it. There was no sound, no sign of movement. She turned, now holding Todd to her with both arms, preparing to run down the stairs and straight through the front door. She needed help, neighbours, trusted faces for security in numbers. But, as she turned, at the top of the stairs stood the feigning terror which had taken her son’s image, face blank, unblinking, silent.
Her heart leaped into her throat and she stepped back several paces, despair and disbelief culminating in a medley of nausea and adrenal tremors. There was no other way to the ground floor, no means of escape. The terror deliberately strode toward her, taking a step forward for every step Sarah took back. She neared the end of the hall, her bedroom door before her to the right, the bathroom door beside her to the left.
She ceased her retreat and instead stepped forward, reaching for the bedroom door handle. In an instant the terror lunged forward, immediately bearing down on Sarah at full pelt.
“No!” Sarah cried, lunging to her side and through the bathroom door, slamming it shut and pressing her back against it.
She let Todd down as she fumbled in the dark for the lock, breathing a sigh of relief at its click. Her hand moved beside the handle and found a switch by the door, flicking it and squinting at the sudden influx of light.
After only a moment of adjustment, she once again opened her eyes fully, only to be met with the sight of blood spatter on nearly every surface of the room. A toothbrush with heavily applied paste lay on the floor and a shape could be seen behind the opaque shower door. She stood, her ears ringing, her mind spinning as she stepped forward, sliding open the shower door with shaking hands, causing the metal bearings to rattle as they rolled.
There on the floor of the shower lay the body of her son, flesh torn by tooth and claw in an indescribable fashion.
All the sound drained from her ears as she slowly turned away. The shaking subsided, her shoulders slumped, and she beheld the image of her son standing by the bathroom door. Face blank, unblinking, silent.
Second place: Keys to the Heart by Makster
“As with many things in my life, it was easier to accept than to understand.”
Haruki Murakami’s magical realism utilises short, simple sentences, often describing the supernatural with the same pacing and detail as the minutiae of the mundane. This equivalence builds a sense of the surreal that leaves the reader guessing. Moreover, themes of isolation, melancholy, longing, alienation, dreamlike states, music, and mysterious women permeate his works. Makster's story captures all of that, while telling its own tale which - like its character Sayuri - is both gentle and tender.
In the stillness of a late autumn evening, when the soft hum of Tokyo’s nightlife barely touched the windows of my small abode, I found myself alone, contemplating the emptiness that had settled in my chest. The room was illuminated by the pale light of a single desk lamp. It cast long shadows on the tatami mats, creating an intricate dance of light and dark. The silence was punctuated only by the occasional creak of the building and the rhythmic ticking of an old wall clock that came with the place.
I’d moved there six months prior, after a bitter breakup with my girlfriend of five years. She had left me for reasons I still can’t fully comprehend, but as with many things in my life, it was easier to accept than to understand. Those months were spent listening to the same three vinyls on repeat, occasionally getting up from my stasis to turn them over. The nights I spent lying awake, looking at the ceiling. My life had become a series of repetitive motions, each day indistinguishable from the last.
One evening, I rose from my bed and sat at my desk, flicking on the desk lamp in front of my empty bed. I heard a faint, almost imperceptible melody fluttering through the air. It was a tune I had never heard before, yet it felt oddly familiar, like a half-remembered dream. Intrigued, I pressed my left ear towards the wall and listened more intently. The sound appeared to be coming from the neighbouring apartment, an apartment that to my knowledge had been vacant since I moved in.
Curiosity piqued, I decided to investigate. Pulling on some jeans and a hoodie, I stepped into the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet as I approached the door. The music grew louder and more distinct, a haunting melody played on a piano.
My gentle knocking yielded no response. After a moment’s hesitation, I tried the buzzer, hoping the noise wouldn’t disturb the whole floor. Waiting, waiting. The door responded to my patience with stillness and silence, and yet the song lingered in my ears. I placed my right hand on the door and shifted my weight slightly towards it almost as a last ditch request for a response. And a response came as the door, heavy as the oak it was made from, creaked open.
Peeking inside, I found a dimly lit apartment, the only light coming from a small lamp on a cedar table near the window. The air was thick with the scent of old books and something else I couldn’t quite place. In the corner of the room stood a grand piano, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Seated at the piano was a woman, her back to me, her fingers dancing gracefully over the keys.
Her fingers descended gracefully on the final notes before a brief pause. And then a new song started, a tune I didn’t recognise but mesmerised me nonetheless. It drew me into the apartment, though I was careful to shut the door behind me quietly so as to not disturb her performance. I stood at the mouth of the room, transfixed, until she finished. She placed her hands gracefully on her lap and turned to face me. I was struck by her traditional beauty. In the dark, I could make out a smooth round face, porcelain white contrasted with deep dark eyes and a slender nose. The contours of her lips were shapely and plump. I couldn’t make out her full features, but her presence in the room made it difficult to speak.
“Hello,” she said, her voice as soft and haunting as her music. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I heard the music and… I didn’t know anyone lived here.”
She smiled. A small, enigmatic smile that made her even more mysterious. “I moved in recently,” she said. “My name is Sayuri.”
“I’m Takashi,” I replied, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked, gesturing to a teapot on the table. “I was about to make some.”
I nodded, stepping further into the room. Sayuri rose from the piano and moved with an almost otherworldly grace. Her steps were gentle as a ballerina’s; they didn’t make a sound on the creaky wooden floors. We sat at the small table by the window, the steam from the tea rising in delicate spirals.
As we sipped our tea, Sayuri told me about herself in a calm, measured tone. She was a pianist, she said, a prodigy who had performed in concert halls around the world. But she had grown tired of the constant travel and the pressures of perfect expectations. After her parents passed, she felt relief, and returned to Tokyo to handle affairs and take some respite from performance.
There was something about Sayuri that captivated me, a quiet strength and an air of mystery that compelled me to learn more about her. We talked for hours, the conversation flowing effortlessly as the night wore on. It felt as though we had known each other for much longer.
Over the following weeks, Sayuri and I grew close. I would spend my evenings in her apartment, listening to her play the piano, the music weaving a spell around us. We shared stories, dreams, and secrets, our connection deepening with each passing day. I found myself looking forward to those evenings, the time spent with her became the highlight of my days.
One night, as she played a particularly poignant piece, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The melody tugged at something deep within me, evoking memories I couldn’t quite grasp. When she finished, I asked her about it.
“It’s something I composed,” she said softly. “It’s about lost love and the search for meaning in the emptiness.”
Her words struck a chord in me, resonating with my own experiences. I realised then that I had found in Sayuri not just a friend, but a kindred spirit. In the silence that followed, I reached out and took her hand. She looked at me with those beautiful eyes, and in that moment, I knew that I had finally found what I had been searching for all along.
Third place: A Hot Bargain by Marcus
“The crowd cheered, roared, and howled. And when I say ‘howled’, I’m being literal; there were a few lycanthropes among them, after all.”
Rick Riordan is the author of the wildly popular young adult series Percy Jackson & the Olympians. He’s known for fast-paced, fun, and funny books often with relatable teenage characters on a hero's journey. Marcus captures all of that really well, while nailing Riordan’s penchant for the mythological. Like good stories should, it left us wanting more.
When parents ask for help with errands and say that it will only take ‘about five minutes’, you know it’s always going to take longer. Sometimes it’s an hour, sometimes it’s your whole day. But it’s never five minutes.
So when my dad, Hermes, messenger of the gods, sent me on a quest to retrieve some lost items, I answered with the most polite ‘No’ I could give him. In return, he gave me a look as if I’d cursed in front of my grandma, Maia.
“Excuse me; what do you mean ‘no’?”
“Dad, can you really blame me for refusing? Every time you ask me to help you, there’s a catch.”
The Messenger of the Gods pinched his nose in frustration. “Oh, gods and titans! Is this about what happened last month in Wales?”
I glared at my father and crossed my arms. It was absolutely about what happened last month in Wales.
“Son, you are the only one available to retrieve these items. I promise you’ll be well rewarded if you complete this little errand. Think of it as compensation for what happened last month.”
He drove a hard bargain. “So where are these items?” I asked.
Dad smiled. “Camden Market.”
It took me about 45 minutes by bus and train to reach the market, and I was there for half an hour before I found as much as a clue. So that was an hour and 15 minutes gone already. I wanted to get this quest over with quickly as Dad wanted me to bring the items to him in Piccadilly Circus before sunset. As I was about to get distracted by the Bandai Namco Cross Store, I noticed two hooded figures heading down an alleyway. I followed them to a hidden market stall; it was all black apart from a bright-red sign reading: “HIDDEN TREASURE AUCTIONS”. Subtle.
I moved closer and hid behind a stack of plastic crates. Surrounding the stand was a group of roughly 30 people, or so I thought. As I looked closer, I realised that not all of them were human. Some had talons, some had wings, some had horns and scales. There were a couple of cyclopes and nymphs among them too; I think I might have even spotted a satyr.
As I was crossing monsters off my mental mythology bingo card, a suited man approached the market stall. He wore all black but for his crimson shirt. He had short black hair, a neatly shaven beard, a round face, and a pair of sunglasses with orange-tinted lenses. He cleared his throat and lifted a microphone to his mouth.
“Ladies, monsters, and gentlemen! Welcome to the hidden treasure auction!” He sounded like an ITV gameshow host. And apparently he was an entertaining one; the crowd cheered, roared, and howled. And when I say ‘howled’, I’m being literal; there were a few lycanthropes among them after all.
“I’m your host Blaze Burnfield, and we have so much in store for you today. Literally! This auction has sold many infamous items! We’ve sold the Eye of Balor of the Formorians. We’ve sold locks of hair from Freya, Aesir goddess of love, beauty, and war. And we’ve even sold a lightning bolt which was ‘generously donated’ by Zeus whilst he was distracted by mortal women.”
The crowd laughed, even I snickered. But I quickly regained my focus; I had an errand to run.
“But today we have two extra special items ‘gifted’ by Hephaestus.” As he said the word ‘gifted’, a wry smile crossed his face. “Honoured shoppers, I present to you the Mask of Mercury and the Phaser Sword!”
Burnside pulled a red cloth from a display case, revealing a mask that looked a bit like the laughing mask of The Muse of Comedy, only with wings attached to its sides. Next to it was a gladius sword which had a faint glowing aura around it. The audience was enraptured:
“Ooooooh!”
“Wow!”
“Take my money! Shut up and take my money!”
“Pipe down, pipe down!”, yelled Burnfield. “This is a professional auction after all. Let’s start the bidding, shall we? Starting at £200…”
"£200?! Why is there never an ATM when you need one?
“£300!” yelled an eager nymph.
“£450!” shouted an excited cyclops.
“£600!” cried a feverish lycanthrope.
“£600, going once…” called Burnside.
As the bidding continued, I noticed the mask and sword twitching as if they were trying to remove themselves from the display pedestal. It felt as if they were shifting towards me though neither Blaze Burnside nor the crowd seemed to notice.
“£1,000!”
The crowd gasped and looked towards a tall individual wearing a dark-green, hooded cloak near the back. Crap! What do I do now?
“£1,000! We have £1,000! Going once, going twice, going three times…”
Before Burnside could finish his sentence, the mask and sword levitated from their pedestal, both shining in an aura like the setting sun. Everyone took a step back. Burnside looked shocked. Apparently, he hadn’t read the instruction manual before stealing these godly items. The treasures flew towards me as if I summoned them. I grabbed hold of the sword in my right hand and the mask in my left. The crowd and Burnside all looked towards me.
“Uhhh… sold?” I said nervously.
Much like Zeus himself, I bolted. I usually don’t run from fights, but I was outnumbered. I had two tasks: get to the train station and deliver these items to dad in Piccadilly Circus.
“Somebody stop that boy!” one of the bidders screamed.
I blitzed down the alleyways and into the throng of shops and food stalls, the bidders hot on my tail. My eyes kept darting around for an exit, for any way out. For some reason, my right hand, which was holding the Phaser Sword, began to glow, and made a downward slash in the air, as if it had been possessed by the sword. As it slashed, it created what I can only describe as a tear through space. Through it I could see the bridge outside of the market.
I didn’t have time to question it, I could hear the cries of the angry mob growing closer. I hopped through the space, and as I came out the other side I instinctively slashed across the tear, and it disappeared. I made for the bridge, but as I drew closer I noticed Burnside already waiting for me. How he knew I’d be there is anyone’s guess.
“Greetings, young man. I would appreciate it if you returned my treasures before things get… heated.”
He thrusted his right hand forward, and a beam of fire shot towards me. I rolled to the side and charged towards him with the sword. Too slow. Burnside had vanished and reappeared a few feet behind me.
“Do you know what I had to go through to get those items? Return them, now!” demanded Burnside. He raised both hands and sent a wall of fire towards me. I’m not sure why, but I instinctively threw on the Mask of Mercury. At that moment, time began to slow down.
“What the…?”
I steadily walked around the firewall. Burnside stood still like he’d seen the face of Medusa. It seemed as though he could tell what was happening, as while his body remained in place, his eyes followed me. In a panic, I kicked him towards the side of the bridge. The kick, however, had far more power in it than I intended. He went flying over the edge towards Camden Lock’s murky canal water.
I took off the mask and everything began to fast forward. There was a loud splash, like someone had dropped a boulder into the water. I ran over to look for Burnside, but his body wasn’t there. All I could see was a cloud of steam rising from the river.
I reunited with my Dad at Piccadilly Circus, inside a Waterstones Café.
“Blaze Burnside, son of the titan Perses. He works as a dealer in the black market,” Dad explained. “How he managed to steal these treasures from Hephaestus’s workshop, I have no idea. Perses and his children aren’t really known for their discretion. Unless you count Hecate that is.”
I knew the name; Perses was the Titan of Destruction. If Burnside was anything like him, I was lucky not to be burned to a crisp. I pulled out the sword and mask and placed them on the table. Fortunately, their auras obscured the items’ true forms, otherwise I would have had a lot of explaining to do.
“Here are the items you requested. Quest completed,” I said to my dad. But as I was saying it, his facial expressions changed from agreement to surprise to curiosity, and then to understanding.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” I asked.
The god looked up from the table. “I can’t take them anymore.”
My eye began to twitch. “Excuse me?”
“I said…”
“I heard what you…” I had to stop myself from yelling so I didn’t draw too much attention. “I heard you, but are you having a laugh? I almost got myself killed trying to retrieve these relics. I nearly died escaping that mob of monsters and fighting Burnside. If you think…”
“Son!” My dad said sternly; it was rare for him to be this strict with me given his laid back personality. “I can’t reclaim the Mask of Mercury or the Phaser Sword, because they’ve already claimed you.”
I stared at him dumbfounded. “What?”
“The sword and mask have chosen you,” he continued. “I couldn’t take them back even if I tried. Surely you felt as though they were drawn to you in some way, correct?” I thought back to the auction stall and nodded. He continued. “You may not know this, but sometimes magical items can develop a soul of their own, depending on how they are crafted or what they have been through.” My head was spinning. “Consider these items your reward for completing your errand. See you soon, son.”
He vanished in an instant. He’s known for his speed, but it isn’t half annoying.
I sat there in the café looking at my mastercrafted artefacts while enjoying my sandwich. I checked my watch. Four hours had passed. So much for five minutes.
Congratulations again to our competition winners. Which author would you write a story in the style of if you could? Let us know in the comments! Keep an eye on our bounty pages for more creative writing opportunities. Some text has been amended for brevity. You can find the original wording at the bounty post. Image credit: Ed Robertson, garten-gg, Tama66, magwood_photography, Masaaki Komori, nik radzi, MythologyArt, MythologyArt, Skitterphoto
Created at . Page last updated at .
