Unholy Trinity: On a House by Martin P. Fuller

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.



She waits. Sitting on her spindle chair, the fireplace devoid of heat or light, watching the house decay over the years.

He would return, opening the door, roaring his cheerful greeting, the passionate kiss, together again. She knew it, prayed for it.

He’d promised her he would not die. So why does she wait?

Nightmare memories. The day he left for the war. A telegram breaking her heart and her mind. The knotted rope, standing on the spindle chair used to reach the oak roof beam. The final tears, stepping off and the short drop of despair.

She still waits.


The Disturbed House

It’s known as the ‘old mad house’. An asylum which once catered for the more refined lunatic. A place where rich families, for a fee, ditched their deranged disappointments.

It’s a ruin now, with shattered windows empty like the minds of its former inhabitants. The decaying walls, however, remember the cruelties inflicted by a doctor and staff more insane than their patients. Atrocities and horrors ever replayed and never forgotten. 

Do not climb the rusting security fence. Resist the temptation to force the padlocked doors and enter. The whispering soon starts, cruelly informing you, ‘the doctor will see you now’.


A Demon in Sheep’s Clothing

Evil had seeped into the grain of the timbers, the fabric of the walls, furniture and carpets. The house was no spooky mansion or cabin in the woods.
Red brick and smart paint hid a malice in suburbia, a demon waiting for victims.
Neat little garden, plants in pots disguise its teeth and talons.
To enter, was to experience a chill to the soul. To stay for a few nights brought on nightmares and to actually reside within it walls for long brought on a madness of fear and phobia.
Lace curtains camouflaged the beast waiting to feed.

On you.

Martin P. Fuller

Martin lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years.  

He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

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