Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They called it Wraithmoor Lane—a crooked little street nestled between Tallow Alley and Briarhook Row. It wasn't on any map, and those who spoke of it did so with hesitant glances, as if saying its name too loud might summon something listening.

One autumn morning, it simply disappeared.

Not faded or forgotten—gone.

Miss Evelyn Blackmoor stood where it should have been. The houses on either side, though warped and weary, were still intact. But where Wraithmoor had existed yesterday, there was now a blank stretch of cobblestone, utterly smooth, as if no homes had ever stood there. Even the lamps were missing.

"Third time this year," muttered Officer Harren, glancing at the empty space with bloodshot eyes. "Streets vanish, folks vanish with 'em. And no one remembers unless they've seen it go."

Evelyn did remember. She'd walked the lane countless times on her way to Madame Grin's. There had been gas lamps that never lit, doorbells that echoed too long, and shutters that opened on their own. But more than that, there'd been people.

Mr. and Mrs. Aldwych, who sold ash-root tea from a crooked shop. Little Cordelia, the girl who spoke only in rhyme. And the old violinist in the attic, who played nocturnes to the fog.

Now, they were gone—as if they'd never been.

That night, Evelyn returned. She wore gloves of blessed silver and carried a lantern doused in grave oil. The gaslights flickered as she approached the blank stretch. Something was wrong with the air—it pulsed, as though breathing.

She held up the lantern.

The flame quivered, then stretched forward—toward something unseen.

She stepped forward.

Her boot struck something solid, though nothing was visible. Then, like peeling back the skin of the world, the street reappeared.

Flickering, transparent, but there.

Shadows moved in windows. A dog barked in the distance. The scent of chimney smoke filled her nose. She walked deeper into the mirage. Time rippled like water.

But the people were different.

Their faces were hollow, blank-eyed. They moved in loops, repeating motions endlessly. Cordelia sat on the curb, chanting, "Wraithmoor fades, Wraithmoor weeps, Wraithmoor buries all it keeps."

The violinist's song played in reverse, sour and broken.

Evelyn turned to leave—but the entrance was gone. The street pulsed with malicious hunger.

Suddenly, a man stepped from the fog—a tall figure in a decaying coat and a hat too wide. His mouth was stitched shut.

He handed her a note, brittle as autumn leaves. It read:

"You looked. Now you remember. You belong."

The violin crescendoed into a wail.

Evelyn ran.

With each step, the buildings warped, mouths yawning open where windows had been. The cobblestones writhed like maggots. She plunged through the veil—falling through cold and sound.

She woke gasping in her bed.

The map on her wall now bore a new street: Wraithmoor Lane—written in red ink.

But when she looked outside, there was no street at all.

Only fog.

And the faint sound of a violin, playing just beneath the silence.