Scary Western Short Stories E-Book

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• Herausgeber: Pieter Haasbroek
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 118

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

The West is haunted.

Its ghosts don’t just whisper.

They ride, they shoot and they drag you to hell.

Across the unforgiving frontier, in forsaken towns like Deadwater and Dry Gulch, grizzled lawmen and hardened drifters discover that the deadliest threats don’t carry six-shooters. From the cursed peaks of Hangman’s Ridge to the shadowy depths of Black Hollow Mine, an ancient evil stirs. The sins of the past refuse to stay buried, and justice is coming for the living, delivered by the dead.

This collection of fourteen terrifying tales drags you into a vision of the Old West where the line between life and death is razor-thin. Witness a spectral posse of Ghost Riders demanding a blood debt from a terrified town, face a demonic preacher born of fire and vengeance, and stand with a lone marshal against a Phantom Gunslinger whose draw is faster than death itself.

Perfect for fans of Stephen King’s The Dark Tower and the gritty horror of Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare. This book transforms the American frontier into a landscape of dread and supernatural terror. Each story is a high-octane thrill ride filled with cursed canyons, haunted saloons and heroes pushed to their absolute limit.

Saddle up for fourteen tales of supernatural terror that will leave you breathless. Start your ghost adventure today!

Leseprobe

SCARY WESTERN SHORT STORIES

by

ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE

and

co-author, proof-read and edited by

PIETER HAASBROEK

Published by:

TREASURE CHEST BOOKS - PUBLISHERS

Strand Mews Strand

2024

SCARY WESTERN SHORT STORIES

The cover sketch was designed using the AI-powered tool DALL-E 3 (openart.ai), while the ebook's stories were developed using the advanced AI platform ChatGPT (chatgpt.com). These fourteen scary western short stories are being released in ebook format for the very first time.

The copyright for these stories is reserved and cannot be reprinted or distributed in whole or in part without the publisher’s written permission. Reprinting includes any electronic or mechanical form, such as e-books, photocopying, writing, recording on tape, or any other means of storing or accessing information. All characters and events in this story are purely fictional and have no connection to any living or deceased individuals.

SCARY WESTERN SHORT STORIES

by Artificial Intelligence and co-author Pieter Haasbroek

ISBN 978-1-7764911-5-5

Published by:

Treasure Chest Books - Publishers, Strand Mews, Strand 7140

South Africa

Copyright @ Pieter Haasbroek (2024)

Online Store: https://panther-ebooks.com

Website: https://www.softcoverbooks.co.za

SUMMARY

Scary Western Short Stories brings to life a haunting collection of eerie, thrilling tales set in the desolate and lawless landscapes of the Wild West. Crafted by artificial intelligence, this anthology of 14 unique stories transports readers to ghost towns, cursed canyons, and desolate mountain trails where the supernatural collides with the grit and solitude of frontier life.

From The Haunting of Bitter Ridge, where a drifter encounters the chilling remnants of an abandoned mining town and its ancient curse, to The Blood Moon of Blackthorn Canyon, where the legendary blood-red moon brings malevolent spirits back to life, each tale unearths the terrors hidden within the shadows of the Old West. In The Devil’s Brand, a mysterious mark spells doom for those who bear it, while ThePhantom Rider introduces a ghostly cowboy who exacts vengeance on the wicked.

In The Hangman’s Noose, the gallows hold a dark power over the townsfolk, and The Cursed Canyon is a place few dare to venture, for the souls who enter often do not return. Every story combines rich, atmospheric detail with gripping suspense, weaving together a landscape of spectral gunfighters, ominous legends, and malevolent spirits.

This collection is perfect for fans of western lore and supernatural horror alike, inviting readers into a world where courage is tested, and the line between the living and the dead is perilously thin.

EXTRACT

Before Jack could respond, the air in the church seemed to shift, growing colder, heavier. A low, rumbling sound echoed through the ruins, like the growl of some ancient beast awakening from its slumber.

Cain’s eyes widened in terror, and he scrambled backward, pressing himself against the wall of the confessional. “It’s him!” he cried. “He’s here!”

The rumbling grew louder, the very walls of the church trembling with the force of it. Jack spun around, his gun raised, just as the ground beneath his feet began to shake.

From the shadows at the far end of the church, a figure emerged, a man, dressed in the tattered remnants of a preacher’s robe, his face hidden in the darkness. But there was something wrong about the way he moved, something unnatural. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if he were dragging himself up from the depths of the earth.

As the figure drew closer, Jack’s grip tightened on his revolver. The man’s face was a twisted mask of rage, his eyes burning with an unholy fire. His skin was blackened and cracked, as if he had been burned alive, and the stench of charred flesh clung to him like a shroud.

“Preacher,” Jack said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his insides. “You’re dead.”

The preacher’s eyes locked onto Jack, and he smiled, a hideous, ghastly smile that sent a chill down Jack’s spine. “Dead?” the preacher rasped, his voice like the crackle of burning wood. “No, I’m not dead… not yet. Not until I’ve cleansed this town of its sins.”

He raised one hand, and the ground beneath Jack’s feet erupted in flames. Jack stumbled back, barely avoiding the inferno that sprang up where he had been standing. The fire spread quickly, devouring the church with a hunger that seemed almost sentient.

1. THE HAUNTING OF BITTER RIDGE

The sun was setting over the jagged peaks of Bitter Ridge, casting long, eerie shadows across the barren landscape. The town of Deadstone lay nestled in the valley below, a small cluster of weathered buildings huddled together like frightened children. The wind howled through the narrow streets, lifting dust and tumbleweeds that skittered across the ground like restless spirits.

Deadstone was a town with a past. Once a bustling mining settlement, it had long since fallen into decay. The veins of silver that had drawn men from far and wide had run dry, leaving behind nothing but empty promises and broken dreams. Those who could, left. Those who couldn’t, stayed, trapped by the isolation of the mountains and the weight of unspoken fears.

Rumors had always swirled around Deadstone, whispers of strange happenings, of shadows moving where no light should be, of voices carried on the wind when no one was near. But these were just tales, the townsfolk said, stories to keep children from wandering too far into the dark. That’s what they told themselves, anyway.

Jacob “Red” O’Hare was new to Deadstone. A drifter by nature, he had wandered into town with little more than a dusty hat, a weathered duster, and a Colt revolver strapped to his hip. He was looking for work, but more than that, he was looking for something to dull the memories of the things he had seen, the things he had done. War had left its scars, and Red carried them with him like an invisible shroud.

The only place still open in Deadstone was the Bitter Ridge Saloon, its faded sign creaking in the wind. Red pushed through the batwing doors and was met with the smell of stale beer, tobacco, and despair. The few patrons inside glanced at him with hollow eyes before returning to their drinks. The piano in the corner was silent, its keys yellowed and cracked.

Red approached the bar, where a grizzled old man was polishing a glass that would never be clean. “Whiskey,” Red said, tossing a few coins onto the counter.

The bartender poured the drink and slid it over, his eyes narrowing as he took in the newcomer. “You just passing through, stranger?”

“Maybe,” Red replied, taking a sip of the amber liquid. It burned going down, but that was the point.

“You might want to keep it that way,” the bartender said, his voice low. “This ain’t a place for the living.”

Red raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

The old man leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Strange things happen in Deadstone. You’ve heard the stories, I’m sure.”

Red shrugged. “I’ve heard plenty of stories. Don’t believe in most of ’em.”

The bartender shook his head. “This ain’t like the others. There’s something out there in the mountains. Something old. Something evil.”

Red said nothing, but he felt a chill creep down his spine. He had seen enough to know that evil was very real, and it didn’t always wear a human face.

As if sensing his thoughts, the bartender continued. “Folks say it’s the spirits of the miners who died up in those hills, looking for silver. They dug too deep, disturbed something that should’ve been left alone.”

“What kind of something?” Red asked, his voice steady despite the unease building in his chest.

The bartender looked around the empty saloon as if fearing someone might overhear. “They say it’s a curse. A darkness that consumes everything it touches. Men go up into those mountains, but they don’t come back the same, if they come back at all.”

Red drained his glass and set it down. “Maybe I’ll have a look for myself.”

The bartender’s eyes widened. “Don’t be a fool, stranger. Whatever’s up there, it ain’t something you can fight with a gun.”

Red stood, adjusting his hat. “Maybe not. But I’ve got nothing left to lose.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the saloon, leaving the bartender shaking his head in silent warning.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the night was closing in fast. Red made his way through the town, the buildings looming like silent sentinels in the darkness. He had no plan, no real direction, but something in him was drawn to the mountains, to the promise of danger, to the chance to confront whatever haunted this cursed place.

As he left Deadstone behind, the wind picked up, moaning through the narrow canyons like a chorus of the damned. The trail leading up to Bitter Ridge was narrow and treacherous, the path lined with jagged rocks and twisted, gnarled trees. Red’s horse, a stubborn mare named Dusty, snorted nervously as they ascended, her ears twitching at every sound.

“Easy, girl,” Red muttered, patting her neck. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched.

The higher they climbed, the colder it grew. The moon, pale and full, hung low in the sky, casting an otherworldly light over the landscape. Shadows danced in the corners of Red’s vision, but every time he turned to look, there was nothing there.

After what felt like hours, they reached the entrance to an old mine. The wooden supports were rotting, and the entrance yawned like the mouth of some great beast, eager to swallow them whole. Dusty refused to go any further, and Red couldn’t blame her. He dismounted, tying her reins to a nearby tree.

“Stay here,” he said softly. “I won’t be long.”

Dusty nickered nervously but didn’t move as Red approached the mine. He paused at the entrance, listening. The wind had died down, and the night was eerily silent. He drew his revolver and stepped inside.

The darkness closed in around him, thick and suffocating. Red struck a match and lit the lantern he had brought, the flame flickering weakly against the oppressive gloom. The air inside the mine was cold and damp, and it smelled of earth and decay.

He moved deeper into the mine, the lantern casting long, twisted shadows on the walls. The tunnel sloped downward, the wooden beams creaking ominously overhead. Red’s footsteps echoed in the silence, the only sound in the suffocating dark.

After a few minutes, he came to a fork in the tunnel. Both paths stretched into blackness, equally foreboding. He chose the left path, guided by nothing more than instinct. The further he went, the more the air seemed to thrum with a strange energy, a feeling of wrongness that made his skin crawl.

Then he heard it, a faint whisper, just on the edge of hearing. Red stopped, straining to listen. The whisper came again, louder this time, echoing off the walls of the tunnel. It was a voice, soft and sibilant, but he couldn’t make out the words.

“Who’s there?” Red called out, his voice sounding small in the vast darkness.

The whispering stopped, replaced by a low, rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep within the earth. The ground beneath Red’s feet trembled, and he staggered, catching himself against the wall.

Suddenly, the lantern flickered and went out, plunging him into complete darkness. Red cursed, fumbling for another match, but his hands were shaking, and he dropped the box.

The whispering started again, louder this time, and Red could finally make out the words. “Leave… leave… leave…”

Red’s heart pounded in his chest as he backed away, the whispers growing more insistent, more menacing. He turned and started to run, but the tunnel seemed to stretch on forever, the walls closing in around him.

Then, without warning, something cold and clammy grabbed his ankle. Red cried out, stumbling and falling to the ground. He kicked out, but whatever had hold of him was strong, pulling him back into the darkness.

He reached for his revolver, but the cold fingers wrapped around his wrist, yanking the gun from his grasp. Panic surged through him as he struggled against the invisible force, but it was no use. He was being dragged deeper into the mine, into the very bowels of the earth.

The whispering grew louder, a cacophony of voices now, all chanting the same word: “Leave… leave… leave…”

But it was too late. Red felt the ground give way beneath him, and he was falling, plummeting into the abyss. The darkness swallowed him whole, and the last thing he heard before he hit the bottom was a voice, clear and cold, whispering in his ear.

“Welcome home.”

The sun rose over Deadstone, but the town remained shrouded in shadow. Dusty stood where Red had left her, her eyes wide and fearful. She neighed softly, as if calling for her master, but there was no answer.

In the mountains above, the entrance to the old mine had collapsed, sealing whatever lay within. The wind howled through the canyons, carrying with it the faintest echo of a whisper, lost to time and the cursed earth.

Deadstone would soon be forgotten, another ghost town lost to history. But the curse of Bitter Ridge would remain, waiting for the next fool to wander into its grasp, drawn by the promise of silver and the allure of the unknown.

And the darkness would welcome them, as it had welcomed Red, with open arms.

THE END

2. THE BLOOD MOON OF BLACKTHORN CANYON

The town of Blackthorn sat on the edge of the vast, unforgiving desert, surrounded by rugged canyons and jagged peaks. It was a place where only the hardiest of souls could survive, where the relentless sun baked the earth by day, and the cold, merciless winds swept through at night. Blackthorn was a town with a history, a place where legends and nightmares were woven into the fabric of everyday life.