The Tiny House

Flash Fiction by

Jaime Bree (Architect) & Mathew Gostelow (Haunter)

This piece is the product of our Tiny Hauntings pop-up sub call. First, we asked you to become Architects, creating stunning, spooky, spine-chilling settings. Next, we gathered Haunters and unleashed them into our favorite Architect-designed landscapes. The results are to die for.


They said the dares got out of hand. Mickey survived a chicken-dash across the tracks—the train’s wake tugging dangerously at his clothes. So he got to set a challenge for Chris.


“The tiny house. Stay inside for an hour.”


They said the tiny house was sick within. Everyone knew it—anachronistic among vast, high-rise blocks. A stubborn, derelict echo of the past. No-one understood how or why it had survived.


Beneath a blinking streetlight, the boys stood. The front door was bricked up long ago, but a ground floor window gaped black.


“Go on then.”


Mickey shoved him. Pride overcame fear and Chris crossed the dirt yard, scrambling inside. Ancient carpet coughed dust. Downstairs was desolate. Filth and mold. He climbed creaking steps, entering what was once a bedroom.


Grime obscured the only window, casting gloom across brown and orange patterned wall–paper torn and faded. The room was bare, just a worn leather armchair, set facing a small picture, centred on the wall. The frame was pristine— a stark white contrast to the dull and dated room. It contained an empty canvas–painting long since faded, perhaps never there at all.


The chair wheezed as Chris sat to view the picture–not actually blank, he realised now. Stains, dark marks, becoming more pronounced–like a polaroid developing. Deep-set eyes, thin lips. A face. Familiar. Chris gasped, recognising his own features peering down.

He was paralyzed as the canvas ballooned outward, stretching impossibly–something terrible pressing into the room, mouth yawning hungrily.


Mickey heard screams and bolted. Days later, when police came looking for Chris, he told them about the dare.


They said the body in the tiny house was found without a face– skin sheared away, bare bone picked clean. They said the picture frame was empty still.

Mathew Gostelow is a dad, husband, and author, living in Birmingham, UK. His CV is a chaotic patchwork quilt including journalism, pheasant farming, catering, and marketing. His taste in art, music, film, and literature is equally eclectic, although he tends to gravitate towards anything with a creepy, dreamy aesthetic. If you catch him staring intently into the middle distance, he will either be thinking about Twin Peaks or cooked breakfasts. Some mornings he wakes early and writes strange tales. He has published two collections: a book of speculative short stories called See My Breath Dance Ghostly (Alien Buddha Press) and Connections, a flash fiction chapbook (Naked Cat Publishing). Mat was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2022 and Best of the Net in 2023. You can find him on Twitter: @MatGost

Jaime Bree's love of writing grew during her time at Cambridge University while studying a B.Ed in Drama. Whist her day job sees her successfully writing and directing stage productions for children, at night, her other writing life concentrates on sci-fi, fantasy and some darker themes. She surprises herself sometimes where her characters take her and loves how deeply involved she can get in creating the visuals for new worlds. Losing yourself is a must. Her handle across socials is @jaim_ee_bree.

Previous
Previous

Missing

Next
Next

Racing the Jinn