The Comb

A story by Theresa Derwin

Sarah was my bestie.

We’d grown up together, played games together, played jokes on each other, played jokes on our big sisters.

At Hallowe’en, every year as far back as I can remember, Sarah’s parents held a party for us at the house with the green door.

I was fourteen and Sarah was twelve the year we saw her.

I followed my sister, Trisha, into the back garden. Sarah and her family were stoking the campfire they’d built as our sisters wrapped us up in our plastic witch costumes, pinning our pointed black hats to our hair.

“Go on!” Sarah yelled, and I spun around the roaring fire, dipping behind large orange flames.

Huffing out a breath, I stumbled, stopping near the old wooden table laden with cakes, pumpkin pie, and homemade lemonade.

“Dad, can we do the apple bobbing now?” Sarah asked, face flush with excitement.
We were having a blast, ignoring our family, eventually collapsing in a heap by the old, lurid green back door.

It smelled of mildew.

Sarah’s parents owned two houses, but they only opened this one once a year—at Hallowe’en.

I didn’t know why, though I know that house always gave me the heeby jeebies. And it wasn’t just me; Sarah’s family never lived in that second house and it was always empty.
Apart from the voices.

I thought I could hear those voices now, whispering in my ear, “Come on-”

“Come on,” Sarah said, grasping my hand and standing up, “let’s explore.”

“I don’t know,” I whined, more than a little afraid.

“Come on,” Sarah pleaded this time, and I relented.

The heavy green door groaned as it opened onto a dusty hallway—old, cracked tiles on the floor echoing fear with every footstep.

The smell made us gag: mold, cat wee, and…something else.

It almost smelled like rotten eggs.

And it was cold.

More than cold.

A chill breeze played with my long hair, like fingers twirling it, and in the breeze I could hear a voice whisper “yessss,” a sibilant plea. It seemed to slither between my shoulder blades.

I shuddered as we walked through the long corridor, dodging cobwebs, the otherwise silent house…eerie.

Then Sarah began to sing, voice lilting, rising along with the crackle of the flames we could still hear from outside.

“She dances round the fire,

The flames are leaping higher

Her comb, it dances too,

Its sights are set on you.”

I spun around, gasping. “Where’d ya learn that?”

“Sive taught it to me,” Sarah said and then she laughed, making ants crawl up my spine.

“Don’t know her,” I mumbled, then, “Who is she?”

“Shh, come on.”

Sarah headed up the old staircase, floorboards creaking underneath us as we climbed, each footstep sounding a death knell. I could’ve sworn I heard her say, “She’s calling us.”

When I reached the top I stopped to catch my breath, cold air escaping from my lips in a cloud, like when it snowed outside.

It was too cold.

“Dad used to tell us creepy stories about the banshees in Ireland,” I told her, delaying the moment we went farther. “Women who combed their hair and counted; one, two, three, and on, until they reached a hundred.”

And when they reached that number, they would throw the comb with a blood-curdling scream.

I shuddered as Sarah led the way to the back bedroom, opening the door like a tomb opening in a graveyard.

And whoever the comb was aimed at…next morning, they’d be dead.

I trembled at the memory of it, even as Sarah continued to sing, her hushed voice reminding me of those legends.

“Who is she, then?” I asked. The ash from the earlier fire coiled in my throat—a snake tightening its grasp.

Sarah stopped too, and looked at me with a mischievous, secretive smile.

“You can’t tell,” she breathed.

“Promise,” I answered, leaning in closer to her, thinking of all the secrets we shared.

“Okay,” she said, glancing furtively left and right, “That woman in the window told me.”

“What?” I asked.

Sarah smiles eerily, and I wondered if she were just trying to spook me.

Then we heard it.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The thudding of my heart drowned out all other sound.

Sarah was grinning.

With a horrible cackle, the girl I’d once thought of as my best friend raised her arm, pointing at that darkened window and the shadow woman in grey rags who stood there.

Slowly, her movements awkward, the woman turned round to look at us.

Heart still thumping in my chest, I stared at her, frozen in my fear, watched as the shadow walked towards us, gaining substance, a gnarled, wooden comb held in one pale hand. Her stringy, dark hair obscured her features as she pushed the comb through it.

“She dances round the fire,” whispered Sarah’s voice behind me.

Pure terror clawed at my insides, turning them cold, as I watched the skeletal hand raise the comb up high.

Dead eyes, black as oil, stared straight at me.

Her putrid mouth opened wide and she let loose a high-pitched screech, high enough to shatter glass.

I couldn’t move.

This was it—I could feel it in my bones. I was about to die, and my best friend had led me here with a smile on her face.

I watched, frozen with fear, as she threw the comb…

***

First there was a black fog.

Then nothing.

The next moment I was standing looking out of the back bedroom window, watching my sister in the garden with Sarah and her family.

And another figure, that had drifted away into the night.

I was cold as death.

Before I knew it, I took the gnarled wooden comb that had found its way to my hand, brushing my tangled hair.

And started to sing.

---

Originally published in Shallow Waters Vol.3 by Crystal Lake Publishing

---

If you’d like to have your publication listed here, send an email to hwa.uk25@gmail.com by the 20th of each month!

Contact: hwa.uk25@gmail.com

BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/did:plc:qb6uolwf3rsy4d257x4jrcx4

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/477038289165780

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCrpmCmbxTBj3HZi8og91Y7Q

Copyright © 2026 Horror Writers Association UK Chapter. All rights reserved.

Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support our work.