Eric Ross: Blog

In Part 2 of The Harrow Testament, the house begins to show its teeth—though not with screams or blood. This is the kind of haunting that slides beneath your skin: a glance that lingers too long, a mural that pulses when no one’s watching, the sudden thud of your own heart when nothing should feel erotic at all.

We stay with Clara in this chapter. Quiet, observant Clara—forever taking notes while others speak more loudly. But the house doesn’t care how softly you move. The house sees what’s beneath.

Fear becomes desire in a place like this. Not because the fear is pleasant, but because it strips away everything that keeps us safe: pretense, politeness, restraint. Clara doesn’t want to want Dylan. But once the frescoes begin to shift—bodies tangled, painted lips parted in impossible pleasure—she can’t pretend she doesn’t feel it. The house knows. It remembers everything.

And the frescoes? They’re more than decoration. They are mirrors of the soul, of longing, of shame turned inside out. They change depending on who’s looking. They tempt. They accuse. They invite.

This chapter is quiet, intimate, charged with tension. Nothing explodes. But something unlocks. A door opens. A body leans too close. A hand lingers.

The haunting has begun.

If you’re just joining, start at the Prologue and Part 1.

If you’ve made it this far, you already know:

It’s not just a haunted house story.

It’s a confession.

And the house remembers everything.

—Eric

Every ghost story starts with a bad idea.

In The Harrow Testament, five friends dare each other to spend Halloween night in an abandoned mansion. Not just any mansion—Harrow House, the kind of place that clings to the edges of local legend and lingers in the childhood part of your brain that still believes doors can whisper. They bring flashlights, bravado, and more emotional baggage than anyone’s willing to admit.

What they don’t expect is the house to want something back.

So here it is:
* A haunted house with a mind of its own
* Friends with secrets they’d rather not face
* Paintings that breathe, mirrors that remember
* And a slow descent into something they might not come back from

The prologue and the first chapter are live.

Enter if you dare. And if you enjoy it, let me know—ghosts aren’t the only ones who feed on attention.

—Eric

I’ve been a StoriesOnline member since June 2013, but I didn’t start writing until April of this year. I’d wanted to write since I was a teenager, but a busy career kept pushing it aside. Now that I’m retired — nearly fifty years later — I’m finally getting the chance to "dip my quill into the ink".

For the past seven months, I’ve been writing stories with the help of AI and publishing them here. Yes, the AI is a shortcut, but it's also as a tool that helps me think differently and write more. Somewhere in that process, I’ve found a voice that feels like mine.

The stories vary. Some are funny, some are dark. I love absurdity, but I also write in a gothic vein. I’m especially interested in the intersection of religious language, thought, and prejudice with modern ideas about sexuality — how those old frameworks still shape desire, guilt, and transformation.

And truthfully, some of those early stories were awful. I didn't understand so many elements of writing. I just wanted to do it. So, it has taken time to find a rhythm — to learn what works and what doesn’t.

The story I’m about to post tomorrow — The Harrow Testament — is one I’ve been working on since early August. I originally wrote it for the SOL Halloween contest but later realized the rules excluded AI-assisted writing. Fair enough. I’m still proud of this one, and I’ll be posting it to the main stream rather than the contest.

I hope you’ll read it for what it is — a story. Not a debate about tools or technology, just something I’ve worked hard at to make it worth your time.

My best,

Eric

Lawrence—now Ren—has survived humiliation and risk. That leaves the third lesson in Ambassador Whiskers’ Curriculum of Desire: surrender.

After his toga-and-duct-tape debut, our reluctant disciple is thrust into a new trial—this time in a nightclub called Sanctuary, where basslines replace sermons and the dress code is “nothing to hide.” Under Whiskers’ dubious mentorship (and sartorial advice involving mesh), Ren meets Marina, a woman whose calm authority makes defiance impossible and surrender inevitable.

This chapter is where rhythm becomes ritual. What begins as a dance lesson turns into something deeper—part erotic initiation, part emotional unbinding. Through Marina’s command, Ren learns that surrender isn’t weakness; it’s a kind of trust. And, of course, Whiskers is there to offer philosophical commentary between purrs and insults.

You can read it here: Chapter 5: Marina and the Art of Surrender

By now the pattern should be clear: humiliation breaks him, risk exposes him, surrender remakes him. But Whiskers isn’t done yet—and neither, thankfully, is Ren.

— Eric

P.S. Ambassador Whiskers declares that comments are a form of devotion. Offer one, lest your courage be found wanting.

This one started with a simple idea—the old classroom trope: two students, too much tension (they are studying Lady Chatterly's Lover, after all), and not enough restraint. I wrote several drafts, always in third person, always at a distance. But I wanted something more intimate, more atmospheric. Second person turned out to be the key. It let the reader inhabit the seat, the stillness, and the slow burn of the story.

There were a few different endings along the way—some obvious, some explicit—but I liked the tension of this one best. The unfinished edge felt truer to the moment.

Have a hankering to revisit college when a pretty co-ed sits next to you? Then I hope you enjoy The Body as Text.

Eric

P.S. The margin, aka comments, are open. Leave your note there; I’ll be reading between the lines.