If you want to write something, but don't have the time, effort, or energy to write something long, just post whatever short story you've written here. Other than that, standard forum rules apply. (If your story doesn't appeal to the faint of heart, spoiler it, please.)
It was late at night, deep in the woods. Twisted, leafless trees stood, their branches like arms, desperately grasping for something out of reach. The snow was thick, up to the waist in places, but a path was clear. Through the snow, and the cold, Mark found the cabin. The exterior was scorched, the wood blackened and cracked by heat and erosion, yet he paid the appearance no mind. He walked up to the door, and stepped inside, gagging at the smell of burnt flesh. The smell was horrible, yet it did not distract him from his thoughts. Because Mark knew it was fake.
This cabin had burned down years ago. And yet, the ashes were still warm, here, in the middle of winter. Stepping around the creaking wood that remained of the floor, Mark managed to find a staircase. It was old, worn and covered in splinters, a layer of ash blackening the wood, making it appear clad in shadow. Mark tested his weight against the stairs, finding them stable. Cautiously, he ascended, sidestepping puddles of melted snow.
"Why am I even here?" He spoke to himself, unnerved at the silence that responded, before brushing off that thought. He had something to do. Stumbling blindly through the darkness, Mark managed to reach a door. It was warm to the touch, even warmer than the house itself. He pushed open the door, and found a blank room, the charred wooden walls doing nothing to help the atmosphere of the place. Blank, except for the old book on the charred table. Sighing, Mark took the book and started reading.
Day five the book somberly read, I just finished putting together this old hut. Damn my wife, damn those kids, damn the government for taking everything. At least I kept my old ax, and at least I knew how to build a house. Damn layabouts, all of the others. I guess I will live here until I can afford a real house.
Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Nobody knew anyone who lived here. Nobody went near here, however. Nobody but him. He normally liked the silence, but now, the hair on the back of his neck was straight, almost as if it were electrified. Mark scratched his jaw nervously, but continued reading.
Day six: Found something while digging a latrine. Old stone slab of some type. Currently working the dirt off of it. It's been buried for a long time, by the looks of it.
Mark continued reading, shifting his weight against the sturdiest looking wall in the room. "Wait," he muttered, "why is this book not burned? Everything else in this house is." Mark tried to distract himself from that oddity by continuing to read, vowing to read this book, and never return.
Day twelve: Sorry about the lack of entries, but nothing happened up until now. Figured out that slab thing. Written in English. Guess I'll copy what I read onto this. Must've been some bunch of cultists out here at one point. Anyway, the slab read as follows: 'The Charred One awaits atop his throne of burning flesh, screaming in agony it should no longer feel. While it has no nerves, skin, or bone, it can feel them all burning and rotting within it. It screams in pain, for scream is all it can do. Scream, and burn.' Creepy.
Day thirteen: Got some kind of weird rash on my leg, it itches, and is bright red. Water seems to calm it, at least a little bit. Nothing I can do but hope it fades, fast.
Mark continued to read, fascinated, not even caring that the house he was in shouldn't be standing. Not after all the time it spent, burnt, exposed to decay and exposure.
Day fifteen: The rash hasn't spread, but I'm running low on water. There's a stream nearby, but it's getting harder and harder to walk for the water I need to treat it. The pain grows worse every day, and I need colder and colder water to stop the burning.
Day seventeen: I can no longer treat this rash with water. There's too little of it left. I'm going to power through the pain, and get some more supplies. I hope my old rifle still works.
Day nineteen: The gun is jammed, and I don't have the tools to clean it. Nor the knowledge, anyhow. Foraging for berries will get me to winter, but after that, I'm out of luck.
Day twenty: The rash has spread across my entire leg. It burns. It burns really bad. I can't walk anymore.
Day twenty-two: I'm hearing whispers in my head. Loneliness has given me some friends in my brain, apparently. The rash is deep red, or black in the spots it hurts most. Whatever it is, it ain't right.
Day twenty-four: The rash is mostly black, and this skin is falling off. It hurts so bad now. It hurts. It burns it burns it burns.
Day thirty: It burnsitburnsitburns I smell smoke. I can't escape.
Day thirty-three: There wasn't a fire, but I smell smoke constantly now. It burns worse than ever before. I'm barely able to write, the pain is so bad.
Day thirty-five: I am out of food, and water's going in a few days at best. It burns. So bad. The rash is over my stomach, back, and my entire lower body is black. The burning never stops. I can't sleep, it hurts too much.
Day thirty-seven: Water's almost out. Rash has spread to my neck. Legs no longer have skin, just blackened muscle.
Day thirty-eight: I can't see anymore. Rash got to my eyes. It burns. It really, really burns.
Day forty?: Water's gone. Food's gone. I feel heat in what's left of my skin. I think this is it. The burning is terrible.
DAY ONE: IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS IT BURNS HELP ME. HELP. HELP.
Mark put the journal down, and started to run, hearing the screaming, gibbering voice of an old man, feeling flashes of intense heat. His arm twisted at an unnatural angle, as it it was trying to force itself off of him. He screamed in pain, and ran, deeper into the woods...