/r/Dragneel
Hi! This is my sub where I post my short stories I write.
Hi! This is my sub where I post my short stories I write.
I mostly write for /r/evilbuildings and occasionally for /r/writingprompts or just because. Sometimes I draw and I might post that here too.
CC is always welcome! If you have any ideas/prompt/anything, PM me or leave a comment!
Redbubble <--- mostly old stuff
/r/Dragneel
She remembers how her brother always used to tell her how she really didn’t need to take that many clothes with her every time they went somewhere on vacation. She never listened to him, and now is no exception.
The suitcase finally closes, though it took her sitting on it with all her weight. Jumping off the suitcase, she lets out an exhausted sigh and picks up the paper she jotted down the address on. Well, it’s not exactly an address, it’s more of a general direction.
Three days ago, her cousin had called her for the first time in about ten years. She’d never heard him so enthusiastic – granted, she never saw or heard from him much at all these days – as when he explained he’d booked a vacation and he wanted her to join him.
“But why me?” she’d asked him, incredulous and slightly suspicious.
“Well, most of my friends are too busy or already on vacation. Plus, I haven’t seen you in ages! I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to catch up.”
She is regretting her decision to go with him now, still not entirely sure what he’s up to. She gave him the benefit of the doubt then, not willing to pass up on a free vacation upstate.
The drive takes her about five hours, one of which are spent figuring out if this really is the right way, seeing as the road is getting rockier and stopped being paved in several miles now.
At arrival – the place looked exactly like the grainy picture he’d sent her earlier – she is shocked, to say the least. A red light emanates from inside of the dusty, old cabin. A small group of people is standing in a circle just in front of it, swaying from left to right, chanting something ominous-sounding.
The person to break the circle is her cousin. He’s down a good twenty pounds since she last saw him a few years ago, and he has circles around his eyes. Nonetheless, he looks happy to see her, and she returns his smile and hug. When they release each other, she takes him in one more time – notices he’s dressed in ripped, drapy fabric in various earth toned colors. She also crinkles her nose at his smell, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Welcome!” he greets her, “You’re just in time for the Bible burning!”
She puts a hand on her chest, taken aback. She’s never been a devout Christian, but the cross hanging from her necklace hadn’t left her neck in decades either. “I’m sorry, what?”
He notices the cross around her neck, and it’s his turn to grimace. “Ah, right. Yeah, we’re not exactly lovers of Christ here, you see? I mean, you don’t have to give up everything since this is just a little getaway. You didn’t sign up for anything so you’re not bound to anything either. I just- it’s a good time, and I wanted you to experience this too.”
Maybe it’s the fire that looks strangely inviting and cozy, or the atmospheric red lights, or the starry sky that calms her down. Maybe it’s her cousin that just wants to share something with her. Whatever the reason, she goes with it.
“Could you remove it?” she asks softly, pointing to her necklace. Her cousin’s face lights up, and she turns around and holds her hair up so that he can take off her necklace. She puts it in her car.
“So, what else is there to do around here?” she inquires. He puts a hand on her back, guiding her to the circle of people smiling at her. She feels welcome. “Well, after the Bible burning, we usually toast some marshmellows and make s’mores over the fire…”
Her ears were still ringing. She wondered if it was the adrenaline or the sound of an unsilenced pistol going off next to her.
"I'm not seeing any hits!" she shouted over the sound of shots being fired and their old car struggling to outrun the police on a pothole-ridden highway.
"Then stop swerving, for Christ's sake!" he yelled back at her.
"You wanna get fucking shot, then? I'm evading their bullets, asshole!" She put her foot even harder down on the gas, even though the pedal was already down as far as it would go. Her grip on the wheel tightened, making her knuckles turn white.
He sat back down in his seat and reloaded. "Take a left up ahead," he ordered her. She nodded in response.
"We wouldn't be in this shit if you'd disabled the beacon correctly," she spat.
"I'm not a fucking mechanic, okay? Be glad it lasted as long as it did. We got the money, and if you continue to be this ungrateful, I'll cut your share."
"I'll throw you out the goddamn car if you do that."
He huffed out a laugh as she made a sharp left. She saw the cop cars struggling to keep up. She knew this area like the back of her hand, even the shady alleyways - especially the shady alleyways.
"Aren't we supposed to be like Bonnie and Clyde? How 'bout you show a little more appreciation, huh?" Grinning like a madman, he squeezed her thigh. If she wasn't focused on not getting the two of them killed right now, she'd surely smack that grin right off of his miserable face.
"If we get out of this, please remind me to break your nose."
From this thread: https://www.reddit.com/r/evilbuildings/comments/69yyw4/that_feeling_of_dread_when_you_think_you_finished
[From this /r/WritingPrompts and /r/evilbuildings thread]
The horns towered over the skyline of the city, its neon animated flames looking flat-out cheap. Was this really the right address? Had to be, the ridiculous offer matched the look of the building.
Taking a deep breath and figuring, to hell with it, he set foot inside the building.
The first thing he noticed was that it was hot as hell inside. He wasn’t even inside for ten minutes and he already started to sweat out of his suit. He loosened his tie, slicked his gelled hair back once more and trudged along through the thick wall of heat.
“I have an appointment with Ms. Faire?” He asked the secretary, who looked up at him with a face that words couldn’t describe. One could call it boredom or apathy, but somehow it managed to ascend even that.
“Mister Tan, I suppose? Ms. Faire is waiting for you on the top floor.” she forced a smile so fake even the Queen of England seemed like a giddy child at an amusement park compared to the woman in front of him.
He nodded shortly, noticing how she didn’t mind the searing heat at all. “Did someone turn on the heat here?”
“On the contrary, it’s actually fairly chilly here,” she commented, expression unrelenting. He left it at that and wished her a nice day and walked to the elevator.
The heat went as quickly as it came, and he selected level 10 on the panel in the elevator, the number lighting up in a bright red, matching the carpeting in the small space.
Just before the doors closed, a man marched into the elevator, carrying boxes that looked so heavy, they might as well have been carrying stones. He set them down with a loud thud before selecting level 4. The doors closed and both men went up in silence.
On the fourth level, the man picked the boxes back up and all but ran into the office space. An important-looking man started yelling at him to bring the files to him immediately, telling him time was money. The doors closed quickly again.
On the way to the top level, Sam Tan wondered how this massive building could only have ten levels. The ceilings weren’t that high, either.
He soon found out why, however, as the metal doors opened and revealed a huge space, reaching more than ten meters up, converging into sharp points. Light didn’t reach the upper parts of the ceilings but
Victorian chandeliers made sure at least the bottom four meters were well-lit.
“Bloody hell,” Sam muttered to himself, slicking his hair back with his sweaty hands one last time, “it’s even hotter here.”
Feeling as if he were a pizza in an oven, he approached another secretary, sitting at a desk in front of stately dark-wooden doors.
“Ms. Faire will see you now,” the secretary told him without even looking him in the face, her face just as indifferent as the other’s.
He muttered a thank you and pushed the heavy doors open. A pentagonal-shaped office stretched out in front of him, a velvety red carpet in the shape of a star decorating the tar-black floor which seemed to radiate heat.
At the far end of the big office space, a broad desk stood with a tall chair made of black leather behind it.
Just looking at the leather made him sweat even more.
The heat was becoming unbearable. What even is this hell hole?
The chair turned around, revealing a dainty-looking businesswoman sitting in it, looking as if she owned the world.
She stood up, revealing her full height – which wasn’t very impressive at five-foot-four at best. A small, pale hand with perfectly manicured black nails was stuck out to him, and he shook it firmly. He had no choice, her grip on his hand was nearly bone-shattering.
“Lucy Faire, nice to meet you,” she drawled, her voice low but still feminine. Her blindingly blonde hair made her tan complex look even more prominent. Her eyes were what caught him off-guard, though.
She blinked a few times, her aggressively yellowish-green eyes looking into his, awaiting an answer.
“Sam Tan, nice to meet you too.”
She seemed satisfied and nodded at the chair, which was completely dwarfed by the size of hers, suggesting he sat down.
“It seems there is a misunderstanding,” she started. “There must have been a typo on your website, as it stated your name was Sa Tan, not Sam Tan.” She considered it for a second, but then continued. “No matter. Let’s get straight to it – I need your help.”
Already having forgotten the stupid typo he must’ve made on his LinkedIn account, he frowned in confusion. “Me specifically? Why?”
She shook her head, the blonde locks swishing from side-to-side. Really, she wasn’t ugly in the least, but she was unattractive in a way an authoritarian figure can be, more intimidating than anything else.
“Well, your help in particular would be greatly appreciated, but I meant it more in the general sense – I need help from humanity. Living humans, to be specific. I have no use for the condemned souls in the lower layers.” She heaved a sigh one could almost call sympathetic. Instead, to Sam, it looked more like a mother apologizing to her naughty child’s teacher. I’m terribly sorry, Jimmy just can’t seem to behave himself.
“Excuse me?” He asked, confused even more by her weird manner of speech.
“Alright. Look. I’m Satan, if my name wasn’t a big indicator already. I heard humans weren’t big on the whole name symbolism thing. That they’re terribly simple about it, naming their children Nevaeh and stuff like that. I figured, might as well stick to an easily decipherable name.” She rubbed her temples, but continued, Sam not daring to interject.
“In any case, I saw on your profile that you have a Master’s degree in Business?” she looked him in the eye.
“I do,” Sam said, suddenly sounding very sure of himself. He had been without a job for two years now, he’d get a goddamn job now even if he had to go through hell and back for it.
“Great. Although my sources are a tad outdated, I’ve been told that humanity thinks of businesspeople as, and excuse my phrasing, scum and unreliable. Slimy and cheap despite having piles of Benjamins at home, do you get what I mean?”
Honestly, Sam was taken aback. He was even somewhat offended. “Where and when did you get this information?”
“I’m terrible at names, but I think I spoke to a nice politician in Moscow, back in the sixties. He kept going on and on about America and capitalism and it being the worst things in existence, how it’d be the downfall of humanity. Something like that.” She shrugged at her own answer, looking like a naïve child, not aware of what it’d just said.
Sam sighed and it was his turn to rub his temples. “Look, that’s not true-“
“Is it not? Then I believe we’re finished here.”
Sam’s heart was in his throat, suddenly remembering the poor state of his apartment and his perpetual unemployment. “Hold on. I guess some of them are like that, yeah.”
“Really?” Ms. Faire leaned in closer. “And you are one of those? To help me corrupt and bring down humanity?”
Sam waited for a second before asking: “How much was the pay again?”
From this /r/evilbuildings thread
A man looks twice before crossing the street.
He knows better than to walk without looking both ways, he was taught to look every way possible – behind him, if needed. It did cause a nasty crick in his neck, though.
The first prophet was Abraham, who was prepared to kill his own son for his Lord.
The second was Jesus, who was prepared to die for his people.
The third was Muhammed, who was prepared to go to war for his faith.
The fourth one is prepared to hide his people, protect them at all costs.
Meetings in his honor are not a regular occurrence; his followers are only summoned sporadically, always through the most inconspicuous ways. Paper must be burned, words about him may only be uttered in the most trusted company and preferably not at all. Signs of faith were not accepted; jewelry, public prayer, not even the sound of his name need be spoken or the traitor will disappear. Not like the others, who disappear on a regular basis and then reappear without anyone batting an eye. No, nobody will ever see them again, all for the sake of the Sacred Secret.
The clattering of the mailbox. A man picks up the tan letter, reads its contents once, twice, thrice to be sure, and then lights a fire in his fireplace. He watches the paper burn, every letter turning into ashes.
He keeps throwing wood on the fire to make sure even the ashes turn to ashes.
Several chimneys bellow smoke that July night. Nobody dares say anything about it. If you speak, you may be accused of being a follower and be beaten, abandoned, banished, killed or simply disappear.
A man tells his neighbor he will go on a short vacation to the countryside. Stress is the reason for his sudden trip, he explains. He asks of the woman next to him to water his plants and to feed his cat. She obliges and does not dare ask anything else.
The next morning, before the crack of dawn, a sedan starts, its only occupant a devoted follower of an unknown faith. He drives it far into the countryside, to the expected meeting point.
He leaves his car in the middle of the wilderness and walks the last twenty miles, not paying attention to the soles of his feet hurting or the thirst tugging at his dried-out tongue.
Just before dusk, three days after the start of his trip from home, he arrives at the spot and clears his throat.
An incantation under his breath as well as a deep bow is all that’s needed before a small, black-wooden church seemingly appears out of thin air. They welcome him. His faith is undeniable.
The meeting begins, and the holy construction evaporates once more.
From this /r/WritingPrompts thread
The statues were depicted as guards, but this part of the city was no longer guarded – thieves, assassins and every other kind of criminal used this entrance as its door to the city. The government had seemed to forgotten about it, or simply didn’t care. Either way, it made sure everyone who needed to get in unseen would be able to without much of a problem.
But today, no smalltime thief dare cross the bridge and enter the city, for the bridge is off-limits. The two most important and feared crime lords – the leader of the assassination band named the Snakes, and the head of the prison and its weaponry - stood opposite of each other. Quite the ominous sight, any citizen would agree, and it only became sketchier as time went on, their argument becoming fairly heated.
Nobody knew if they were simply discussing business or something bigger – a coup d’etat, possibly? A grand assassination? A collaboration between the two or reopened wounds from the past?
The town’s church sounded ten times. The gates were to close soon, but the discussion was nowhere near its end. The sun had had enough of it and had been setting for the past half hour, coloring the sky a vibrant pink and nightly blue, such a contrast to the brown-greyish colors of the town and its inhabitants.
When the final bell rang, meaning the gates were closing, two of the Snakes leader’s closest henchmen approached, the first who dared to do so since the two leaders had come together on the bridge.
Their conversation was cut short as one of the hooded men whispered something into the leader’s ear, and shortly after that, the men shook hands and parted ways.
A deal was closed. None but the men on the bridge knew. Another city would fall tonight.
From this /r/WritingPrompts thread
The leaves crackled under their boots as they circled the perimeter of their Führer’s house. The job they’d been assigned was one they carried with pride: defend the house of Adolf Hitler himself. The three soldiers that were up to it were all cheered on by their family and friends, and they left for his summer estate in the mountains with nothing but glee and pride to serve the Führer himself.
In the week they’d been doing their job, they’d all become good pals. Eva Braun had called them the Three Musketeers and the Führer had agreed, laughing.
Now they marched around through the fresh grass and the few falling leaves – the first sign of fall coming. They didn’t like to think about it. End of summer meant end of job and back to defending much less interesting places or even being put in the front lines. They hoped it wouldn’t come to that and their history of serving Hitler directly would put them in a favorable spot in the SS.
Hans heard footsteps coming his way and when he turned around, rifle aimed, he saw the small but sturdy Erik turn the corner in a hurry. He looked positively comedic running; his slightly oversized uniform, too big in length but too small around the arms. He was short, only 165cm where both Hans and
Anton were well over 180cm, but he made up for it by strength and military excellence. He’d proven himself at the start of the war in Poland and now he was working for the Führer. He was the hero between the three of them.
“I heard footsteps but I don’t have my rifle with me,” he whispered so loudly Hans was sure the entire Alps heard.
“I can’t believe you,” Hans whispered back, tired of Erik’s forgetfulness. He left his stuff everywhere and nowhere, even his rifle.
Hans followed Erik to the source of the footsteps. “Fräulein Braun and Herr Hitler are inside, yes?” he asked.
Erik nodded, his cap shifting on his buzzcut head.
Meanwhile, Anton had caught wind of the tumult and had joined their silent investigation of the footsteps. Some musketeers, they were.
“I don’t see or hear anything,” Hans sighed and stood up straight. Erik must’ve been smelling the wrong flowers again.
When he heard rustling right behind the three of them, however, Hans’s reflexes stepped in and he swung the butt of his rifle the sound’s way.
Shock filled the three of them. Nobody uttered a word, especially not unconscious Eva Braun, laying in the damp grass, sporting a nasty bump on her head.
“I can’t believe you, du verdammt Arschloch,” Erik cursed, shooting Hans a nasty look.
From this /r/evilbuildings thread
He could barely see anything through the thick fog. Or maybe it was smog. Nobody really knew the difference anymore.
Through the haziness, the horizontal lights caught the crew’s eye. The Arch approached.
“Capt’n!” one crew member yelled, his voice hoarse. “The N’s in sight!”
The Arch, also known as the N because of the building’s resemblance to the lowercased letter, was the center of New York’s – and the modern world’s – trade economy. The bright lights represented the American successes, the arch form the cycle of success the US would never escape. We were simply the greatest, the best. Nobody could ever beat us.
“I do believe it’s time for a good ol’ heist, boys,” the captain responded, emerging from his office just below deck. When he spoke, the seas around him quieted, just like his subordinates. He treated them with respect, thus he was met with the same. Mutiny had never even been a topic of discussion; nobody wanted to serve anyone else, ever.
“Boy, I can smell their filthy expensive perfume from here,” another crew member complained, though his wide-mouthed grin gave away his excitement. His rotting teeth and foul breath, in turn, gave away his poor hygiene.
“Better plug up that big nose of yours, then,” another cackled.
“Men, quiet down,” the captain ordered. “We’re nearing the Arch. Assume your positions.”
The light of the building reached the boat completely. Several shabby-looking men and women were now in full sight. Their captain, a grey and wrinkly black man, stood tall despite his old age. He still wore the same confident expression, just as he did in his glory days. Now the time came to reclaim those.
“Tonight, we’ll trump their hateful reign and re-establish the Barracks in New York.”
From this /r/evilbuildings thread
Amy recognized the number when her phone rang. It was grandma.
“Hi grandma,” she greeted her cheerfully. She’d wanted to call anyway.
“Hello dear,” a croaky voice sounded from the other side of the line. Her voice betrayed her lifelong smoking addiction, and she could almost smell the cigarette smell through the phone. “I have great news!”
“What is it?”
“I clicked a thing on the internet that said I was visited number 666, and I won a vacation to a surprise destination!” Amy decided to hear her grandmother out before breaking the news to her. “I’m even allowed to bring another person. Wouldn’t it be fun if the two of us went? It’s just for a weekend. I’m sure it’s not far.”
Her grandma sounded so happy with the fake offer she almost couldn’t tell her. But she still did.
“Grandma, it’s not real. Those advertisements are all over the internet, they want your money and don’t give you anything in return. Surely you didn’t give your credit card number?” If she had, she probably wouldn’t be able to get it back. She was reasonably tech-savvy, but she figured the people making these ads wouldn’t let go of their money so easily.
“Oh but I did, and the lovely gentleman that phoned me said he would give us a warm welcome.” Her grandmother recited the address given, and it struck her as unusual. It sounded familiar, but not in a good way. A strange feeling in her belly told her this wasn’t a simple scam.
“Could you give me his phone number?” she asked, suddenly feeling irritated. Her grandma complied and Amy promised to call her back once she’d called the man.
She dialed in the absurdly long number (she didn’t recognize the land code either, but didn’t think to look it up) and after just two rings, someone picked up.
“Yeah, hi, who is this?” she inquired before even stating her own name and reason for calling.
“How did you get this number?” The voice on the other side sent chills down Amy’s spine. It sounded male, but then again it didn’t even sound completely human. It was more a string of bass-like noises she somehow understood than an actual voice.
She had to compose herself before she could answer. “I, uh..” she’d lost her train of thought entirely. It wasn’t just the voice, either – she could feel his – its – presence through the receiver.
She was sure that if she were to explain it to anyone, they’d never believe her. “My grandmother gave me your number. She claimed to have won a vacation and gave her credentials to you.”
“Ah, of course! You must be her granddaughter, am I correct?” the voice immediately lightened up, his mood seemingly changed from distrustful to warm and welcoming. Her mind told her not to fall for it, but every nerve in her body said to go for it.
“Yes, that’s me. I.. was just making sure the address was correct? And at which time will you be expecting us?” She was even smiling to herself as she asked him.
He repeated the address. It was correct. “We’ll expect you as soon as possible. When would that be?”
She’d already started up her laptop and searched for the address on Maps. It wasn’t too far away, but strangely enough, Amy’d never heard of the place before, even though she’d lived in the area her entire life. She didn’t think too much of it.
“I’ll pack my bag and pick up my grandmother tomorrow. I’ve a week off anyway. We’ll be there tomorrow at around eleven in the morning?”
“Sounds great. We have a big party tomorrow, no way in Hell you’d want to miss it!” Without any further goodbyes, the strange man hung up.
The next morning, Amy and her grandmother drove out of town to the address. They didn’t know what to expect, but Amy’s bad gut feeling had returned as soon as she’d hung up the phone. She wouldn’t back down, though – not as long as her grandmother’s money was still in some weirdo’s hands.
When they neared the address, less and less houses started appearing and the skies turned a gloomy grey. Just when Amy was about to comment on the incorrect weather forecast, she was cut off by a sinkhole in the ground she’d overlooked.
The fall seemed to take hours, even though she was sure it hadn’t even lasted seconds. When she felt her small car hit the bottom, she opened her eyes to assess the damage.
There wasn't any.
Her grandmother looked at her like she’d seen a ghost – the car didn’t have a scratch on it, and neither did its two passengers.
The two women looked in front of them to see a demon bare its teeth in a crooked grin. It had curly horns coming out of its deformed skull and its skin was a deep burgundy to match the warm flames all around them. Amy recognized the figure despite never having seen it before: it was Satan himself.
“A very warm welcome for my two guests,” Satan drawled to nobody in particular. It had been him on the phone the day before. “For you are number 666 to have accepted my invitation.”
A second of silence passed before Satan snapped his pointy-nailed fingers and a very small demon came running to the car to help Amy’s grandmother open the door and walk.
“Thank you dear,” she all but cooed at the small devil, who returned her smile.
“If you’d join me in the main hall, I think Dante’s just about done setting up his DJ booth,” Satan commented and beckoned the two to join his party.
From this /r/WritingPrompts thread
Stories about children running to their parents, claiming they saw a shooting star in the sky had become about as believable as their stories about their ghost or leprechaun-sightings. The parents would laugh and tell them to “go to bed, sweetie”.
But as you grew up, if you still made the same claims, you were no laughing matter anymore. People would tell you to grow up already, focus on life down here, not up there, where there’s nothing anyway.
At least, that’s what everyone told them, the Starstruck. A cult-like group with members scattered over the globe, defiantly believing in the existence of stars and universes outside of the Earth. The extreme ones would worship any sign of their existence. Their holy ground were old ruins from ancient civilizations that had drawn constellations on walls and maps.
Of course, theories of stars, planets, universes even, had been disproved long ago. Nonetheless, the Starstruck were having none of it, ignoring modern science altogether and continuing to worship the empty heavens.
Their leader, though there were several lower-ranked ones all over the world, was absolute. He was the great-great-grandson of a famous astronomer back in the day, and the stories have been passed on to him. Since he was a child, he was obsessed with the idea of space travel and skies full of flickering lights to illuminate the skies.
His reputation was not the best, as one could imagine. Being a cult leader doesn’t usually make people like you very much. He’d been arrested several times for trying to break into power plants and other military or government buildings. This time, he had no intentions of getting caught.
There’d been no news on him for years now, and the world had started to believe he’d given up on his cult, on the ridiculous belief of thousands, millions of lights, tiny jewels, floating above our heads.
In fact, he was working on something.
Throughout the years, he’d instructed his followers to break down power plants, plunging small towns into darkness. More often than not, the towns would convert to his belief. Every human with even a shred of common sense was sure they’d become Starstruck through threats and other ways of conversion by the older members.
But tonight, New York would be their target. One of their final destinations.
At ten in the evening, the leader himself had shut down the power plant that would power most of the city, leaving it in total darkness.
After the initial panic, an eerie silence fell over the city as people flooded into the streets, the necks craned, faces turned to the sky.
Before their eyes, as promised, millions of lights, shining bright like well-polished jewelry.
For the first time in several centuries, New York saw the universe.
From this /r/evilbuildings thread
"I'm not sure we can arrange a bridge that high..." the architect trailed off, afraid of the Emperor's reaction.
"Just build higher! That's all there is to it!" The Emperor rose from his richly decorated throne. "My people deserve it, I have not done anything for them for a decade. I am ashamed of myself."
The architect looked around, as if searching for words. "I... I'm not really sure about that." A beat of silence before he gave in. "I'm sure we can arrange something."
The old man's face lit up and bowed deeply. The architect didn't know how to respond to an Emperor bowing to him, so he just smiled meekly and bowed a little himself.
"So," the architect started and took out his notepad. "Do you have any ideas? Favorite color? Symbolism, your favorite animal? I'm just spitballing here."
Merely seven months later, the Emperor arranged a visit to the construction site. The bridge was almost done, and he wanted to witness the final touches.
"Ah, there you are!" he called out to the architect he hadn't seen in half a year. He had bags under his eyes now, and his posture sagged a bit. Nonetheless, he smiled at the sight of the old ruler, dressed in his most pristene outfit.
"The opening should be at New Years, sir," he told the Emperor the good news.
"Perfect! You have worked hard, my people will be grateful for their new, state of the art bridge."
And so, three weeks later, on New Year's Eve, the Emperor returned to face his people. Thousands upon thousands of peasants came to witness the opening.
As the Emperor skidded his eyes across the public with a big smile on his face, his words echoed over the square in front of the bridge.
"I declare The Sparking Dragon Bridge now open to all. Happy New Year."
Somewhere in the crowd, the architect cheered along with the people, remembering their conversation from eight months ago.
"I'd lost my most precious plushy when I was nine, you see," the Emperor had admitted with a sullen expression. "I'd like to honor him, my Sparky."
The architect had smiled in endearment at the honesty of it all. "I'm sure we can make just that happen."
From the /r/evilbuildings thread
You've been wandering in the swamp all night and are surprised you made it ‘til morning. Faintly in the distance, you begin to hear banjo music. You start to shout for help, running towards the music. As you approach closer and lay eyes on this property, that nice banjo music stops playing.
The silence of the swamp surrounds you again as the noise dies down. Along with the stopping of the banjo, the fauna also quiets down, as if listening to what will happen next.
Every cell in your body is telling you to turn around, that whatever may lay inside is simply not worth it. Yet you decide against your instinct in favor of checking out the old, abandoned house.
The creaking of the porch startles you as you step on it, such a sudden, loud noise against the deadly silent nature. The house, which is looking taller now you’re looking at it up close, seems to settle.
The air is damp, which is barely surprising once you notice how much moss and other greenery has made its way through the windows and floorboards. The building even feels alive because of the floral intruders.
Suddenly, you hear quick, light, almost bird-like steps above you, and the ceiling creaks a song once more. You take a deep breath, inhaling the old, musty air, and climb the incredibly tall set of stairs. A pair of chicken feet greet you once you arrive on the top floor, only they seem oversized to you. You look up, right into a pair of scheming, wrinkly eyes. You almost fall back down the stairs in surprise, but manage to stay upright.
You stammer something along the lines of how sorry you are for intruding, but she doesn’t listen to you and instead rattles off in a Slavic-sounding language you don’t understand. After a few seconds, the chicken-woman catches on to your language deficiency, and tries again in heavily accented English. Her voice is possibly even croakier-sounding than the flimsy house you find yourself in, but you understand her nonetheless. She offers you soup and a warm bath, both of which you accept happily.
The soup tastes earthy but warms your cold and hungry stomach so you can’t complain. The bath – which turns out to be an old, wooden barrel – is boiling and you don’t get the chance to wonder how she could’ve gotten you hot water before she encourages you to jump in.
When you are up and dressed again, you thank her for her hospitality and she smiles, her wrinkly face nearly folding in two.
You step outside but open the wrong door, and step into a closet instead. Countless bones come at you. Mostly legs and arms, but also some skulls come tumbling out and your stomach drops. Her chicken feet tap against the floorboards as you hear her coming towards you from behind, while you stay rooted in place, completely paralyzed.
She says something in the Slavic language you can’t understand, and then it all goes dark.
From the /r/evilbuildings post
The slums were expanding fast, and every worker that was put on the job of removing them, ended up in the slums themselves. “Five million as of today,” the sheikh’s assistant informed him with an expression that could only be read as ‘I so don’t want to be here right now’. “How are they multiplying that fast?” the sheikh inquired, actually morbidly curious.
“Should I get the royal mathematician or…?” the assistant sighed as he pointed his thumb to the door.
“No, it’s fine. We need to get rid of those filthy slums, that’s all I want.” He stroked his short beard as he thought. The assistant hadn’t a clue of what he could’ve been thinking. He wondered if the man ever thought about something properly at all.
“Bring in all the engineers and architects and useful people you can find. Surely they have some ideas.”
The assistant pinched the bridge of his nose. “Give me two days,” he said, resigned.
One and a half day later, four-hundred (give or take) people gathered in a neat queue before the sheikh.
“Name, occupation and idea,” the assistant droned, not even caring to look at the man in front of him.
Aziz Ashraf, mechanical engineer. We could…. Make our immigration policy stricter, make sure the slums don’t expand more, at least.”
The sheikh shrugged, uninterested. “Tried and tested. Not working. Next.”
The man left the room and another took his place.
Every single idea got rejected by the bored ruler. Nothing was good, expensive, nor grand enough for his liking. The assistant was nearing the end of his rope, too.
“Name, occupation, idea.”
“Muhammed Shadid, pyrotechnician. I’m not really sure, but I could get some fog machines. Out of sight, out of mind, right?” The man dared to let out a nervous laugh. The assistant couldn’t believe it. Of all the stupid ideas he’d heard, this one took the cake.
The sheikh didn’t answer immediately. The assistant turned his head to look at him only to face a man interested in the ludicrous idea.
“Son, write that down.”
The assistant cursed to himself as he penned down the idea.