• Non-Fiction

• Written by me RemiliaSuzerain AKA Ryder

• Title: A Moment of Darkness

• Need: I tend to take moments of my life and write them down then destroy it and turn it into a scene in a story. This is a rough scene with a single character as the main one stuck in their head. It feels rambly to me but I do not know if that is a plus or a minus or where to even begin editing.

Covered in a seemingly thin down comforter that did little to remove the bite of winter that permeated the room, she found that the greatest warmth was only within her tight chest that tensed with anxious feelings.

The contrast was strange, even to her. It almost radiated warmth up to her ears, adding the the pressure building in her skull as numb sinuses vrrmed unseen under her flesh. The hold of an anxiety attack, also known as a panic attack, is as distinct as a fingerprint. Slight variations but the source is one and the same.

Still, the feel of it whilst overloaded with hormones? A throbbing mess of pain, chills, and emotions just waiting to be let loose upon the world. A failure to recognize ones thoughts and actions tends to settle in. Reactively driven, every thing is set to reflexively act giving time for no thought and leaving room only for emotions.

So she sat still, eyes lazily wandering the texture of the paneled walls as her mind attempted to gather the events that had just transpired. Finding no reasoning behind it, her depression snuck it's metallic fingers in to grab ahold of her gut. Turning from panicked apologies in her head, to numb tears as her feelings turn towards acceptance of her fate.

A fate she felt she deserved. One would think that her fate thus was to end her life 'early' so to speak. One would be wrong. In this instance fate was to live knowing that she was everything wrong with the world and that she would never love another without also harming them soon after. So she would live. Doing whatever necessary to survive countless years until her loves all move on then slip silently into obscurity, only then giving in to the darkest temptation of all.

Strange, that her life goals would be death.

Strange, that even now when naming death her mind flickers to life. To the possibility of carrying a life, their life. To give their love a spark of life to cherish and raise hopefully together. Sacrificing the need to inject masculinity into her torso and instead keep fertile for this one…possibility. This one maybe that said love knows nothing about. For forever has been ripped from their shared vocabulary and replaced with terror.

For this glimmer of hope, he would remain she. Mentally degrading herself, whilst wishing she could rip out her ovaries herself in one final act of defiance. Choosing instead to let the thoughts pass and settle into numb existence as what should have been a productive day becomes wasted time and opportunity.

This, was solely a moment. A single slice of the eternity that is this particular life of hers. So filled with so much yet only a scoche of what life, eternity, had to offer. Thank you, for your time.

So I have this concept for a story idea about a man who is obsessed with making sure that the doors are always locked. This is kinda based on me, I have OCD and one of the thing that I tend to do is worry that I didn't lock the door. I could be pulling out of the driveway and then there is this urge to make sure I lock the doors to my house. Even when I know that I did, I still feel compel to make sure. I wonder how I could make this into a horror short story. Any suggestion would help out a lot.

If I touched her, my hand might pass right through. She stood with her back to me, her slight figure stirring only occasionally, dancing in my peripherals: a tilt of the neck here, a yawn here, the rolling motion of her wrist as she stirred the contents of the pot. I placed my hand instead in the spot she had just vacated, the couch still indented from her weight. "Oh," she was calling, over her shoulder. "I'm going out tonight. Amanda and I are.." Her voice drifted like a current, struck my ear, dissolved and merged with the noise of the gas burner hissing, the television, the clinking of ice in my glass as I gulped my rye. My head was filling with familiar warmth. I was all of a sudden groggy, a bitter taste that had nothing to do with alcohol filling my mouth. "....I might not be back until tomorrow morning, Mara's place is of course so much closer to the office than mine.." Her voice came back, faded out, as if through a bad FM signal. They were all lies, of course, and even now I was dully impressed by her coolness. She lobbed her lies as easily as she twirled the spoon through the soup. Moving mushrooms, weaving stories. "Maybe you should stay home tonight." The words tumbled clumsily from my lips. She froze, stole a glance at me. Missed a beat. Then: "Oh, Michael, you know, I've already promised the girls, it would be a real shame because..." I gritted my teeth, crunched ice between my molars. "...and you know, reservations were so difficult to come by..." Blood was in my mouth. I swallowed. "Okay?" She was facing me now, giving me a half-smile. She was wearing more makeup than I was accustomed to. She looked like an impostor, a pale replication, all scarlet lips and heavily lidded eyes. "Right. Of course," I managed, bile lurching. "I suppose I'll get around to these movies." I gestured pathetically at the rented DVDs scattered on the coffee table. She gave me another smile, a simpering twist of her lips. "Right." She was gathering her things, chirping meaningless details at me, whipping her coat around her shoulders. There was a greasy peck on my lips that I barely registered, a jangling of keys, the door slammed, and I was alone. Only the acrid smell of food burning made me realize the crackling sound I was hearing wasn't in my head. She had left the stove on. Turning it off, I felt at my waistband, gripping the heavy weight that sat there. The pistol had been a cheap thing, a hurried purchase conducted by a shifty eyed fellow with needle marks peppering his sinewy arms. But it would do. I spit into the blackened pot. Watched it sizzle. It would do.

Natalie did not like sugar in her coffee. She hated the sound of gum popping and the sound of forks clinking against plates. She hated the smell of cigarettes and consumed a single glass of red or white wine with her meals, depending. She liked the feeling of the pages in a new book. She liked slices of french bread with a lump of brown sugar and cinnamon, topped with a dab of warm butter. She would recite these things when prompted, and I could just as easily chant along. At first it was cute, these quirks of hers that I constructed my life around. At first she was amused by my failed attempts at pacifying her, my bumbling, "carefree" nature. "Such a dreamer," she would grin, smoothing my hair, buttoning a missing button. And as is apt to do, the novelty wore off.

Natalie also likes men in suits. Large, broad shouldered, strong jawed men with cheeks spattered with stubble, marching along clutching briefcases and portfolios, barking on cellphones. She liked lunches at places with unpronounceable names, dangling perfectly manicured toes out of the windows of luxury vehicles, shopping at places where doe-eyed girls waited on her hand and foot. "A little loose around the waist," they would murmur. Or: "Oh, but that looks perfect, miss," they would coo.

These are things that I found out later, too late. These were all of the things that I had failed to provide her in our three year long relationship. Then He had come, and instead of snapped retorts over breakfast, denials of sex during the late hours, she was simply not there. The nights alone did not confirm her absence. It was in the vacancy of her eyes, the chipped ice settling atop her words, the determined distance she placed between us. She maneuvered deftly around me, acknowledging me only with exasperated sighs or "not today's."

Now, I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Lit another cigarette, not bothering to roll the window down, letting the smoke sting my eyes and fill my nostrils. The gun rested against my hip, seductive.

501 Edvan Lane. 502 Edvan Lane. 503 Edvan Lane. 504 Edvan Lane.

I turned my lights off and rolled to a stop. I wondered what she was doing in 505 Edvan Lane. Was she cooking again? Was she trailing a finger down His chest, was she sliding a spaghetti strap down her shoulder? Were they laying together, watching one of her many favorites that I had rented, that lay back at the apartment: Casablanca, The Godfather, Sleepless in Seattle? Nausea filled my stomach and I uttered a low moan, staggering out of the car. It was raining now, and wasn't that perfect..? Cliche, fitting? Me lurching to the door, burping now, saliva spilling out of the corners of my mouth, the taste of blood again, half deranged and wholly pathetic. Reaching for the doorknob, it giving way easily, stupid, all too perfect, all too easy, all too fitting. A dimly lit foyer, the smell of incense, even in my feverish state taking in the beautiful furnishings of this home. Muffled noises, I rounded the corner, a livingroom lit by a single candle. Natalie sitting with her arms around a large figure, rubbing his perfectly formed bicep. Her mouth forming a perfect O as she saw me, dripping rain, saliva, snot, tears, fumbling for the gun at my waistband, finding it, pointing it in her direction. The sound of thunder, deafening, roaring in my ears, screaming from all directions. Pain as the gun leapt in my hand as if possessed and whipped me in my mouth. I dropped it. Searing pain. Screaming. I was screaming too. I fell to my knees as if I were the one shot, as if I were the one with my head split, the fatty ooze of brains spilling from a scarlet hole, and not Him. Heavy footsteps rumbling down the steps, I could hear Natalie calling a name; whether it was mine was indistinguishable. Now I lay with my face in the carpet, and the sickness that had threatened to come all night finally poured out of me, I was blinded by my own vomit. There was another scream, this time the word was clear, agonized. "DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN?" A man's voice. "Call 911, call 911..." "Someone's shot my husband, someone's shot my husband..." "Dan, Dan, Dan," "...came in and shot my husband!" I rolled to a sitting position with my back against the wall, comprehension dawning on me. I found the pistol, my old friend, my only friend. A small-framed man clutching the cellphone with a crimson-stained hand, beating on the unmoving chest of him, repeating the same words over and over: "shot my husband my husband my husband." Natalie staring at me with her hands over her mouth, her makeup running now, the color drained from her face, and now I remembered my biggest flaw. What was that word she had called me, furiously hissing it at me as if the word itself were diseased? Homphobic. Of course, of course. Her presence was filling the room now, or was it the sirens...? There was nothing to do but laugh. I lifted the gun once more. Tasted the barrel. It was hot. This time, I didn't hear the thunder, saw only the blinding flash of lightening.

in my world your fate is decided by an arbitrary assignment of three letters. Upper or lower case. No spaces. Exceptions allowed.

Rules upon rules dictate the interactions that constitute our lives. I before E, except after C. V and W are one and the same, K trades as well, when the SEA shifts the blame. Rules and more rules, abound, they weigh so heavily, they weigh me to ground. tHIS and thESE, and many, many, more, there's an endless list, if you dare to explore.

What I need are the keys, to capture your interest, the combinations that alone will be able to win trust. What I need are

This is a blog I started earlier this month as a creative outlet for my dark side. I am clinically borderline schizophrenic and apart of my therapy I write creepy stories and analogies of things going on in my life. One day I would like to pull all of my work together and maybe self publish a book of short stories. Most of them are creepy but not all of them are. I figure you would all still enjoy it :D.

http://dragonbunnysoul.blogspot.com/

I have had this idea for a novel for a while now and wrote a bit. But I have decided to redo the first page and post it on Reddit. I would appreciate constructive criticism and opinions on it. It is called Lucidity (working title).

I open my eyes to a dark gray landscape with an orange tint. The only light source is of a swirling tower of fire in the sky. The only sound I hear is the sound of the giant fire in the sky. Oddly it sounds as if it is located relatively close to me though. My initial thought was of the giant fire illuminating the world. It was placed at the bottom of my vision. It is partially cut off by the horizon toward the direction of my feet.

Then it hits me. I can feel pain coursing throughout all of my body. I put my hand on my head sub-consciously because my head is killing me. As I go to lay my hand back on the ground I notice the red glint off of my hand. I had come across blood. I lay there for what seemed like forever but the pain did not subside so I decided I have to find some assistance for my injuries.

I prop myself up on my elbows to start to get up. All I see is a road seemingly going forever in front of me and I am laying in the middle of it. The landscape around me seems to be made up of a dark grey stone, with no visible cracks in sight. I achieve in standing up eventually to take in my surroundings. The only thing of note is a road sign just out of reading distance behind the direction I was laying. I decided to walk toward it and read it to get a bearing on my location.

When I reach the sign the only word on it is, "Nowhere". There is no mile marker or any other information contained on it. It is really useless in going nowhere so I decide to embark in the other direction on the road. After what has seemed like an hour of walking the fire in the sky has started to dim and become smaller. Another half hour in and it is completely gone. Leaving me in darkness with barely enough of a blue tinted light coming from an unknown source to only see the road immediately in front of me. Now I can only think of how I have not seen a car pass on this road yet.

After what had to have been another hour of walking I see a dot of light that is distant but in directly in front of me. It must be on the road. It takes me a couple hours to get close to this light. It seems to be a town. Still no cars though.

I get closer to this town, I would call it more of a village now that I see it up close though. There is a couple street lamps lining the road. All the "houses" are more of just ram shackles. This town resembles more of a Hooverville than any town I have ever seen. There was one thing that seemed like the elephant in the room here. A big, green, two story building that read "hotel" on the side. This thing must have had over 100 windows just on the two sides I can see. I decide to try and get help there.

Well, it is that time of the year again. One of my favorites :) Scary movies all day and everyone in a mood to be scared. Myself included. So in the theme of this subreddit I propose than anyone who is interested submit a first draft of some dark story they are working on and workshop it throughout the month. If you are interested in participating place a story up and get feedback and submit new drafts as often as you would like. I'll be placing a story up here later, probably a day or two. Looking forward to hearing what you all think :)

Voices…

This ring had been given to her as a betrothal, a promissory of marriage by her one love. The ring once belonged to his great grandmother. He told her of the stories of its history, and how his great grandmother, and grandmother had both gone insane several years after being married and wearing the ring. He didn't put such stock in such superstitions, and was quite determined to break this silly family story. I happy accepted and wore the ring to help support the story was quite silly and should be paid no heed.

I was a pretty lass of 21 when this occurred, and I was the daughter of an esteemed lawyer, and my mother descended from aristocracy. My beau, when he proposed, was in his last year to study medicine, and had already been accepted by an acquaintance of my father as a partner in his practice. Our lives were to be perfect, a reflection in the stories of living happily ever after that father read to me as a child.

My days now were spent in planning of a wedding that was to come in early fall. It was at this time, that I began to hear the small whispers. At first, I didn't notice them. it sounded like a light breeze in my ear, and sometimes what sounded like a disconnected word. I attributed them to pre-wedding jitters and nerves associated with all the details.

Often times, when I felt the most nervous, I would set out for a walk around the grounds of my home. I would look at this ring I was given, twisting it around my finger, noting that it seemed to fit perfectly upon my finger, even more perfectly than when it had first been put on me. It seemed to sparkle a little brighter, its gold more lustrous. I would hear an occasional word, sometimes 2 or 3, as if they floated on the wind. I shook them off as my own thoughts, out of place in confusing and sometimes overwhelming events happening around me. As the weeks went by, the date of the wedding was becoming ever closer, we practiced the ceremony. As we practiced walking down the aisle, I was told that to get over the jitters, to repeat to myself 'just a few more steps'. This would make it ever so easy! Just a few more steps!

Each day approaching that fateful, seemed not to settle my fears, but to expound them. The only solace and peace I would find were my walks in my parents’ garden. The whispers I heard were becoming clearer. I could hear the voice. It was quiet, but peaceful, and in my tranquil spot amongst the flowers, I would respond. The voice I thought was my own, I would softly respond back to me. However, the voice did little to change my fears. It almost seemed to leave me with a calmed terror. It would whisper to me things, very strange things. They told me stories that I thought my silly brain had made up based on the stories I had been told about this ring. Stories about how great-gramma and grandmother had been committed, because they seemed to be talking to themselves. Very silly. My imagination will get away from me at times!

The months turned to weeks, and then to the 5 days before. I had been spending more time alone, only helping with the preparation when I was absolutely needed. These silly stories I kept hearing were getting clearer, and more intense. I was hearing more of what they were telling me to do, and where I must go, that I must leave this place. I began to be scared by this. The ring that I wore, now was fitting too tightly on my finger, and it would not move from its place, no matter what I tried.

Each morning, I would awake, not to silence, but to the voices. 2 of them, very clearly, telling me what I was to do. How I could help them, and myself. They told me of their anguish of the years they were held against their will, talking to what appeared to be themselves, but what was a voice that seemed to whisper to them on the wind. It had consumed them, and they could not hear anything else but the voice that would talk to them, at all times of the day and night, nary letting them sleep at times. It would consume them entirely until they went mad from sleep deprivation and the voices continuously speaking to them.

I tried in vain to remove the ring. It was biting into my flesh, and I could barely touch it, for it would cause me severe pain if I did. The voices were talking all the time, almost screaming in my ears as the wind of a storm would howl through the trees. I couldn't block it out. There was only one thing to do to stop this torment. If I did not stop this, I would end up like them.

I awoke early the day before the wedding. The voices still with me, but now calm. They knew me. They knew what I would do. They knew by now, I had no choice.

I began to glide downstairs, feeling contentment pouring from me with every step. I knew this was the right thing to do.

As I moved outside, I felt joy in my heart. I walked down to the pond by the edge of the garden, feeling complete ecstasy.

I walked out into the water, with the voices in my head repeating 'just a few more steps... just a few more steps'...

until I had walked far enough that all the voices, including my own, were silent.

also posted on my blog: http://inchesfromdeath.blogspot.com/2011/09/voices.html

The wedding ring was just a bit out of his reach, the white gold surface glowing the reflection of the flames besides them, he could see it clearly, the round circle with the small smidge of diamond on the top, less than an inch away from his reach, less than an inch away from the tip of his fingernails.

She was still lurking in the background, her feet scratching the wooden surface, scritch and scritch as she dragged herself across the room.

If only his eyes weren’t half-blinded by the dried blood, he could probably see her shape in the reflection of the ring.

She must have been looking for him, but his scent was now blocked by the smoke that the fire around them produced, and since her eyes had already been gouged out, he was pretty sure that she wouldn’t notice him if he just kept his mouth silent.

She had the most beautiful smile when he met her, when they first met in person in that circus event of speed dating, where each single got to spend ten minutes with each single of the opposite sex, switching and circling around like a game of musical chair until everybody got to meet everybody.

But he really didn’t need to meet anybody else. She was it. She was the one that he wanted. The warmest smile that sparkled her eyes with each curve, her cheeks rosy as if she was out on a sunny Spring day.

He asked her out right there, right as they let them go meet whoever they wanted.

‘And I still love her’ was what went through his mind, over and over again, even as he almost grunted out of pain as he stretched his fingers even further, his legs screaming loudly with pain under the heavy wooden beam that had fallen on him, when the roof started catching on fire and everything started collapsing to hell, knocking him out until just a few seconds ago, when his eyes finally started making sense of the shapes and colors around him again.

She was still wearing her white wedding dress, the head veil still covering gracefully her blood-dried hair, still waving whenever a change in the air was caused by the raging flames. She turned her head quickly towards his direction when he accidentally let out a light groan from his lips.

He held his breath, his eyes wide open and staring at her, hoping that she’ll look away soon.

He remembered when he proposed to her, and she accepted, and how happy and perfect their future seemed to be. How he kissed her and promised her the world, the universe and life itself. And how when they were at the chapel, and she walked so perfectly, so beautifully down the aisle, he felt his heart beat and pump as he thought ‘just a few more steps’, he felt his eyes bright up and his smile widen as he thought ‘just a few more steps’.

And she almost made those steps.

The wedding ring seemed to stare at him now with its bright diamond, the waves of the flames reflected tiny and almost insignificant in its small surface. He saw that she was still staring at his direction, even though that light groan that escaped under his breath was done minutes ago, minutes that seemed like hours ago.

It was at this point that he remembered what the witch doctor said, the one that he didn’t even trust in the first place, when he warned him about the dangers of reviving his dead wife.

Yes, that’s right. She did die.

He had to remind himself of it again as he saw the figure shuffle her feet to turn around, to face her entire body towards his direction, to slowly, and almost painfully, turn her entire self towards him.

She had heard him, and in her darkness without eyes, she was going to take that little hint that he could be there, in that direction that she heard the faint noise from, the only human noise that she had heard in the roar of the growing flames.

And as she slowly shuffled her feet towards him, scratching the floor over and over again as she advanced, he was reminded of the day of their wedding, of the day when she walked down the aisle, in that same wedding dress that she was in right now, in those same shoes that she was shuffling down the floor.

He was reminded of when she collapsed.

She fell, right there on their wedding day, and never woke up.

The doctors said that it was an artery or vein that popped in her brain, that it was something that they nobody would have predicted.

They threw at him with a bunch of medical mumbo jumbos, they explained to him with a bunch of non-sense terms that he didn’t care about.

They told him that there was nothing else they could do. That she was dead.

That she was never coming back.

The ring was almost within his reach, and since he didn’t have to restrict himself anymore, since he didn’t have to keep quiet anymore, he pulled and strained his trapped legs, pulling it so much that he just couldn’t stop the roaring scream that came out of the pain.

He could see that she knew for sure know, he could see that this was the last try, that if he didn’t get the ring now, he never would, and they would both end up like this, the killer and the killed, without ever having proof of the connection again.

He should have listened to the witch doctor that came to her funeral.

He should have listened to all the warnings and directions that he had given him before he performed the ritual that brought her to life.

He should have, but he didn’t.

If he had just listened, she wouldn’t have turned into this tortured soul trapped in a dead body, she wouldn’t have screamed in anger for him having brought her back from the bliss of the afterlife.

If he had just listened, she wouldn’t have tried to choke him to death, she wouldn’t have held onto his throat so hard that he just couldn’t get her off of him, that he just had to push her eyes in and poke them deep, so deep that he could feel the eyeballs burst and the liquid slime pour all down his hands and wrists.

If he had just listened, she wouldn’t have screamed in so much pain that made the whole world seemed to shake.

And it was too late then, he couldn’t do anything anymore, as she flung him against the candles, as she swung her arms wildly as the couches and the curtains caught on fire, as the carpet started to fuel the flames up the wooden walls and beams of the cabin.

If he had woken up from the hit earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have seen the roof burn itself up into a sea of flames, collapsing beams and wooden planks into the cabin itself.

There was now only the thoughts of ‘if’s as he stared at her getting closer, closer and closer, with her arms stretched out towards him.

There is something comforting about feeling her wedding ring in his palms again, there is something comforting about knowing that they were both connected once.

And as she reached for him, he had to smile again, because there was nothing else he could do at that point that would get them both back together again, to get them both together again.

Holding the wedding ring in his palms, he closed his eyes.

Holding the wedding ring in his palms, he smiled for what was to come.

The Admiral's Wife

Vice admiral Veyre’s cottage was, at best a quaint ruin. It had slept for a century or so in the midst of its forgotten vineyard, some four miles from the town of Cravant-les-Côteaux and in this time had hardly ever been visited, or mentioned, by the people there.

It was a place of no magnificence: heavy crème bricks that had yellowed in the French sun and a high, sloping roof of shattered and mismatched tiles. The windows bore thick palls of dust but had otherwise weathered the time well enough and the gutters neither sagged beneath the weight of bird’s nests nor glittered with cobwebs. Yet for her, this simply completed the building’s lifeless air.

Every morning she would leave the hotel, following the road out of town and through warm fields, rippling with the early summer breeze. Yet as the cottage sidled out from behind the hedgerows, just a few more steps would find her somewhere colder. When she passed into the wasted vineyard, it was always as if she had been submerged into another world, possessed by a dreadfully loneliness, drifting up through the soil and settling about the building like a dour mist.

“A darling little acquisition, a late eighteen hundreds build,” they had said at the agency, “you will go, Kate, prepare it for renovations.” She’d been rather excited to have it as her first assignment, but now it seemed that it was, perhaps, merely a cruel joke they’d thought to play on the English girl.

Inside, the place was no finer. The century of neglect told heavily in each room. A simple home: sitting room, kitchen and bedroom, each now brimming with the collected trinkets, trophies and papers of the vice admiral’s navel years. It was, perhaps, a little primitive for a man of his rank, but it was said he had retired early – as a result of health problems – to settle here with his younger wife, and it was thought that he appreciated the cottage’s seclusion, given their condition.

On the mantel, still, stood a photo of the man himself. He appeared stern, as she thought a commander would have to be. His hair was swept back, giving prominence to the eyes: deep, dark things that spoke of the severity of life at sea, of breaking waves and the crack of a whip upon deck; of excitement. Yet there was still something impenetrable and unpleasant in his austerity. She would try to keep her eyes off of his as she worked, though found they would often wander, curiously, back to the mantel.

Since the agency had bought the place furnishings and all, her first task was to sort through it for anything of value, but this had proven a generally fruitless pursuit. Forty years in the Marine Nationale had brought this man little acclaim beyond his rank: a few medals that might fetch something at auction, but mostly common junk. The only item of note was a ring, presumably belonging to his wife. A band of thin, twisting gold with a message engraved within: ‘Avec Amour, Catherine. Votre Amiral.’

‘With love, Catherine. Your Admiral.’

It was not anything exceptional to look at, perhaps, but the ring had a pleasant weight to it; a comfortable feeling upon her finger, for she took to wearing it.

“Lest it become lost in the debris of the vice admiral’s existence.” This, she told herself.

                                                 *

It was arduous work, picking over the cottage’s remains, but after two weeks it had not begun to tell upon her. Indeed, the sense of loneliness that had once seemed so profound had completely evaporated. It was warmer now, with the deepening summer, and her skin had taken on a luxurious olive glaze. Though tiring, the work had proven good exerercise; every night she found her face a little leaner in the hotel’s mirror. Fine cheekbones had begun to press through her normally fleshy countenance, lending it dignity – a certain healthy austerity, akin to the admiral’s – and her eyes glistened with a new, handsome depth.

By now, she had taken to reading the admiral’s letters over lunch and found they exhibited a quality of passion – especially when written to his wife – that belied the severity of his photograph.

                                                 *

By August, however, the contentment had begun to wane. The work finally seemed to wear on her now: the healthy austerity it had formerly granted her had turned to gauntness and as the skin stretched across her now-prominent cheekbones, its olive hue dissipated. She found she could not concentrate and spent hours agonizing over even the smallest trinkets, attempting to scrutinise their worth. In truth, though, it seemed to her that almost every squalid piece of rubbish in the house now masked some tremendous and inscrutable value.

Formerly, she had taken her lunch outside; her back rested against the faded brickwork, flipping through some of the Admiral’s papers. Now, though, the sun had grown intolerable and whenever she stepped out of the house, it would bear down upon her, igniting the most terrible headaches which would inevitably force her inside within a few minutes. She could often be found stretched out upon the Admiral’s bed, fingers pinched over her nose, attempting to see off the pain. Sometimes, she would drift off, and then wake to find she had passed the entire night there. Her passing interest in the Admiral had blossomed into fascination and while bed-ridden thus, or merely slouching in the battered armchair, she would devour his writings, or the albums of photography he had made in his final years. It seemed the only thing upon which she could truly concentrate.

The walk back to town each day increasingly proved too trying. When she did manage it, she was forced to wait until the sun was fully set before departing. As she crossed the living room, she would trail her fingers across the polished glass of the Admiral's photograph. Then, from the doorway, she would steal a glance into his black eyes. Still pools in the swelling darkness of the oceans, they were now. She felt as though they helped to soothe the headaches.

                                                 *

As September neared, The Admiral’s bed became her sanctuary. She could no longer contend with returning to the hotel at all. The sun had grown even crueller and she dared not venture out even after dusk, for its suffocating heat would linger still. It seemed pointless, anyway, to leave. Her skin had completely forgotten its briefly handsome tone and withered to a sickly pink. It had begun to itch, and then her nails had chafed it into a blotched, red mess. It had blistered and bled where she scratched the worst, hewing away chunks of tissue and ensuring the once-promising canvas was now irreparably spoilt. Between her legs, a sore pressed out of the skin. A fleshy thing that glistened like a wet and wrinkled cherry astride the drier skin. It was not painful. In fact, it did not feel in any way unnatural. She thought that it had always been there, since she came to Cravant-les-Côteaux. Since before that, even?

Languishing through those long hours in the frayed sheets, she found solace only in her dear Admiral. Beside the bed she kept a box of his photo albums and would draw them up onto the mattress to view in turn. First, his naval years: grainy shots of him with the crew, or shaking hands with the admirals. Theirs was the rank he had truly deserved, she felt this most intensely; he would always be Admiral to her.

The album skipped ahead to their retirement and his own photographs: the splendid landscapes of Central France, those rippling fields from a hilltop; the old vineyard, before it was left to decay, with their home nestled in the background.

Finally, portraits of his dear wife, taken not long before she passed: he had followed her soon after. A candid snap: reclining against the rich crème cottage brickwork, her face turned away from the lens, but its thin beauty still obvious. Her sculpted cheekbones, curving beneath the dark eyes, the pristine skin - a luxurious olive – flowing over them. She exhibited a certain healthy austerity, akin to The Admiral’s.

At last, the portraits took a saddening turn: here she was slouched in the armchair, her skin beginning to prickle with the sores of her sickness. Then in the bed, languishing amidst delicate sheets. That exquisite skin was ruined now, by the syphilis – as The Admiral’s surely was by then, also – but there was no doubt that they remained beautiful.

She had drawn one hand up to her face, which was not spoilt by the pattern of blisters upon it, nor by the anguish that twisted through it. The nails pressed into her cheek, she could feel them, just beginning to tear at the skin. Yet set against the rash and redness, against the rotten, scarlet taint of it all, it shone: a thin twisting band of gold.

Avec amour, Amiral.

Luke was spending the night at the hotel. He had to think things through before he proposed to Sarah, the love of his life. The only question that keeps plaguing him is what kind of ring should I get for her? Luke wished he would find the perfect ring without breaking the bank and he wanted it to be special for her, so he went out for the night so he could stop thinking about it for a while which brought him this hotel.

Frustrated, Luke walked to the hotel lobby where he found a bar. He sat down on the stool and ordered a drink. "Finally, maybe this can clear my mind a bit." Luke said, downing the shot of jack. He then motioned the bar tender for another shot before he was startled by a man who sat down next to him, looking flustered and irate. Eyes wide and bloodshot the man desperately ordered a straight whiskey and drank the entire glass.

Luke asked "Are you okay?" as he looked at him warily, wondering if the man would turn rabid and attack him. The man looked up at him and said "I'll be fine, later when I get rid of it", "Get rid of it?" replied Luke. "I carried this item which was this nice watch I had coveted from a friend who was a dark fella, something I wanted enough to steal from him, that bad. Now it became hot, like molten lead as If my greed had burned it like the eye of a stove and I could not hold it no more so I dropped it." He put a pocket watch onto the table and continued "But then I saw this dark figure that I reckon was the devil as he came toward me. I tried to get away but it always followed. "Just a few more steps", I keep telling myself but it’s always there waiting for me to give up my watch. It is cunning too, it will try to trick you, using your loved ones voices to beckon you to it, pure evil I say but I realized what has caused all my troubles was that particular item and I believe he had cursed me for stealing it. Because of my greed it follows me, destroyed my marriage, has me running from the law... but I realized it's coming for me because it wants what I want..." he then took off his wedding ring and placed it on the table next to the watch, he then starred at it with a sad look in his eyes which have sunken in like he had not been asleep for days.

Now Luke was stunned to hear this tale and began wondering if he was sitting with a psychotic. The tale did freak him out a little but how could he believe someone who sounds like a raving lunatic? All of a sudden, two officers walked into the bar followed by what looked like the hotel manager as he pointed towards the irate man sitting next to Luke. The two officers walked up to the man and grabbed him by the arms while one cuffed him. The man struggled, screaming obscenities and yelling "No! I have to destroy it! Noooo!" The officers finally subdued him and they all left while Luke sat there awestruck from what he had witnessed. He sat back at the bar again and but found a ring next to his glass but the watch had was gone. Weird, he didn't see anybody pickup the watch or touch it. Luke then picked up the wedding ring to inspect it and an idea had struck him.

"What luck?!" Luke said to himself, while observing the ring he found that it looked rather expensive fixed with diamonds with pure gold for the band. Luke pondered still looking at the exquisite workmanship on the ring. "I don't think he would need this anyway" he pocketed the ring and left for his hotel room. Luke then put the ring on the desk next to his bed and fell asleep.

Luke could see Sarah at the end of the hallway and he had the ring in his hand. He was finally going to propose to her. Luke began to walk down the hallway towards Sarah but could see her facial expression turned from happy to frighten. This made Luke uncomfortable, why was she frightened? Luke looked down and the ring had disappeared. Where could it be? Luke then felt the hair stand at the back of his neck and felt compelled to turn around. As he did, the end from where Luke had just come from was in complete darkness and he felt horrible fear of what could be in the darkness. He just knew.

"Luke! Come help me!" Luke heard Sarah's voice echo from within the dark hallway. He turned around to find that Sarah had disappeared behind him but her voice was coming from the dark in front of him. Confused he walked towards the dark end of the hallway. He heard Sarah's voice continuously beg for help, but suddenly all fell to a deafening silence. Luke feared that he had walked into the darkness too far and began running the other direction looking for a way out. Luke closed the door behind him in the room he found Sarah and locked the door. He heard Sarah's voice again except it sounded more menacing and more angered yelling "let me in Luke! I needed your help and this is how you treat me?!" The door began violently shaking as loud banging noise drummed against the door and through his ears. "LET ME IN!!!" Luke covered his ears in pain but then all of a sudden the door fell silent. Luke could hear a clicking noise as the door came unlocked and slowly started to open. In horror Luke was frozen and unable to either look away or move he then felt something hot in his hand which became unbearable and then the door opened.

Luke jumped out of bed, sweating profusely and turned on the light. His hands wear cold and shaking from the nightmare. "What the hell was that all about?" Luke said out loud and then his eyes darted toward the desk where he had put the ring. It was gone. "WHAT THE FUCK?" still damaged from the dream he began rummaging through his room looking for the ring and after opening every drawer and every closet he flipped the bed over and heard a metallic "ping" noise. Luke was confused for a minute, had the ring been under his pillow the whole time? He picked up the ring but then suddenly threw it across the room "OOOW Fuck!" The ring was searing hot and had burned his fingers. Luke had suddenly heard a knock on the door.

"Hello?" Luke yelled out to the door. No one answered but replied with more knocking but it became more frantic. Luke sat at the other side of the room, struck with the same fear he experienced in his nightmare. The knocking became louder and frantic but with scraping as if something with claws was banging on the door. It all stopped. A loud ringing in Luke's ears buzzed around in his head. The ringing in his ears was maddening enough but the sense of impending doom was upon him and he waited as if replaying the nightmare to hear the door unlock and open but nothing happened. Luke sat there for a whole ten minutes, wondering if the thing haunting him may have been waiting outside the room for him. He slowly inched his way to the door and peered through the eye hole. He saw nothing. Had he gone mad? Or was he suffering what that man was going through. Luke's eyes fell onto the ring that he had thrown across the room. "I should have never taken that damn wedding band" Luke said to himself shaking his head and wondering what he had gotten himself into. His mind was still fried from the experience but he had calmed down a little bit.

The window exploded, glass shards flew like shrapnel across the room and Luke had dove to the ground. The room suddenly grew dark, "shit! It’s here!" Luke had scrambled for the ring and fiddled at the door knob frantically to open it. This chilling voice as if it boomed in his mind said "pay-meant" Luke bolted out of the room, in a crazed state of mind he ran out of the hotel in the middle of the street.

Luke had turned around to see human like creature, black eyes, ear to ear grin as it put out its hand beckoning him to come closer. Luke put the ring in his pocket protectively and yelled in an out most insane manner "I will return it or destroy it but I'm never giving it to you!" Luke had gone completely mad as he saw the creature's face turned rigid as if it physically was in pain to wait any longer and then showed it's unnatural sharp teeth. In pure terror Luke turned to run but suddenly, head lights were the last things Luke would ever see and was struck by a vehicle instantly killing him.

An EMT zipped up the body bag of the remains of Luke. The whole scene was filled with the flash of blue and red lights as officers interviewed witnesses and the driver of the vehicle to get a statement. A curious man watched the scene as it unfolded and overheard the officers speaking. "We searched the body but found no identification or possessions--" "Witnesses say he ran out into the middle of the road in panic, I say he probably was drunk as hell"

The man decided that the show was over and began walking back to the hotel and stopped to see a wallet lying on the ground. Then he searched through the wallet greedily and saw an I.D. with the name of Luke Hodges and a credit card. He slides the credit card into his pocket and tossed the wallet and casually walked away down an ally into the darkness...

The Landing Strip. Strip clubs don't get more seedier or more East of town. It's the first place lots of desperate girls with no money and fewer options land when they arrive to the city. They'll hire just about anyone, who'll end up doing much more than they ever imagined --like it or not. Desperate times for desperate girls. The outside is dirty, the inside is dirty and the girls are dirty. That's why Mike liked it.

“Fuck.”

“Can we get another round over here?” Carl barked at a waitress as she passed by. The booming music was so loud Carl had to raise his hand and shout his order again. The waitress grudgingly acknowledged her rude customer's order. “Jesus, I can't find it.” Mike panicked. “What's the problem, dude?” Carl asked, noticing his drinking buddy's distraught face. “I lost my wedding ring! What am I going to do?” Mike searched his pockets.

Shirt pockets.

Pants pockets.

Jacket pockets.

No luck.

“What am I going to tell Ellen?”

“I don't know why you bother taking it off for in here anyway. These whores don't care if you're married, dude. In fact, the married guys probably tip better than the single losers. The married douche bags will pay a premium to have someone to think about while they're banging their fat, old wives.”

Carl paused to light a Marlboro, “It's not like you're going to take any of these women home with you and if you did, these aren't the type of women that would care if you're married .”

Knocking back his new beer Carl eyed the girl on stage. “Look at the tits on that one! Where's my wallet? I've got to contribute to her college fund.” Carl stumbled toward the stage with bills in one hand, an emptied beer bottle in the other and a creepy leer on his face.

Mike wasn't like Carl. He wasn't here for fun. He needed to be here. Mike ordered beer after beer. The more drunk he got the more he believed what the women were selling. These women wanted him. He was attractive. Mike felt good. More than good: High. And not just from the dozen or so beers he had drank but from the attractive company, the bait of sex, the anonymousness, the danger of it all and the dishonesty. Everything he had been taught was evil.

Hours pass. Blurred images of familiar women in darkened rooms where money is lost in exchange to fed his desires. His needs.

“Mike? Fuck man, what are you doing back here?” Carl slurred as he woke his friend, propping him up from where he was lying down in a booth back in the VIP room, a bouncer close behind. “The joints closed up we gotta split.”

Carl struggled to get Mike out of the club and into the parking lot. “Just a few more steps and we'll be there.”

Carl wedged Mike into his truck. “You sure you're Ok to drive?”

“Of course, that nap sobered me up enough to drive home. Take it easy, Carl. We'll have to do this again soon.” Mike cranked his truck and turned out of the parking lot –in the opposite direction of his house. Mike had several hours before he was expected home and arriving early would cause more suspicion from his wife.

This alone time gave Mike a moment to fully assess the situation: Instead of going to his night-shift job he decided to lie to his wife, go out drinking with his buddy at a seedy strip club, indulging in all sorts of inappropriate behaviors with all sorts of inappropriate women. Instead of making money, he received no pay for the worked missed, spent money he didn’t have on drinks and lap dances to the tune of several hundred dollars –many days pay from his factory job. And he was missing his wedding ring. Mike was disgusted with himself, but not surprised.

Mike drove around the dark outskirts of town for awhile, finally pulling into an adult bookstore. Entering the store, Mike nodded familiarly to the cashier and headed to the back. Sliding into the musty, sticky booth Mike dropped a few tokens into the coin slot raising the veil to reveal his favorite girl: Nicki. Nicki was smooth and blush and round in just the right places. Nicki knew Mike. Nicki was naked. Mike barely noticed.

“Hey there, hot stuff. How goes it, Mike?” Nicki made small talk going through her well-rehearsed routine; touching herself and rubbing against the glass. “Not too bad. Not too good.” Mike gazed through the glass, through Nicki.

Lost in his thoughts Mike tried to focus on his purpose for being there and enjoyed Nicki and her nakedness. She got down to it while he watched. They talked. She lied. He fed the machine and his hunger. Time went by.

By the time Mike left the bookstore the sun was rising. It was almost the end of his shift. He arrived at home at his usual time, quietly entering the house and going directly to shower. Ellen was rustling awake under the covers as he finished drying off. Leaving behind the odor of sin, entering the bedroom with clean skin and fresh breath. Mike reached deep into the back of his dresser drawer into an unsuspecting sock where he removed a new wedding ring, put it on his finger and whispered to himself “last time.”

“Good morning, Honey. How did you sleep?”

Comments, Criticism, Proofreading, enjoyment, choose any or all that you wish. I wrote this a bit ago on a whim.

It was dark. Darker than anything the boy had ever known. But something was different about this place. It wasn't the home with the warm bed where he had fallen asleep. This place was cold; the air stagnant, and something was watching him.

“He-Hello?” The boy called out. He noticed he could see himself through the darkness. At home when the lights were turned off and the monsters crawled in the darkness of his bedroom, he couldn't even see his hand a few inches from his face, but not here. Here he could see his hands, he could see his body, and his legs. This was far more painful than being blind. If he could see himself, then whatever that was waiting out there could see him too.

T-chk. T-chk. T-chk.

What was that noise? He knew it, but it sounded so foreign in this place.

“Is someone there? Where am I?” His plea seemed to travel no more than a few feet as if the darkness was eating it before it could escape to friendly ears. Then the noise returned.

T-chk T-chk. T-chk T-chk.

Faster this time. Claws. The noise was claws. His mind shot back to his home. He remembered his dog, his best friend, with his claws rapping on the hard wood floor as they chased each other around the house.

T-chk T-chk T-chk. T-chk T-chk T-chk.

The noise snapped him back to reality. Was this reality? He had to be dreaming, a nightmare. Of course! It had to be a nightmare, no place like this really existed and how would he have gotten here anyway? Then another noise became audible, a low rumbling. Was it growling? No, he felt the vibrations in the floor now. Something was moving. Sliding? Dragging? Whatever it was, he knew it must have been quite heavy to make such a rumble.

T-CHK. T-CHK. T-CHK.

It was much louder now. Were the shadows moving? He couldn't quite see, but it seemed the very darkness that surrounded him was shifting.

“Rufus?” He called to his dog, but he knew deep down what was coming. The rumbling started again, closer this time. It was right in front of him. Or behind him? He stood quickly and turned around. Had the wall been there the entire time? Perhaps his eyes had finally adjusted to the dark. Was it moving? What was this place? Then he saw the eyes. The wall was definitely moving, pulling open to reveal a doorway, letting something in with him.

The eyes, one white and one yellow, seemed to float in the darkness for what seemed like forever. Whatever it was, it wasn't Rufus. It was far too big to be the little dog. The eyes swayed to and fro, before separating and rising several feet. This beast wasn't even a dog, nor was it any animal the boy had ever seen.

T-CHK. T-CHK. T-CHK.

It was coming towards him now, moving slowly, assessing him. Was he going to be dinner? Maybe it wasn't bad. Maybe it just needed a friend. Suddenly, the wall that had opened slammed shut on the beast. It let out a piercing shriek and the boy collapsed. He thought his head was going to explode the noise was so loud. But a voice cut through.

“Boy, Run!” Where was it coming from? He couldn't see straight with the shrieking of the beast. “It's stuck! Run now!”

He climbed to his feet and bolted away from the beast still clutching his ears. He ran straight for what seemed like hours, then he ran more until he couldn't hear anything but his feet slapping the floor and his heart pounding in his chest. What was that thing? Who was that man? Where was he? Was he alive? He collapsed to the ground and began to cry. This was all real. He was going to die here. He would be torn to bits and eaten by a beast he couldn't even truly see.

“Get up.” The voice again. He spoke funny. Where was he from? “If you don't want to die in here, then stop crying and get up.”

“Who are you?” The boy looked up slowly but all he saw was darkness. He got to his feet and wiped his nose.

“I'm the watcher. Now do exactly as I say.”

“Where am I?”

“Shut up and listen to me. Turn right and walk until you hit a wall.” The boy sniffled and turned. What choice did he have? The man helped him before and he didn't want to die. He began to walk.

“Turn left at the wall and take seventeen steps forward, then turn left again and take six more.” The boy followed his instructions exactly, but came to a dead end.

“There's nowhere to go! You tricked me!”

T-chk T-chk T-chk T-chk T-chk.

The claws again. Moving fast, it was coming for him and this man had led him to a dead end. The rumbling started again and the wall in front of him slid open.

“Go straight one hundred and eight steps, then turn right and go forty-two more steps.”

T-chk T-chk T-chk.

The beast was still coming. He moved quickly trying to count his steps.

“106, 107, 108,” He turned right and crashed into a wall, “There's no door!” He screamed at the man. He looked back as the beast entered his hallway.

“What? That's not supposed to happen. Do you see it?”

“Yes, it's coming.”

“Shit. Keep going straight and do not panic.”

Don't panic? Who was this man to tell him not to panic? He wasn't here with the beast. The boy took off running, his feet slapping the floor.

T-CHKT-CHKT-CHKT-CHK.

It was running after him. It must have heard him. He pushed on faster.

T-CHKT-CHKT-CHKT-CHKT-CHKT-CHKT-CHK.

The rumbling again. He tried to look through the darkness for the opening, but he couldn't see anything.

“Run faster!” The man was yelling at him now. “Follow the rumble and do not stop for anything!”

The boy pushed harder, but the beast was faster than he was. Then he saw the faint shadow of the opening. The rumbling was getting closer. He focused on the noise. He took the right.

Another rumbling.

Run.

A left.

Run.

A right.

Run faster.

The walls were shifting all around him, Turns opening and closing as fast as he could reach them.

Run.

Another left.

Another right.

Another left. Then everything stopped. The rumbling, the clicking, his footsteps, even his breathing and his heartbeat. Everything was silent. He slowed to a stop and leaned on one of the walls. He bent over his knees and coughed, but no noise. He was exhausted, his breath seemed to be miles away. A voice? Is it the man? It was far away. Too far for him to hear what was being said. He focused as hard as he could but he couldn't make out the words. Then he felt it, like someone dropped an ice cube down the back of his shirt.

He lifted his head and found himself face to face with the beast. Its eyes inches from his own. He screamed and the beast reared back. The noise came back. The walls shifting, the man yelling.

“God damn it! Run, boy!”

The beast swung at him, but he ducked just in time. Its claws dug into the wall, showering him with debris. He scrambled away from the beast and to his feet. He was running before he even knew what was going on. The beast howled and leapt off after him. He would never make it. It was so much faster than he was. He glanced back to see a wall slam shut between himself and the beast.

He let out a sigh of relief, but was cut short by the man again.

“Go! Do not stop!”

He heard the crashing now, the beast was smashing itself into the wall.

“Run to me! Follow my voice!”

The beast broke through, and the boy sprinted off. Walls slammed shut nearly knocking the boy down, but separating him and the beast. They never held long though. The beast wanted the boy and it would stop at nothing.

How much further? His legs were on fire and his lungs were closing up. He began to slow down, he couldn't run anymore, until he noticed something in the distance. A crack of light.

“Run faster! It wont stop!” The man wasn't giving up on him. He glanced back at the beast, the walls weren't closing as fast anymore. It was getting closer. He pushed harder, harder than he ever had before but the beast kept closing the gap.

The door swung open at the end of the hall. He could see a silhouette of a man in the doorway. The man was yelling for him to run with a hand outstretched for the boy. The boy reached out and ran faster. The beast howled and caught up still.

He was nearly there though. He could almost feel the warmth of the light. The man was frantic now, screaming at the boy. The beast howled louder drowning out the man's voice. It was frenzied, howling and slashing at the walls and it moved ever closer to the running boy.

He was so close now, but he couldn't run anymore.

He dove.

The beast leapt after him.

He hit the cold floor. He didn't make it.

This was it.

He felt the ground shake and the beast landed over him. He closed his eyes. Ready for death.

But the monster shrieked and he lived. He opened his eyes. The man had lunged at the beast with some sort of knife. It grabbed him by the throat and slammed him to the wall. One of its eyes floating around the man, the other still fixed on the boy. What could he do?

The man slashed the beast's arm and it dropped him. He jumped back up, lunged at the beast and swung at its eye. The beast shrieked again, louder than ever as its eye fell to the ground. The man ran past the boy grabbing his arm as he want. He pulled the boy into the light and shut the door.

It was warm here. The air was fresh. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He was safe here in the light.

100 Resources To Research Your Horror

This was shared over in the r/writing subred by indiefilmmaker, who apparently also wrote the article. It's a nice, comprehensive list for any aspiring writer who might want some creative jumpstarting or a good place to do some research on their idea.

I'm posting this here for everybody's use with his permission.

The winner of DWDWDC #2 didn't want to select the item and quote for this competition since he preferred to participate in it. So, here we go!

THE ITEM: A wedding ring.

THE QUOTE: "Just a few more steps."

ETA: Doh! I forgot to put in a time limit. You have two weeks from today, that is until September 13th, to put up your story.

Also, a recap of the rules: The item does not need to be at the center of things, but it should play a part that is significant enough to merit its discussion, description and use.

The quote can be used any way you like, from dialogue to narrative to mentioned in passing as graffiti on a wall and so on.

The story itself must be dark in theme.

You may write as many stories as you want in the one week period, but only one may be entered into the competition.

The story must be posted here, in Dark Workshop. No links! (no capes!) This is so we can keep a definite word limit on the stories. What you do with the story afterward is up to you, but we ask that you do not delete any entries after we have entered Phase 2. All entries will be included in a maintained post of every entry from every competition.

Dark Workshop moderators may participate should they so choose, but cannot win, regardless of the voting in Phase 2.

To know that a post is an entry, please tag it as [ENTRY].

That someone less reputable than most of this subreddit's members would potentially rip you off? That was my first thought upon finding DarkDworkshop.

It is time again to move from the submission phase of the DWDWDC to the voting phase. There were only two stories submitted this time, but that's not all bad... it should be a good head-to-head, edge-of-your-seat competition!

Over the next week, please vote for your favorite story:

Misunderstood by Sethsquatch

The Hands That Seconds Move by Eijishinrow

The winner will be announced one week from today (8/27) at noon!

IN THIS TWILIGHT The Mask Collector Chapter One

Saturday May 31, 2003

Darren had only one thought as he shouldered past the man on the stairway, 300 pound guys should not wear bicycle shorts.

The 300 pound man in question had sleepy eyes and pale lips that were pursed in a continual grimace. A ragged beard covered his face, his thick greasy hair was pulled back from his forehead in a ponytail. The t-shirt he wore was too small, the pasty crescent of his belly protruded from the lower edge of the dark fabric. The logo on the t-shirt had long faded to discolored outlines that declared the man’s desire to ‘ ARTY AK D’. The legs that sprung from the bicycle shorts made Darren want to wince, they were bloated and marked with deep veins.

“Hey,” He said. “You must be my new neighbor I'm in 1668.”

Darren kept moving towards his apartment, “Yeah.”

“Did they fix your water heater?”

“Water heater?”

The 300 pound man laughed and kept walking down the stairs, “A sucker born every minute.”

And a Merry Christmas to you too Santa. Darren thought as he carried the box of clothes through the open door of apartment 1667. He set the flimsy liquor store box down with all the others. That was almost the last of it, he just had to get his TV up the two flights of stairs and he was done.

And I did it all by myself. Not bad for a guy that almost died a few months ago.

Taking a moment to rest Darren looked the place over once more. It was a little drab and cramped but it had possibilities, and it had a balcony, Darren had always wanted a balcony. He still felt a twinge of guilt over how things had ended with Marnie. When he had woken up in that hospital bed with tubes and monitors coming every which way out of him he’d realized that what the doctors were calling a congenital heart defect was really a wake up call of the highest order.

Those changes however hadn’t been very popular with his friends, mostly because they were Marnie’s friends too. Darren had expected people to take sides in the matter, he sure as Hell hadn’t expected that no one would take his. Everyone saw him as the bad guy, and they were all too busy helping Marnie move into her new place to even return his phone calls.

Nice going ‘buddies’. She’s not the one that had a heart attack at 31.

It was time to wrap the, maybe order a pizza and watch a DVD. Darren headed back down the stairs wondering bitterly how long it would be before one of his so-called friends would be balling Marnie.

Darren cringed a little at the thought and then made himself think of something else.

The 300 pound man was heading back up the stairs, he was carrying a battered parcel covered with stamps and labels. He stuck out his hand, “Hey, by the way, my name is Chad Lunt.”

“Brad?” Darren took the hand, it was soft and gelid to the touch.

“No! Chad. C-H-A-D. Of the Lunt family. It’s British,” he explained. “My parents were part of the nobility back in England but they had to move to this failed craphole of a country.”

“Uh, if you say so?”

“I mean this nation is pretty much dead isn’t it? I mean look at your President, look at these kids today.”

“You know I’d love to talk –”

“And these girls today, with their half shirts and their tattoos, they’re all dirty sluts,” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin, “the only good thing about this place is that we’re so close to the college campus that some of the little whores live here, you should see them in the summer walking around in their shorts and tank tops.”

“Well I –”

There was a faraway look in his eyes, “I mean you wouldn’t think of it to look at me now but back in the day I used to get laid all the time. You wouldn’t believe the amount of…”

“That’s great but I’m losing daylight here,” Darren said, “I’ve got to finish moving and then get the rented U-haul back. OK?”

“Yeah sure. We’ll talk once you’re settled in.”

Darren ran down the steps two at a time and got to the U-haul. Standing inside the truck he glanced back at the Kerwin Landings apartment complex, a collection of four three story buildings. Each building looked like a refrigerator tipped onto its side with three apartments per level. Each building had a dingy laundry room and plenty of florescent lighting in the hallways and stairwells. The clientele was mostly retirees and students, but Darren liked it because it was close to his job and far across town from his old life.

The television sat in the rear corner of the truck covered with an old blanket. It was a large model and it had been a nightmare just getting it into the truck, he didn’t relish the thought of carrying it up those stairs by himself but he was on his own now wasn’t he?

Darren smiled a little at the thought, On my own.

To Be Continued

Originally I only posted a paragraph here, but since no one had commented and I had the time on my hands, I wrote a chunk more.

This is a first draft, just writing as it comes to me, no real planning, and have done no revising yet. Also, this is all I have so far, not the full story.

As such, it's still pretty raw, and it's the first time I've attempted to write a short story full stop, let alone horror, so let me know what you think.

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The mere mention of that insidious presence evoked such gnawing fear that even the most stouthearted of men were loathe to discuss the matter at length. Few indeed were those who would openly admit to knowing anything of those inscrutable horrors, and it was exceedingly rare to have my questions met with honest answers. Even the most subtly phrased enquiry tended to be halted in its tracks by immediate admonishment. Occasionally the words differed, but the thrust of such warnings was always the same. Yet the selfsame fear which led men to such obstinate claims of ignorance, such desperate pleas to probe no further, also led men to betray the very knowledge they thought to protect.

Coming to this realisation had made my search far more fruitful, but did little to sharpen the monotony. I peered around the damp, mouldering living room, then let my eyes come to rest on the wisened old man, focused intently on filling ancient, chipped china cups. Whether the shaking of his hands was a symptom of nervousness, or simply due to his steadily advancing years, I could not say, but at last he completed his struggle and passed me a cup, rivulets of tea meandering down the side.

"Sugar?"

This was the first word he had spoken since greeting me on his doorstep, close to half an hour ago, and I pulled myself from my revery.

"No, thankyou, but some milk would be nice."

He spread his hands in supplication as the slightest hint of a frown clouded his tired face.

"Afraid I'm lactose intolerant. I generally try to keep some in the house for guests, but I haven't had many guests lately. People have better things to do than visit a bitter old widower."

I had wondered about his apparent solitude, the domestic neglect, but it wasn't exactly the foremost thing on my mind. I wondered...

"I'm sorry to hear that. May I ask how she passed?"

He let out a deep sigh, and seemed to visibly deflate.

"She was a proud woman, and she couldn't abide by their rules. Oh, she tried, for years, but at last, well, I guess the pressure just got to be too much to bare. She knew it was forbidden -she knew- we all did..."

He stared vacantly at the cup in his hand, shaking his head slowly- but for whatever reason, he seemed to sense he had said too much, and making a visible effort to perk up, tried to change the subject.

"As I said, I don't often recieve guests, especially not strangers. You must have heard my name from someone, been given my address?"

I felt his gaze as he tried to puzzle out the reason for my unexpected visit.

"Maybe you heard from Jeb at the garage, about the playboy magazines? True what he says, my father used to collect 'em, and passed his collection down to me, and I've kept up the tradition. Got the most exstensive collection in the state, I'd reckon. Came to take a look?"

I knew I couldn't avoid it any longer, and truth be told, the comments about his wife were enough to brave the inevitable lecture.

"It was Jeb who told me your address, Mr Eliot, and he told me about your collection. I'm sure it's impressive, but I'm afraid that's not why I came. I'm here to ask you about.. them".

His eyes darted around the room, then he leant forward, and in a hushed voice whispered,

"Them?"

I drew back slightly and nodded.

"That's right Mr Eliot. The robed ones".

His lips drew taught, and in conspiritorial tones murmured,

"Just wait right there".

He stood and made a quick round of the room, making sure all the curtains were drawn tight, then sat back down, perched on the edge of his seat.

"Robed ones? Ain't been no robed ones around these parts for years- 'swhy I moved here after I lost Anne. Where 'd you hear that name?"

Tick, tock, the hour came again, as the old, broken pocket watch began ticking and moving slowly again.

Tick, tock, her sewing needles matched every march that the second hand made, moving almost in unison as her every click and clack matched the tick and tock that the watch now made, as the pink and blue threads of the cotton strands met and entangled masterfully under her hands’ control, interweaving with each other as she stared blankly at the ever extending scarf.

She remembered that he had first seen her in that fair that uneventful fall, as the autumn weather turned leaves from green to orange and red, turned the dry heat into cool breezes that seemed to flow into everywhere. It was under the ferris wheel that they had met, that they first began this love affair.

Tick, tock, the sewing needles moved again and again, automatically by an uncontrolled motion, as the scarf became longer and longer.

It was during the first snow fall that her urine revealed that she was pregnant, that the test had come positive. He didn’t like the idea of a baby and she didn’t like his idea of abortion, yet, oh, she loved him so much, and she would do anything for him. But she just couldn’t get herself to get rid of this baby.

Tick, tock, she knew that the watch will stop again, that it’ll all go back to quiet and normal and dark again, that this shadow that she saw at the window was going to go away once again.

It was when the watch broke, the old pocket watch that she had gotten for him, for their half a year anniversary, that she started knitting the scarf. It was during that time that they had fought, again, the verbal intensity escalating to one that became physical, and as he ripped the watch from her hands and threw it hard against the wall, shattering it from ever working again. She cried, for she had hopes that the gift will fix their love to what it was before, that their relationship would be as sweet as when they had first met, fatefully under that ferris wheel, only a few months ago.

Tick, tock, the shadow appeared again, this time more concrete, this time staying longer than she had ever noticed. It moved from window to window, closer and closer to the door.

She knitted the scarf in the hopes that it will save their relationship, in the hopes that she’ll be able to deceive herself that everything will be okay when she finishes the scarf, that they will be all smiles and happiness again once the blue and pink scarf is worn around his neck again. But she had barely started on it when he came in drunk, his breath stinking and his legs barely holding him up, as he said “you look so sexy, baby”, before he started screaming at her and tossing her to the ground, his hands ripping her clothes off, slamming her head hard onto the ground as she tried to push him off.

Tick, tock, the shadow could be seen at the tinted windows of the front door, now a form that resembled a human one, as the door knob turned bit by bit, and the door opens a bit by bit.

She had bitten him on the neck, pushed him off with her legs, and started to crawl away from him, when she felt her hair pulled hard, so hard that she could feel some of the strands being pulled out from their roots. She screamed, she struggled and tried to pull herself away, but it wasn’t long before he slammed her face on the ground again, and as she felt her hair released and him shoving her entire body onto the floor, she saw it, the moment when she lost it all.

Tick, tock, the phone rang, and although she could get the phone right now, and tell them of the shadow that was now creeping in, she was much too afraid to even move a finger. The shadow could see her, oh, she was sure of that, and if she moved, maybe the shadow would move faster as well, flying towards her at a speed she couldn’t imagine. And she didn’t want that at all. It would be much too scary.

She felt the pain when his foot crashed hard against her belly, she knew what the pain meant when his foot came down again, kicking and stepping, all of this anger and rage and fury concentrated into that one spot. And as she cried and screamed for him to stop, she felt how hopeless everything really was, how helpless she had become as he kicked and stomped and killed everything that was inside of her, every belief that she could hold onto before.

Tick, tock, the answering machine kicked on, and she could hear her father’s voice. “Marie, I just got your voice mail”, the voice from the answering machine resounded in the quiet room. “What’s going on over there?” He asked. “Is everything okay?” He wondered, but it was too late now for her to even tell him that it wasn’t okay, that it won’t be okay, that she had asked him to “be there at midnight or don’t bother being there at all” for a reason, that she had really needed him to be here now of all times, of ever in all the times that she had requested anything of him, and how it was really now too late for it all, how nothing really mattered again.

When the blood soaked and spilled through her underwear, he had stopped kicking, and had bent down again, ripping the now blood-soaked underwear from her crotch, laughing as he cupped one of her breast in his hand, his lips bending down to suck the nipple, to ready himself to bite it at his own pleasure, because he would be consumed on it that he wouldn’t notice her tears and her cries and her right hand reaching out, farther and farther away from him, towards the sewing needle on the floor.

Tick, tock, the shadow came closer, so much closer that she could almost make out the eyes, so much closer that she could almost see the white that stared at her from them.

She had buried that needle on the side of his neck, pushed it in as much as she could, and before he could gaggle a complaint of pain, she had pulled it out and stabbed it in some more, over and over again, this time with both hands gripping onto the needle, shoving it in with as much force as she could, her insanity scream covering all as the needle pierced the skin over and over again, over and over, until his body did not move no more, until his body had long since moved again, and the truth is, it wasn’t until she had long finished her murder, until she had finally realized what she had done and dropped the now blood-covered sewing needle on the ground, that she heard the ticking of that broken pocket watch, that old relic that she had kept just for the hope that he will like it again, that everything will end like she had dreamed before when she was still fresh, when she was still new.

Tick, tock, it was now too late, as she wondered how many times has she experienced this before, as the shadow came into the room and readied itself for what was to come. She remembered when she had first seen the shadow, when this had all happened for the first time, that she thought she had gone insane. And the truth was, maybe she was insane, that maybe all of this was going on because of a guilt that she had carried inside her all of these years, all of this time.

Tick, tock, the watch ticked on, as the shadow’s face started resembling that of his, and his crooked lip curled up into a smile, as the shadow stumbled itself towards her.

Tick, tock, the smile will part the lips, and it’ll all start again when the shadow asks those same exact words again, that exact same sentence.

“You look so sexy, baby.”

"My god, man! What the fuck happened here?!" Charles came into the room as was taken aback by the scene. A puree of blood and anatomical bits splashed sloppily on the wall of the basement. Charles stopped and lifted up his shoe out of the mess, he looked momentarily at the dark red and black speckled goo sticking and dripping off the bottom.

He regained his composure and looked toward William. William was drenched in the slurry and he sat against a wooden beam near the center of the room, his knees brought against his chest, his blood-covered hands holding a death-grip on his shins. He was staring at the pools of gore on the ground in wide-eyed disbelief, "They-they fought. They fucking fought! I couldn't-I-I didn't-I-" He muttered not really speaking to anyone, just trying to calm himself down with justification.

"Get a hold of yourself!" Charles screamed and that seemed to break William from his trance. "Now, start from the beginning, what the fuck happened?"

"I-uh-I was guarding the cage when they started talking to me. Telling me that they could feel something in the cage with them. I wasn't going to fall for that so I told them to shut up. Th-then the sounds began. Oh, my god, the sounds!" William jumped up from the floor and charged at Charles grappling him and holding him against the blood-covered cinder block wall, "You never told me! You son of a bitch! You never said it could come through without us!"

Charles was gasping for air now as William's hands had moved from his lapel to his neck. William was crying and squeezing and in his hysteria had stopped being comprehensible. Charles kicked William and it sent both of them tumbling to the ground. William recovered first and picked up the revolver that had slid across the room and out of Charles' waistband.

"You don't know! You can't ever know!" William screamed. He looked around the room and brought the gun up to his head and fired. It seemed effortless and without remorse. His body fell to ground and he gasped his last few breaths and then died with a relieved smile on his face.

"Fuck!" Charles coughed and stood back up. He surveyed the scene and silently cursed again under his breath. He didn't know what the hostages were for and he didn't know what to do know. The letter had said, "Be there at midnight or don't bother being there at all. In fact, run for your life, if you're even a little late.". It was supposed to be the opportunity of a lifetime for the small town thugs. Supposed to be the gateway to the big leagues and all they needed to do was catch four hostages. There were specific criteria that each of the four had to meet but, they had done it.

Charles checked his pocket watch. It was old and used to belong to his father. He frowned as it was broken now. the time was stopped at 9:30. He decided that he had to show up at the location to tell them what had happened and maybe they would give him some more time. So, he set out for the woods.

The map was hand drawn and difficult to follow, he used the moon and the old, broken pocket watch as a compass and silently thanked his cub scout years for the tips. Finally he came to a clearing deep in the woods. It seemed to be directly under the moon and there was some sort of altar set up. He was alone. He wished he knew what time it was.

The wind rustled the trees and Charles just stood there in the clearing waiting for anyone else to show up. He was too transfixed on the altar to notice the red-glowing eyes coming up behind him. He stood up and screamed in agony as he was pierced through by what felt like claws but his blood seemed to be dripping off of invisible spikes protruding from his abdomen. Then in his ear he heard the most horrible sounds he had ever heard in his life. The frequency was enough to drive him insane but his racing heart finished him off first.

The red eyes looked around. It was not satiated. Little did Charles and William know that they were actually helping the good. The letter was not a threat but a warning. They had unleashed something into the world. Insatiable and unstoppable now that the midnight hour had passed. The red eyes moved toward the city no longer bound by the power of the altar.

She stirred groggily; her head was aching, she was tied to a chair, lengths of soggy rope bit into her wrists and ankles. And to think, just a few hours ago Jason Magwier had been chiding her with, “Come now my dear, what could possibly go wrong?”

Lorelei had been in worse situations than this. Hell her 16th birthday party had ended up looking like the last scene of Hamlet, so she just kept calm and didn't open her eyes or raise her head until she heard the click of boot heels on the stone floor. She looked up and spat an incantation-nothing too fancy, just something that would knock your average sized man off his feet....

click here to read the rest

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

That’s what went through my mind as the barrel of the gun coolly pressed against the side of my skull, my finger shaky on the heavy metal trigger, hand almost rattling enough for me to hear the bullets shaking in the chambers inside the ancient six shooter.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

He came into the hospital carried through the ambulance entrance, his body tightly strapped onto the bed as they wheeled him quickly into the trauma room, trauma call already given out through the loudspeakers and the ETA of the arrival already anticipated by the doctors and nurses, all of us waiting patiently as they rushed him into the room and closed the blue cloth curtain, the snipping of his clothes already starting before the curtains were fully in place.

That was when we noticed it, the large, brown book that was clutched so tightly on top of his chest, both of his hands and arms wrapped tightly around it, almost as tightly as he was wrapped on the bed, and even though he was a thin man, probably less than a hundred pound or so, none of us could strip the book out of his guarding arms, not even the ex-football player nurse Ron, who was over three hundred pounds of muscle, could pry the patient’s fingers from the grip on the book.

After resorting to muscle relaxant injections in particular areas, we were finally able to unlock the book from the clutches of the man, even though by that time it was already too late, the patient already flat lining, air already held and left the fragile lungs of his dying last breath.

Even though the doctors tried all they could, we all already knew the results before the first words had come out of the doctor’s lips.

And so it was left, the still blood stained cover of a book.

Nobody claimed the body, and they couldn’t find anybody who would claim the responsibility either. The man was just another unemployed man who lived alone in some small, bedbugs-infested room, receiving welfare checks until he somehow finally went crazy, and with a butcher knife, started chopping himself open until his bones were exposed enough to see the white surface under the blood, under the muscle strings and all.

Out of a curious attempt to see if they could find any information at all, they opened and flipped through the large brown book that had come so tightly gripped by the patient.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

The book was written in a strange language that nobody understood, and rather than being for a printed, computer-made font, it was all written in cursive, written in a way that reminded me of Arabian scrolls that you see in old movies like Lawrence of Arabia.

Flipping through it, we couldn’t make anything out of it, and the only thing that we could understand was a small note written inside the back cover of the book, in blue ink. The note said “Right up your alley. I’m sure you’ll love it. Happy anniversary.

“Loves and kisses, Trinna”.

Since that was our only lead, we googled the name and searched around the city, and even up the state.

The only Trinna we found was some young woman who had jumped off the top of the hotel she was working at, holding her basset hound as she fell, twenty stories high, smashing her whole body on the street in the busy rush hour traffic of a Friday afternoon.

And the funny thing was, it was also on a Friday afternoon that it all started.

One of the doctors who was with us had cut his thumb open with a scalpel by accident, the blood spilling everywhere on the floor before they stopped it and took him to another room in the emergency room to patch it up. The room was silent for longer than expected, and when one of the personal care assistants peeked in to see what was going on, she found the doctor sitting on the bed, blood covering his face and white coat, scalpel still in his hand, and on the floor, blood still spilling from their fresh wounds on the neck, were the two nurses and doctor who had came in to patch the thumb, lying on the floor, their arms and legs lifeless as the blood soaked their skin and clothes.

The assistant screamed, but that only went so far, before the doctor got up and stabbed her in the neck with the scalpel, and started going around slashing at everyone he could see before the police guards at the prison unit of the emergency room saw him, and with the bullets fired from their guns’ chambers, filled the doctor with seven shots before he finally went down.

And then there was the one about the nurse who went around killing the pets around the neighborhood, cramming all the dead bodies inside her apartment building, something that the neighbors didn’t realize until the stink hit them days later, and the cops kicked the door open and found the bodies laying around the rooms, water bowls and food bowls all set in front of each of them as if to feed them still, dried kibbles littering the carpet here and there.

The nurse actually screeched like a surprised cat when they found her in her pitch dark room, whose windows had all been taped shut with gorilla tape, leaving the room in complete darkness. The cop whose flashlight shone on her actually screamed when she screeched, and rushed towards him on her arms and legs like a monkey, biting on his neck before the cop’s partner kicked the nurse off and fend her off with mace and the butt of his pistol.

And while this went on, I think my apartment building is getting infested with roaches, because I could hear them behind the walls, scritching and scratching their way behind the surface while I tried to sleep at night.

The exterminators would say that there was nothing wrong, that they searched the whole place, but will put down extra roach traps just in case, and found absolutely nothing at all, not even the droppings of a single insect.

And this was while the two other doctors, who were best friends and always had bar nights at this local brewery down the street, smashed ketchup bottles on the bar counter and tried to tattoo each other’s skin, by cutting them with the broken glass from the bottles.

When the police arrived after a frantic bartender’s call a few minutes before, they found the bartenders dead, their necks either crushed at the spine or choking markings so deep that they were made on soft clay, as the doctors were cutting and “tattooing” their skin with broken glass from liquor bottles and beer mugs, laughing and giggling as they focused on their own insane work.

Since I was getting constantly woken up by the scratching of the roaches behind the walls, something that none of the five exterminator companies could find for some freaking reason, I would look around online on randomly just to kill some time every night before my work shift.

During one of these online excursions, while searching for some random things that were connected to the movie “Passion of Christ”, which came upon while looking for information about a video game based on some religious scroll of “El Shaddai”, I came upon the same cursive writings as the ones that I remember reading from the brown book that came with the patient.

After calling the police station and confirming with them, they told me that thanks to my lead, they were able to find an expert on Sanskrit writings.

The book was actually a version of the bible written in ancient Sanskrit, the language that was common at the time Jesus Christ was supposedly alive.

With one difference though, as the last section of the bible contained one of the scrolls that were not accepted into the modern version of the bible, one about a fallen angel of God that was expelled from heaven due to his impure thoughts, one that he could not control and eventually acted upon, raping the virgin maidens of a village near Jerusalem.

God was so angry at him, that he pulverized him with a loud thunder, and spread his ashes onto the ground so that he could deal with the penance of his sins for eternity, without the freedom and form of a body ever again.

The story ends with the ashes being carried by the wind, and how it brings the impure thoughts of man into the front of the consciousness, and that only the pure of heart are able to be uninfected by it, and that the sinners will act upon their own evil and suffer for it for their own sins.

And that was the morning that the other nurse who was in the trauma room, the only other person besides myself who was present at the time in that room, ran her car into a day care center.

Crawling through the broken windshield of her totaled car, she spat blood as she struggled out of her car, and when he reached the first child who was in her way, she grabbed and held the kid tight, so tight that escape was impossible, and without a moment’s hesitation, bit into the child’s neck, bit into it so hard and so strong that it broke skin, and even though the child screamed and struggled to free himself from her, she wouldn’t let go until she ripped the tendons out of his neck, and blood spilled out of his arteries onto the yolk-colored carpet.

By the time the cops finally shot her full of bullets, she had already bit through six children, two adult, and one bunny rabbit who was in the petting cage.

By this point, I was basically an insomniac, having not slept for almost three days, except for the occasional nodding off and minutes of unconsciousness, before being woken up again by the scritching, the scratching, that went on now not behind the walls, but deeply inside my head, crawling, digging, squeezing through what I imagined the curves and ridges of my brain.

In desperation, I used some of the drugs that we were using on the cancer ward upstairs, but upon waking up at home, I found myself surrounded by bodies of what appeared to be mice, feeder mice, according to the receipt on the kitchen counter from a pet shop I don’t remember visiting, with my mouth now caked with dried blood, which I imagined were from the mice since they were now all without heads, all of them bitten off by some ravenous animal.

All of them bitten off by some ravenous me.

Being the last one alive, I’m afraid by what I’ll do next.

I believe there was something in the book, and maybe the last section of the bible was nothing but a warning about what was in that book, about what might happen to us if we were not pure of heart, if we were too afraid to confess the hidden sins that we’ve held for so long inside.

Hidden sins that we’ve held as tightly as the dead man had held that large brown book.

And with the borrowed gun from one of my best friends, the bullets now filling every chamber of the pistol, I wonder if it’ll be enough to hit whatever was scratching inside my brain, whatever was starting to take over my entire mind. And whatever regret that comes from being involved in that trauma room, whatever blame and anger that comes from it all, doesn’t affect the fact that I have to go through this, before my fear that I’ll move on from the mice to bigger things, that I’ll move from my apartment to the big outside.

And there’s also the wonder about what was going on with anybody else who is handling that book at the police station, or maybe even the interpreter, or the detectives and all.

It all won’t matter soon, as soon as that bullet pierces through my skin, rushing its way right across my skull.

And the only image that went through my image as I pulled the trigger, was the image of that torn man with the book tightly held across his chest, one that we had to struggle to pull it out of his deadly grip.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

"So this was it, do or die, all or nothing, Cleveland or certain death..."

http://albruno3.blogspot.com/2011/08/nick-of-time-and-other-abrasions-jason.html

John sat quietly in the dingy waiting room of the rural doctor's office. He looked at the clock above the reception desk; they had been there half an hour. John was calm. Calm for all that had happened. Too calm to be sitting there tightly holding his right hand wrapped in a rag covered in blood, grease and grime. Amazingly calm to have a styrofoam cup sitting between his legs full of ice and containing four of his fingers which had been cleanly severed from his hand a few hours prior. He was in shock.

How could I have been so stupid?

John's brother, Jim, was not calm. He paced the waiting room looking at his brother's bundled bloodied hand, the clock and the overweight, gum-popping receptionist. He anxiously approached the window asking how much longer they would have to wait. Annoyed, the receptionist consulted a large, brown book which contained the appointments for the day, slid her chubby finger down the page and mechanically voiced, “half an hour” without looking up or sounding at all sympathetic to the young, quiet man who stared out the window tightly holding his incomplete, dying hand.

“You just opened and we're the only ones here! How can it be 30 minutes wait?” Jim demanded impatiently.

The receptionist did not acknowledge Jim. She glanced back at the big brown book before placing a magazine back on top of it and continued reading.

How can she be so indifferent?

Jim looked at his brother with worry. This was his fault. A long night of drinking with his visiting brother found them in one of the barns where massively impressive farm equipment was stored. Equipment he knew nothing about. He knew especially nothing about the thresher he drunkly dared his brother to climb onto nor did he know that the sharp cutting blades were spring loaded and even when the machine was off the blades could still be triggered. Triggered to cut where his brother John had unfortunately placed his hand to further climb onto the machine proving his alcohol-induced bravery to his older brother.

How can my hand possibly be saved?

John was the weaker of the brothers. Fear, anxiety, and depression hung over him throughout his youth. He was weird, dressed strange was horrible with girls and was liked by hardly anyone. His big brother was quite the opposite and had an image which was hard for John to live up to. Jim looked out for his little brother as best he could but also poked fun at his brother's awkwardness like many of the bullies he sometimes protected him from. He regretted that now.

Growing up they always got in trouble together and most of the time it was Jim talking his younger brother into doing things for which they ultimately got caught and for which Jim usually blamed on his little brother. John idolized Jim but secretly it was Jim who admired his little brother. John grew past the cloud of misery, moved away from their small farming town to the big city, went to college, had a career and a wife with plans to start a family.

Jim worried about John's future.

How will I tell Cheryl?

“Any minute now and they'll get us in. Don't worry bud, we'll get in to see the doc and he'll make your hand like new.”

John did not believe his brother, his brother did not believe himself. John did not say anything, he continued to stare out the window, he could hear the ice in the cup settling as it melted. John's mood was grim. Coming home had opened wounds.

How can a man provide for his family with only one hand?

The wall clock ticked past 9am and with that the doctors office and every building in the small downtown area shook with the rumbling train which speed through town predictably twice a day; once at 9am and again at 9:30am. The train didn't stop anymore. In it's day, this sleepy farming town was a up-and-coming destination with a growing population, industry and a promising future. After several years of drought most of the farming dried up, people moved away and like many towns that did not adapt, it became less important for businesses, tourists and trains.

Just then John's parents and wife burst into the room. John's wife was crying hysterically as she held her distant husband who still gazed out of the window unmoved by the arrival of his concerned family. Enraged, his father demanded from Jim how he could have let this happen?

Weeping, the only response Jim could give was, “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The weight of the situation shown strongly John's face.

How can I go on?

Jim's father turned his attention from his eldest son to the receptionist.

“What the hell is going on here? Can't you see this is an emergency?”

Not having it, the receptionist admitted, “The doctor is not in yet. I'm sorry, you will have to wait.”

“That son of a bitch is probably fishing.” Jim's father angrily speculated.

“Never you mind what the doctor does before he comes in to his office. If you don't want to wait, you can go somewhere else.”

Somewhere else was not a possibility, somewhere else was over 200 miles away. Johns hand would be long beyond repair by the time they could drive to the next town. Johns hand was already beyond repair.

“There's got to be a way to get a hold of the doctor. For Christ sake, can you call him or page him or something?”

The receptionist returned to her magazine.

“God dammit, I will not be ignored!”

John's wife joined the protest and pleaded with the receptionist to no affect.

The group tried to wait some time but when the doctor did not show the berating continued anew.

The protesting mob was jarred from their argument with the receptionist by the raging thunder of the train racing through the town: It was 9:30am. As soon as the noise died down Jim's father was about to resume his tirade against the receptionist when he noticed her face; It was a look that made him forget what he was mad about. He turned to see what she was staring at; what she was not staring at. John was gone.

Without saying a word everyone feared what had happened and raced from the doctors office to the long-unused train platform which neighbored the doctors office and found horror.

Severed much more brutally than his fingers, John's legs were found in a torn bloody mass wedged between the track and elevated platform. A blood trail painted the rails. Unseen in a ditch several blocks from the platform lay John.

How much longer till the end?

And then it ended.

Returning home from the funeral, I sat down in the soft leather chair and undid my tie passively as I reclined and stared at the white ceiling. Cracks in the material ran about like veins and capillaries ushering shadowy sludge toward a hidden heart, somewhere deep inside the structure. The sun was setting and I had yet to move from my seat, still staring blankly into dimming ceiling. The gusts of wind outside made the old house creek as blackness finally enveloped me.

I stumbled toward the staircase to the basement, knowing that I was becoming weaker by the day. I pulled the string and the lamps slowly flickered on. Deep in the basement, I stared horrified at the large, brown book sitting on the makeshift altar. It seemed like a great idea at the time, "Demon's don't exist." I remember thinking when we did the ritual. But, it turns out they do and we had just become very powerful. But all our power came with a price. We had to offer our blood to keep the demons within the book satiated and they, in turn, would grant us wealth and whatever we desired. But, Jim had stopped feeding the demons tried to escape his new life.

I don't know why he did it. I didn't know what had happened to him until they found him in this decrepit house and this is where I found the book again. Just in time too, it seemed.

The leather cover had changed since the funeral: the color matched that of the skin color my now deceased friend and staring out to the room with empty, horrible eyes was his face, anguished and frozen in an expression that could be a hybrid of immense fear and crippling pain. I tried not look but it was so grim that my eyes could not be pulled from his visage. I picked up the ornate dagger and forced closed my eyes as I cut my hand and the the crimson fluid permeate the pages of the book. I would not make the mistake of ignoring the hunger again. I would not end up like him.

Hi, DarkWorkshop. I recently posted a horror short-story on /r/nosleep using a character from Dash32's story "Butcherface". This seemed like an appropriate place to put it--I have gotten positive feedback on it and I'd like to see what the Workshop thinks.

I have compiled the story into one .html file to expedite consumption, as the original was broken into several isolated posts. Also, it's a bit long, so I didn't want to cram the whole thing into this post for the sake of brevity.

"Blood Graffiti"

Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. All constructive criticism is welcome.

Lorelei was almost thirteen years old, her bodyguard in his forties and they both knew they would never have another opportunity like this again...

Click here to read the rest http://albruno3.blogspot.com/2009/11/nick-of-time-and-other-abrasions-pretty.html

EDIT 2: Restricted the google doc. the gmail account I hosted that on sent out spam to everyone in my contact list shortly after hosting the story. Is it related? Probably not, but restricting it just to be safe. If anyone else is interested in reading it feel free to PM me your email and I'll add you to the share list.

Autumn in the Woods - Google Docs Link

This story is a quite a bit longer than others I've seen posted (11,100 words), but if any readers here are into longer short stories I'd love some constructive criticism.

Thanks.

PS: Loving this subreddit so far.

The room was drowned in an over-abundance of white light. Every white seemed to bleed onto the adjacent colour which gave even the most purposeful of the room's props a bright, oppressive, aura. There were no windows in this room or any other room of the facility. Windows were a phenomenation that was exclusive to levels zero upwards.

There was a hiss as the air pressure stabilized and the security door slid open. Stuart could be seen stuffing his keycard into an inner pocket. In his other hand he held a leather briefcase. "This way, Mister Green," he said to the man who followed him.

"I've been here before," Mister Green, Albert, said.

Like all top-level corporate figures, Mister Green and Mister Red wore suits. They also seemed to be faceless. The metaphor was simply more ingrained into reality with the camouflage device that both men used. Sometimes, even the face of an employee is a corporate secret.

"I wouldn't know," Mister Red said.

As Albert stepped over the threshold, he felt the refrigerating effects of the underground compound. The smell of surgical cleanliness assaulted the noses of both men. "I assure you that this is our best work yet," Mister Red said.

"For the money that we give you, it had better be," Mister Green said.

Mister Red chuckled.

Above the ground there was the limelight, where stars were recognised. Down here was where stars were fabricated.

Mister Red led Albert down the hall. There was no one else in the compound at the time. Normally it would be teeming with various medical specialists which had been evacuated for Mister Green's visit. Business is not to be discussed in front of lackeys, even ones with PHDs.

Every room contained various scientific instruments, making the facility seem like a monitoring operation than anything else. Every room had that same oppressive feeling. There were no dark corners. Darkness resided only in the hearts of those who knew the purpose of this facility.

Both men were standing at a table in an operating theatre. Both men wore what seemed to be a light hazard suit for sanitation purposes. It was odd to see that Mister Red still had that very same briefcase.

Mister Green peered something on the table covered with a shroud; his reason for the visit. Underneath the shroud there was body. There were two other empty tables in the very same theatre.

Mister Red set the briefcase down and took the clip-board attached to the table. "Yes, this is it," he said. He reached out and pulled a part of the sheet down revealing the visage of a fourteen-year-old female.

"Fairly average," Mister Green said.

"Brunette; B-Cup. Everything to specification," said Mister Red as he indicated the clipboard in his hand. "Tabula rasa state."

"Yes." Mister Green bent over the body squinting at the various features. "Freckles, fair skin. Excellent."

Beneath his facelessness, Stuart smiled.

Mister Green reached out and opened the girl's eye. "Lazy eye," he muttered, "not in the specification."

"That is only the prototype; it'll be fixed in the final build."

"I thought as much. Where's the shipping specimen?"

"Safe. She's in the final build stages. We'll begin the imprinting process as soon as your people give us the word. Perhaps now we can go over the script?" Mister Red said.

Mister Green gave a curt nod.

"Right." Mister Red replaced the clipboard and picked the briefcase up. He set it on the operating table and ran his fingers over the combination lock. The locks snapped open at his lightest touch. From within the briefcase, he took out a thick document. Mister Red then closed the briefcase and set the script on it. He turned the first page. "Our starlet here will enrol into a high school."

"She'll have average grades."

"Yes, of course," said Mister Red.

"Little interest for the arts-"

"Except for those released for mass-consumption. Yes. A shitty home life – if you'll pardon the expression. Then your talent scouts will discover her. Faced with an opportunity to be someone, she'll sign."

"What are her talents anyway?" Mister Green said.

"Average at best," Mister Red said. "It says so in the specification. My guess is that your people will plaster her full of make-up and auto-tune her vocals; she'll be singing."

"Except that you are not paid to guess our corporate strategy." A hint of aggression could be heard in Mister Green's voice.

"Right, sorry about that. A year of fame and fortune, tours. She'll plateau in popularity within that year with a platinum album, two hit singles; bla, bla, boyfriend." Mister Red stopped, "Ooh, this is where it gets interesting."

"Just as her fame begins to dwindle ..."

"The boyfriend sleeps with another. Her best friend?! I wonder how you'll manage that. Sleeper agents?"

"There will always be an agent around her; we monitor our investments." Mister Green's eyes briefly scanned the other tables. "Continue."

"Wait, wait. She'll catch them while he's inside?" Mister Red chuckled. "I'll give it to you; your writers come up with excellent stories."

"But this is reality. People will see it happen right in front of her eyes." Mister Green said.

"Sure they will. She goes nuts. She'll hit alcohol hard, which explains the liver specification. She'll go to rehab. She'll leave when it's time for something bigger. More success. When her fame starts to dwindle again a video will leak – oh, so that's why!"

"What?" Mister Green said.

Mister Red removed the rest of the covering off the prototype. Mister Green gasped and turned away.

"Normally there isn't much emphasis on detail down here," said Mister Red said. "Functionality is enough. Hmm, probably for a couple of close-ups."

"You're a sick man. Cover her up."

"What's the matter? It's your script." Mister Red carelessly threw the cover back on the body. "Jesus, this script runs for pages and pages."

"It's a long-term investment."

"Hmm," Mister Red said as he riffled through the pages, "No children."

"We didn't get the budget for that. Children bring all sorts of complexities in operations such as these."

Mister Red straightened the papers and threw them in the briefcase. They landed and lost their organization. Mister Red sighed.

"You can deliver this, right?" Mister Green asked.

"Oh, of course. She may not follow the script to the letter, but she'll definitely go through the motions." Mister Red laughed.

"I think we're done here. Cover her up."

Mister Red hid the teen's face.

"We'll send word." Mister Green turned to leave.

"Wait," Mister Red said. He put his hand on Mister Green's shoulder. "Aren't you going to visit the imprinting lab?"

"I don't need to; I've been sent here to inspect the physical characteristics. If something is wrong with the firmware, you'll be to blame regardless."

Mister Red frowned. "Let me show you out ..."

Just as they were about to leave, Mister Green turned to ask one final question. "What happens to the prototypes?"

"They're imprinted with different personalities and sold off."

"What?! We can't afford to have someone that looks like our starlet running around, even if she has a lazy eye!"

"I kid; the company policy is that they're recycled. You can reassure your superiors."

"I hope so."

Once again Mister Red took the keycard in hand and ran it through the scanner. The door slid open with a hiss and Mister Green hurried through it. Mister Red followed at a more relaxed pace.