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Post by QueenFoxy on May 17, 2020 13:34:36 GMT -6
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 11, 2020 11:24:48 GMT -6
Queen for a Day Written by Jim Farren Her old man was mean, mean as sin, meaner still when drinking and he drank often. In his youth he'd been handsome and sly, flush with inherited land and money, hid his wickedness behind flashing eyes and a winsome smile.
She was delicate and pale, an only child accustomed to the warmth and safety of a protective family.
He entered her life in a whirlwind of presents and proclaimed adoration. Wanting her only for the possession she represented he swept her off her feet and, in a heady rush to the altar, married and carried her to his home by the river. On their honeymoon night they did not make love. Instead, he beat her until she passed blood.
In all their years together they never did make love. Not even once. Occasionally he covered her as a stallion covers a mare; quickly, ruthlessly, efficiently. Afterwards he would beat her, usually with his fists, but sometimes with a harness strap.
He beat her often, not just when he mounted her. Careful to avoid marking her face, and her arms below the elbows, and her legs below the knees, he beat her with savage frequency.
He took her to church on Sundays. Quietly held her hand in the rear pew. Sang Methodist hymns in an enviable baritone. During the sermon he would lean close and whisper the punishment he planned for her when they got home. He never once failed to keep his word.
Friday nights he went into town—played cards, drank whiskey. Arriving home late he'd call her out to the barn, finding and dragging her by the hair when she didn't come as quick as he liked. Stripping her naked in a feed stall he would beat her until his arm grew weary. Over time she learned to fast on Fridays, purging her system so as not to befoul herself in the straw.
She did not suffer alone. He kicked a dog to death for sneaking into the house, poleaxed a mule for balking in the field, wrung a rooster's neck for crowing him awake. She raised rabbits once, but he saw she cared for them and made her watch as he skinned them alive then had her fry them for his dinner. He stomped a calf to death for knocking over a milk pail, threw stray cats into the river.
She bore him three daughters and kept his secret from them. When he came home drunk she would run to meet him in the yard or the barn or the woodshed; suffered in silence so the girls would not be awakened. He drew pleasure from her pain. He laughed at her tears, grew erect and spilled his seed. Meanwhile he treated his daughters as princesses—lavished them with gifts, flowers, clothes, all the things that turn a young girl's head. They worshipped him. She them.
In the twenty-third year of their marriage their youngest wed and moved away with her husband. Left she and he alone together.
At last.
He got evil drunk on Monday. Sitting in a porch rocker he described in detail what he would do to her come Friday. The more he drank the more he embellished his intent. Near midnight he passed out.
She fetched rope from the barn and, working quick as a cat, bound him fore and aft to the chair. Pretending the rocker was a stubborn pony she put the rope across her shoulder and dragged it to the river. Wrestling it into the skiff she rowed to the middle of the stream. Dropping the anchor weight over the side she softly hummed hymns while waiting.
Came daylight he awakened. Groggy. Like a petulant child, he chaffed at the unfamiliar bindings. Understanding slowly dawned. Angry, he seethed and fought the rope, threatened in turn. She paid him no mind, only waited patiently for him to calm. The serene look on her face sobered him and he tried to reason. Finally, sore afraid, he begged. Cocking her head to one side she smiled as he bullied the bonds.
“Don't rock the boat,” she cautioned quietly. “There'll be time for that later. We’ll be adrift soon,” she said. “There above the rapids,” she pointed. “Then you can thrash all you like. We'll float slowly at first. Then faster and faster as we take on speed near the rocks.”
His eyes widened with disbelief then narrowed with cunning. “You wouldn’t,” he hissed, spittle flecking his chin. “You won’t. You don’t have…”
“I’ll cut you free from the chair after it’s done,” she said matter of factly. “I already know what I'll tell them. I'll say we were night fishing and drifted onto the rocks in the dark. I'll tell them you were ever so brave. I'll say you did everything you could to save us, but that in the end you sacrificed yourself to save me. The girls will be so proud of their papa, and the sheriff will be appeased.”
With that she brought in the anchor. Her quiet detachment crazed him. He twisted inside the confining loops, threw himself to and fro without effect, cursed her soul and told her he would kill her.
“Oh no you won't,” she whispered softly. “We're drifting now. Look how the rocks come out of the water like jagged teeth. Soon they will hole the boat and it will begin to fill. It will sink or capsize. The two of us will struggle in the rapids, our clothes growing heavy with water. Then we'll see,” she added fiercely.
He pitched the rocking chair sideways, thumping the sides of the boat as he struggled to no good end. “See what, you bitch?!” he screamed. “See what?”
The bow of the boat entered the rapids, banged against the first of the rocks, spun sideways and began to tilt.
Her quiet reply chilled him to the bone . . . “We’ll see whether you can swim as well as I.” THE END ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 12, 2020 11:39:04 GMT -6
I think he is in serious trouble!
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 12, 2020 12:39:18 GMT -6
Sooner or later, I think Karma is unavoidable
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 12, 2020 13:02:23 GMT -6
Trumpet's Haunting by Bill Bennett It is so many years ago in the year of our Lord 1871, and I’m still not sure what occurred on this estate during the early hours of that morning. An icy wind tore at the eaves and rocked the rafters like a dilapidated dinghy on the violent sea in the heaviest of squalls. Moans of pain filled the halls with torment and dread, for we all knew that death was coming for my beloved wife Gerda.
That night I was at my writing desk pulling at my hair and drawing a tortured letter to the now late Dr. VanKollar of South London, inquiring on what exactly he was a Doctor of. I heard through the grapevine he possessed the ability to converse with recently departed spirits and I wondered if he could reach my daughter, Trumpet, deceased a fortnight ago. According to Inspector James W. Smoth of the London Office of Inquiry, Trumpet died under what he thought the most mysterious of circumstance.
It was a terrible feat to overcome two great losses in the month of October of the same year, first my daughter then within weeks, Gerda from infection of a cut hand. She had accused Trumpet of stabbing her with a shard of mirror during one of her queer tantrums.
Trumpet had been acting most strange of the evenings and especially at the witching hour. She would spit and curse the vilest phrases I’m most honestly not sure where she had learned such vulgar language. From her quarters there would be great booms and sounds of cracking wood from the third floor of the estate where then only Trumpet occupied. The servants were always visibly shaken to their bones and refused to go near her door after sunset and would only attempt to service her with at least one other person for comfort’s sake. Trumpet would sometimes speak in some such unrecognizable tongue or touch herself in an obscene way. But the most fearsome of tricks, she could conjure a spell and move the heavy furniture that five strong men could not lift, but she did it with only her thoughts. On occasion she somehow knew your most intimate secrets and desires and would blurt them for all to hear.
The night of Trumpet’s death, I slowly crept up the stairs with Gerda in tow and I could feel the hot pus and blood soaked bandage of her left hand. Careful not to disturb the calmness that had overcome the third floor, we approached the door to Trumpet’s quarters with both trepidation and glee, hoping the devilish occurrences of the last month were finally abating. We entered the freezing room and immediately were overcome with the stench of shit and death. The room was empty of Trumpet, but the French windows to the captain’s walk were agape and the icy wind was blowing the tapestry askew. Staring in shock I saw my daughter balancing on the rail of the walk, mumbling in that indecipherable tongue with arms held high like in a crucifix of Christ himself. She either stumbled or something other worldly pushed her from her perch and she fell to her death on the cold cobblestones below.
Inspector Smoth finished his investigation the next morning with no resolution but “it is a mysterious occurrence” to her death. I was utterly devastated. My wife Gerda also was in poor spirits as were the servants. I couldn’t sleep for days on end and was never the slightest bit hungry.
A week later, on the morning of Trumpet’s funeral, I ordered the servants to rid James House of her belongings, for I felt a most uncomfortable oppression in our dwelling and thought the items were causing the heaviness. Gerda and I were enjoying breakfast as best we could under the circumstances when we heard the most horrifying scream. We rushed the two flights of stairs and bolted through the door to see the fainted maid servant and Trumpet’s heavy oak bed broken into splinters and the pieces slung across the room. Underneath where the bed had stood, on the wooden plank floor, I saw a blood drawing consisting of a circle and a five-pointed star accompanied with the most peculiar hieroglyphs. I called for a sheet of stationary and pen and copied exactly the drawing on the floor and ordered the servants to scrub the quarters from wall to wall with soap and water.
Going straight to Inspector Smoth, I offered the drawing and he recoiled in horror, not accepting it. He made the sign of the cross before saying, “God bless you, Dr. James, and do you know what you are carrying?” Of course I had no Idea what the drawing meant but was most curious. Inspector Smoth directed me to contact Dr. VanKollar for the explanation and wanted nothing to do with the drawing.
Then without warning Gerda passed in the early morning after the strange cold night. The servants tending her said she had started talking in the same hellish tongue as Trumpet before her passing. Gerda’s left hand had swollen to an unimaginable size with a putrid ooze freely spilling out on her bed sheets.
Two days after Gerda’s death, a peculiar visitor interrupted my luncheon. Holloway the butler came rushing into the dining hall with a stout man in tow and excitedly introduced none other than Dr. VanKollar himself. VanKollar patted down his unruly white shock of hair and the overgrown thatch on his face that reminded me of the most rigorous of sailors. He offered his hand and bowed with courtesy, saying, “Dr. James, I am at your service. I apologize for my tardiness in this matter and beg your forgiveness.”
“Well sir, since I never sent my query to you, how could you possibly know that I would be requiring your services?”
“My dear sir, in matters of a demon, I possess a certain knowing if you will. Your sweet Trumpet came to me in a dream last night begging for my help.”
“I beg your pardon, Dr. VanKollar, but did you say matters of a demon?”
VanKollar cleared his throat and said, “Yes, yes I did, and we must rid your house at once before it takes more innocent souls.”
That night we assembled a crew of the two of us men and two women servants in a circle around an oak table in Trumpet’s room. At the stroke of midnight we held hands and leaned closer to each other. VanKollar commanded us to follow his lead and chant thrice Trumpet’s name, then be silent. We all followed the instructions and seemed to fall into a trance. Then he told us to open our eyes and the world around us transformed into a field of burning ground and red sky with clouds of sulfuric black fog and hot embers. One of the women gasped in fear and tried to break our grip but I held her steadfast so as not to break the spell being conjured.
Trumpet’s voice came from afar begging for mercy, and I started to answer but VanKollar immediately silenced me with a painful kick to my shin. We waited while nothing happened except Trumpet’s calls were getting louder; she was getting closer. She appeared through the black fog with a heavy chain around her neck and God help me but Gerda followed, holding her on the leash like a hound from hell.
“Gerda! What on earth are you doing to Trumpet?” I asked.
She smiled and said, “I’ve sold her to my master for a price, my beloved, and he will raise my earthly body from the dead so I can be with you forever. All I need is your permission, husband.”
“It was you! You bitch from hell who cut your hand and made that blood drawing under Trumpet’s bed, letting that demon in our house! I will never give you permission to sell her soul to save you.” My knees buckled and I fell to the fiery ground pleading with The Almighty to save my Trumpet.
VanKollar took a vial of clear liquid I presumed to be holy water from the pocket of his long coat, pulled the cork and slung the liquid into Gerda’s face while yelling “be gone demon!” Where it landed, her skin instantly started to boil, and she screamed in agony. Seconds later the blackest shadow with the most terrifying gaping maw I have ever seen before and after that day overcame Gerda and devoured her body. She wailed in agony while it tore her to pieces.
Then a white hole burst open in the red sky with a thunderous crack. It was brighter than a thousand suns and we could not stand to look but for a moment lest we lose our sight. VonKollar told Trumpet to go into the light for it was good and she did so, vanishing never seen again except for the occasional haunting of my sleep. I often think of those dreadful days and wonder where my sweet, sweet Trumpet might be. I can only hope she is in the comforting arms of our Father resting in that beautiful sleep of the departed.
This is how I became apprentice to Dr. VonKollar, and our vigilant quest to rid this world of monsters continued until his violent death on Christmas Day, 1899. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 13, 2020 12:03:22 GMT -6
So much deception and violence in this story, mirroring what is going on in the world today.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 13, 2020 12:21:16 GMT -6
Sadly, that is true, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 13, 2020 12:39:55 GMT -6
Mr Frosty by Walter W. Leach There was a time when I heard nothing.
Nothing.
Not the croaking of tree frogs screaming over and over again. The rustling of leaves scratching at the street as they made their escape from one lawn to the other. Not even the screech of some far off car escaping from something or trying to make its way home after some night shift.
None of it.
Nothing.
Only the quiet dead movement of blistering hot Summer air.
I remember I lay in bed atop the covers sweating and turning from side to side to find a position that worked.
When Tracey was still in the house it was easier to find a position. There had been a certain order. An understanding. I had my side of the bed (left) and she had her side (right, like with everything else about her, always right).
But now that Tracey lived with Martin over on Maple Avenue, just across from the elementary school and not too far from what would be the new Piggly-Wiggly, I was left to try and find a position in bed that worked. I moved over and took her side.
Seemed right.
She took everything else from me. I might as well take her side of the bed.
I punched the pillow a few times to soften it and then tried to get the last three hours of sleep in before I had to get up and shower and get Tammy ready for school. It was my week with her and we were still working through it just being me and her every other week and alternating holidays.
We were working through it all.
It was hard enough telling a six year old about why daddy still lived in their old house while mommy lived over on Maple Avenue with the mustached jerk who use to prepare our taxes.
Much less trying to get up at six to make sure her backpack was filled with all of the right books and peanut oil-free snacks.
But I was just about there. I could feel the sleep.
My eyes were staying closed and my breathing was getting thicker and heavier with every minute. I was being dragged down into the black hole that is sleep when suddenly it began.
Soft at first.
Like a rustling of far off porch chimes.
Almost soothing.
But not clean like a piano. Instead there was a certain broken static to it. Like a radio playing underwater from a car that had been pushed into a lake.
The louder it got the more I got pulled out from the hole that was sleep. I still lay in bed with my eyes closed but I was awake.
I turned my head a bit to bring the sound in louder. And it was louder. And the louder and closer it got, the more familiar it became.
No longer the ringing of some distant chimes or a far off radio. It was familiar. Something I knew.
I started to follow along and hum the tune in my head.
Da da da dah da . . .
I knew the song. The more I listened, the more I understood.
It was the old song from the neighborhood ice cream truck. From when I was little.
Mister, mister something. I searched my memory as I lay in bed.
Mr. Frosty!
That was it. Mr. Frosty. Only that was not it. It was spelled “Mister” not just “Mr.”.
More formal.
Mister Frosty.
That was it.
He with the big whipped flip of white hair that was made of vanilla soft serve sticking from his cone head. He with the little red bow tie.
Laying in bed years away from those moments, I could still pull up the image of the old truck with the plastic model of him on the passenger’s side that stayed lit even in the afternoon light.
Da da da dah da . . .
I could still see the truck inching down the street like some pied piper drawing every neighborhood child from the safety of their TV sets to run around the house scurrying for fistfuls of change.
And then when the truck stopped we would be nothing more than a gaggle of screaming voices.
Ice cream Beatlemaniacs.
The man inside, who we never knew his name, and who looked nothing like the big plastic head with the whipped flip of white hair on the sign, would point to one child over another for no reason at all, and take their order. And as he pointed with his chocolate stained white gloves, you would scurry to place your order without messing up and hand over your fistful of change as he delivered the whatever it was you ordered.
A single dip or double dip or vanilla and chocolate twist. The twist, that was the best!
Da da da dah da . . .
The sound was so loud now that I knew it must be over on Cedar Mill or maybe Edgemont Avenue, just a block away from our street. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock.
3:33.
That had to be wrong. What the hell was an ice cream truck doing out at this time of the night? I sat up in bed and listened again to the tune. But there was no mistaking it.
Da da da dah da …
It was Mister friggin Softy. There was no doubt.
I pulled back the covers and walked to the edge of the bedroom and looked out the window. The street was blanketed in darkness. A lone post light from the Poe’s house, six doors down, shed an edge of pissy-yellow to the blackness but not enough to light our area. I could hear the sound of the truck as it grew closer making what must have been the turn from Edgemont onto our street.
I pushed my head against the screen to see if it really was the truck. And sure enough, there it was. Sitting in the darkness just down the street by the corner. An old white box truck with dark blue trim that looked more grey and black from where I was standing.
The music playing loud like it was a Friday afternoon and school was out. And yet, no house lights turned on. No door opened with a robe wearing curious neighbor.
The truck stood still in the blackness but I could make out the glowing of the Mister Frosty sign. His white heap of hair yellowed from age but still recognizable. The truck did not move. It just stood at the end of the street just inside of my vision and then ever so slowly it began to move. It travelled at no more than two miles per hour, if even.
Just inching along down the street.
Like a dare.
Its music tingling in the night as it passed directly in front of my house.
And then the truck stopped.
Just stopped.
For whatever reason that made me pull back hard from my screen. Like I had been shocked.
I stood in the bedroom and the safety of the darkness of the screen and looked at the truck just outside of my house. I looked around at the other houses but no lights came on. Again, no one stepped outside on their porch. No one peered from behind a curtain.
Just, nothing. Everything stayed still.
And then the music stopped.
That pushed me back again with the same feeling of electric shock.
All that was left was the still Summer heat.
I started to lean again in to get a better look when I heard it. The sound of my bottom screen door opening and slamming against the wood. The outer door knock-knock-knocking against the main door.
I pulled as fast as I could to the window and looked down.
Even in the darkness, I could see her. It was Tammy, running in her nightshirt, with her fist curled up with what must have been change from a drawer. Running down our walk to the truck.
I was frozen in disbelief and before I could yell out, the door to the truck opened and I saw a gloved hand motion her inside. She did not even hesitate. She just went in.
I screamed from the window but she never turned around.
I ran from the bedroom down the stairs taking them two and then three at a time until I fell upon the bottom landing. I ran to the front door and out onto the street but the truck was already turning the corner. I ran as fast as I could and started screaming.
I ran around the corner and caught sight of the truck. A hundred yards in front and gaining speed, disappearing into the Summer night. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It’s not the same anymore. It never is they say. Even after all of this time. After Tracy and Martin and the police and the neighbors and the questions and the questions and the questions, I still live here.
“An ice cream truck?” They each asked me at one time or another during the investigation. Like it is something I would make up.
“Yes, a Mister Frosty truck.”
I heard how it sounded. I understood. I got it. And I even understood when they brought in the dog team and started digging in my garden and back yard. I even offered to help search the nearby woods but the police said it was better I just stayed away.
I understood it all.
Especially now that I have become the weird man with the messy hair and the dark rings under his eyes. The four packs a day habit sitting on the porch. Waiting for what little money I still have left to run out. Waiting for it all to run out.
Waiting every night for the sound.
Waiting for the sound,
Waiting for the sound.
Waiting for the sound.
Da da da dah dah da da da da dum. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 14, 2020 10:45:23 GMT -6
A strange ending! 4 packs a day his money will not last long at all ... or his health regardless of the investigation  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 14, 2020 21:46:50 GMT -6
Unpleasant Sailing by Saul Greenblatt Jason Lyman, his wife, Barbara, and their friends, John and Susan Dunne left Bermuda in Jason’s boat for a trip to Miami.
While Jason drove the boat, John looked at maps, and Barbara and Susan lay on the deck enjoying the sun.
John went to Jason with a map of the course they had to take to get to Miami. “Hey, Jason, look at this, “John said and put a map on the console in front of Jason. “We’re sailing on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle.”
“Is that a problem?” Jason asked.
“Haven’t you ever heard of the Devil’s Triangle?”
“Yeah, John, I’ve heard of it. It’s the Bermuda Triangle. So what? Are you worried?”
“Yeah, I’m worried. The stories are something to think about. Ships and people have disappeared in the Triangle, and, yeah, I’m worried. A lot has been written about the Devil’s triangle, and I don’t think the stories were made up. I suppose you think the stories were made up?”
“Yes. I think the stories were made up. Do you think a monster of some sort lives in the ocean and waits for ships to sail its waters, a ship like this one, and comes out of the water and pulls the ships into the water and eats all the people on board?” Jason said mocking John.
“Okay, mock me.”
After an hour out, the wind picked up.
“One minute it was sunny and calm and the next minute the wind is blowing us all over the place,” Jason yelled over the roar of the wind.
“This damn wind is pushing us off course,” John yelled as he held tightly to the wheel.
“I don’t like this,” Jason shouted. “I think it’s time for everybody to put on life jackets,” he said, and gave life jackets to the girls.
Everybody had life jackets on as the wind picked up, and the boat was tossed around like it was a toy. “The wind is unbelievable,” John shouted and strained to hold the wheel steady as he turned on the radio. “This is Lady Grace somewhere off Bermuda. Winds are high. My boat is being battered by huge waves. I don’t know where we are. Is anybody listening? Can anyone hear me?” he yelled. “Nobody is receiving my call.”
The boat spun around throwing John, Jason, and the women against the sides of the boat.
John rushed to the wheel that spun like a top and held on to it. “I don’t think this boat is going to be in one piece much longer,” John warned. “Make sure your life jackets are secure.”
As they were tossed around, a huge wave swamped the boat and the four were washed overboard. As they tried to reach each other, a giant, muscular, hairy humanoid, humanoid to its waist and fish from the waist down, came out of the water and slapped its huge, thirty-foot fish tail, on the water causing high waves. The people in the water screamed as the creature looked at them, and they gasped as the creature put Jason in its mouth, chewed him up, and swallowed him. They tried to swim away, but the creature grabbed the others, put them all in its mouth, chewed for several moments and then swallowed them. After eating the four people, it smashed the boat with its tail and then retreated back in the water. About ten minutes later, the wind stopped and the sea was calm.
Like John, Jason should have been worried, because Jason’s mocking words were prophetic. “Do you think a monster of some sort lives in the ocean and waits for ships to sail its waters, a ship like this one, and comes out of the water and pulls the ships into the water and eats all the people on board?” The End ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 15, 2020 4:26:47 GMT -6
Yes those mocking words should have been heeded; such a scary sea creature  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 15, 2020 11:51:46 GMT -6
Silent Night by Andy Morris Christmas Eve, it’s always Christmas Eve. Bare winter trees dotted about the town square glow with festive colour while a trail of small lanterns light the way from the square to the old church up on the hill inviting one and all to join the midnight mass later that evening.
A lonely figure, lost and forgotten wanders through the crowd. No one pays him any attention or even notices him. Yet he’d been coming here for years, too many to remember. He’s no longer warmed by the sweet scents of mulled wine and roast chestnuts drifting over the crowd of carol singers. He always stays close to the caroller’s because they remind him of the life he once had and yet could never have again.
It would be wise for him to leave now before it’s too late but as always something distracts him. With a sentimental fondness he watches a young girl aged about five or six years as she stares up into the night sky trying to glimpse Santa’s sleigh. Then he smiles broadly at her squeal of joy as the first flakes of snow begin to tumble to down, dusting everything with a soft magical powder. Her parents shiver and wrap their scarfs tighter around their faces while clutching song sheets in their gloved hands, determined not to let he chilly weather deter them from this annual traditional.
In the far corner of the square standing before a flood-lit nativity scene stands a man dressed in a Father Christmas costume. He announces the next carol to be sung and Away in a Manger rises from the assembled choir. It must be early, the figure notes, because the townsfolk still seem a little self-conscious about singing in public.
The figure knew he should enjoy these quiet moments and make the most of his temporary respite but he never could. The peace he feels standing amid the jolly crowd is never tangible because he knows it won’t last. There’s just never enough time he laments. It’s nearly always the same; different faces and occasionally different decorations but the task is never complete and soon he’d find himself alone again, desperate and scared. The final notes of the carol fade away and the pretend Father Christmas heralds the next yuletide hymn: Silent Night.
So soon?
The figure braced himself and took an involuntary step backwards towards the edge of the crowd. He wanted to get away from the nativity scene for he knows what stirs within the make-shift cattle shed.
The carol begins:
Silent Night, holy Night.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child…
At that point the town square changed and the people abruptly vanished. He felt a moment of disorientation as if waking from a dream and finding the marketplace deserted except for him. There were no footprints left in the snow; nothing to indicate anyone else had been here tonight. It always happened this way; hours had just passed in the blink of an eye. All around the square the colourful lights had gone dark, returning the trees to eerie spectres, their spidery branches silhouetted against the pale ghostly streetlights. All was still and all was quiet as the world slept, unaware of his lonely plight.
The figure turned to face the shadowy nativity scene. The floodlights were gone but amid the shades of darkness he could see two yellow eyes watching him intently. A low throaty growl rumbled across the empty town square and the figure took another tentative step backwards. His foot brushed past something and he looked down to see the brown sack at his feet bulging with unknown items. He never saw the sack arrive; it just appeared when the townsfolk left and when Black Peter woke up.
The huge black wolf lopped out from the nativity scene. His head low and teeth bared, saliva swung from his vicious jaws. Black Peter issued another challenging growl and slunk eagerly towards the figure. Seized by fear and pure instinct the lonely figure grabbed the parcels and stumbled backwards. He swung the heavy sack over his shoulder, turned and fled the square while the wolf’s howl echoed down the deserted winding high-street.
As the road gently curved to the right the figure spotted a dark hump in the middle of the street. His first thought was that Black Peter had somehow overtaken him and for one terrifying moment he thought it was all over. Then he realised the beast wasn’t moving. A broken antler came into view, pointing out of the snow like a miniature bony tree. The reindeer’s elegant neck and shoulder were glistening in the moonlight while a scarlet a puddle bled out onto the virgin snow beneath.
He often saw these majestic creatures during the night but he’d never seen one killed by Black Peter before. Still, there was nothing he could do for the animal. He couldn’t allow himself to feel any sorrow. It simply hadn’t been quick enough this time and he had to ensure he didn’t meet the same fate.
The dark shop-fronts lining the high-street felt alien now, sinister even: Ghostly white snowmen leered out from behind the frosted glass along with lifeless Father Christmas mannequins. Without the colours and the warmth of the friendly shopkeepers and bustling customers the hollow commercialism of the season was starkly revealed. He remembered a time when it had been different, but that had been a long time ago.
Eventually the quaint row of shops ended and he hurried on through the town. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder down the sleeping high-street but nothing stirred. Straining his ears he couldn’t hear the growls or panting of the devil-wolf and for the moment the night appeared empty. Black Peter couldn’t be far away though; there was no way he could lose him this quickly but thankfully there was no immediate danger as he approached the first house on the list.
It was the list that guided him. He had no idea where it came from or who wrote it. All he knew was that he had to deliver the parcels to certain houses before the sun rose one Christmas morning.
The rustic entrance to the cottage was decorated with a luxurious holly wreath complete with berries. As always, the door to every home was unlocked to him and he quietly slipped inside. The fresh scent of pine greeted him as he stole into the living room. All was dark inside, save for the Christmas tree that sparked in the silvery light from outside. There was no need to creep about in here because the family were fast asleep upstairs and would never hear him. He’d tried waking waking them before, shouting for help, shaking them but there was nothing he could do to rouse them.
A scraping sound caught his attention and his eyes darted about, alert for danger. A gold bauble slowly turned on the Christmas tree making gold diamond shapes rotate along the far wall. Nothing else moved but a tightening in his stomach told the figure that he wasn’t alone. The sound was repeated and he realised with a start that it came from the fireplace.
His heart pounded as he tossed the parcel towards the glittering tree and bolted for the door. Behind him the scratching grew louder. Black Peter, aware that he’d been detected, abandoned stealth in exchange for speed as he scrabbled down the chimney and onto the cold hearth in a sooty cloud, only to find the prey was gone.
Outside the snowflakes were falling thicker and faster. Flurries swirled in all directions making it hard to see far ahead. The figure was on the other side of the road when he heard Black Peter’s howl of frustration and he rushed to the next house on the list, anxious to be indoors before the devil-wolf saw him again.
The night passed quickly and the snow became heavier, making it easier to move unseen. He dodged from one house to the next, always looking behind him, always wary of the beast in pursuit. Sometimes he’d catch a glimpse of it between the houses but other times there was no sign of it.
He hadn’t seen Black Peter for some time now and he was nearing the end of the list. He had made his way into the countryside to an isolated farmhouse surrounded by a patchwork of white fields that glistened in the starry ice. He was only half way down the garden path, however, when the devil-wolf appeared before him.
A blur of motion burst from the hedgerow and sprang forward blocking his route. Black Peter growled savagely, confident that he’d finally caught the prey that had eluded him for so long. The figure was exposed out in the open with nowhere to hide and no chance of running before the wolf over-powered him.
Head down and razor sharp fangs bared Black Peter prepared to pounce.
It was all over.
The sack slipped from his numb fingers. He stumbled backwards, slipped and fell heavily onto the frozen path. With lightening reflexes the beast saw his chance and leapt. The devil-wolf landed hard on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. He tried to inhale but instead got a mouth full of the wolf’s rancid breath. The animal snarled dripping warm saliva onto his cheek. The figure closed his eyes as Black Peter went to tear open his throat. But the killing bite never came.
Cautiously he opened his eyes again and saw the wolf looking up at the dark grey sky where the stars were beginning to fade. The beast cocked its shaggy head on one side and turned to the nearest hedgerow as if listening or perhaps sensing something beyond human perception. Then the great devil-wolf turned and silently slunk off back into the shadow of the hedge without looking back.
The figure pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared after Black Peter but there was no sign of the beast. Its paw prints ended at the hedgerow but there was no rustle of branches or snapping of twigs. He had simply vanished.
Overhead a robin circled the garden in the colourless pre-dawn gloom and landed on a snowy wooden bird table nearby. The prone figure remained still in case he frightened the little bird away. The robin made him smile as it chirped and pecked at the breadcrumbs someone had kindly left out for it. The snow had stopped and all around him a dull haze was slowly spreading over the distant fields. Dawn was approaching and he realised with familiar resignation that it was Christmas morning and the world was starting to wake up.
The early morning sky was growing brighter and a light flickered on in the cottage before him. An excited young face beamed out of a bedroom window as the first rays of sun touched the wintery garden. Although he was just below her window the little girl in the farmhouse wouldn’t see him down here. No one ever saw him; they wouldn’t even know he’d been. He was more of a make-believe character now than a real person; just a figment in the collective memory of the world.
He watched the first glimmers of sunlight reach towards him, accepting that once again he’d failed to deliver all the presents in a single night, but he knew it wasn’t over. At that moment the sun’s the pale rays touched the tips of his shiny black boots the world instantly changed …
Another year passed in the space of a single heartbeat and the figure found himself back on his feet. It was dark but as always the town square shone brightly in the reflected glitter of colourful lights. Rosy-cheeked children laughed merrily while a chorus of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer filled the crisp night air. Someone nearby was smoking a cigar and the luxurious aroma mingled about the festive crowd conjuring warm memories of Christmases past. The lonely figure embraced the joyful scene but he knew the peace was only fleeting: Black Peter was always out there somewhere in the everlasting silent night. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 16, 2020 14:35:59 GMT -6
This is dark and all too believable to happen |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 16, 2020 16:11:27 GMT -6
Very scary, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 18, 2020 10:32:50 GMT -6
Pen Pal by Christopher M. Fink Dear Amy,
I feel like I can confide in you, I hope I’m not overstepping my grounds. You’ve been a good friend to me these last few months despite our never meeting face to face, although I hope to have the opportunity soon. I found this letter a difficult one to pen with us being only silent voices to one and other – where does the line get drawn in such a relationship?
First, let me start by saying, what I have done was not without reason, although I’m sure my reasons won’t be accepted by many, if any. I know I can count on you, though. I was given permission, well, permission might not be the right word; they had told me to do it. It’s not the first time they’ve spoken to me; told me to do things. Most of the time they offer random, inconsequential advice, where to go or what to have on the menu, but they usually speak to me at a point of indecision which I must admit has been somewhat helpful. I welcome the small interruptions of insanity. But that’s not to say I’ve forgotten who I am.
I’m not sure how much of my personal distresses I’ve mentioned before, it’s nothing I’m too proud of. I understand that my anger issues will never be fully resolved, it’s just who I am; nothing satisfies. I can find no peace in anything. Admittedly I am a hardened cynic with no confidence in anyone, I just eek through each day with intermittent flip outs every so often. Usually a loud scream in a baron area does the trick, although lately I’m not afforded such a luxury. The hardest thing for me is keeping my episodes from my daughter. I don’t want her to see me like this.
As you know my mother has been living with me for some time now, since my father’s passing. The loss was tragic enough, and to endure mom’s slow decline into senility has become too much to bear. I’m allowed no concentration!
I can’t think!
My life as I know it is over. I don’t deserve this, do I?
Many times I would stand beside her while she sat in dad’s old chair, rotting. ROTTING in that chair! I guess the feel of something of his was a comfort to her. She never moved, never made a sound, just would stare at the TV all day. I scarcely think she was even watching it half the time; everything around her ceased to exist. Even the joys of her grand-daughter, my daughter, her little Hanna wouldn’t merit a reaction. I finally confronted her, but my pleas were unheard. She would just stare right through me as if I wasn’t even there. I’ve reached the end of my rope.
Yesterday, I had attempted to fix the screen door in back, something I had put off for some time. The volume on the TV was so loud I felt the speakers might blow out. Clearly, she had moved. She had the remote, she turned it up, and in my head I only thought this was done to intentionally irritate me. With my tools in hand I approached mom and asked her if she was ok again, and again - still nothing. I finally felt my madness welling.
I let go of my tool bag and let the weight of the metal fall hard onto the ground. It caused a clatter that was ear shattering. It hurt me, but I didn’t want to miss any flinch she might’ve given. I stifled the pain, gritting my teeth, remembering then Hanna was still upstairs. Her door was closed, but she heard it.
There was a point of several seconds I can’t recall. The next thing I remember is hearing them say to me “go back” and I was standing over my mother holding the hammer in such a way it felt more like a weapon than a tool. A wave of calm came over me until I realized what I had done. The claw end of the hammer was imbedded in my mothers head. In my mind I had not done this, but all accounts will say I did. Whatever illusions, or feelings I had, had disappeared. My shock gave way to worry thinking now of Hanna, and how I couldn’t allow her to see this. I wish they would speak to me now, I could use the advice.
I had gotten to her door upstairs just as she was coming out. I don’t know if she had noticed my hysterics at the time, but I quickly moved her back in to her room. I could see she was worried, but my efforts to calm her only seemed to confuse her further and she began to cry. She grew more and more upset until I could no longer hold her still. All I could do was hug her. I did so tightly until she finally was quiet, and still. She will understand what happened, one day. One day I’ll be able to tell her what had happened and why it was the decent thing to do.
She’s been sleeping since yesterday. Even now, sitting next to her now, writing this, I’m finding it difficult to cope. I managed to stand a moment ago, the first time in hours and I noticed that the house is as quiet as it’s ever been. Even my head, quiet – they’re gone, and I once again find myself at a crossroads. So often they have come to help me; however I feel they’ve abandoned me. Before I came back to finish this letter I stood in the middle of the room crying. I felt lost, I guess I still do.
I think soon I’ll take Hanna downstairs and the three of us will have one last meal together before I bring mom to her house. As far as I know it hasn’t been sold yet. It was my parents’ home for almost fifty years; I know she’ll like it there. I figure after, I’ll pack up Hanna and head out.
By the time you get this I’ll already be on my way. I just need a friend – someone to talk to me, you know. I would really love to meet you face to face, and you can even meet my daughter! I’ve told her all about you. I hope it’s not too much to ask. Until then, best wishes!
Your friend,
Brian Edward Cole Stay tuned for the chilling conclusion. ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 19, 2020 6:17:07 GMT -6
Chilling is the right word ... poor Hanna!
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 19, 2020 11:18:38 GMT -6
*** It had been a year since Amy began her correspondence with Brian. This was the twelfth letter in the exchange and it read like none other she had received before. Needless to say, Amy found it rather disturbing, not exactly sure how to deal with such an unexpected and graphic confession. Soon after the initial shock had finally subsided it suddenly became apparent that she might be in considerable danger herself. Immediately, a surge of terror welled up within her and Amy found herself trying to recall the conditions of all her windows and doors of the house. It was a pleasantly warm fall evening and she had remembered there were two windows open upstairs. The sliding back door to the deck was open and the front door was open allowing a nice breeze through. However, the words she had read sent a chill through her body that would not subside. Could he really be on his way here?! One thing Amy was certain of is that Brian would not be at his home, and with no picture all there was, was an address and her concerns. She found it hard to convince herself that the police would take the matter seriously. But still, she set her phone atop of the letter thinking that might be a course of action to consider later. Right now, she felt it more pertinent to recheck all the doors and windows. Amy hurried upstairs and closed the window in the bathroom and the one in her daughter’s bedroom, locking them both. While she drew the blinds in her daughter’s room, she left the bathroom’s cracked a bit, just enough to get a clear view of the front yard and the driveway. Nothing was out of the ordinary from what she could see; only the occasional car passing by. Amy moved downstairs. It was disappointing to her, feeling that she had to box herself in like this. The act of fortifying the house made her feel, in a sense, insecure and afraid. Being the only one in the house it was understandable, but to her it was a shot to her confidence. They were here to enjoy life, not to isolate themselves from society. Taking one more look around outside, front and back, Amy felt safe enough and left the doors open, locking only the screen doors on both. Daylight fading fast Amy returned to the kitchen and picked up her phone to text her daughter. She knew Sadie was out with friends, probably for the night, but she only wanted to know she was okay: “HEY HONEY, HOW’S THINGS GOING? YOU NEED ANYTHING?” Something simple; the question was genuine, however, Amy was more so baiting her for a response. With her phone in hand, she once again laid eyes on the letter, and again the thought of calling the police crossed her mind. Soon after she put the matter to rest, tucking the pages into the corner drawer, filing them with the other letters she’d received from Brian; a pile of friendly communiques now looked like a stack of evidence. Finally, she convinced herself she might be overreacting and shut the drawer and put the matter out of mind. After all this she felt she could use a drink and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. As the door swung shut, so could a car door shut be heard outside. At this point she was familiar with the resonance of the area and could tell if someone was in her driveway or a neighbor, or just on the street. A quick glance through the blinds confirmed it, though. Someone was here. The motion sensor light over the garage had been tripped. A late model marron Oldsmobile, a car she hadn’t seen before had parked closely behind her car. A tall thin man, young looking with short black hair and a trimmed beard emerged from the driver’s side, he too was unfamiliar. The man made a quick survey of the surrounding area before opening the back door. He appeared to be struggling with something, trying to heft it out from the back seat. It was then the same wave of terror took control of her body. The possibility had suddenly become more probable, yet she still found it hard to accept the notion of such an extreme situation. At odds with herself, Amy didn’t know whether to confront her visitor or call the police. Standing close to the counter, she watched, as still as she could to not draw any attention to herself. The man pulled out a large object wrapped in a white floral pattern blanket. At first glance, it looked like a child’s blanket one might find in a crib. It seemed heavy as the man had to reset the weight in his arms several times. He eventually cradled it like a small child that was asleep. Amy couldn’t see what it was, but the fear was overwhelming and the assumption was prevalent. While the light of the kitchen no doubt gave her away through the open blinds, she remained frozen and watching as the man walked behind the wall, out of view for a moment before his steps could be heard thumping on the porch. They ceased, and Amy held her breath in the silence. For a moment she could sense him leering through the screen before she heard the man wrap gently on the storm door… KNOCK-KNOCK! The End ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 20, 2020 7:20:19 GMT -6
A scary way to end! I wonder who was there?  |
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 20, 2020 9:25:41 GMT -6
Leaves a lot of room to imagine.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 20, 2020 10:13:47 GMT -6
Northern Willow Nightmare by Derek Avery Patz Rural Wisconsin consists of farmland, churches, cemeteries small towns and villages, you know the type of place where everyone knows everyone. That is the one thing Joel Hagen hated about living here. Sunfield is a town where rumors change by the minute. Secrets get distorted and overblown, truth becomes fiction and secrets get revealed. The sad truth is some secrets are better left buried.
Joel comes from a long line of Norwegians. He is originally from Wisconsin but moved to Vegas to get some taste of the city life, after a financial collapse of his business due to being screwed over by two many people. He decided to move back to Wisconsin to start over. Joel didn't know that his family had a long dark history with the area. His father was a minister back in the day, he had his own church across from the old cemetery on the north side. The stuff that he would preach would now be considered controversial.
The air was cold in November. Coming back in the middle of a snow storm was probably not the best idea. He found an apartment for rent on the far east side. He wanted to be farthest from the north side of town as possible, old ghosts of the past seem to haunt that side. Although, like they say the past has an interesting way of sneaking up on you.
As soon as he got settled in, the past came knocking at his door. Its name was Richard Hawkins, He was the Sunfield chief of police and acting sheriff of Willow County. Dick and Joel go back a long way, but not in a good way. Some people want to keep the past where it belongs and some people can't let go.
Dick Hawkins stood approximately 5 "11 black hair almost an albino like a face. He was dressed in a blue police uniform. Joe was trying to figure out how a lowlife mechanic made it all the way to Chief of Police. Joel tried to shut the door on him, he knew exactly who he was. Hawkins stuck himself in front of the doorway.
" You got about a week to get your shit packed and go back to wherever is that you went before" Hawkins was very straight to the point. No bullshit kind of guy.
" No you can't get me to leave that easily, it was a nice try, though", Joel said as a quick smart ass response just to irritate him. He was trying to run him out of dodge. It didn't work, though, it would turn out to be a huge mistake on Joel's part.
Dick Hawkins was promoted to chief by the mayor, he had no qualifications. It was mere favoritism. He had only been on the force for a year. The whole acting Sheriff bit was a favor the mayor pulled. Before that, he was fixing engines at the old diesel mechanic place on Iron Ave. Working for his uncle, in the fall of 2015 his uncle disappeared and was never heard from again. Rumor has it that he killed himself, others say he was killed. I guess it depends on who you talk to.
The problem was that Joel had no idea what was so wrong with his past that he didn't know why Hawkins wanted him out. He moved to Vegas as soon as he left high school. His father was very adamant that he move. He did not question it, the opportunity to get as far away from this town would be great. However, expecting to back in town did not even cross his mind.
Sunfield, Wisconsin has maybe one thousand people in it give or take during the tourist season. So the dark drive to the north side wasn't a long jog. It seemed long because that is the part of the town Joel liked to avoid. Taking a trip down memory lane, which are all blurs here and there. Flashbacks of his father in church and visiting relatives in the cemetery . Even wondering if the church was still there anymore since it was such a dark history of the town, you think they would just bulldoze it. Guess it was time to find out.
To avoid getting caught by Hawkins, he went in the middle of the night. Willow County Cemetery was still there. Since it was like the only one of two in Willow County. When Joel arrived it was like a ghost town, the first thing he heard was distinct growling noises like dogs were around. Thinking nothing of it, he found some of his relatives. The growling got louder like they were right next to him. It was a balmy 41 degrees after the snow storm.
Northern Willow Freedom Church stood there for the last 103 years. Joel heard loud voices coming from inside the sanctuary. Joel stood in the cemetery perplexed. " What the hell is that noise" He saw a tall dark figure suddenly stood at the edge of the forest. The growling from before started up again, or maybe they haven't gone away, to begin with. Between that and the growling noises, it was very unsettling. The dark figure drew closer, He thought he was seeing things. He got back in his car and sped off.
The mysterious dark figure followed him home, Joel wasn't aware that he was being tailed. All that was on his mind was what happened back at the cemetery. The growling noise still pounding in his head, couple that with the illusional sound of church parishioners at midnight. Joel also dealing with the fear of facing his past. Unfortunately, the past was just pictures that came and went.
The dimly lit apartment was jus the epitome of things that gone wrong that night. The dark shadow figure that he saw at the cemetery was right in the middle of the living room. The growls that he heard at the cemetery were louder than ever now, the almost deafening sound started vibrating the whole apartment. It got to the point where he almost went crazy. That is the last thing he remembered from that night.
Joel woke up the next morning, his mind was clouded. He had been through hell the last couple days. The shadow figure was wearing on him like a disease. Emotionally drained almost on the verge of depression. It took him almost an hour to gather all his thoughts completely The apartment was a mess like an f5 tornado had gone through it
A book lay on the floor, it wasn't that think about the size of a one subject notebook. " Northern Willow Freedom Church". The book had a bunch of cultish drawings on the cover of it. Like the book of shadows or something like that.
The journal sounded like a written confession but it was not. Pastor Hagen knew exactly what he was doing. The sound of children screaming grew louder in Joel's ear. Upon reading the journal Joel started to figure out what happened. The church was not a church.
The church believed in mysticism. They also believed in wormholes, alternate realities other mysterious practices. The majority of the town thought Reverend Hagen was crazy. Joel could see why his dad wanted him out of town. The funny thing is that Joel wanted nothing to do with his father's practices. Dick Hawkins wasn't going to see it that way.
Joel Hagen disappeared that night. There was no way to determine if he died or he just skipped town. Some say people can still see him driving around town, especially by the cemetery. His car drives along Willow Hill Ave and just disappears. The church was torn down and replaced with the new town hall. People still say that that area is cursed. Remember Sunfield, is a town where rumors change by the minute. Secrets get distorted and overblown, truth becomes fiction and secrets get revealed. The End ⚡ |
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 21, 2020 8:41:42 GMT -6
I will skip this town while traveling!
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 21, 2020 12:23:42 GMT -6
Me too, Rick.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 21, 2020 12:38:22 GMT -6
Randall's Clown by Kenneth L. Gibbons Randall Jensen woke up very early today. Today was his first day of school. The five year old dressed himself in the clothes that were laid out for him, and then ran wildly down the stairs. He quickly fixed himself a bowl of cereal and ate it down. He then started playing with his toy truck to pass the time while his mother slowly awoke and prepared for her day.
While playing with the truck, a figure appeared before Randall. The figure was adult in size, somewhat translucent, and looked like a clown. He had a seriously silly smile on his face which seemed fixed in place. His eyes locked onto Randall and didn't veer away.
“Randall...Randall...wanna have some fun?” asked the clown.
Randall tried to look away from the clown. He ignored the clown's request and continued to play with his truck. Then the clown pushed a glass statue off a nearby coffee table. The statue shattered into dozens of pieces on the wooden floor.
“No...Why did you do that?” Randall whined.
“C'mon kid. Have some fun. You can't be good all the time,” the clown replied.
Randall's mother's footsteps increased in both loudness and frequency. She hurried down the stairs to see what the destructive noise could have been. When she gazed upon the glass debris strewn across the floor, her face tightened into a fierce expression of anger.
“Randall Anthony Jensen! What did you do. Do you have any idea how valuable that was?” she stated.
“But mom, the clown did it,” Randall whined.
“Oh my gosh. You're the only one here. Don't you dare lie on your first day of school.”
“But mom, I saw him. He's re....”
“You saw no one! Stop lying. Now get your things together so I can drop you off at school. And this lying better stop!”
At school Randall was seated at a small desk. His desk was third from the front in the middle row of the room. As the first hour of the day went by, Randall tried to concentrate on the teacher, but his thoughts kept wandering back to the morning encounter with the clown and the broken statue. After a while he started to get more comfortable and relaxed. That's when the clown made his second appearance.
“Hey kid...you don't like that girl sitting ahead of you, do you?” Randall sat silent. “I know you don't like her. You don't like anyone.” Then the clown slapped the back of the girl's head. The girl screamed in pain.
“What's all this about,” the teacher yelled.
“Randall hit me on the back of the head,” the girl said crying.
“Randall!” screamed the teacher staring at Randall. “On the first day!”
“It wasn't me. The clown did it.” The whole room broke out in laughter.
“Quiet!” the teacher yelled slamming a yard stick onto her desk. “That's it mister. The principal will deal with you!”
Randall sat silently in the principal’s office for the rest of the day. Luckily the clown didn't reappear. Later his mother picked him up. Randall stayed silent during the whole drive home while his mother made occasional comments on how disappointed she was with him. Randall learned that day not to mention the clown. But he could not make the clown stay away.
Three weeks into the school year, Randall's class took a field trip along with four other classes from the school. On the bus, Randall had the unfortunate luck to sit behind Chad Desmond, the bully of the sixth grade.
“Hey freak,” Chad yelled in Randall's direction. “Even though I'm in front of you, I'm watching.” Randall sat silently trying to ignore him. “Listen, freak, you make one move, just one move, I'll paint this bus with your guts.” Chad continued to stare at Randall while Randall continued to stay calm. Eventually Chad turned back around,....and then the clown appeared.
“Now I know you really don't like this guy, do ya kid,” jeered the clown.
“Stop,” whispered Randall under his breath.
“Let's have a lot of fun. Let's have more fun than you've had in your whole life!”
“Stop,” Randall whispered again.
“Let's turn this guy into a pretzel,” laughed the clown as he lunged at Chad.
“No!” screamed Randall as he lunged towards the clown. Randall grabbed the clown and threw him to the floor of the bus. He grabbed the clown's throat. He squeezed the clown's throat as hard as he could. He picked the clown's head up and started smashing the back of the clown's head against the floor of the bus. “Leave me alone...Leave me alone...Leave me alone,” Randal chanted over and over all the while continuing to smash the clown's head against the floor.
“Randall! Randall! Randall, take your hands off of Chad,” demanded the bus monitor. The bus had pulled off the road and stopped. Randall froze. What he thought was the clown was actually Chad. Chad's face had turned white and his lips blue. Blood spread and pooled out from under Chad's head. Chad's eyes were closed and his body lay limp and lifeless. Randall relaxed his grip on Chad's neck and fell back into the arms of the bus monitor. Randall was escorted off the bus and into the car of a waiting faculty member. Soon an ambulance showed up to receive Chad.
Randall found himself back in the principal’s office with the principal and a police officer.
“What are we going to do with you?” questioned the principle. The police officer stared at Randall but could not find words to say. “Randall,” said the principle, “we have man coming to talk to you. He's a nice man. He'd like to talk to you about your fighting.”
“The clown starts it,” Randall said.
“Save it for Mr. Andrews. He's the man coming to talk with you.”
Mr. Andrews walked into the principal’s office. The principal greeted Mr. Andrews while the police officer continued to stare at Randall. Mr. Andrews was a tall man with thinning hair, wire frame glasses and dressed in a business suit. “Gentleman, give me some time alone with the boy,” Mr. Andrews said.
Sitting alone in the room with Mr. Andrews, tears started coming down Randall's face. “So Randall,” asked Mr. Andrews, “we've been getting into fights lately. I think you won this last one.”
Tears continued to roll down Randall's face. “I wasn't fighting Chad. I was fighting the clown.”
“So what does this clown do that you need to fight him?” asked Mr. Andrews.
“He gets me in trouble,” replied Randall. “He hits people. He breaks things. And everyone thinks I'm doing it.”
Mr. Andrews pulled off his glasses and started to clean them. His mouth tightened into a short, grim smile. “Can you describe this clown for me? What does he look like?” Randall did not respond. More tears came rolling down his face. “Are you sure this clown doesn't look like you?” asked Mr. Andrews. Randall started sobbing. He knew Mr. Andrews wasn't believing him. He knew no one would believe him, ever.
“Alright,” said Mr. Andrews. He stood up and turned to leave the room. Then the clown appeared.
“FUN TIME,” screamed the clown as he picked up a chair.
Randall screamed, “NO!”
The clown smashed the chair into Mr. Andrews back. After he fell to the floor, the clown continued to smash the chair into the body of Mr. Andrews. Over and over again. The clown disappeared as the principle and the police office both rushed back to the room. They found Mr. Andrews prone on the floor, his back and legs twisted into unnatural positions. Mr. Andrews tried to yell out, but the only sound he could make was a breathy gurgling sound.
Randall was seated with his head on the table, crying uncontrollably.
Randall never made it home again. He spent the rest of his school days bouncing between foster families and juvenile detention centers.
Randall Jensen sat in a small room at the courthouse. A guard stood posted outside. Randall had just celebrated his twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately he had just been found guilty of manslaughter, the victim happened to be his best friend. All the time he waited, the clown sat facing him. That seriously silly grin frozen in place and those piecing unblinking eyes.
“When will you leave?” Randall asked. “Why don't you find someone else to haunt? Why can't you just leave me alone?”
The clown stared at Randall for over a minute before responding. “You'll only be here for five years. There's still so much fun to have. And we're going to have that fun, together, until you're old and gray,” the clown said laughing and laughing and laughing. The End ⚡
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Post by lostineternity99 on Sept 22, 2020 10:33:38 GMT -6
Wow, the most evil of clowns *shivers*
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 24, 2020 13:25:30 GMT -6
Lots of people are deathly afraid of clowns. There must be a reason for all that fear.
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Post by QueenFoxy on Sept 24, 2020 13:51:16 GMT -6
Cold and Ancient by C.L. Fuqua Washington was a sight to behold. The State that is. Escaping the abhorrent inferno of Texas summer to the crisp-cool weather, overcast skies, lush forests, imposing mountains, and the scenic Pacific coast was an axiomatic improvement for my soul. My eclectic and eccentric uncle (rest in peace) had always been a favorite of mine and I always loved when we would embark on family vacations to visit him in the magical northwest. Naturally upon his passing I was grieved and simultaneously taken aback at the news that he had left a portion of his estate to me in his will. I suppose the fact that he did wasn't what surprised me but what it was. A property a little ways from his home near the coast. It was just outside Grisdale, an abandoned ghost town at the edge of the Olympic Peninsula Forests. All these years my dear uncle not once made mention of this property and my own father was unaware of his brother's second house! I could hardly contain myself at the thought of owning a home in Washington just outside of a large national forest. I made preparations to drive up there and meet a couple acquaintances our family had made through our uncle over the years. We would check it out together which accomplished two things; open the possibility of renting this property out to a couple roommates, and put my mother's mind at ease. No matter how old one grows a mother always worries over her children.
Meeting Michael and Chris in Olympia we prepared to make the 70+ mile journey toward Grisdale where we would follow the directions given by my uncle to the aloof property. The atmosphere was exquisitely ethereal in the whole state! I couldn't wait to see this house hoping it wouldn't be too dilapidated so I could move in as soon as possible. Passing through the ghost town that is Grisdale I must confess to having an ominous feeling. Where once there was bustle and life now only silence. Albeit human silence. Life still abounds regardless of whether or not man treads. That I know very well. Driving further and further towards the Olympic forest the atmosphere became ever more placid. How much more foliage could burst forth from the earth's womb were it to do so unabated? Finally we came upon what had to be the property. It was a two story that was rather dated and to my dismay in my uncle's absence the forests had seized upon the old house making it quite verdant. Working to free the old dwelling of the vines and foliage proved most difficult as the truculent nature had become most recondite. Still we were determined and our persistence was rewarded once we entered the home as nature had not made its way inside. Dusty and neglected absolutely but that was the least of my worries. With nightfall fast approaching we pulled out our electric lanterns and went about hanging and sticking our lights where it was most needed.
Fixing up the old building was not as hard as expected. It was not a tawdry structure which I believed to be a testament to old architecture. In times past things were built to last. Perhaps it's a revealing commentary on the stark contrast between our cultures. For another day I suppose. We spent the next few nights there before supplies began to run short and we deliberated on the closest city where we could scavenge sufficient food and water. Before we left Michael mentioned that there was a room on the second floor that he had not been able to enter and inquired if I had a key. Chris and I were taken aback as neither of us had found a room we could not enter in the 3 days we spent in the home. I told him I had no key and we followed him upstairs where we passed 3 doors two on one side. One held living quarters, one was a bathroom and the last a den of sorts. But shockingly there it was! A fourth door at the end of the hallway. Solitary and defiantly clear as day even while being shrouded in darkness. I noted how remarkably cold it felt here. Almost unnaturally cold. Chris and I turned to each other and gave each other a dumbfounded glance before laughing at our own carelessness. After trying the door and giving it a good nudge I realized I would have to pick the lock which shouldn't be too difficult as it was rather old. I advised that we should re-supply before we carry on and with everyone in agreement we headed to the nearest town.
Although it had been an adventurous and rewarding few days it was nice to be back in a little bit of civilization. Lamp posts, grocery stores, gas pumps, and tarmac roads were a most welcome sight. After having a few cups of coffee we headed back to the house where the forests had become vivacious and the nightfall voracious. I knew it would be vastly different from the Texas summer nights I was raised in but this was like being on another planet. We made a few trips back and forth into the house all the while looking out at the pitch blackness before us listening to the hoots of owls wondering how many creatures out there were capable of killing us. We dared not ponder too long and moved quickly to secure ourselves inside. Before even unpacking our supplies I pulled out the lock pick set I purchased and Michael and Chris' eyes lit up. We grabbed our lanterns and headed back upstairs but to our supreme shock there was no fourth door! It was gone. At the end of the hallway was just wall! This could not be and yet it was. The others and I all wondered and deliberated among ourselves as to this insane mystery positing theories each one more vacuously implausible than the last until we gave up in frustration owing it all to imagination or the trick of shadow. Secretly I think we all knew better after all I had physically tried to force my way in!
That night rest came quickly as we had exhausted ourselves throughout the day. And it was there in my deepest dream-state that I heard it. A wordless voice without any discernible source, just a deep sighing exhalation. I lay there half awake waiting for a sign that it was worth getting out of bed to investigate. Then a thudding from upstairs. It must be Michael or Chris. They had laid claim to the upstairs bedroom and den area. I groggily rose from bed throwing on pants, shoes, shirt and jacket as the nights here were much colder than i was accustomed to. The last thing I was going to do was walk barefoot in a frigid wooden house. I grabbed my lantern and headed through the kitchen and ascended the staircase quietly. I saw that the bedroom door was cracked open and headed inside to find it empty. Strange I thought, Michael must have gone into Chris' room to check on him. But before I could open Chris' door I saw the fourth door. It was there! I gasped in direful amazement. Not only was the door there but it was cracked open. Did Michael open it somehow and enter to examine it? I furtively approached and was met by that otherworldly chill. It was so cold even with my jacket on and I could not see anything beyond that slight opening. It was just a cloistered chasm of gelid blackness. No I thought, I'm not doing this by myself and turned to awaken Chris but as I turned I saw a black silhouette standing deformed in the hallway.
"M...Michael...?"
I raised my lantern to see a maniacal portrait of what was once Michael. His left eye had sunken and his right was wider than should be possible as if paralyzed with terror. He was completely naked and his posture was torturous to behold. His head was cocked to one side as though being pinched on the shoulder by an invisible force. His right hand was twisted like someone with advanced and woefully painful arthritis. In his left hand was a lumpy bloody pulp which I could not immediately identify. It just dripped and dripped until I realized it was a human heart.
"What's happening!? Did you kill Chris?! Michael!"
A bestial wheezing emitted from his gaping mouth and suddenly he dropped the heart and lumbered forward! He moved as unnaturally as you could expect. He was more animal, thrusting his body forward like a gorilla on all fours. Without a moment's thought I flung open the impossible fourth door and slammed it shut pulling the handle as hard as I could. The bang indicated that Michael or whatever he had become was throwing himself against the door to reach me. He wasn't trying the handle just slamming his body as a mindless creature. Hesitantly I relaxed my grip on the handle and immediately he yanked the door open! I pulled back but not before he forced his head far enough in for me to behold his crazed eye and gaping mouth. He had blood running down his chin and to my horror I saw pieces of flesh still in his mouth. He had been feasting on Chris! I wanted to retch but had to keep my composure or become his next victim. His tongue wriggled out trying to taste my hands as his jaws snapped rabidly for my flesh. I managed to pick up one leg pressing it against the wall as I used my whole body to slam it shut once more slicing his still protruding tongue clean off. I heard a blood curdling scream on the other side of the door that I fear I will never forget as long as I live.
"Michael, my God...."
I slid down with my back to the door collapsing and curling into a ball weeping. What is happening?! Michael was fine a few hours ago! What boorish and vulgar sickness could have vexed him into a state of maddening cannibalism? I didn't have long to ponder these violent events before that long exhaling sound pierced the air again. This time it was louder and vibrated through the ground and my body. For the first time I raised my head and peered out ahead to find I was not in a small room. The impossible fourth door had led me to yet another staircase. There were only two stories to this house and yet defiantly this staircase stood before me beckoning me up to the small light source at the top. It looked like yet another door with pale blue light outlining the edges just enough to make the steps. I dared not go back to face the madness that was my friend just a short time ago. Wiping my eyes with my jacket and rubbing my hands together to warm them I rose and began walking up the steps. One at a time my feet clicked and clacked echoing as if I were in a grand hall. It was inconsistent. As I reached the final step I was shivering. I did not know if it was from pure terror mixed with adrenaline or the absolute chill I felt in the air. I looked down at my shaking hand as I grasped the doorknob. I hesitantly turned and pushed the door open to release a brilliantly blinding bluish white light which penetrated every inch of the stair case all the way down to the fourth door. I threw my arms up and over my eyes as I stumbled forward.
I fear my entry must end here as I have reached the allotted word limit. But there is oh so much more to tell.... The End ⚡ |
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See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone 
See you all more tomorrow. Happy Friday/weekend everyone