The Cabin in the Woods

Today’s two word-prompt combination:

[WordPress:  Candid]  +  [Writer’s Block:  Virus]  =

The Cabin in the Woods

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***

The cabin appeared innocent enough, but to be candid, it too was infested by the same demonic virus that ran rampant in the woods.

What’s the old idiom..  “…looks can be deceiving…” ?  

Yes, that was the one.

The cabin was just like any other cabin with its walls, doors, windows and rooms, but that’s where the similarity ended.  This cabin was old…ancient, and it held many secrets…many bad secrets…

No one could attest to the cabin’s origin.

The old mountain folk claimed it had always been…there.  There had never been a time before the cabin.  The horror of the cabin seemed to be inborn within each child birthed into the area.  There was never a need to say, “…stay away…”  No, somehow they…well, somehow they just…knew.

Of course many ghost stories were spun, down through the years.  They were told by the light of a campfire, and always…always told barely above a whisper.  They feared the trees around them would steal their voice and carry it upon the winds of the haunted forest and deliver it to the cabin.

One such story whispered in the night, tells of a father who is filled with grief  over his son who has caught “the fever.”  Knowing there was no cure, the father plans to take his dying son to an old hag that slept in the cave located on the other side of the mountain.

The old woman of the cave, spent her days foraging for plants, that others tossed into the fire, to be burned as weeds.  The sanctimonious, and “good people” of the village shunned the old woman.  They called her a witch by day, but at night, in the cover of darkness, the very same took their sick, and begged old Molly to heal them with her powers.

The father held his son close to his chest, and began his journey to see the old woman. The path led to the outer reaches of  the cabin, and when the father realized this he stopped abruptly.  He could go around the cabin and its god-awful forest,  but there was no time as his son was near to death.

It is said the father fell to his knees and cried  for old mad Molly to come and save his dying son.  His cries echoed long into the night.  No one knew if mad Molly had heard his cries, but everyone knew the hag never came to help.

The father looked down at the son he cradled in his arms, and listened to a tiny voice plead…

“…papa…please…I don’t want to…to die.” 

But the father was too afraid to go any further, and so he held, and rocked his boy until the cries for help ceased.   Like a zombie, the father rose, and took his son’s lifeless body home.

He laid the pale form down upon some old cloth.  The boy’s eyes were open in death, and they stared at his father as he was rolled into a sarcophagus of burlap.

Then he laid him inside the earth, and began to cover him with the freshly dug dirt.  With each shovel full, the father thought he heard his son’s pitiful cry…

…papa…papa please…it’s cold …papa…papa please…” 

When the last shovel of dirt was emptied, the father went home and hung himself.

Now, the old folk, claim that sometimes at night, when the air is just so… the cries of the boy can be heard riding the upon the winds of the haunted forest….  “…papa…papa…please…I don’t want to die…”

***

Today, the cabin was hungry.  It had been long since it had eaten the bones, and drank the blood of a fresh kill.  The hardwood floor, dry and cracked like the sands of a desert, ached of thirst.

The cabin…like Bram Stoker’s Dracula, was in desperate need of its own Renfied.   Renfield had been the vampire’s insane but loyal servant, who guarded the coffins at day, and at night was ever faithful to prepare for his master tasty meals.

The cabin was confident it had finally found its Renfied within the body of Thomas Cain.

Thomas, also the loyal servant, had worked hard to prepare the cabin.  Today he completed the finishing touches, by polishing a bag of silver “tools” and laying them neatly beside the chair he had bolted to the floor.  The leather straps at the chair’s arms and legs were crisp and new.  They were stiff, Thomas thought…they needed “breaking-in.”  He thought of Amy, and smiled.

He walked slowly to the bathroom, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.  Thomas pulled the mask over his face.  He watched, as the sinews of burlap snaked their way over, and around the contours of his face, taking care to etch out the jagged openings needed for his eyes, nose and mouth.  The burlap was old, and so it stitched its tattered places with the hide of a pig that had been slaughtered many years ago.

Thomas smiled, again.  He was happy with his new face.

Another pair of eyes, hidden behind dusty rafters, had watched the transformation.  It blinked, and refocused its black eyes upon Thomas, and then a rotted smile split its face.

Soon, the fun would begin.

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old folk claim that at times when it’s dark and the wind is blowing from the right direction,  the boys cries can be The father  He covered the boy with dirt and could swear his son’s pitiful cries…“…papa…papa please…I don’t want to…to die…”  but he kept filling the grave with sod until the last shovel full and then he went home and hung himself.  This was just one of the many tales whispered quietly around campfires in the night.

The cabin was hungry…it craved blood…it longed drink it up within its hardwood floors.  But it needed like Dracula needed its Renfield to carry out the dirty deeds.  The cabin had searched and called hungerly to neaby evils…but finally it had found its Renfield within body of body of Thomas Cain…  Thomas had heard and took great care to prepare the cabin.  “It has to be perfect,” Thomas thought.  He picked up the old burlap and wrapped it around his head.  The mirror revealed his transformation.  The sinewy fibers wrapped like snakes over the face of Thomas.  They weaved over his mouth, nose and eyes taking care to form it jagged opened over each orifice.  Thomas looked at himself and smiled but he only saw a scarecrow monster staring back.

Up in the rafters, there were another set of eyes witnessing the transformation.  They were black and they missed nothing…

 

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Please Help Me Decide

dilemma

I have a dilemma and I need your help!

 I love Jesus but I also love horror.

The dilemma:  Should I create a new blog for my horror writings or should I continue to compile the two genres within Redhead Reflections?

My faith is very important to me.  I enjoy writing daily devotions of inspiration.  I’m learning so much from my series Walk Through Psalms, and I want to continue the journey.

I’ve been busy writing a short story called  Zombie Island.  I truly thought it would be finished by now but the thing just keeps growing…almost as if, it has taken a life of its own.  I’m currently at 5000 words and still going strong.

I enjoy learning and writing about the paranormal. I’ve always had a keen interest in it  as far back as I can remember.  I have so many ideas rolling around in my head about future horror projects…just to name a few:

  • Ghosts, hauntings and witches from the Bible.  What kind monsters live within our sacred scriptures?  What stories have been handed down generation after generation from ancient times?
  • True horror stories of the Shenandoah.  In this series I will actually visit and photo the site as well as write the stories.
  •  Write horror short stories using random writing prompts.
  • View and analyze creepy art…even my own.
  • Current horror and paranormal happenings
  • Much…much more…

 

Please help me decide.  

Should I have two separate blogs or Should I keep it all together as is?

 

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MeditationWithGodInMind

 

 

 

 

 

Together or Separate?

 

Once Upon an Island

 

The thing hid behind trees and watched as fresh meat disembarked the yacht.  It had been weeks since the last shipment, so the creature could barely contain the blood lust raging within its decomposing body.  The thing growled and pulled against the chains holding him in place.  Its brain could no longer reason.  It only understood his ravenous need for human flesh.  The drive was constant, even after it had feasted, it still hungered. It was never fully satisfied.  It lunged its body again and reached a skeletal hand toward leaves, wafting in the warm tropical breeze.  Only a lone finger-bone  escaped the cover of foliage.  If the “fresh meat” had looked in the direction, at that precise moment, they would have seen the bony finger with its sagging, putrid skin.  Perhaps it would have been their salvation, but perhaps not… as the trees were quite some distance from the yacht.

Four teenagers laughed as they balanced the plank resting upon a weathered pier.  It wasn’t as stable as Kimmie would have liked, so she held tightly to Ted’s hand.  Ted, sensing her fright, gallantly turned his body to welcome his girlfriend safely into his arms.  Kimmie, much smaller than Ted’s athletic frame, felt engulfed within his embrace and she liked the feeling.

Carol, quite the opposite of Kimmie, jumped from the rickety plank and practically landed on Kimmie and Ted.  All three fell together to land in a heap upon the graying boards; luckily, each one had managed to avoid a plethora of jagged splinters.  The wood was old and so the pier quaked from their sudden weight.

A raucous laughter emanated from the heap,savage glow while Mark stood alone on the plank, holding all four backpacks.   Mark, feeling excluded, couldn’t help but wish, Carol, to be more like Kimmie.  What he would give to have her fall into his arms…

Like that would ever happen… thought Mark angrily.

Carol, boisterously called to him, “Hey pretty boy…get down here, already!”

Mark, shrugged off his anger, slowly smiled, and headed toward the laughing heap.  Offering Carol his hand he winked and said, “Yes, I am a pretty boy…and don’t you forget it!”

 

 

…to be continued…

[The preceding has been my  participation in the Sketch-a-Day event and also the  Weekly Horror Tales challenge, of which I host.  If you’re a fan of horror, please join me in this frightful challenge.  Believe me, it would totally make my day!]  [PS- The present horror prompt is as follows:  Write a story about a group of party-goers that sets sail on a yacht for what they believe to be a pleasure cruise. Except the captain was paid to scuttle the ship off an island populated by cannibalistic natives.] 

Daily Sketch/Zombie Abstract

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This rendering is my participation in the challenge called  Sketch-A-Day.  Also, it is to promote my new blog challenge:  Weekly Horror Tales   This challenge invites the writer (hopefully you) to weave a spine tingling tale with a prompt that is posted every Sunday.

The rules to this challenge are near to none, as I don’t want to hinder your creative inspirations.  So make it as long or as short as you like and post it by Sunday at midnight.

My first story in this series is called The Book.  It’s a creepy tale about a lonely librarian, who’s looking for love in all the wrong places.  To read it click on the category entitled Weekly Horror Tales, or just scroll down a little.

Please come and join me on this “horrific” challenge.

 

The Book

The following is my participation in Weekly Horror Tales & Dark Side Thursday

0707ephr9_600x5461 Tuesday began as any other boring day in the life of Annie Smith.  The alarm clock rang at exactly 6:45 am which gave Annie at least two wacks at the snooze button before she had to be up promptly at 7 am in order to make it to her job at the Martin County Public Library.  As usual, she stumbled to the shower for a quick body rinse to begin the awaking process which ended after her second cup of coffee.  Coffee, toast and one boiled egg and she was out the door of her small apartment, down the three flights of stairs, to slide into the torn seats of car 52-A of Carolina Cab Company.

Sure enough the drab Library was just where she left it the night before.  Annie inserted her skeleton key and thus began her lonely 8 hour shift.  Annie had always been an introvert, so this job suited her personality; however, as of late, she’d been experiencing a feeling…something akin to loneliness.  As much as she tried to shake the alien feeling, it clung to her and periodically invaded her thoughts throughout her 8 hours as librarian. The feeling, like an intrusive grain of sand in her shoe, pestered her ever so softly, just enough for her to know it there.

Yesterday, while at work, Annie had been so irritated by the feeling that she found herself in the romance section scanning the books on the shelves.    She noticed one particular book was jutted out a fraction more than the others.  Annie reached for that book and whispered the title  aloud in the empty library… “I Have Come for You”  She had opened the book’s worn cover and read the first sentence of chapter one: “Annie, oblivious to the precipice before her, fell head long into a seduction that would forever alter her lonely life.”   Shaken by such a personal application, her hands that held the book quivered until the book fell to the floor.  She stared at the open book, lying on the floor, for what seemed like hours.  Finally, she bent down to retrieve the book and saw that the left page of the book was blank but the right page contained the heading for chapter two which read… “There is no escape…I will have you.”  Annie had laughed nervously, and then shook her head in unbelief, as she put the book back into its place upon the shelf.

Today, as Annie passed from one computer to the next, making sure each green light was lit, the whole scenario from yesterday seemed ridiculous to Annie .  What an absurd idea that the book had been personally speaking to her.  She giggled loudly with the thought.  Startled from the sound that had escaped her lips, she quickly put her hand to cover her mouth.  She looked around to see if anyone had slipped in through the front door.  No, the tiny library was as empty as when she had walked inside a half an hour ago.  For some reason Annie was frightened by the sound of her own laughter.  She couldn’t help but think that the shrill cackle had come from the lips of someone going mad.   No one else was here, so it had to have been her laughter.  Surely, she was not mad.  The thought rested uneasy within her psyche.

“Oh Annie…don’t be so stupid…,” she nervously berated herself and walked rather jerky to toward the comfort of her plush office chair.  The chair was one thing she had insisted upon when she took this job.  It was soft and firm where it needed to be to conform perfectly to her slightly overweight form.   Annie placed the palms of her hands on the desk and began to sit, but before she completed the final descent into the beloved chair she noticed something out of place.  There, lying atop the keyboard of he computer, lay a book.  Her faced blanched white because she knew it was “the book.”

“What the fuck?”  Annie never cursed but the word had come from her mouth as if she had been saying it all her life.  Her exclamation was loud but she didn’t care.  She didn’t care if someone was there to hear her profanity because nothing mattered to her except the book lying on her desk.  Slowly she picked it up and instantly felt compelled to turn it’s pages to chapter three.  She did.  Glaring at her from page 117 were the words… “Don’t look behind you…” Annie’s heart quickened in her chest.  She desperately wanted to turn around, just to prove that they were only words on a page, but she dare not. Her heat began to beat even faster and once again the cackle of laughter filled the library. Annie heard it but was unaware it belonged to her.  Her mind raced with fear and wonder as to what the book would say next.  Slowly she turned the pages of the book until she came to chapter four.

Annie closed her eyes, too afraid to look.  She squeezed her lids so tight it was painful. She wouldn’t look…she couldn’t look…NO, she told herself…but alas she was overcome with curiosity and so she opened her hurting eyes to see a blur scribbled across the page.   Her heart beat wildly as she waited for her eyes to focus.  Finally her vision cleared and she read the sentence, “Annie…can you feel my breath upon your neck?”  The words brought on chills that crawled all over her body.  Tiny beads of sweat covered her already clammy skin.  She could feel a rhythmic draft of air upon her neck.  It touched her and then it was gone…touched her and then it was gone… Each time it came back to her it was warmer.

Something inside, perhaps sanity, told Annie to burn the book.  It pleaded for her to “…take it outside now, strike a match and burn the fucking thing before it was too late!”   But the breath kept touching her. It slid down her neck to caress her breasts.  Her nipples hardened and her heart beat even faster.  Again the voice inside pleaded with her to burn the book, but Annie turned a deaf ear.  The breath was too warm, too erotic.

There were two more chapters left in the book and Annie knew she was destined to turn to each one.  Desiring more of the feelings that hugged her body, she turned to chapter five with fervency, wondering where the breath would take her next.  Under the heading of chapter five she read,  “Annie…feel my hands touching you…”  Annie gasped as the breath upon her body became hands wooing her to ecstasy.  Deep inside her she heard the remnants of a distant voice saying something…something she barely recognized as…matches…or…fire?  Annie didn’t care. She only cared about the hands stroking and begging her to turn to the last chapter.  When the thought of…yes I will…formed in her head, the book fell open to the last chapter of it’s own accord.

Annie’s eyes were closed but this time she didn’t need to read the words on the page.  The words of the book became sound and spoke to her in a man’s voice.

“I’m here for you.”

His voice was smooth as honey.  His hands, still warm upon her body, slowly turned turned her around.

“Open your eyes.”

And so, Annie obeyed.  She opened her eyes to stare into a hooded black hole.  The hole, shrouded by the hood, was so dark that she thought it to be empty, but then it smiled.   The white of its teeth broke the darkness and slowly morphed into a “Cheshire” grin of jagged fangs.  Her desire instantly turned to terror.  The thing gnashed its teeth, taunting her.  Annie screamed into the shrouded hole and her heart burst red with blood.  Her last thought was, …the book…I should’ve burned the book.  

One month later:

“Yeah, they said it was’a heart attack”  Roger scratched his head and added, “…hmmm…but I ain’t so sure.”

Katherine, the new librarian,  looked at the janitor,  “What do you mean, you’re not so sure?”

“Well, I ain’t never seen a face of death quite like that one…sum’ing just wasn’t right.  It was like she’d seen…” he paused a second to shake his head slowly, then spoke in a hushed tone,”…it was…it was like she had seen sum’ing that scared the life right out’a her.”

Katherine smiled kindly at the janitors whispered words, and tried her best to quell his fears, “Don’t you worry, Mr Roger, I’m sure there’s nothing at all to be afraid of in here.” She let her eyes scan the mundane emptiness of the library and added, “nothing at all, except maybe, boredom.”

“Yes, ma’am, you right about that…this place can get kind’a lonesome.”

Katherine watched as Roger shuffled out the front door leaving her alone in the library.  She wasn’t afraid of being alone.  On the contrary, the introvert inside her welcomed the solitude…just more time for reading, she thought.

Katherine stretched within her comfortable chair and stifled a yawn.  Wondering what the thermostat was set on she got up to check but stubbed her toe on something beneath the counter.  She looked down to see what it was but nothing was there.  Figuring her toe had shoved whatever it was further under the counter she got on her hands and knees to  see.  Sure enough lying in the dusty darkness was a book.  Katherine seized the book and rather clumsily stood to get a better look.  Turning the tattered book in her hands she read its title, “I’m Here for You.”

“My goodness!  How long have you been hiding under there?”

Forgetting about the thermostat, Katherine sat back down into the plush chair and blew the dust from the book’s cover.  As she stared at the book she felt something akin to loneliness.  Quietly she whispered, “What the hell,” and opened the book to chapter one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weekly Photo Challenge: Alphabet

Photo Challenge:  Alphabet…Take us to school with your photos this week, and show us some ABCs.

 

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I was on my evening run, when I ran past this cemetery in Hampton Falls, New Hampshire. Being a lover of all things paranormal, I couldn’t resist the temptation to explore the site.  The hour of day, dusk, enhanced an aura of creepiness as I walked among the tombstones.

 

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The “A-B-C’s” upon the above tombstones are so old they’ve rubbed smooth in many areas. Curious of the inhabitants, I enlarged the photograph until I could decipher a few words. I plugged these words into Google and was directed to http://www.rootsweb.com where I learned about the two girls who lay beneath the ground.

Abby and Eunice, the deceased, were the daughters of Moses and Hannah Wells.  Abby was born in 1816 and died 20 years later and Eunice was born 1811 and died 40 years later. Knowing this information, only served to create more questions within this writer’s mind. Who were these girls and what kind of lives did they lead?  Why did Abby die so young and just what happened to Eunice?  Did they have lovers…and if so was the relationship one peace and love or was it riddled with jealousy and abuse?  So….so many questions…

One day, maybe, I’ll try to weave a story around Abby and Eunice.

A walk among the tombstones, can be a writer’s friend.___ Lisa Hardy

 

 

 

 

The Mark of the Beast

Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers…each week we are given a photo and allotted only 175 words to construct a story.  Below is my response to this week’s “Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers” 

 

The Mark Of The Beast

She watched him from her place of containment.  Sure enough, he had “the mark” and so she fled her confines to mingle amongst the merry crowd.

She felt his stare.  Knowing this to be her cue, she covered the ten steps, separating them and asked with a timid voice, “Care to dance, handsome?”

As usual, the stranger’s eyes filled with suspicion, but once he saw her shy smile, he tossed doubt away, and  accepted her soft hand.  In an instant their bodies melded and he was consumed with unquenchable lust.  He wanted her, but the intense craving terrified him. Sensing his resolve, she crushed him closer and huskily growled, “My poor…poor beast..not used to being controlled…”

Slowly she pulled away…but only enough for him to look into her black eyes.  In them, he saw the innocents he had raped and they were coming for him. Terror squeezed his heart until it burst.

She dropped the corpse and then faded into the picture hanging on the wall.  The caption underneath read, “Angel of Death”

(Word count 175)

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Photo by Etol Bagam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Predators, Entities and Witches…My Novel Grows

(Below is part two of my novel writing adventure.  Which story idea do you like best?  Thanks for walking with me on this journey.)

blog photyoGood novels are created from good ideas.  Sometimes the thought of conjuring up a good idea can be quite intimidating.  How many times have I sat down to write, only to stare at a blank page, waiting for the perfect idea to magically pop into my head.  The minutes pass and with every tic of the clock my frustration mounts; and on and on it goes until a pen or two is tossed across the room.

Lucky for me, module two of “The Novel Class” is all about developing good ideas and strong plots.  Ideas are all around us; sort of hidden in plain sight.  The key to scoping them out is to notice…notice…notice.  Keep your writer’s instinct sharpened, play the “what if” scenario 24/7, and always remember “Life is stranger than fiction.”  According to “The Novel Class,” drop dead plots and murderous ideas are just waiting to be captured from our everyday and presumably boring lives.

The class encourages the writer (me) to adopt a “god-like complex” in which you tease the reader with hints and you control your characters by making them bend to your every whim.  I’ve never been a control freak, but damn, I have say, I really like the way that sounds!  The very power of appointing myself the god of my own make-believe world propels me head first into the throes of intoxication.  This very concept changes the whole appeal of fiction writing.  It makes me want to release an evil laugh and whisper, “…let me at’em…”

(Module two of “The Novel Writing Class” assigns me to:  Task 1:  Create three story ideas that you feel may have potential for a novel.  Also Task 2:  Consider sub-stories that could be included in all three of your ideas.)  (I have chosen to keep my sub plots secret.  I hope you enjoy!)    

1st Story Idea:  I Want To Live

9074221Amy, artist/writer/teacher, accepts a position teaching Medieval Art History at a small community college located just outside of Washington DC.  Unbeknownst to her, one of her students is a serial killer who has stalked, captured and killed eight women.  Amy becomes his next fixation.

Like Amy, all of his victims were in their mid to late twenties, well educated, and enjoyed very successful careers.  All eight bodies were found mutilated and floating dead within stagnant ponds across the state of Virginia.

Amy soon awakens to find herself suspended in darkness, hanging like a piece meat in an old root cellar, located in the back-country of the Shenandoah National Forest.

Amy wants to live and vows to do whatever necessary to escape the horrific nightmare.

 

2nd Story Idea:  The Cabin’s Rule

donner-part-starvation-campNewlyweds, Sam and Candy, are young, practically homeless and poor as Job’s turkey. They are in love and refuse to let present circumstances dampen the happiness they feel at  becoming husband and wife.

Sam’s an hourly employee at Gibbons Hardware Store and works 6 long days a week.   Sam is surprised when “old man Gibbons,” the owner and boss, offers the use his lake cabin for their honeymoon.  Sam and Candy, not wanting to spend their wedding night, in the spare bedroom at Candy’s mother’s house, gratefully accept.

Sam’s old pickup sputters angrily cursing the dirt path beneath it’s tires.  Upon arrival they are, at first,  disheartened with the cabin’s appearance of disarray and abandonment; however, still “high on love” the two quickly push up their sleeves and by nightfall the cabin becomes a quint honeymoon haven, complete with cracking fire and stone hearth.

Their night of bliss begins and in their abandonment they fail to notice the little hints and nuances suggesting something strange about the cabin.  Soon they discover something ancient living within the walls of the cabin and  become crippled with fear when they realize what “it” wants.

The horror within the cabin pits one against the other as they struggle for survival.

It seems old man Gibbons forget to share the cabin’s rule:  Two may enter but only one may leave.

3rd Story Idea:  The Witch Hunt Of Lilly

download (1)Lilly lived in the forest with her mother outside of the village.  The village folk came one by one to their stone house seeking healing from Lilly’s mother.  Lilly inherited the ability of healing and so after the unexpected death of her mother, it was only natural that she follow in her footsteps.

At the age of eighteen, Lilly lives alone in her beloved woods and  gladly welcomes anyone who knocks at her door. Most of those knocks belong to people seeking healing or future telling; however, on occasion young girls caught in the “motherly way” seek her help for quick and private resolution.  Lilly, with her kind heart, never turns them away.  As she bonds with the young women they begin to share their stories of rape, incest and oppression that lay behind the walls of the village.

The puritan village tolerates Lilly and her strange ways…for even  some of the clergy find themselves at her door in the darkness of night.  This continues until one of town’s children disappear and it’s proven that Lilly was the last one to see the child alive.

All eyes turn to Lilly and the witch hunt begins!

 

 

 

Possession

Writing 101 Day 5:  Write a response to the following tweet.

(Buckle your seat belts for this is going to be a horror ride!)

Possession

Ghost ChildI was quite the unusual child.  No one dared speak it out loud, but none-the-less, I knew it ate upon their brains like a canker sore.

“Different…,” they’d say.  “Just a wee-bit queer…for my like’n.”  Then they’d catch me looking at them and the old timer’s faces would blanch white as the cotton they were picking.

I enjoy making them uncomfortable.  I enjoy hearing the rhythm of their heartbeat quicken.  It makes me alive within this skin.

It’s a funny thing to feel so alive when scaring others to death.  I almost get giddy with the pleasure.  Once I almost smiled but  I never let them see me smile.

One day I’ll leave this backwater country, but not until I’m finished with them.  I never leave a job undone.  I stay until the end…and sometimes it takes oh so long for the end.

The end makes me sad.  After the end there is no fear and that’s what I miss most…the fear.  And so I stretch the means to defer the end.

I linger long, but alas the end is always inevitable.  So when the job is done I lay them to hell and spill dirt to cover the faces…and then I smile.

I wonder the woods, for beyond yonder hill, my new family awaits.  The cabin is bright and I knock at the door.  When it opens they invite me in and then my job begins again.

Over the centuries families come and families go and yet I’m here…still the same girl of seven.  This one thing remains I’m never alone for this body I possess is always my home.

The Passing

The following is my submission to Literary Lion.

5171605261_8fbbd343d1_bMaggie arose to begin her night’s work.  It had become routine and so she proceeded with little thought.

Looking at her surroundings, Maggie noticed the moss ridden tombstones, and grass, that had been trampled by deer, who frequented the garden, seeking solitude from redneck hunters and their barking dogs.  She looked at the flower that had died in its vase years ago.  Maggie sighed.  No one came around anymore, not even the grounds keeper.

This state of affair saddened Maggie, but what could she do?  No one heard her anymore because there was no one to listen.  She knew it was her fault, but she had grown tired of the kids and their silly candles.  It had been entertaining, for a while, but with the passage of time, their frightened eyes and shrill screams bored her. And so she kept her silence and turned a deaf ear to their begging.  After a while the kids stopped coming.  So now it was only her, and Maggie was lonely.

Each evening, upon the sun’s decent, Maggie walked among the headstones and whispered the names chiseled in gray.  This was the only thing that gave her a sense of peace.  She reasoned, within herself, it was her way of honoring the dead.

Night after night she made her rounds.  She no longer needed to look at the names.  She knew them all and so she drifted from one to next until each name, had been spoken in the dark.  When her mission was accomplished she went back to her place to take her rest.

Her place was just as ram-shackled as others, but on this particular night, Maggie studied her abode.  Once again her eyes fell to the dead flower within its vase.  It had been there for as long as she could remember.  The flower was wrapped within a cloak death, that was dry and crumbling.  She studied the brown decay and realized, for the first time, there was none other like it, within the garden.  Someone, God knows when, had left it there and had left it for her.  Slowly Maggie drifted to the flower and reached to touch it with her wispy hand.

The moment her essence touched the decay, the flower dropped its cloak of death and DoubleKnockOutRosebloomed into a beautiful rose.  Maggie felt herself bathed within a golden light.  She looked to its source and saw a man she knew to be her husband; and in that moment she remembered her earthly life. Her love stood with his hand outstretched and she heard his baritone voice say, “My darling…what took you so long…”

Maggie, filled with joy, flew into his arms and passed to the other side.