HALLOWEEN/Fall Short Story Contest! (2012) Winners Announced

[North Wiedna]

I hope I can finish my story before we lose power

[Communist Quinntopia]

redacted

[Kentsland]

I hope I can finish my story before we lose power

Amen.

[North Wiedna]

I hope I can finish my story before we lose power

Amen.

I'm going to change that to "if we lose power" because this is lame.

[Kentsland]

I'm going to change that to "if we lose power" because this is lame.

Where abouts do you live?

[Conserative Morality]

I lit up a cigarette. The acrid smoke filled my lungs and brought me a moment of respite, the soft red glow burning away the darkness around me. Damn life. Damn death. Damn the thin line between them. I sighed heavily, smoke escaping through my lips. The mantra of the damned continued to resound with every blow on the door. "He comes!" Bang "He comes!" Bang "He comes!" Bang! My heart began to speed up again. My moment of solace faded away like the light of my cigarette. I took another drag, this one quick and meaningful, my mind racing to action. I searched my pockets for something - anything of value. A pack of cigarettes- "HE COMES!" BANG! Damn him! A lighter, my wallet, a pocket flashlight, and a pencil and pad. Nothing that could help me. Nothing that could save me. I burned my cigarette down to a nub and crushed it beneath my foot.

I decided to risk talking to the... Thing that Paul used to be. I raised my voice over his steady chant and calmly asked: "Who's coming, Paul?" The banging and mad mantra stopped for a moment. A soft scratching sound and equally soft sobbing replaced it.

"H... He is... He's coming..." A muffled sniff escaped from behind the door "He is... He has to... And it's over. It's all over... L... Lukowski... It's all over..." Well, that was more than I got out of him before.

"Paul," I said, trying to maintain a calm and soothing tone "Why can't you tell me who He is?"

"Be-... Because" BANG! Damn him! "HE!" BANG! "WON'T!" BANG! "LET ME!" A crunching sound sent a sickening feeling into my stomach as the bloody remains of Paul's arm pawed through the splintered hole in the door, desperately searching for the lock. Think, I had to think... I lit up another cigarette desperately. My nerves felt frayed, and my hands were shaking violently. I could barely hold the lighter steady.

I didn't know if I could overpower Paul even in the best of circumstances, much less when he was possessed by some godforsaken animus that made him ignore the line between life and death. Distantly, I heard my own voice echo softly in my head. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

The scraping at the door stopped. I looked up in surprise. I didn't think God that worked that quick. Paul's arm wasn't pawing at the lock anymore, but I still heard him on the other side of the door. A sound, half-laugh and half-sob, rumbled past the door. "You... You've come..." Then, silence. I strained to hear what was going on, so focused on the other room that I let my cigarette burn out. A scraping sound followed; slow, deliberate, constant, almost (Almost) like a man walking.

A wet ripping sound mixed with Paul's screams and incoherent gibbering. I closed my eyes and tried to stop listening. I couldn't. I-the noises... Still haunt me. I don't remember the next few minutes very well. The... Thing that killed Paul, or what was left of him, passed by me; curled up on the floor, too unmanned to even beg for my life. I remember its claws scraping on the wooden floorboards in front of me, leaving deep scratches in the floor - the only proof that it was more than an illusion after it left. It stopped only for a brief moment, as if considering whether I was worth its time or not. "... Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death..." I could... Feel its malignance, sense the evil lurking within it. I couldn't bring myself to raise my head and look at it before it left me, but I saw those terrible scaled feet, long talon-like claws gouging out wood with every powerful step.

I stared at the long white marks across the floor for what seemed like an eternity after it had left. I couldn't focus, I felt my jaw laxly hang open, but I couldn't find the willpower to do much of anything. The thing that killed Paul... I was certain that God had sent it to save me, but I had trouble reconciling what I'd heard with what I knew God's nature to be. What was it? An angel? No. A demon, but God can work through anything of this world - or the next. I picked up the half-burned cigarette from the ground and lit it up again. I inhaled deeply from the cigarette butt, feeling the warmth spread all through my body, from my feet to my head. I felt the pleasant burn bite past and overpower the much less pleasant burn of my sore and battered body.

I struggled to my feet unsteadily and crushed the burnt-out cigarette butt under my shoe. God knew I had a job to do still, and I'd be damned if I was going to let Clara die in here like Paul. I refused to look at his body as I walked past it, but out of the corner of my eye... I could see there wasn't much of it left. Soon, the house would probably reclaim him too.

---

The house was in charge, it always was. I would turn corners that would bend the other way as soon as my eyes were off of them; doors that disappeared whenever I tried to leave the room. Hours in this hell had inured me to its machinations. The flashlight lent me a little comfort, at least. I tried to navigate the labyrinthine structure, but aside from trying to stay along the edges of the house, there wasn't much I could do. It felt like I'd spent days wandering the house, but a glance at my wristwatch put me at about four hours. When I came to a window to the outside world, I stood and stared up at the starry sky... Then down to the ground below. I wondered if the jump would kill me. I also wondered if it mattered at this point.

Soft clicking sounds echoed behind me. I spun around, fear clutching my heart - only to see a distinctly human figure trudge through the doorway. Fear gave way to loathing and a dull feeling of disgust. "So, you're part of..." I waved my hands around indistinctly "This?"

"Paul wasn't the first, was he? Only the most recent." The robed man moved like a snake, sashaying from side to side, his knife catching the light every few steps. "Not going to say anything in your defense? Nothing to say, I suppose. What's done is done for you folks." I looked down at the burned out end of the cigarette in my mouth. The bitter taste of cheap tobacco lingered in my mouth. I dropped the burnt out filter onto the floor and lifted my flashlight to illuminate the cultist's face. It wasn't a pretty sight; bloodshot eyes, dark rings under them, and a faraway, blank look. He barely looked alive, but I knew he was closer to the world of the living than Paul had been.

"Going to add me to your list of victims? Or would 'sacrifices' be a more fitting name?" I took my lighter out and moved my other hand to the tablecloth. I poured out some of the fluid onto the cloth and slid the tank back in the bottom. "Well, you know, the Hebrews of old used to make their offerings to God by burning them." I said conversationally "It was considered to sacrifice the whole of the offering to God by consuming it entirely with fire rather than allowing its flesh to be claimed by mortals. Funny idea, isn't it?" In one smooth motion, I lit the soaked tablecloth, grabbed one of the edges, and threw the heavy linen covering at him, my lighter clattering against the hard wooden floor as it slipped between my clenched hand and the sheet.

There was no fear in his eyes. That's what really got me. He wasn't scared. He wasn't surprised. If there was any emotion floating behind those blank baby blues, it was anger. It was rage. It was pure hatred, unbound by the chains of common humanity. Seizing the opportunity, I grabbed the enveloped figure and wrapped my arms around him, tangling him in the covering. Stumbling with uncertainty, his unnatural and desperate strength was sapped by confusion and blindness. I felt the flames lick at my arm, but I had the resolve of a cornered rat, a man with nothing left on his mind but his life. Heaving with all my strength, I pushed him over to the windowsill, the momentum of his own movement propelling him over the edge.

Adrenaline racing through my blood, I took out another cigarette. Slowly, I sat down on the now bare table and lit up another. Now was no time to rest, but I couldn't find the ambition to do anything else. I took a long, slow drag and felt the warmth spread through my bones and into my lungs. Christ. So much for cutting back. I felt the night wearing on me, felt the long hours drilling into my very bones. I don't know what kept me going. Slowly, I stood up and walked over to the windowsill to see how my assailant had fared. When I looked down at the man, I was surprised to see that the fire had petered out and my dearest attempted murderer was up and moving again. His movements were slow and convulsive, but he was still moving. "Shit." I muttered. That wasn't nearly as effective as I hoped it would be. I took another long drag. This wasn't turning out to be the night I thought it'd be.

----

I heard soft steady footsteps from down the hall, around another one of those damned corners. I flipped my flashlight off and gripped it firmly in my hand. If I had to, I was sure I could overpower one or two of the bastards, at least make them regret trapping me in here... And killing Paul... I brought up my flashlight like a baton, then swung around the corner and-

"Jesus Christ Clara!" I gasped as a familiar female face greeted me with a candle in one hand and a snub-nosed Ladysmith revolver in the other. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Is it all 'voodoo nonsense' now, George?" She said with a mocking half smile. You know what? Damn her too, client or not. I didn't know how she kept so cheerful all the damn time.

"Let's say I've seen enough to convince me. Let's get out of here and find the law." I took off my hat and ran a hand across my forehead. I was sweating like a pig and didn't even realize it. The last kicks of adrenaline were running through my veins and leaving me feeling on the edge of collapse. There was nothing left in me. No fight, no energy, just a bundle of exhaustion, misery, and fear.

"We can't do that." She said.

"No? And why is that?"

"Because if they finish their ritual, all the world won't be able to stop them."

I ground my teeth together. "Dammit Clara, you can't expect me to-"

"-go along with all this voodoo nonsense? Like the house reabsorbing its victims? Like the way the walls shifted to split us up? Like Paul getting back up and walking after having his throat slit?"

I closed my mouth. She had a point - after what I'd seen that night, anything would have been believable. "Alright, what the hell. How do we stop it?"

"It's a very precise ritual. All we have to do is interrupt them at any point before they finish." She glanced at her watch. "Which means we have about half-an-hour."

"I doubt they'll take kindly to that."

"I think we can make it work." Her smile had a dreamy, distant quality to it "And if we don't, it won't matter either way."

God almighty, what had I gotten myself into? "This is a lot more than what I signed up for." I muttered

"And here I thought you Private Eyes practically lived assuming the worst."

"This is still above my pay grade."

"I'll throw in a bonus if we make it out of here alive." She winked suggestively. I shook my head. For some, old flames die heart. Me... Well, if I hadn't been flat broke, I wouldn't have minded never seeing her again. But her interest in the occult and insistence on the dangers of this cult had driven off every cop willing to listen to a girl like her. Sadly, she was half-right at least. Most religious sects don't stab curious visitors in their places of worship.

I followed Clara down, into the bowels of the beast in a building's clothing. She seemed to know where we needed to be - how she kept track of the shifting walls and doors, I'll never know. Maybe it was just me... But it seemed like the house bent less when I followed her.

We finally found ourselves in a dimly-lit room, on a balcony above a circle of robed cultists chanting in a tongue I didn't recognize. Clara knelt down and motioned for me to follow. "I've studied their rituals extensively." She whispered "First, they have to make the proper obeisances to their God - Sildirim

"Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!"

"Now they call for their god to bring them the bounty of His harvest - freedom from morality, from laws, from faith. They offer three sacrifices - each representing an aspect of Sildirim." Clara whispered. I watched with a morbid fascination as they brought the candles of their occult circle closer together. "Fire is extinguished, bringing the darkness of His reign." I felt cold as the little flickering lights were blown out to their ritual chants. "Then, devotions are offered from among the cultists, bringing one of their own from life to the eternal walk, signalling Sildirim's mastery over mere mortals; showing that they are no more than slaves to His power." I looked away. Even in the darkness I could see them surrounding one of their own, hear the soft sound of ripping flesh and soft groans of pain. "And finally, to represent His understanding of the universe, the truth of the absurdity and pointlessness of human life and laws..." I turned as she put her hand on my shoulder softly.

"The blood of the betrayed." She whispered softly as she pulled the knife out of my gut. Pain radiated from the gash, pulsing steadily and blurring my vision. I had nothing left. No last minute adrenaline, no anger, hardly any fear. I gave up. I collapsed without a fight. I felt her carefully pick me up by the legs and neck. I tried to speak, tried to say something. All I could force out was a soft gurgling noise.

The cultists continued their chanting while Clara carried me from the balcony, down the stairs, and laid me softly in the middle of their circle.

"Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!" The words wouldn't leave me. They kept echoing in my head, drowning out every thought, every feeling and belief I had. Nothing could exist alongside Sildirim, Lord of Extinction and Father of the Abyss. I heard the slow scraping of the Demon's claws against the ground. The cultists went silent, but I could still hear their words in my head. Ktur'siva Sildirim brzine allijn!

Then I saw it.

I saw the world through its eyes.

I saw wide expanses of nothingness.

I saw gibbering men and women, so inured to horrors that they had embraced them.

And I saw the eye

One of many

But it saw me

And it will never leave me

The echoing in my head faded. I felt a pair of hands grab me roughly and pull up my jacket, felt the pull of the material world on my soul. Electric lights flashed everywhere, cops swarmed through the room, beating and restraining the crazed, pathetic excuses for human beings that served such a demon. Tears streamed down my face, fear convulsed every muscle in my body as I tried to push His visage from my mind.

"Make a stretcher for this man!"

"Fr-Frankie...?" I wondered if it was all just a dream, or if I was seeing my life flash before me. I hadn't seen Frank Graves since our discharge from the army.

"I'm here George." He grabbed my hand firmly "Stay with me." I'd never been so happy to see his rough, pock-mocked face.

"D-dammit..."

"C'mon," He urged "we made it through Cantigny, you can get through this." I was alive. Against all odds... I was alive.

Everything went black.

---

They put me in an asylum after the law was done with me. They said it was for my own good, that a few weeks or months in the care of professionals would fix me up. I'm not convinced that they can help me. I don't think anyone can.

The doctors were generous enough to lend me paper and a pencil - insufferably dull, but I make do. They say I spend hours every day in a catatonic state, that I don't respond to anything short of electric shocks. I never seem to remember, but the hours do pass unusually quick. First it's noon, then it's evening, then noon again, then morning. I can't say I don't believe them. They aren't so generous in return. They tell me I had a stress-induced breakdown, that what I saw that night was a natural reaction to being almost murdered by a bunch of loons.

I want to believe them, I really do, but I know what I saw. I've seen the wider universe, and it has seen me. I fear now it'll never leave me. The eye follows me, day and night. I can't see it, but I know it's there. Some nights, and some days, even, I can feel that presence again, feel the malevolence, the dark intent, hear the clawed footsteps echo down the hall. It goes as quickly as it comes, but I feel like it's just biding its time, just waiting for the right moment. When that moment comes, I fear nothing in heaven or Earth will be able to save me. But I hope, and I pray for the strength to fight that fear, to fight this evil. And if I ever get out of here, I'll find a way to fight it again.

Anima Christi, sanctifica me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.
Sanguis Christi, inebria me.
Aqua lateris Christi, lava me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.
O bone Jesu, exaudi me.
Intra tua vulnera absconde me.
Ne permittas me separari a te.
Ab hoste maligno defende me.
In hora mortis meae voca me.
Et iube me venire ad te,
Ut cum Sanctis tuis laudem te.
In saecula saeculorum.

Amen

[Nightkill the Emperor]

Oh hey, this exists.

[Forsher]

Oh hey, this exists.

For just over a day, I believe.

[North Wiedna]

Oh hey, this exists.

For just over a day, I believe.

...more like two i think

[Forsher]

For just over a day, I believe.

...more like two i think

It says it is the first. So that's tomorrow (one day) and the rest of today.

[North Wiedna]

...more like two i think

It says it is the first. So that's tomorrow (one day) and the rest of today.

Don't you have all of the first to submit though?

[Forsher]

It says it is the first. So that's tomorrow (one day) and the rest of today.

Don't you have all of the first to submit though?

I dont know. Probably. I've just taken it as meaning by then.

[Nazi Flower Power]

Don't you have all of the first to submit though?

I dont know. Probably. I've just taken it as meaning by then.

I think "deadline Nov. 1" means if you submit it on Nov. 1, then it's accepted.

[Conserative Morality]

One more day for submissions!

[Kentsland]

I'm going to submit the story at 11:59 tomorrow.

I probably shouldn't have procrastinated.

[North Wiedna]

I'm going to submit the story at 11:59 tomorrow.

I probably shouldn't have procrastinated.

same

[Ramenasia]

Here we go again.

Like most men buying for a gift for a woman, Chris Warner was consumed with the niggling worry she’d secretly hate whatever he bought her. Cosmetics? No, he didn’t know a thing about all those brands that ruled the first floor of every department store except that they were overpriced. Jewelry? She’d think that he was treating the relationship too seriously. And he dared not give her a gift card. She hated the damn things.

He’d looked at far too many stores already with nothing to show for it. After a week of searching, he was resorting to less reputable locales.

“You pawning, selling or buying?”

The man was fairly old, with a hint of a grey beard. He folded his arms, an irritated expression on his face.

“Buying.”

The old man’s eyes lit up at once and he dropped his sullen demeanor. “Really? That’s great.” He looked eager, hungry. “Really great.”

“What do you think would make a good present for my girlfriend of three years. Tomorrow night is the anniversary of our first date.

The man sat down in his chair behind his desk. It was leather, but there were torn spots here and there.

“Three years and you still don’t know what she likes? What kind of relationship is this?”

“Women are picky about presents. If they don’t like it, they’re going to throw it into the bottom of their drawer, never to be used. I want something that sends a real message.”

“The decapitated head of a horse, maybe?”

“Not that kind of message.”

“Something romantic, but not cheesy, yes?”

“Correct.

The man was deep in thought for a second, and then he received a flash of inspiration. He rifled through his desk and withdrew an enormous leather-bound book covered in dust, dropping it on the table with a thud. It had a modern steel combination lock on it. “I get that question a lot. I admit, I’m not an expert when it comes to women, so I use this. My customers love it.”

“What is it?”

He quickly twisted the dial a few times, opening the cover, and flipped to the table of contents, which was written in tiny font. “A reference book of everything I have in this shop. I don’t use it for every customer, but you seem like a nice guy. I want to make sure I find you something that will sweep her off her feet.” He chuckled a little as he went down the list, dragging his index finger across each entry.
“Here we are. This is perfect.” He closed the book, locking it and disappearing into the back of the shop.

He came back with a small black velvet box.

Chris groaned internally. “I’m not trying to propose to her.”

“This isn’t a ring. How stupid do you think I am? This is an expression of refined beauty and sophistication.”

The man sat down in his leather chair once more and opened the box, turning it around to face Chris. “Jade earrings. Finest quality from Guatemala. No chemical enhancements, bleach, dyes, nothing. Got it from a customer 3 months ago for 500 dollars.”

The earrings were in the shape of a thin hoop, made with a distinct pale mix of sea-foam and emerald green stone. Upon closer look, the hoops were actually composed of a serpent eating its own tail.

“The design is quite interesting. What is it?” asked Chris.

“It is called the ouroboros, a symbol of eternal power, the eternal cycle; eternal love. The perfect gift, I think, for the lovely lady.”

Chris stared at it for a moment longer. The earrings seemed to be giving off the faintest glow, and as he watched it he felt his mind suddenly fog over.

“So, do you want them or not?”

The voice shook Chris out of his trance. He nodded slowly. “I think I’ll buy it. How much?”

The old man said something but Chris hardly heard him. He felt strangely elated, like he had just received a phone call informing him that he’d won the lottery.

He merely pulled out his wallet and gave the guy his credit card. Then he left the shop, the small box stuffed in his pocket.



The night was devoid of breezes, but by the time Chris walked home a light rain had begun to fall. It was a modest apartment, but it was large enough so that he didn’t feel cramped, and that was good enough for him.

He put the box on his bedside table, reminding himself to wrap it tomorrow. Before he fell asleep, he opened it up to look at it once more. The serpents were carved with such detail, each individual scale clearly visible, talons and teeth well-defined. Its original value must have been a fortune.

He reached out with a hand to touch it, and was surprised to find that it felt warm. A little too warm, in fact. But he was too tired to think on it now, and he fell asleep.



The next morning Chris awoke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. It was pitch black outside, and the rain was coming down in sheets. He checked his alarm clock: 5:36 AM. All was almost silent except for the sound of a slow tapping coming from outside his room.

He lay in bed for a moment, but couldn’t fall back asleep. The tapping continued. Finally he could stand it no longer and got out of bed, following the sound to its source. It was coming from the kitchen. He shambled onto the cool tiled floor, and turned on the light. He squinted as he adjusted to the brightness, and glanced down at something on the floor. A pool of dark red liquid about the size of a small plate. His eyes shifted upwards, and there he saw his kitchen knife embedded in the ceiling almost to the hilt, little rivers of the substance cascading down the blade and handle before dripping down into the puddle.

Chris began to panic. Was there a murderer in his house? How did someone shove a knife into the ceiling? He debated calling the police, but who would believe him? That was his knife, after all, so it’d be covered in his prints. This was certainly some kind of foul trick to frame him for some crime, or a prank to fool him into calling the police. This could be animal blood, for all he knew.

He decided to clean up the pool of blood with a few paper towels, and pulled the knife out of the ceiling by standing on a chair. He wiped down the ceiling and threw away the knife.

He was meeting her tonight, and it would take more than a bloody knife to stop him. It was only when he walked back to his bedroom did he realize that the earrings were missing.



At around mid-morning, there was a knock at the door. He answered it and was greeted by a policeman.

“My name is Officer Bennett. There’s been a case of a break-and-enter in the room across from yours last night, owned by a young woman. She’s missing. Did you see anything out of the ordinary last night?”

“No officer, I did not. I came home around nine and everything looked fine.”

“Nothing on her door?”

“Not that I could see, no.”

The officer looked grave. “Come look at this for a moment.”

He led Chris into the hallway where they came to the missing woman’s door, which was open. The doorknob had been ripped out completely. On the front of the door there was a nearly perfect circle, drawn with a single three-inch-wide stroke that ended precisely where it started. Entirely in blood. It had dried now, but there were some drops that had spilled down the side of the door and pooled on the ground.

“So you’re sure you heard nothing last night?”

“No sir I did not.”

The policeman looked doubtful, but he didn’t press it. He’d keep this guy on his list of potential suspects list, though. This man seemed a little off, somehow. “Alright. If you’d please write down your name and number on this piece of paper, that’d be great. Just in case we need to inform you of any urgent news.” The police man flipped through his notepad to a clean page and gave it to Chris along with a ballpoint pen. “In the meantime, you might want to consider staying somewhere else for the night. We’re not sure what we’re dealing with here.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” said Chris, finishing writing down his phone number and handing back the pen and paper, “Can’t you guys put a few guys in this building or something?”

“We’ve got it covered. Have a nice day.” The officer touched the front of his hat with thumb and forefinger and walked off.




Chris went back to his apartment quite shaken. There was a killer on the loose, and the knife probably meant he was next. He needed to take a leak.

When he tried to open the door to his bathroom, it wouldn’t budge. Locked.

From the inside.

He looked under the crack of the door. The light was on inside.
“Hello?” he called out. “Who’s in there?

No reply.

He went to his closet and dug through a shoebox hidden on the top shelf, pulling out a semi-automatic pistol.

He walked back to the bathroom door and threw his weight against it. When his shoulder made contact with the door for the third time, he heard the slight crunch of wood. Triumph.

He was about to push against it once more, but then he heard a voice.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Chris recognized that voice. It was coming from behind him.

He spun around to look at the source of the voice, and found the old man behind him, lounging in a chair.

“What are you doing here?” Chris demanded, pointing the pistol at the man, “Get out or I’ll call the police.”

“Feel free. It won’t change anything. I’m not going anywhere, and she’s already dead.”

“Who, the woman across the hall?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Chris looked incredulous. “She’s in my bathroom?”

The old man laughed. “Elementary, my dear Watson. But I hate to see you ruin this fine door. Let me lead the way.” He grabbed the doorknob and there was a click. The old man entered and then beckoned Chris to follow.

It was a slaughterhouse. The stench of blood filled the room, and there were splatters all over the walls. There was a five-fingered trail across the mirror where a blood-coated hand had tried to grab on to something.

What was most horrifying, however, was the obscenity in the bathtub. The nude form of a female, but no longer human. Her arms were tied with ropes to hooks on the wall. The water underneath her was bright crimson. She’d been skinned alive, with deep gashes torn all over her torso and legs. Eyes gouged out, lips cut off.

“My God!” croaked Chris, his voice barely audible. “What monster could have done this?”

The old man smiled. “Look at her ears.”

Chris stepped forward a little. He could clearly make out the bright green of jade. The serpents seemed to glow with a hellish flame.

Chris turned to the old man, pointing his gun at the man’s forehead, his face contorted. “You did this, you sick bastard! You’re a murderer!”

The old man shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my friend. You did this. Perhaps you don’t understand fully the power of this artifact.”

“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, old man. Come clean or I’ll ventilate your skull.”

“Oh really?” The old man seemed amused. With a quick flick of his hand he sent Chris flying back into the hallway, while the gun remained floating in midair, still pointing at the old man. The man pulled it out of the air and removed the magazine, dropping both to the floor with a clatter. He walked up to Chris, who lay on the floor coughing, and kneeled down to his level. “Are you ready to listen now?”

Chris nodded weakly.

“Good. These earrings were salvaged from a shattered jade knife used by priests of an Aztec used to carve open the chests of human sacrifices. They carry with them a mysterious curse; they grant enormous power, but at a cost: they are infused with the spirit of Quetzalcoatl, who demands to be fed the hearts of the innocent.”

Chris had pulled himself upright and was now sitting against the wall. “This is nonsense.”

“In order for you to control the power of the earrings, you must find young women to keep them sated. Otherwise, they will unleash an unstoppable divine power that will wreak havoc upon mankind.”

“Why did you give this thing to me?”

“I’ve spent all my life keeping the rings under control, seducing mere girls and presenting them with this gift that sapped them of their life force the more they wore them. A terrible, slow death, but a necessary one. I completed my service to them, and it was time to pass them on to the next guardian.”

“So I’ve become a guardian?”

“You will come to accept your role, in time. The survival of the human race depends on your willingness to murder.”

Chris looked back at the obscenity in the bathroom. “Then what is that?”

“That is a taste of what will come if you don’t maintain control. They will slowly take control of your body, and then when you have lost all control, you will become a host for Quetzalcoatl.”

The old man stood up, brushing himself off. “I believe my work is done here. I hope you make the right choice.”

He walked out the front door and closed it behind him.

Chris stared into the bloodstained bathroom once more. Then his hand phone vibrated.

It was a text message from her. “Happy anniversary! Cant wait to see you tonight. Meet you at 6?”

[Mereshka]

Hot damn, I noticed this just tonight. Lucky me, I have something I wrote a while ago that I might as well submit. It's fairly short, and I'm sorry that there's very little of the background given, but, oh well.

Rhodri had never been a fan of the dark. Never afraid, yet…never very comfortable within it’s eerily silent folds. He was a man suited to the joy and warmth of the sun, and the great freedom of the skies. He had spent most of his young life in either a castle’s battlements or the tree-tops, yet never in the deepest dungeon or amidst the thickest growth had he encountered such pervasive, smothering darkness. It was as though he had entered a room where the sun’s warmth was not welcome, where light and hope came to die.

He regretted closing shut the door behind him. The gloomy stone hallway was far from perfectly illuminated, but the flickering torches had been a comfort, and the occasional window or arrow-slit allowed in some sliver of moonlight. Here he would welcome the crackle of flames or the soft silver of the moon. He thought about opening the door; perhaps if he let in just a bit of light he might find a torch. He had brought his flint and steel for just that purpose. Then he thought about the creature’s roaming the castle’s halls, beings of death and mindless malevolence. There had been none when he found the doorway, but they roamed the hallways, and he doubted he would be able to hear their approach through the thick hardwood door and solid stone walls.

He decided that opening the door wasn’t an option. So the problem of light remained. He couldn’t very well explore the room without light, and after what he had seen in the rest of the castle, he refused to make his way through a room blindly. Whatever architect had designed the castle had a perverse sense of humor. Who knew what traps he might bump into in this blackness…

Then it occurred to him. He had everything he needed to make fire; no proper outdoorsmen ever went on a trip, much less a quest such as this, without bringing the proper supplies. He’d been using them to start a camp fire for days. He had no wood, but he didn’t need a long lasting inferno, just a short flash, just enough for him to see his way around the room. He knelt to the ground, and began assembling together everything he needed to fashion himself a make-shift torch. Working slowly and carefully using only the sense of touch, he gathered the some of his kindling, together with some string, lint, twigs, and other odds and ends that had found their way into his pockets. Then he fished out his destroyed quiver, and used wrapped the leather into a rough cone, and stuffed the flammables down the wide end.

He then dug into his pack and retrieved his flint and steel. He held the makeshift torch between his knees as he struck the flint again and again, willing each little spark that landed on the kindling to catch. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a piece of lint caught, quickly spreading to the kindling and string. In an instant he had light, though not particularly bright. He picked up his leather torch and stood to his feet, eager to finally get a good look at the room around him. His little flame cast a dim orb of light reaching to the walls, which he noticed were finely, if grotesquely, decorated with masterfully macabre paintings, and rich, luxurious curtains. He immediately spotted what he was looking for; hanging on the wall was a rich sconce made of silver, holding a torch.

He dashed to the wall, and wrestled away the torch. The sconce being retrieved, he bent his flame towards the tar covered wood, watching with satisfaction as it went up in an instant. In no time he had a blazing flame, enough to illuminate the entire room. He looked around, and gathered that it was a bedroom of sorts. Against the opposite wall there was a desk, and above it a mirror hung on the wall, shining in the unaccustomed light. There was a copper bathtub in the corner, next to a wash basin.

Then he noticed something odd. Bedroom though it obviously was, there was no bed. Instead, where there would normally be a bed, there was a large coffin. In an instant his pulse was racing as he remember the old elf-witch’s words. He is a creature of the night, a being who flies by the light of the moon and shrivels to ash in the sun. Thus he slumbers away the daylight hours in a coffin filled with the soil of his homeland; it is only then that he is vulnerable.

‘This is it!’ He thought triumphantly to himself. ‘I’ve found him, I’ve found the one who took my Anna away from me.’ He crept slowly forward, inching his way towards the coffin as he tried to remember everything that the witch had told him about the abominable creature. He has few weaknesses…a stake from the heart of an ancient tree will slay him, as will a blade of pure silver…yet above all the Strega fears fire, for it is the light of the sun in physical form. As Rhodri remembered all of this a grim smile spread across his face. “The demon has delivered his death right into my hands…” He whispered aloud to himself.

He grasped the torch tightly, and crept right up to the side of the coffin. He placed his hand upon the edge, and took a deep breath. After steadying his nerves, he forced open the lid of the coffin. Then he screamed.

He did not see the cold, monstrous face he was expecting. There was no cold hate staring back up at him. It was a face he knew better than his own. Or at least, it used to be..what lay before him was a mockery. He recognized the face. Yet he thought the skin was changed the most. Where once there was a smooth tan marked by a long scar on the cheek, both earned during a fierce, independent youth, there was now smooth alabaster perfection that glowed in the torchlight. It was her, in the form of a cold, dead mockery.

Then he learned he was wrong. The skin wasn’t changed the most. She opened her eyes, and he felt a cold hand grip his heart. Gone were the bright green eyes so full of life and hope that he loved so well. What stared up at him were two glowing orbs with irises red as blood, and desire and cruelty had replaced life and hope. As he stared, she rose. He was helpless as she reached for him, cooing, “Rhodri, my love…join me.”

Be gentle, I know it's not very good.

[North Wiedna]

Can I have an extra day or... seven... or so?

[Lenehen]

Can I have an extra day or... seven... or so?

Yeah maybe another season or two?

[Kentsland]

Can I have an extra day or... seven... or so?

I'm in favor of the due date being pushed until Sunday Night.

[North Wiedna]

Can I have an extra day or... seven... or so?

Yeah maybe another season or two? :unsure:

I think, oh, three years will be fair?

[Nazi Flower Power]

We'll have more writing contests in the future. You can always just write something now, and post it later when an appropriate contest comes along.

[Nazi Flower Power]

So, I guess I'll kick off the judging...

ENDE

Characters - 5/25

It's very centered on one character, and he isn't developed well enough to carry the story. I don't mind having him quote from what he's reading in a sarcastic way once or twice, but it would have been more convincing if you had also mixed in some original dialog. You need your protagonist to have a personality apart from what he is reading. It would have been nice to know more about his relationship with Lenore, what he missed about her, etc. so that we can understand his grief better.

Plot - 12/25

The overall concept is not bad, but the way you told the story created some plot holes. For example, in the opening scene, it says:

As he had pulled the cover open slowly, the opening words of the first page instantly intrigued him into bringing it to his lonely home, and reading more.

That makes it sound like this is something he has not read before. Later, he is surprised to see the name Lenore there, which again implies that he is reading it for the first time. But then when he gets up and goes to the window, he is still quoting from the poem, even though he would no longer have it in front of him. If he is reading it for the first time, and he got up to go to the window, then how does he know what the rest of it says?

"Geeky guy that used to have a lover named Lenore reads Poe, finds a raven at his window, gets upset by the coincidence" is a viable story idea. You just have some kinks to work out.

Setting - 5/15

Why does this guy just happen to have the same furnishings that are mentioned in the poem? If you are going to have the matching furnishings as an eerie coincidence, you should describe the room in more detail before you get to the parts of the poem that mention the furnishings. Not everyone has a bust of Pallas in their room, you know?

I actually would have preferred if he had different furniture, but having it match the poem would be OK if the matching furniture was introduced more effectively.

Creativity - 0/10

Sorry, there is just too much borrowed from Poe for me to give you points here. You need to do more to make the story your own.

Style - 2/10

The handling of the Poe quotes was clunky, and there is too much repetition. Where you were using entirely your own words and not leaning on Poe, the style was OK, but not amazing.

Theme - 8/10

It seems like the story was aimed in the right general direction, but it's 8/10 instead of 10/10 because there were some places where I didn't think it was as creepy as it was intended to be.

Grammar/spelling - 4/5

There is not a major problem here, but you have a couple of typos and whatnot. For example, the past tense of "seek" should be "sought" rather than "seeked," and you have an extra "to" here:

And to a single word of that single section of that single page, his eyes leapt directly to.

Overall - 36/100

[Nazi Flower Power]

QAZOX:

Characters - 16/25

I wish the narrator's tone was more consistent over the course of the story. In the part about the car overheating, the narrator has more of a grumbling tough guy thing going on, whereas in the part about the monster and the hospital he seems more detached. I think the grumbling worked, and it would have been nice if that was carried through to the end of the story.

Plot - 18/25

Some scenes kind of belong in a trashy movie, but it combines things in a way that you don't see very often. I like the twist of having the hospital turn out to be where the real danger is, and I think the transition from monster story to creepy hospital story was done well.

Setting - 13/15

A little more detail regarding the scenery might have been nice, but I understood where the story was taking place, and the setting was appropriate for this plot.

Creativity - 7/10

Your monster was a little generic, and creepy hospitals experimenting on people have been done before, but you mixed them in an original way. When I started reading, it was not obvious that this was going to be an evil hospital story, so you get points for making it unpredictable.

Style - 4/10

If you are going to write first person, you need to be more consistent about making sure the narrator's personality comes out throughout the story. You started off doing better than a 4/10, but the writing kind of fell apart as the story went on. It's odd because the story structure holds together, but it just seems like you lost control of the language.

Theme - 10/10

Works for me in this department.

Grammar/spelling - 4/5

You confused the verbs to lie and to lay, there were a couple of typos, and the punctuation got mildly wonky in some places. It didn't interfere too much with readability, though.

Overall - 72/100