[CONTEST - COMPLETED] Horror Short Story

[Myfanwyski]

this may explain something - from his posts


by Sacara
Thu Nov 29, 2018 7:36 am

Forum: Got Issues?
Topic: [LAST CALL] - No Shoes, No Service
Replies: 23
Views: 527

Sorry I've been inactive lately -- I've been really busy, but things should start cooling down next week.

As for now, I plan on putting this on last call, but I'll leave it up for a bit. I'll also post a few drafts in the upcoming days.
--------------------

preoccupied- no doubt get round to it soon.

[Infected Mushroom]

this may explain something - from his posts


by Sacara
Thu Nov 29, 2018 7:36 am

Forum: Got Issues?
Topic: [LAST CALL] - No Shoes, No Service
Replies: 23
Views: 527

Sorry I've been inactive lately -- I've been really busy, but things should start cooling down next week.

As for now, I plan on putting this on last call, but I'll leave it up for a bit. I'll also post a few drafts in the upcoming days.
--------------------

preoccupied- no doubt get round to it soon.

oh

[Little Tin Hat]

not, I see? Nice picture by the way - maybe someone ought to do an drawing contest- maybe with a couple of themes?

I threw some stuff at the halloween doo-dah - but I doubt I could hang a horror story together. Intending to have a punt at the short story contest and even if it's the bottom of the pile when it comes to prizes, I'll have tried.

If I got a third of the marks available I think I'd be pleased. Good luck in this contest by the way and I hope a lot of people read and enjoy it. That goes for all of you - from the titles I'm looking forward to thumbing through 'They stood there'(if that's right- a bit ominous and looming).

[Infected Mushroom]

not, I see? Nice picture by the way - maybe someone ought to do an drawing contest- maybe with a couple of themes?

Many thanks

I wish that you too had entered this contest too =)

More horror stories to read =)

[Sacara]

Going to grade the first batch tonight!

[Infected Mushroom]

Going to grade the first batch tonight!

*Drum rolls....

*Drum rolls...

(for several hours)

[Sacara]

“Bye!” The door closes and a minute later you hear the crunching of tires on gravel. The muffled sound of raised voices comes from the car and you wince inside as it pulls away from your drive.

When you are once again left in the dim lit, you set your glass down on the table, the brandy swishing on impact. You try to sink back in your armchair, but the softness unsettles you. You jump forward, sitting bolt upright now, sweat beginning to form on your brow.

“Not even going to look at them soldier?” a voice says from across the small polished wooden table. You look up and see a familiar man sitting on the other side of the table, lounging in another armchair. He is a pale, slightly transparent man but dressed as if on ceremony, a host of medals pinned to his chest. He knocks back a glass of dark liquid that you guess is brandy, just like yours. When he places the glass back onto the table, it refills silently. Somehow you do not react to this, staring instead down at your hands. They are shaking but try as you might, you can’t settle them.

“Do you know what happened to me soldier?” the man says, loud enough to irritate you. You know what happened to him, and he knows it too, but you stay silent.

“We were out on patrol, you, me and the rest of the boys. Jimmy had been hit and was bleeding all over the place. I started to make my way to him.” He sighs and looks deeply into your eyes. “Camaraderie like that is something only us soldiers will understand.” His voice is laden with regret, and his eyes appear to be looking at a far-off place. He takes a swig of the brandy before slamming the glass back onto the table.

“I got pretty close you know. Then I put a step wrong and the mine blew me sky-high. Right up with the birds I was, but by that point I was long gone.” You are still as you remember the scene. The screams, the man now in front of you, dashing forward and disappearing in the midst of the mine explosion. You remember standing there in shock. You remember being tackled to the ground by a man behind you, as bullet rip the air where you had just been. Your face hit the dirt and you lay prone, eyes shut but the after-image seared onto the inside of your eyelids.

“You got it soldier. That’s the one.” the man says, draining his brandy and staring at you through the glass before setting it down. You do not meet his eyes.
“You were brave back there, son. Killed quite a few of those buggers. You fought for your country and was prepared to die for them. We all are, us soldiers, but there wasn’t a braver man on that battlefield, on that day, hell in the entire war.”

You don’t comment but take another sip of your own brandy. Your commanding officer continues speaking. “You were a hero out there in some foreign land, but you come home to the land that you love, that you fought for, and they treat you like this.” He spreads his hands and places his feet on the table, crossing one leg over the other. You don’t move to stop him. “It’s not all bad.” he says, as if weighing up your situation. If the events you can’t stop re-living had been fresher, you might have lashed out at him. Not tonight though.

“You’ve just been visited by your family, but you push them away, not even interacting with them, exactly as you are doing to me.”

You look up at him as he finishes. There is nothing but pain in your eyes, and you say nothing, despite everything you know you should tell him. It is like your lips have been sealed shut and something is blocking your throat preventing you from speaking. You feel as though a weight is pinning you down and keeping you in your sit, unable to move.

“Then again,” he says, his brandy forgotten. “your wife left you when you…” he points at you, and you know what he means. You raise the brandy to your lips and gulp it down. He chuckles and gets up, the armchair creaking as he does so.

You look down at the table, eyes moving across the swirling pattern of the grain. Your officer’s footsteps sound delicately across the carpet, and then moving onto tiles. He speaks from the kitchenette. “Let’s be honest, you been through hell and come back out. Not many of us got to do that.” He is looking for something, but you stay where you are, head moving to look out of the sliver of window that you can see through the curtains.

There is a sloshing of liquid behind you and your officer rounds you armchair, and sits back down, brandy bottle in his hand. He reaches out and pours you another drink. You reach for the drink, but he grabs your arm. He is cold, and you feel it through your clothes. “Sometimes,” he says with a note of caution in his voice, “Dutch courage isn’t always enough.” He lets you go, and you drink anyway.

He remains leaning forward, stares at you, places an elbow on his knees and cups his chin with a large hand. You feel his eyes looking directly into your, but you don’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on the feel and taste of the brandy as it makes its way down your throat.

The man opposite you lets out a sigh. “Well,” he says suddenly, sitting back and slapping his thighs, “I’d best be going soldier.” He gets up and walks the short distance over to your chair. You look up at his towering figure. There is compassion and respect in those eyes and you place your brandy on the table, without taking your eyes off him. It hits the surface a little harder than you intended, and your officer cracks a small smile.

“Like I’ve said, you were the bravest bugger out there, the whole time. Being a soldier ain’t an easy job and I’m sorry to watch you got through this, now that you’re back where you should find peace. Those images, that reality, the part of your life spent in that damn country will never leave you son.” He places a hand on your shoulder. “But you can recover, at least a little—at least enough.” He plucks a medal for bravery off of his chest and tosses it to you. You catch it. “You were more of soldier than any of us, certainly more of one than me.” He salutes you and with that, walks away, footsteps fading away until you are left alone.

Looking down, you run a finger over the surface of the medal, before pinning it to your chest. A sense of peace comes over you now, and you allow yourself to slip backwards into the chair, eyes closing. The soft light from a lamp illuminate your still face, and when you have fallen asleep, it turns off with a soft click.

This story was very interesting. It revovles around a soldier when he's come back from war facing the realities of what had occured to him and his unit. The story is very well-written and intriguing, however, I think it's in the wrong category. It really isn't a 'horror' story, but it does leave me unsettled by the fact of what it discusses. Still, it feels out of place. I like how you described in detail what happened to his officer, and I really like how the story developed. However, I will dock points based on the overall 'feel' of the story, if that makes sense. I wouldn't let this discourage you, though! Keep writing.

Final Grade: 7.5/10

[Main Nation Ministry]

Let me get the Myuuji music ready. I'm going to enjoy reading what you guys wrote.

[Shwe Tu Colony]

Let me get the Myuuji music ready. I'm going to enjoy reading what you guys wrote.

I've got some creepy music hold on.

OFF - "Not Safe"
I was planning on including a reference to this in my story by just having a character yell, "It's not safe!" several times over.
FusionFall - "Dark Tree Clearing"
FusionFall - "Green Gullet"
OFF - "Fourteen Residents"
OFF - "Rainy Day (and meat)"
The above two are more so ambient than creepy, really.
OFF - "Tender Sugar"
Super Paper Mario - "River Twygz Bed"

Not necessarily creepy, but they could very well be turned so with good writing.
Talking Heads - "Psycho Killer" (playing while you hide in a not quite empty shopping centre)
Foster the People - "Pumped Up Kicks" (playing in an empty shopping centre)
Gary Jules and Michael Andrews - "Mad World" (playing in an empty shopping centre)
Mariya Takeuchi - "Plastic Love" In An Empty Mall
The Police - "Every Breath You Take" (playing in an empty shopping centre)
Well, those above two are just because of what I have in mind, since my idea was to have them play during a stalking sequence in my writing in the distant future.

& now ambient noise.
OFF - "Silencio"
OFF - "Endless Hallway"
Just some deep sea noises.
Forest Grove Whistle.

[Infected Mushroom]

Let me get the Myuuji music ready. I'm going to enjoy reading what you guys wrote.

Is it this?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYvnCLAf1Ms

[Cupofchar]

One might say, 'The suspense. Is killing me.' But that would probably be the Infected Mushroom since they've been on tenterhooks the entire time? If they've been poised ready for a drumroll they must be getting cramp by now. I should imagine at least another one will come this weekend- hopefully it will be worth the wait and I hope I enjoy them as much as the first.

[Heloin]

It's getting real exiting! The tension is killing me.
Literally, it's killing me. Send help!

Also very good little story Mzeusia!

[Infected Mushroom]

One might say, 'The suspense. Is killing me.' But that would probably be the Infected Mushroom since they've been on tenterhooks the entire time? If they've been poised ready for a drumroll they must be getting cramp by now. I should imagine at least another one will come this weekend- hopefully it will be worth the wait and I hope I enjoy them as much as the first.

My hands are getting really tired...

=(

[Little Tin Hat]

My hands are getting really tired...

=(

One day your prints will come

[Infected Mushroom]

My hands are getting really tired...

=(

One day your prints will come

Prints?

What Prints?

[Little Tin Hat]

ok it was snow white rather than cinderella - but still Disney(it sounds screachy these days though)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0niwn2pOEno

-I don't need to explain prints -shurely?=stories??????

[Sacara]

He pressed the cold cigarette against the wall as he looked down into the freshly cleaned mausoleum. He still remembered her bright eyes and soft hair. They loved each other so. Taking in a deep breath he knew that she would want him to move on. But it was so hard. How do you love another. He touched the plaque one last time, and softly read aloud the name. “Mary”.

She sat across the bar with a friend, they passed glances. As the night grew longer so did the glances. She waved him over as the friends all left. He downed a glass and went to her.

“The name’s Sean,” he said with a timid smile.

“Pleasure to meet you Sean, I’m Rebecca.” The name rang like music to his ears. The rest of the night was... Simple, easy, nice. No pressure. For Rebecca true love at first sight had been found. For Sean a final way out, a new love.

“So, who’s the guy I saw you with?”

“No, one special,” Rebecca responded.

“I heard he’s a fancy writer.”

“If you must know he’s an artist.”

“Oo, what’s he make”

“Contemporary modern art, though I’ve not seen any of it yet. He seems a bit embarrassed by it when I bring it up.” Rebecca looked down, “I think he may worry that I won’t like it.”

“What if you really don’t like it then? Are you trying to say you won’t like it.”

“Of course I’d like it!”

Rebecca looked up from the quiet meal in Sean’s home.

“Do you think I could see any of your projects?”

“Why the sudden interest?

“I don’t know, just I’ve never seen any of it, your working on a big project right now I know that at least. All that time in your basement. Maybe I could have a quick peek?”

“I’m not sure,” Sean said, “It very personal. It’s about someone not with me anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no. Three years ago I was engaged. The car hit us... she…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s for her, a memory. I know I should move on, it’s not my fault.”

“I think it’s sweet,” she grabbed his hand, “If you don’t want to show me that’s fine”

He got up and poured new drinks and handed a glass to Rebecca. “I’ll show you now” Rebecca smiles and takes a drink. Sean looks lovingly and speaks “You have her hands.” A sudden crash roars through the home as Rebecca collapses.

“She was so kind, so sweet.” Rebecca looks up to see Sean cradling a skull, “Her name was Stella, but she doesn’t worry now.” Rebecca looked past into the dark, her head was still fuzzy. Another person was there just out of sight. She tried to speak to the person, but only a soft cry escaped her lips.

“I was so tired of the screaming and the talking. I learned how to stop that.” Sean looked at her disapproving, “Don’t speak, don’t cry, it’ll all be just fine.” Rebecca looked back on the other person, her eyes more adjusted noticed a new horror. This madman had killed the poor soul and had taken her hands.

Struggling against the walls were in vain as Sean looked down. “Don’t injure those pretty hands.” His clothing had just becoming apparent, a tuxedo, fresh and clean. He moved the cadaver closer for Rebecca to see. A silent scream breached Rebecca’s lips.

Sean Cut the final string and took a step back. It was a shame the eyes had to be glass, for she once had such bright eyes. Her cold soft hands felt as the had so many years ago. How he loved her so. I’m sorry it took so long, but we have so many friends now to thank for this day. He turned to a self on the wall holding twelve heads, seven of which were only skulls now.

“We’ve finally done it,” he said, his voice beaming with pride. He turned back and whispered into her ear. “Welcome home Mary.”

What an interesting story! This one had a great twist ending, although it was a bit cliche. However, the overall story was very chilling, especially the end. There are a lot of creeps in the world! One critique I have is that it is a bit confusing at times when you jump scenes, I'd reccomend that you clarify that a little better. All in all, I liked the story. Nice job!

Final Grade: 8.9/10

[Infected Mushroom]

He pressed the cold cigarette against the wall as he looked down into the freshly cleaned mausoleum. He still remembered her bright eyes and soft hair. They loved each other so. Taking in a deep breath he knew that she would want him to move on. But it was so hard. How do you love another. He touched the plaque one last time, and softly read aloud the name. “Mary”.

She sat across the bar with a friend, they passed glances. As the night grew longer so did the glances. She waved him over as the friends all left. He downed a glass and went to her.

“The name’s Sean,” he said with a timid smile.

“Pleasure to meet you Sean, I’m Rebecca.” The name rang like music to his ears. The rest of the night was... Simple, easy, nice. No pressure. For Rebecca true love at first sight had been found. For Sean a final way out, a new love.

“So, who’s the guy I saw you with?”

“No, one special,” Rebecca responded.

“I heard he’s a fancy writer.”

“If you must know he’s an artist.”

“Oo, what’s he make”

“Contemporary modern art, though I’ve not seen any of it yet. He seems a bit embarrassed by it when I bring it up.” Rebecca looked down, “I think he may worry that I won’t like it.”

“What if you really don’t like it then? Are you trying to say you won’t like it.”

“Of course I’d like it!”

Rebecca looked up from the quiet meal in Sean’s home.

“Do you think I could see any of your projects?”

“Why the sudden interest?

“I don’t know, just I’ve never seen any of it, your working on a big project right now I know that at least. All that time in your basement. Maybe I could have a quick peek?”

“I’m not sure,” Sean said, “It very personal. It’s about someone not with me anymore.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.”

“No, no. Three years ago I was engaged. The car hit us... she…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s for her, a memory. I know I should move on, it’s not my fault.”

“I think it’s sweet,” she grabbed his hand, “If you don’t want to show me that’s fine”

He got up and poured new drinks and handed a glass to Rebecca. “I’ll show you now” Rebecca smiles and takes a drink. Sean looks lovingly and speaks “You have her hands.” A sudden crash roars through the home as Rebecca collapses.

“She was so kind, so sweet.” Rebecca looks up to see Sean cradling a skull, “Her name was Stella, but she doesn’t worry now.” Rebecca looked past into the dark, her head was still fuzzy. Another person was there just out of sight. She tried to speak to the person, but only a soft cry escaped her lips.

“I was so tired of the screaming and the talking. I learned how to stop that.” Sean looked at her disapproving, “Don’t speak, don’t cry, it’ll all be just fine.” Rebecca looked back on the other person, her eyes more adjusted noticed a new horror. This madman had killed the poor soul and had taken her hands.

Struggling against the walls were in vain as Sean looked down. “Don’t injure those pretty hands.” His clothing had just becoming apparent, a tuxedo, fresh and clean. He moved the cadaver closer for Rebecca to see. A silent scream breached Rebecca’s lips.

Sean Cut the final string and took a step back. It was a shame the eyes had to be glass, for she once had such bright eyes. Her cold soft hands felt as the had so many years ago. How he loved her so. I’m sorry it took so long, but we have so many friends now to thank for this day. He turned to a self on the wall holding twelve heads, seven of which were only skulls now.

“We’ve finally done it,” he said, his voice beaming with pride. He turned back and whispered into her ear. “Welcome home Mary.”

What an interesting story! This one had a great twist ending, although it was a bit cliche. However, the overall story was very chilling, especially the end. There are a lot of creeps in the world! One critique I have is that it is a bit confusing at times when you jump scenes, I'd reccomend that you clarify that a little better. All in all, I liked the story. Nice job!

Final Grade: 89/100

@Heloin

Wow this was... How should I say...

The story was like putting my bare fingers against a metal pipe in a brick wall and then realising its stuck to the frost. Then when I pull my hand out I lose bits of flesh...

This story is COLD AF. I think nightmares are coming... (for a horror story contest, that is a good thing but my friend, this is slice of life psychopath edition)

But is the Marionette made partly of wood or is it entirely the corpse of Mary + bits and pieces from others? I'm just a bit confuse at the end. Actually, you know what, maybe you shouldn't tell me... I can still imagine the glass eyes...

This would make an excellent short movie or animation. I imagined that a very off-key/demented Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy variation was playing in the background starting from the restaurant scene.

Where do you get the inspiration for such True Darkness?

Again, good work!

[Little Tin Hat]

2 down - two good scores on the doors and not bad little stories. I should imagine they'd have liked to get it to be done and dusted well before xmas- maybe like santa he can magic up some time.

[Main Nation Ministry]

Part of me already feels like my story is going to be a bit too cliched, but I still having high hopes for it. Marionette was pretty good, also.

[Little Tin Hat]

Part of me already feels like my story is going to be a bit too cliched, but I still having high hopes for it. Marionette was pretty good, also.

Love your title- got an ominous edge of looming over you like vultures waiting for you to finally give up the ghost. Even if it is a bit cliched you wont be alone, done well maybe you have used the familiar to prepare for an unexpected twist like the 'smack my bitch up' video did. At least you entered which is more than I did- though if I have read the first two to be marked I could have come up with something- I have a rough outline in my head but too late now(maybe I'll scribe it down for later?).

[Main Nation Ministry]

Part of me already feels like my story is going to be a bit too cliched, but I still having high hopes for it. Marionette was pretty good, also.

Love your title- got an ominous edge of looming over you like vultures waiting for you to finally give up the ghost. Even if it is a bit cliched you wont be alone, done well maybe you have used the familiar to prepare for an unexpected twist like the 'smack my bitch up' video did. At least you entered which is more than I did- though if I have read the first two to be marked I could have come up with something- I have a rough outline in my head but too late now(maybe I'll scribe it down for later?).

My story was loosely based on a dream/nightmare I had, though I do believe I did add some things in my story to give a sinister vibe. Even if my story is a bit cliched, I still have some fun looking at my own story and the others you guys posted.

[Infected Mushroom]

Part of me already feels like my story is going to be a bit too cliched, but I still having high hopes for it. Marionette was pretty good, also.

Me too

In fact, I may have overplayed my hand with the camp factor

[Sacara]

I pen this now in the hope that one day, someone will find these scribblings and not write them off as the ravings of a lunatic. I have seen things. Things that I would un-see, given the chance. There being no chance of that, I have chosen to write these things down. Maybe in a hope of understanding them. I don’t know. It seems I don’t know a lot these days. Not that I have forgotten anything I once knew, just that there is so much out there that is unknown. Unknowable. Unfathomable.

See, it all started maybe a week back, nine, ten days. Something, it all blurred together in a rush of terror, blood and an unholy ecstasy of demons. Demons I cannot begin to describe for I never truly saw them. They operated at night and by that time, I had barred the door, shuttered the windows and was gripping the Holy Circle in fright. Fear of the unknown, fear of the dark, fear of the unholy… once again, I don’t know. Anyway, as I sit in the Holy stone circle of Gerit I will try my best to relay the story, to keep it alive, a warning to anyone who comes here.

The wind tore at the shutters, bang, bang. It howled like the beasts of children’s stories, its icy streaks running wild like horsemen through the streets. They say the man came that night. I can’t confirm. They say he came with nothing on his back but a few wooden planks, nails and a stout stick to aid him on his travels. I doubted from the moment I heard the stories that he really, truly needed that stick for walking on. They say he came from a far-off land. A land from across the mountains. He took up refuge in an old run-down house on the outskirts of the village. No one cared much. He didn’t bother anyone. He just looked odd. I guess that was an omen from Gerit, long may his eye remain vigilant.

For the next few days, nothing happened. I went about my day as normal, almost forgetting about the man from across the mountains. Gerit knew better and would not let it go entirely. I went to bed and was woken in the early morning by Cerik, the farmer. A young woman had died in the barn. She was pale as a sheet, I looked over the body. Four bite marks, two on either side of the neck. The body was already stiffening. The family was called to pay their respects and a grave was dug by The Holy Circle of Gerit. The simple stone circle with the inscription. ‘Taken too young, May Gerit find room at his table for her.’ The funeral was to be held, a ring of mourners would come, everyone from the village. The birds would fall silent in the trees, no rustle of animals would be heard, and the sway of leaf or bush would never sound. The silence would not be broken as tears rolled down and hands placed on the inscription. A fire would be lit, and the flames coming alive, cracking, burning, fizzling and dying, the embers waiting for the day they would be rekindled. No one would though. That day would not come. Not for the embers and not for the young woman who would lie stiffening in the earth, eyes releasing her spirit up to Gerit’s table. The mourners would go home as the light faded.

Except the body was stolen from the board on which it had been placed. It was stolen from beside the grave.

A meeting was called of the village Council and chairs were placed in a Holy Circle. We agreed that the woman had, definitely been murdered. The smith, Biderc suggested it was the newcomer. That went down well. He had kept to himself and never came out when anyone else was around. Biderc and two other big strong men each picked up stout sticks, rolled up their sleeves, psyched themselves up and went marching into the village outskirts, out of the Holy Circle, out of the village proper. I turned and went back home. They would return I told myself, they had to. Either having dragged the newcomer’s body into the woods for the wolves and other predators or bringing back the news that he had left. I stayed at Gerit’s alter, the candles spat and flickered angrily. The wind had broken in. I closed the shutters and got down to pray again. The shutters banged open again and the candles blew out. I got up, barred the shutters, kissed my wife and daughter good night and buried myself in bed, the furs pulled up close, my mind racing with the age-old question: ‘What if?’

The next day, the men did not return. They did not come back and likely never would for I knew something was up. The shaman was called, to curse the newcomer’s house, he had to go out at night. Gerit’s Circle could only be seen at night, so the wards could only work at night. In the morning, we all rushed to the house, expecting to see the shaman standing there, a bowl of blood in his hands and the unholy corpse at his feet. For the newcomer was unholy. Only someone unholy could kill so. What we ran into was entirely different. The newcomer was standing there, a bowl of blood in his hands and the body of our shaman on the ground. His Gerit-blessed robes and beaded necklaces, his bone assortments and braided hair were clear to all. What was not clear was why he had a stake through his heart. Voices were raised but the newcomer raised a hand. Out of fright, everyone went still. Not just quiet but still. No one moved and even blinking was dangerous. The newcomer raised a hand, a gnarled hand with a strange marking on it. A commanding hand. One that commanded silence. No one had been talking but this hand seemed to make them stand straighter, myself included. We froze, eyes staring not at the man’s face but his hand.

He lowered the hand and spoke. ‘Your shaman has lived among you for years, that much, I could guess when I arrived. However, even you had not realised the black nature of his heart. How he let in the demons and confronted not the evil in the forest. His unholy Gods grew angry, so he sacrificed that young woman. He would individually sacrifice you all if I had not stuck that stake through his heart.’ The newcomer pointed a gnarled finger at the stake and murmuring broke out feverishly amongst the villagers. The newcomer spoke again, not bothering to raise his hand again for silence. His voice now commanded that well enough. ‘Do not worry, you are safe. The evil has been cleansed from the village and you can once again worship in safety and with ease of mind.’ He paused. ‘You may go.’ With that, he walked back inside and the villagers dispersed, happy with the outcome if a little saddened at the death of a friend.

Over the next few days, the bodies mounted, one died in the hay loft, another in a field, another over the smith’s anvil, all had the same markings though no one felt brave enough to confront the newcomer. Many left the village, fleeing into the night with their children, many urged me to go with them. I stayed. The bodies continued to mount, and we retreated to the Holy Circle of Gerit. Four of us, my wife, my daughter, my friend Retrig the carpenter and I. We brought all the bread we could, the clean water with the buckets, the firewood for some light and the furs and straw mattresses from our beds. No one talked but we all knew that we could never leave that circle. That circle was holy and the thing, the newcomer, the demon out there was unholy.

We have been sitting here for a few days now, Retrig left to go get help. His screams greeted our ears, but I could not move to go help him. It would be no use. The night is closing in now, we have exhausted all conversation. Not that anyone really wanted to talk. We huddle in the dark, the fire having burnt out yesterday. The only sounds from outside are the owls, the wolves, the bears and stalking footsteps of the monster. The monster that walks on two legs, emptied the village of life and now waits patiently for us to step outside the Holy Circle. We feel for one another in the dark, sleep next to one another and, in the morning will share out last mouthfuls of bread and water together. As I set down this pen with a heavy heart, having accepted my fate as best I can, I can only hope it was not all in vain.

Just as a disclaimer, I've never really been a fan of fantasy stories. I usually like stories based in the real world -- more like something that could actually happen to me. Those are the scariest. However, I threw my bias out the window, and this story did not disappoint. This story was downright disturbing: from the amazing world building to the graphic details, you did a great job!

Final Grade: 9.1/10

[Sacara]

It was cold. Colder than any night that he had experienced yet on top of his icy prison. The Winter’s grasp latched around the man’s body and squeezed like the vice of an anaconda. It was the type of cold that cut to your very soul. The man reached one shaky hand over to the set of 10 logs next to the fire, placed two into the pit, and used a stiff and half frozen billow to give brief life to the fire.

The man reached out to the side of him as he sat on the old and weathered brown rug to a tiny worn leather wallet. He picked it up and flipped it open with his cold and withered hands. He opened the wallet to a small set of photographs just next to his now long expired driver’s license. The man scratched the dried and cracked crimson off of the surface of the smooth plastic to take one look at his beautiful wife Trish and his wonderful daughter Sadie. The man could feel a salty saline tear inch out of his eye and down his cheek as it seemed to freeze as it traced its way down his worn and tired face, finally resting on the bristle of his ragged brown beard. How weird how three years can change a man. Can change a family. Can bring them to this point.

The man’s stomach gurgled as he peered longingly into the photograph. He was hungry. He knew if he didn’t eat soon, he would be in trouble.

The man stood up. His joints screamed and wailed in agony as they popped, and strained to support his own weight. With one final pop of his back as he stretched himself skywards he stepped away from the last relief of the fireplace and into the cold and uninviting kitchen. He had grown to hate this place more and more over the past couple of weeks. It was an awful room, barren and devoid of life. He stepped over the dried crimson stain on the ground that extended to the island in the center of the kitchen towards the old and warn once white refridgerator that was now stained yellow with grime and time.

He opened the refrigerator door to see Trish’s face starring back at him. Her mouth hung agape and her eyes had began to shrivel in their head from the exposure of the refrigerator. Some muscle and sinew still clung to the bottom of her decapitated neck, some of the blood, dripped and collected in a tub of her organs underneath. His wife’s muscles, arms, legs, and torso had been hacked up and partitioned off to be eaten quickly as they were what would give him the most protein.

The man had hated himself every time he opened the fridge and looked at his lovely wife’s lifeless face. He had loved her, he had cared for her for ten years. She had stayed with him through thick and thin and even when he came home that faithful day and told her of the trouble that would befall his family, she understood and came with him into the wilderness to hide from the men that would come for them. He even knew that she would understand when they ran out of food on the third day. He and Sadie couldn’t be found shriveled and dead in a heap in the corner. So even though she pleaded with him and cried and begged him not to do it. He knew that Trish really wanted him to do it. He knew Trish wanted to provide for the family by any means necessary. So when he plunged his wood cutting axe into her neck and she choked on her blood as he looked at him, he knew they were not eyes of betrayal but eyes of love. They were eyes of understanding. Eyes that knew what their purpose was, to keep he and Sadie alive.
It was a shame that Sadie saw it. She wasn’t meant to see it. She was just becoming a young woman. She didn’t need to see that or know where the meat came from. He did understand when she ran from the cabin. He didn’t chase her. He knew she would come back when the wind became too cold. But as the days went by he was certain that his daughter had met a grizzly fate out in the woods and he was now all alone.

The man took a piece of what was once Trish’s arm out of the fridge, it flopped, and struck the still intact pelvis of his wife on the bottom of the shelf that made it roll out onto the kitchen floor. The man quickly scooped it up and put it back into the refrigerator with a sigh of relief. The pelvis would certainly be last. After all, he was sure Trish would understand that a man had… needs. Needs that she would happily serve even into death.

He picked up the piece of muscle and a cast iron skillet and brought it to the still burning flames. He dropped the piece of Trish’s arm into the skillet and placed the skillet into the flames. The muscle began to cook and change color as the succulent and sweet aroma of cooking meat wafted into the man’s nostrils. It was heavenly. As if angels had kissed his nostrils gently with the smell of dinner wafted through the cabin, filling it with life. Sure the snow still stung outside and hell still waited him. But for now he would eat like a king for one more night.

The meat was still rare when he took the skillet off the fire and the man picked it up with his hands and began to dig in, eating like a savage animal as he ripped the muscle piece and piece. It was wonderful, almost orgasmic as the meat of his wife slipped down his gullet and into his stomach. He always said she was so pretty, he just wanted to take a bite out of her. He did not think it would be so literal. But he was overjoyed none the less.

“You are delicious Trish! Thank you! He exclaimed as a piece of stringy meat flopped over his chapped lips and became entangled in his ragged beard.

SLAM! A noise deafening, loud, and true rang out from the kitchen of the house. The man stopped in his tracks. And laid the pink meat back onto the skillet. The backdoor was in the kitchen, surely it had come loose from the bitter and cold wind. The man stood up and walked to the kitchen again where the door hung open, banging gently against the wooden walls of the cabin. The man strode quickly to the door and closed it. He attempted to push the silver latch into its deadbolt home. But was sad to find that the wind had ripped it from the wall. Thinking quickly the man rushed into the living room and grabbed a small block of wood, a hammer, and a set of nails from a toolbox he kept behind the couch. He hammered the piece of wood into the wall, closing the door successfully.

CREAK! CREAK! CREAK! The rthymic creaking entered his ears and rose the hairs on his back. That was not the wind. Something was in here. Something was in the house with him.

“Hello?!” The man cried out, his eyes wide and darting.

Silence.

“It… It must be an animal!” The man said attempting to reassure himself. But wait… An animal meant food. Food for him that could keep him alive for a few more days and a few days longer he had with his lovely wife Trish.

Seeing opportunity flash before his eyes, the man ran around the house like a mad man. He needed a weapon. He needed something to kill the tiny creature so he could feast on its flesh. But what? The axe he used on Trish he left outside when he was last chopping wood. The hammer? Maybe. But that might damage the body. No, he needed something sharp…

Suddenly it dawned on him, the kitchen knife! He stopped at the kitchen sink and pulled the rusted kitchen knife from the sink, its blade still stained from when he was removing the meat from Trish’s bones. He turned around and peered around the room, his eyes like a hunter as they darted from place to place.

CREAK! CREAK! CREAK! The man turned to look at the bedroom. His and Trish’s bedroom that they had shared before she had to be butchered to provide for him and his daughter Sadie. The door hung open slightly for the first time since he had had his last intimate session with his wife only three days prior.

“GOT YOU!” He screamed as he sprinted towards the door, flinging it open as his mouth began to water.

But when he opened the door the sight was something that he could not describe. Standing in the door frame was a horrific beast. It stood nearly six feet tall as its glowing red eyes starred through his very soul. Its horns extended upward to the heavens and its legs looked as if they were bent inward at the knee. The hands looked cold, uninviting and other worldly. The man knew what this was… This was no animal. This was the devil himself, here to collect his due.

The man dropped to his knees, the knife dropped to the ground limply next to him. “Oh no…” he murmered softly. “No… I… I am so sorry…” He said weakly as he starred into the cold dead eyes of the beast. “Pe…. Pe… Please…” The man groveled at the beasts lifeless feet “I… I did this for Sadie… for me… So that we could survive! Don’t you understand?! We needed to survive!” The man cried and begged and prayed for the first time in years for the devil to forgive him.

But the devil’s eyes lacked compassion for the man. They lacked love. They lacked understanding. There was only cold, lifeless hate left in them.

It was then that the man felt Winter’s Grasp once again, deep within his chest, in his very soul. The man coughed loudly as blood splattered the ground in front of him. His chest burned, but burned cold as he looked down to see his very own axe buried deep within his chest. The man’s vision blurred and shifted in and out of a hazy blackness as he looked up. The devil stepped into focus and he could see the Devil was the face of his very own daughter starring back at him. Her freckled cheeks were red and chaffed as skin peeled from them. Her eyes, were green and full of hate. She wore the head of what looked to be a large deer that hung over her ears and her body was covered in various animal pelts.
Sadie grabbed the handle of the axe and ripped it out of the man’s chest. The man could feel the blood fill his esophagus and lungs as he began to choke and cry. Blood sprayed out of his mouth over Sadie’s snow-covered feet.

The man coughed and looked up at the cold eyes of the Devil as she leered down at him. “STOP… Stop wearin….. m’ daughter’s face you monster……..!” He cried weakly at her. But he did not. The Sadie Devil only looked at him with hate… A hate he hoped to never see from his daughter.

She raised the axe high into the air! “This is for mom!” She said defiantly. “I hope you rot in hell Dad! You son of a BITCH!” The last image that the man saw before the world slipped away into the blackness was the axe connecting with his forehead and blood showering his daughter as he felt his head split in two.

My, this was a really great story! You did an exceptional job at building the world in which the story takes place, and I really enjoy the backstory. There is some adult content in there, however, that doesn't bother me nor does it detract from the story at hand. My only critique is the ending... I really wasn't a fan, but I suppose that is subjective. It was... different, but I really didn't stomach it well. Otherwise, I really, really liked the story!

Final Grade: 9.4/10