Tag Archives: horror

Georgie

5 October 2012

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And so the season begins to roll faster and faster, spooky, scary skeletons, goblins and wytches ;) , scary movies and dark and stormy nights. I’ve had one Hel of a kick ass couple of months, with three major deaths, the final one my mother, and lest the spirits drag me down to the Pits and throw me into the Bog of Depression, I’m dragging out Georgie to share again this year. Enjoy!

 

Georgie

I watched the shadows scroll by, each a grotesque representation of the demons that inhabited my mind. I cowered beneath the giant pine tree that grew from the side of the old stone wall, waiting for my older brother to rescue me, shivering in the cold of All Hallows Eve. He promised me he would come, and even though Georgie was a prankster, he had never failed me. I put Georgie’s face before me, willing him to appear, my hero with the deep black cape that he loved to swirl around him, his plastic pointed teeth hanging loosely in his mouth.

Watching him paint the shadows under his eyes earlier in the day, I giggled as he practiced his speech. “I vant to suck your blood!” he kept saying, rolling his tongue with each syllable. His amazing blue eyes slid sideways, looking at me in the mirror, and I laughed till tears rolled down my cheeks, their tracks leaving the black smudges of my own makeup on my rosy cheeks. I was his victim tonight, the night of the living dead, trick or treating with beastly delight. His cape billowed as he whirled toward me, a whole head taller and convincingly evil. Squealing in mock terror, I turned to run into my bedroom, “Count Georgula! Please spare me!” Dramatic to the end, I crossed my brow with my hand and fell onto my own small bed in the poorly lit room.

Georgie moved swiftly and silently to where I lay, and reached toward my throat with his funny white plastic teeth. His hand suddenly went to my sides, and he began tickling me intensely. I begged him to stop, threatening him with a call to mum and dad. No, he had whispered, no! I’ll stop! Dear old mummy and dad would surely put an end to our little excursion out this evening. It’ll only bring trouble, they had said, when asked if we could participate in the holiday. It’s a dangerous game, and you will both stay indoors tonight.

            Georgie had jumped quietly back, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. Smiling secretly, loving my brother, we both snuck down the dark stairs, listening carefully for sounds from the back of the house where our parents were cooking something in the kitchen. I caught the scent of cooking meat, and knew that they would be occupied for quite some time, so we carefully tip toed out the front door, Georgie closing it quietly behind him. I smoothed my own dress, the piles of crinoline fluffing the dark skirt up into a billowing cloud around my legs. Gorgeous my big brother said through his teeth, and we went flying down the cobblestone sidewalk toward the street.

The cold autumn winds blew through the night, chilling the air. It was invigorating and as it whipped the dead leaves up in the air, I felt the thrill of the hunt. Our own trick or treat bags in hand, we set off toward the darker side of town, away from the lights and into the gloom. Seeing the children dressed in their costumes, running through the streets and howling with laughter gave me goose bumps. They were just lovely, and having such a time on this night of the living dead. Small, tender fairy girls, and plump cowboys covered in chocolate peered into their bags after each stop checking their bounty. Parents walked along behind them, chatting with each other about the Parade, or the latest news.

Soon the streets grew darker, and Georgie began pulling me along faster. The leagues of children had thinned, and the neglected pavement buckled with despair. We went further into the darkness and as the houses thinned, holding shabby empty lots between them, until I could see the old stone wall that rested at the end of the sidewalk. There are always some there, he whispered conspiratorially, pointing to the old iron gate with his pale finger. My heart fluttered with excitement, and just a hint of fear. What if there aren’t, Georgie? Wild and brave Georgie, taking his kid sister for her first trick or treat. Of course there are, he smiled, his mouth watering.

We slowed and stopped before the gate. Massive and rusted, the iron gate was hanging partially open, hinting at a previous entry. Georgie used both hands to push it open a little further, the noise of the ancient hinges screaming with pain. He stepped through the gate; I followed close behind, not wanting to get left alone in this spooky place.

Through the mist and fog that had gathered within the old stone fence I saw ghostly pale markers lined up like soldiers on either side of the path that lay before us. Momma moon was partially obscured by clouds that flew swiftly by her, her eerie light casting deep shadows behind them. Georgie took my hand and led me forward.

Ahead I began to hear low voices, the sound of laughter, someone else shushing them. The scents of the night, cold and dark, changed and I caught a whiff of something sweet drifting through the air around us. Georgie stopped suddenly, lifting his nose like a dog catching the smell of something delicious. I saw him smiling a little and he turned to me. I told you, he said quietly.

I shivered and held tighter to his hand, feeling his excitement grow. Now, he said. Be very quiet and follow me. We walked silently toward the voices and the source of the odor that was quickly becoming more pungent. Ahead on the right, I saw the light of a candle hidden behind a large stone pillar that had names and dates inscribed on it. Around the candle four teenagers were seated closely together for warmth. Inhaling smoke from a small white stick, they passed it back and forth between them, choking and laughing when they were done.

I felt a strange sensation in my mouth. It began to water, and my teeth started to ache. I pulled on Georgie’s hand. He turned to look at me questioningly, and when he saw the look on my face, he nodded wisely. It’s ok, he seemed to say with his expression. He reached to my face, feeling my eye teeth through my skin. I sent my tongue searching, and found that they had suddenly grown longer, with sharp points on the ends. I felt a low growl in my throat, and Georgie held his forefinger to his lips, telling me to be quiet! I continue to feel my new teeth in my mouth as we moved on toward the children.

We were almost to the light of the candle, when one of the boys heard a twig snap beneath my feet. He jumped up, a look of belligerent surprise on his face. The other teens sat very still, looking at me and Georgie. Suddenly Georgie dropped my hand and leaned forward, his arms seeming to lengthen and grow thinner. His face was much paler, and his diamond blue eyes squinted at the boy, watching to see what his next move would be. I was beside Georgie, and I could see that his own teeth had grown, and he was shimmering in the moonlight. When the boy saw Georgie, with his little sister beside him in the foggy moonlight, he looked back over his shoulder at his companions, they all began to laugh uproariously.

Georgie jumped at the boy, aiming for his neck. It was only a spit second, but the boy had bounded away from him and landed behind the other three children, by now standing. The four of them started shaking with laughter, their bodies dancing a contorted jig, legs bending backward, hands gnarling into club like feet. I watched in horror as I heard the cracking and popping of bones and saw tufts of hair sprouting from their hands and faces. One by one, each of the teens dropped onto all fours, their clothes lay in tatters around them and before us stood four mammoth wolves, still laughing; now I could see the jagged teeth, long tongues handing out. Georgie turned to me, fear turning his eyes white. Run, Evie! he cried. Hide!

I felt my body automatically crouching, as I had seen my brother do, and following instinct, leapt high in the air, landing on the bony branch of a nearby tree. The wolves, and Georgie, looked at me in surprise, taken off guard by my actions. Not completely understanding myself, I listened to the wind, and the wind told me what to do. Like a bird I once again took a leap, and glided through the air, swooping toward the menace that threatened my Georgie. One of the females howled in frustration and tried to reach up to snap at my legs. Georgie took off running, the wolves following him, his flying sister forgotten in the excitement of running prey.

I landed on the ground, feet first, and went to hide behind the great pine tree by the fence.

That was the last time I saw Georgie. Before dawn, I crept home, watching nervously for any sign of the wolves. Knowing that I would have to confront my parents about what had happened, I finally reached our black granite home, three stories high and tucked away behind the mandrake willows and the creeping thistle. Mummy and Daddy were waiting for me behind the old black doors, standing in the shadows, their eyes piercing and angry.

Most people avoided BlackRaven Manor. They would unconsciously cross to the other side rather than walk by it. That morning, the mailman was whistling to stave off the creeps and heard a yowling coming from behind the front door. He looked quickly, and took off running towards town.

The Peabodys

2 April 2012

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Just a little something to keep you up at night…..

 

The Peabodys

The stair creaks beneath my feet as I wave my hand frenetically to clear the cobweb from my face. Catching my breath, I listen, my body rigid with fear. The empty house above remains silent and after counting to 30, I continue up through the dark, step by step toward the first floor.

The railing beneath my left hand feels grimy with the dirt and blood of those who have come before. I don’t want to touch it, but cannot let it go; my ankles throb from the heavy chains that kept me tethered to the floor. I had finally been able to slip out of the bonds, leaving my ankles bloody and bruised. Even though my captors slept in the attic their hearing was keen. I would not take the chance of falling in the dark and waking them up.

~

I had crossed the fence that marked the boundary between Old Man Carter’s wheat field and Deadwood Forest out of sheer obstinacy. Clarissa, my little sister, begged me not too, then told me I was stupid to try. She reminded me of the stories about the Peabody family, the poor group of souls that had been murdered in their home by some rampaging lunatic that had escaped the asylum. She reminded me that the ghosts of the murdered family were the reason that people that went in, never came out. But I didn’t believe in ghosts and that story was fifty years old, just a fairy tale used to keep children away from the deep woods. Or so I thought. After becoming lost, I had stumbled around in the dark until I heard voices. Frantic, I called out for help, following the sound. I heard laughter from right behind me, a sudden pain from a blow to the head, then nothing.

My fear has turned cold over the last three weeks. At least I think it has been three weeks. Days of huddling in the corner of the basement chamber was followed by nights of screams I hear coming from someplace close by. The same screams that drew me to the mist shrouded house squatting deep inside the forest, and its inhabitants.~

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, I lean toward the solid wooden door, listening, and wondered fleetingly about the unlocked basement door. Not one to question luck until recently, I took it as a mistake, hoping that it was not a trap. Hearing nothing from the other side, I reach for the handle and slowly push. The door creaks quietly. From another room nearby I hear the chiming of an old clock. 1, 2, I step up the final step; 3, 4, 5, still no sounds or movement except for the chimes. Gingerly peering around edge of the door and I glance into the kitchen; 6, 7, 8, 9; stepping silently away from the door I carefully close it and the latch clicks as the last chimes echo through the house, 10, 11, 12.

The stench assaults me, the cloying odor of old blood and rotting meat, and beneath that something far more frightening. Backing up against the door, I turn away from the kitchen with my hand across my mouth and begin to limp toward the room from which the clock had chimed. I felt the gorge rising in my throat and fight to keep from vomiting. The front door is just a few steps away, the darkness is nearly complete save for a lighter square that marks a small window to the outside. My heart is pounding so loud in my ears that I barely heard the click that preceded the blinding light that blazes suddenly from overhead.

“SURPRISE!” the voices growled, the voices from the people that sat around the crusted dining table, spoons, knives and forks held aloft.

It was my turn to scream

 

Flash Fiction – Broken

8 February 2012

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The following is a ‘Picture This’ flash fiction challenge from Ken Broad’s Fictional Campfire that I wrote last August. Please enjoy “Broken”.

“…Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.” Stephen King

I walked beneath the August sun, that glaring light that leeches the color from everything. The air is still and the only sound is the constant drone of the cicadas as they sing to their mates.

Plodding, one step at a time, one foot before another, step on a crack, break your mother’s back. The bridge echoing hollowly with each step and the slow moving river beneath a distant backdrop; clip clop, flip flops.

Sweat rolls in thin lines down my back beneath the thin cotton shift and I trade the wrinkled brown bag from one hand to the other, leaving traces of damp hand prints on the rolled edges. I can smell the creosote from the timbers beneath my feet heated by the sun and dried grey from the drought. Hot and weary, fear burned away, I stop and watch the water on its way to somewhere else.

He hadn’t seen me leave the trailer, snoring siesta from his evil mouth. He had forgotten the leg iron that kept me hidden from prying eyes, his own doll baby, stolen and now broken. I opened the bag and lifted the lifeless body of Maybell, her furry neck twisted oddly. Drawing my dead baby kitten to my breast I looked into the ocher waters below.

Just us, Maybell. Just us. I stepped toward freedom.

Row80

3 January 2012

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Thank you very much Haley Whitehall! Haley posted that she is finally joining ROW80, and since Haley was one of the first bloggers I connected with when I started blogging, I can’t let her leap ahead of me. Not too far anyway. I’m gonna give it a shot and see what happens.

ROW80 is A Round of Words in 80 Days.
Here is how it works (copied from the site):

“So here’s the skinny:

  • We have 4 rounds a year, each running 80 days.  
  • Your goal can be anything you like as long as it is measurable (e.g. number of words/pages, specified amount of time to spend on writing per day/week, number of pages edited, etc.–for more on what makes a measurable goal, see this post).
  • Once you have settled on a goal, you write it up on your blog (yes, you must have one) and link to it on the Goals Linky for the Round, which will be posted on the ROW80 Blog.
  • If your goal changes before the end of the 80 days, simply write up a new goals post and link to it on the latest check-in day.
  • We have check-ins twice a week on Wednesday and Sundays where you will update us the same way (e.g. write up a blog post of your progress and link to it on that day’s linky).
  • On Twitter we use a hashtag of #ROW80 if you wanna come hang out
  • And if you happen to find us after a round has begun, just write up your goals post and hop on in whenever.  We’re a friendly bunch.
  • Be sure to grab the ROW80 badge from the sidebar on the ROW80 Blog (right click, save image location, then chuck it in your blog’s image widget or grab some basic image html and use a text widget).”

Since I have a personal goal of writing a horror novel online, a page a day for a year at Ghosts on the Wind, I’m going to combine that with Row80.

My goal – (duh!), 300-400 words per day/a page a day.

That’s it. One simple little goal. There’s a logo with a link over in the right column if you want to join.

It should be fun, and I get to meet some new writer folks in the meantime.

Here goes…………

Murder, Muster and Storytelling

2 January 2012

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This is a repost from another dead blog of mine. It is still relevent.

Murder, Muster and Storytelling

“A group of crows is called a flock, muster or storytelling of crows. The most widely used term is “murder.”

This is based on the (fallacious) folk tale that crows form tribunals to judge and punish the bad behavior of a member of the flock. If the verdict goes against the defendant, that bird is killed (murdered) by the flock. The basis in fact is probably that occasionally crows will kill a dying crow who doesn’t belong in their territory or much more commonly feed on carcasses of dead crows. Also, both crows and ravens are associated with battlefields, medieval hospitals, execution sites and cemeteries (because they scavenged on human remains). In England, a tombstone is sometimes called a ravenstone.”
This morning I read Terrill Mim’s (edit: I don’t think he’s online anymore) post on serial killers and it got me in the mood for a little storytelling and murder.

I have a very dear friend that challenges me quite often. Our conversations run deep and wide, from faith and spirituality, to writing and the reasons we do what we do. Last night we talked about the writer’s voice and what it means to stay true to it.

My own life has been an intricate and complicated ride. I was raised in the predominant religion of America and many of my darker questions were never answered. Not just who is God and whether I’m going to heaven or hell, but questions about the real villains that haunt our lives. I have never believed that if you’re bad you go to hell, and if you’re good you go to heaven. It’s too simplistic and it feels like a cut and dried answer that you give to children to make them behave.

Even though I have followed a different path since my mid-20’s, that early indoctrination has remained a part of my DNA and I am constantly realigning my perceptions of life as it happens. As a part of the natural world, I don’t hold myself above plants and animals. I am a part of every living thing. And as such, I watch that world to find the answers to questions that shake my foundation. How could Jeffrey Daumer do what he did? What about the 9/11 pilots? Are these people demons from hell? Are they the minions of Lucifer sent to teach us about the white light and the bliss of denial?

I do not condone their actions. They are horrific and gruesome and the product of some deep neurological wiring that has bypassed the social construct that we live by—the rules that humans have agreed to play by. We don’t eat each other, and we don’t threaten each other with world shattering violence.

Yet these things and so much more are portrayed by artists and customers eat it up. Ask Stephen King or Thomas Harris, who wrote about Hannibal Lector. They haven’t fought vampires, or tasted flesh with fava beans (as far as I know!), yet they take us to that dark place that dwells within all of us, allowing us to savor from a safe distance the underbelly of human nature. Ever see a gruesome accident on the side of the road? Yea, you looked, even though you didn’t want to.

I have walked the edge of madness. I dated a man that later murdered five people, two of which were children. I watched as my father emotionally mutilated my family with his hatred of women. And I have listened to friends slowly commit soul suicide by way of self-denigration, drug abuse and alcoholism. I have seen the underbelly and I carry those memories on my back, like the Ten of Swords, burdened with the weight of shadows.

This is part of my writing voice. What Terrill’s post did for me was help me to understand that my early upbringing, life experiences and the strength it took for me to overcome them made me who I am today. And the precious conversation between me and my friend made me realize that I can no longer be afraid of what that voice is. It isn’t always pretty. And it most often is very serious. If I’m a Debbie Downer and you want to see only goodness and light, then you won’t always find it here.

So. I watch the murder of crows as they cut the weakest from the group and then devour its dead carcass and I realize that in order to be true to myself, I must accept that life is not always golden. By denying that part of me, I am cutting myself off from the opportunity to strive to be better. To juxtapose light against dark, I get a more objective perspective on what I need to say. And sometimes, I need to go into the devilish forest to find the spark of light that is hope.

First Day of the Year…

1 January 2012

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and so far so good on the resolutions, not that big a deal yet since it’s only been one day ;) . I really have only one this year. That’s to write every day. That doesn’t include blog posts, emails, comments, grocery lists; it means bringing my dream of publication into reality. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to self-publish or not. I support those that do, though. But I have three unfinished WIP’s and the characters keep nagging me to finish their stories.

I’ve started a new project (of course!). I’m writing a horror novel online. This is one of the unfinished projects, with only an outline started, that I’m letting loose on the world and holding myself a little more accountable for finishing it.  A page a day–365 pages. If you’d like to follow it, head on over to CrowWytch. The title of the novel is Ghosts on the Wind.

And finally I’d like to thank my blogging buddy circle for inspiration and friendship. Haley Whitehall, Ken Broad, Billie Jo Woods, Kate Shrewsday, Janece Harrington, Bridghid Rowen, Sandra Kirchman, Janet Riehl , Alexander Zoltai and to the many others who have commented, encouraged, and followed along. Many blessings to you all. May your wishes and dreams come true and may 2012 bring you prosperity, joy and creativity!