Here is the beginning of a story that I started. Enjoy (or just be easy if you hate it
) Seriously, after rereading it, I don't think its that good but first try at writing in many years so at least a start.
Distant ringing of churchbells drift across the countryside, heralding the arrival of midnight. Rather than soothing the soul, they carry with them the promise of pure evil. They descend on the valley with a cold merciless promise of terror.
Shawn tries to shake off the chill of the night air.The echoes of the bells fade as he nears the cemetary, dying somewhere in the darkness. He enters and the trembling grows more severe, not because of the cold though. Fear has a deadly grip on him, yet he cannot turn and leave.
For the first time in his life he has a true purpose and nothing can stop him. He ignores the overwhelming desire to turn and run that his brain is desperately screaming to his body. With intense determination he lets his feet carry him where only they know he needs to go.
He walks for the first time what he has walked a hundred times before. Things are different yet the same. All that was once old is suddenly strange and new. He is surrounded by the home of hellish nightmares and unspoken terror.
Shadows dance ancient dances across the landscape, born from the unholy trinity of the moon, wind, and trees. Then there is the fog. It slithers its way from the lake, devouring all in its path and draping a rolling living veil over the root of his fear.
The rusted metal gate leading into the oldsection of the graveyard stands before him. It is said that this part is as old as time itself.Even the oldest of the old timers in town say it predates the town itself. With these thoughts swirling through his mind, he pushes the gate open. The ancient hinges moan their protest as he crosses the threshold. The wind dies and a silence seizes the air.
There isn't a sound, not one. The silence is complete, so obvious because how often is there just absolute quiet. No wind, no night creatures, just nothing. It is nearly intolerable and he decides to move again but tsops immediately.
There! A sound. No more than a whisper floated across eternity. Listening closer he tries to locate its source. His eyes are useless so he squeezes them shut as his grandfather had taught him on a hunting trip once. Doing so his hearing becomes sharper and he determines the source of the noise.
It the the sound of the souls! He can hear them roaming among the rows of of stone markers. He opens his eyes and looks around him. The shadows embrace them deep in their darkened arms, out of view, but they are there. Not only can he hear them, but now he can feel their presence.
His nostrils flare as they are bombarded with scents. The smell of the lake, moist earth, and the foul smell of decaying moss. Then he smells something else in the air. A foul smell that he tries to pretend that he doesn't know, but he knows. It is the gutwrenching stench of death.
He still has a purpose and once again his legs carry him forward. No matter how hard it tries, his rationalizing mind isn't able to stop them. Finally they seem to respond and he is able to stop.
He is standing staring an ancient headstone. The stone is worn by the countless years of erosion by elements it has endured. It stares back at him. It calls out to him with vile seductiveness.
The night has grown darker and the blackness tries to engulf him. Through natures mournful veil his legs begin to carry him forward again. His mind cries a silent scream. With great defiance he stops. On the brink of eternal darkness he sways and pulls back. He stands on the edge both physically and mentally.
Mind and body. Mind knocking loudly at the threshold of insanity. Body standing at the mouth of a black void in the ground. One word, one hope, races through the collapsing circuits of his brain. RUN!
His legs finally receives the command and turns and breaks into a sprint. He begins to think he is safe then realizes how wrong he is. He stares straight into the heart of his fear. His eyes, ears, and nose see, hear, or smell nothing. Still it is there, he knows it, he feels it.
He is carried across the earth in great strides. Thn without warning, where there was once solid ground there is none. He plunges into nothingness, enveloped by an inky blackness that smothers and pushes against him. He knows immediately what has happened, impossible as it may seem. He has fallen into the open grave that he had just tried to escape from.
Falling, the darkness closes in on his mind. He hears laughter from somewhere. A high pitched, hysterical, evil laugh. A laugh that sounds like a hyenas. A voice is the last thing he hears before the deadly clutch of unconsciousness embraces him.
"Hell Undone"
Ok, there it is. It is a very rough first draft of a story that I may work into a novel. Never know though, I may just work it into a long short story. All opinions, advice, and critiques are welcome and will be much appreciated.
