Thread: 10/19/08 - Scare Me

Hello and welcome to the Halloween LM Challenge!

This is going to be the easiest prompt to explain and possibly one of the harder ones to write. So if you’re ready…

Scare me.
Yep, that’s right. Scare the hell out of me. Give me a bad case of the heebie-jeebies. Make me afraid to hang my hand over the edge of the bed, just in case.
Scare me in no more than 500 words (not including the title).
Horror Prompt courtesy of Halloween.

Submissions may only be posted in this thread or in the thread provided in the Writers Workshop (you must provide a link to your submission in this thread if you opt to use the Writers' Workshop). Everyone is welcome to participate. Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.

Submissions will be accepted until Oct. 31 (a shade less than 2 weeks, in keeping with Halloween)
Judging period: Nov. 1st - Nov. 6th
Results will be posted on or before Nov. 7th

Good luck to everyone!

Your judges for this round are:
Selorian
Tiamat10
Seigfried007
JosephB
Hawke (yours truly)

Mine from the workshop:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1202535

Edgar would not have allowed his hand to hang over the bed’s edge anymore than he would have kissed Suzy Kilgore on the mouth in first period kindergarten, even as icky as he imagined that to be. And with good reason, for Edgar had a secret even his mother didn’t know - more horrible than Suzy were the dark forms that swam across the floor each night like hungry eels.

Edgar had learned a painful lesson early on when he’d gotten up before dawn to use his potty. The wiggling shapes seemed worse before the sunrise, desperate for nourishment, as if they knew that dawn and Edgar’s safety were interlinked. The first bite he’d suffered was more a nibble than pain and he’d bent down to rub his toe. That’s when he saw them, circling, coming closer.

His mother had left a light on in his room - a night light she called it, sitting on his dresser drawers in the shape of Santa’s reindeer. Beside it rested his glass of water which he never touched and she never changed. But how could a tiny light protect him? He doubted it would, and it hadn’t. The reindeer’s red nose only irritated them and the feeding frenzies grew worse.

Tonight, they were jumping. He could hear their teeth snapping, biting at the air. He began to scream then remembered his mother’s disappointments and sealed his mouth with both hands. A warm liquid flowed between his legs and he dammed the leak, clamping his thighs tightly together.

They would be on him soon, he knew, as he lay huddled in the very center of his bed, his tears dampening his sheets, combining with his shame, to brew a bed’s broth.

They were so close now, so close that he could smell their breath, an odor of decay, the smell that came from under the front porch when his rabbit disappeared.

But outside his window, he heard the dawn wakening, the morning doves signaling an early start and he breathed for once, gulping in buckets of air as the monsters returned to where they lived. He didn’t know and seldom cared where they hid each morning but he was still alive, and closed his eyes and slept.

He awoke to a tiny tapping on his chest - his mother warmly waking him for a breakfast of his favorites, cinnamon toast and bright orange juice, and he opened his eyes. Over the center of his heart stood the miniature red nosed reindeer, pawing at his pajama top. Edgar smiled a good-morning to Rudolf, yawned, and stretched his arms wide out over the edge of his bed.

He should have kissed Suzy Kilgore instead.

I keep the painting wrapped up in a sheet and stuffed in a box in the basement now. I never dared to look at it again. Even going to the basement is a dreadful task, knowing what’s in there, and what images it might have. I contemplate just getting rid of it. But I don’t even dare to do that.

The sun was looming over all the neighbourhood houses when it happened. We were at a garage sale when she spotted it. It looked like a collage of black and white geometric shapes that were arranged in a clever way, but you could never really grasp the image. She had a big grin on her face as she held the painting in front of her. My girlfriend was really an art person you see.

“You’re supposed to use your own imagination to see the image” she said.

I even took a good long look at it, but my eyebrows still cocked in disappointment.

“I really don’t see anything.”

“You just don’t have any imagination.”

I never denied that. I guess that’s why she was my girlfriend, to complete me. So I bought the painting for her. She hugged me and gave me a kiss. I jumped back in the truck while she wrapped it with a sheet. She was supposed to chuck it in the back before we were ready to go. I figured she’d jump in with me right away but it didn’t happen. I noticed a red van drive away that was previously parked right behind us. I didn’t think much of it until I finally looked in the mirror. I saw the painting hanging over the back, but she was gone.

It was four long weeks and the police still couldn’t find anything. It was the longest four weeks of my life. Every time the doorbell rang, I ran in anticipation, only to be disappointed. After four weeks, the doorbell rang again. I ran once again, but only to the biggest disappointment of my life.

The painting stayed in the back of my truck the whole time until I finally remembered it after the funeral. I thought I’d hang it in the living room in her memory. When I un-wrapped it, my arms froze in place and I dropped the painting. I could see in those black and white geometric shapes, her face. But she was looking right at me with solemn hollowed eyes, and her jaw was stretched open, as if she were screaming. My knees gave out as I broke out in tears and covered my face. When I looked again, it was something different; something worse. Every time I look at the painting, the shapes formed something horrible. They gave me nightmares each night when I woke with burning sweat.

My life was never the same. I always blame myself for what happened. Somehow, I think the painting was a way of her showing me that she blamed me too.

You Are The Witch's Prince Around 361 words


"Tina!" Stuart had no choice but to watch a ruby aura dance around her delicate frame and snow white hair. The raindrops transparent colour was painted bloody red by the fog.

Stuart felt fear causing havoc in his atmosphere. Shaking with an extreme lack of confidence he succumbed to her blood stained clothes. Thunder caused havoc in his conscience, not even the emotional shelter from her could demolish the suffering. What used to be the girl of his dreams, was now the girl that frightened his soul.

Tina's crisp nails scratched onto his cheek. Her breath released a warm air, scarlet droplets dripping onto his skin. "My angel," he whispered slowly, "Tina, what have you become?" He had a desperate urge to screech, his fall from grace and confidence held him back.

"The monster you created in me!" Tina growled like a hungry wolf her nails skied down onto his neck and crawled down to his chest. Her hair began to tap his shoulder in a rhythm that delivered extra shivers inside him. "Now you've confessed your love," she continued her red lips gazed onto his small eyes, "You are Witch's Prince, and you trapped with my love for eternity."

"What's happened to you?" He screamed again allowing Tina to devour his emotions. "I'm sorry about Jessica," he panted closing his eyes feeling the strong humiliation. "I was about to explain but you were so in love with me, I didn't want to spoil it!"

"You will be punished for betrayal," Tina promised leaving an evil smirk on her face. "You shall be my prince at day and my slave by night."

"I cannot do that!" Stuart gulped.

"If you refuse," Tina pulled her face closer to him while licking his cheek with her cheeky tongue, "I will murder Jessica and all those close to you!"

"NO TAKE ME!" Stuart roared hugging her frame in a tough grip. "I'll be your prince, if you keep everyone safe."

"That's a good boy," Tina giggled in a childlike voice, afterwards he bit his cheek and from that bite, she assured Stuart that he was going to be haunted to the extreme, by her. He felt her fingers create a tight grip around his hips and rewarded him a kiss if aggression.

That kiss alone, made Stuart realize his substantial amount of weakness.

My submission:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1205108

Mine:

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1205658

Little Guardian Angel
(499 words)

In order for this story to produce the intended effect you must be determined to follow me. I won’t account for any place or dimension where you might enter as a result of your lack of faith. In other words, hesitation might become some sort of abyssal catacomb, plunged into darkness since the creation of open-air graveyards.
Anyway, this is just one of those games that once you have decided to play there is no turning back.

I am Ana María. If you google my name followed by tomb, you will see my photo. Upon a thorough look at my marble face you will capture my essence, just like the artist did to carve my features masterfully.
Nonetheless, the relevant question is how he got this job, so I will go straight to the account of facts following the very moment when there was no turning back for myself.

On a tragic day, long time ago, I was lying in my bed, seriously injured as a result of a terrible accident I had suffered a couple of hours before. After a period of indescribable pain, tension got hold of my entire nervous system. Immerse in its intensity, I grew weaker and weaker until I was absolutely certain that I wouldn’t recover. With no strength left to continue the struggle, I let myself go.

But strange though it might seem, I crept out of my bed and started crawling on the floor at an unusually swift pace. Indeed, I was feeling much better.
Then I heard someone’s shallow breathing coming from the bed. As I got closer, I saw my own chest going up and down under the gauze bandage.
I was so shocked that I hid under my bed and remained motionless for a long while.

My nana and a nurse came in when they heard my body wailing in pain.
An arm was hanging over the edge of the bed and, in a compassionate and desperate impulse, I grabbed it, thus causing the wailing to cease. I knew that instead of hurting, my body had been aching for me.

Since then I have offered a helping hand to people of all ages undergoing physical and moral suffering.
This is the main reason why I am inviting you to play. Even though it doesn’t always work, if you need me, be confident that I will be there for you.
Now, if you are ready please lie on your bed, close your eyes and wish to meet me with all your heart. Extend your arm over the bed’s edge and let me take you to a place where suffering and pain can’t reach.

In case your relatives and friends wish to give you a present that will not only transcend most boundaries but it will also keep you safe and sound under your bed, please e-mail my sculptor at chaplinsthekid@hotmail.com , and whenever the monster of suffering stalk you, it will mistake your marble figure for you.

No Matter What
500 words exactly.

No matter what, the street people accept you. They're the last resort, for those who've had their chances—the mad ones, the lost ones, the ones who've been judged and found wanting. The failures. The losers. So when I was thrown out of the women's refuge, I wound up among the street people.

Of course, there are still social strata. At the top of the heap, there are the ones who sleep in the dumpsters. It can be quite warm in there, with a nice thick layer of newspaper, and I've seen knife-fights over the better dumpsters. Then some sleep in that warehouse the odd old man deliberately leaves unlocked; and below that, some sleep in parks and malls. At the absolute bottom of the heap are the drug users, who'll do anything for money. They hang out in that back street near the industrial area. (It's got a proper street name, but I can't recall it. Everyone calls it Anal Alley.)

I'd been with the street people before, so I knew the score. When they threw me out the women's refuge, I took my bag and my blanket and went to the warehouse.

A little knot of street people waited for the old man to leave so they could go in. I recognised some of them—Sally Trencher, whose ex-husband was a millionaire; she'd been on the streets for nine years and still weighed over 240 lbs. Sharpy, still mumbling and stinking of piss; there was a bit more salt in his salt-and-pepper beard now. Gerald, too, presumably on another of his brief breaks between prison sentences; somehow he'd lost the other arm. But I didn't know the others.

I stood with them anyway. A midget shuffled aside to give me more room.

The old man's car engine started, and the street people surged forward. Getting in first was important. The first ones in got to be at the far end of the warehouse, away from the drunks when they came late; if you were first in, chances are you wouldn't wake up with puke in your hair. I got a spot by Sally Trencher.

"Yanno," said Sally as if I'd only been chatting to her yesterday, "I keep wondering why that old man leaves the warehouse open for us."

"Maybe he's just nice," I said. Sally laughed bitterly.

"You think there are nice people?" she asked me. "You've got a lot to learn."

I shrugged.

"Nah," said Sally. "Nobody's nice to the street people. There's something in it for him. Maybe he wants us as film extras."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, I saw him talking to a couple of men earlier. I think they were from a TV station. There was writing on the side of their van."

"What did it say?"

"Real Stuff. No, wait, not Stuff. Real… what's it called? That thing people used to stick up their noses in the olden days?"

Before I could answer, a key rattled in the warehouse lock.

*skreem!* I have an idea for this...on the deadline of the LM! Argh...I'll never get it done in time. I change them too much before posting and I should be doing a million other things.

Oh well. I'll still try to write it just because. Looks like this LM is going well, though.

{Inspired by a song, and it uses some of the lyrics. Hope that doesn't break the rules.}


SUNSPOT

“Sunspots…cast a glare in my eyes. Sometimes, I forget I’m alive…

I hear her calling and I come because I can’t disobey… I shouldn’t listen, and I should not believe but I do…yes I do…

Peel off our skin and we burn what we were to the ground… I wanna kill away the rest of what left, and I do…yes I do…

Now I just stare into the sun… And I see all that I have done.

I think I could have been someone, but I can’t stop what I've begun… When all is said and done, and there’s nowhere left to run… I think I used to be someone, but I can’t stop staring into the sun…”


HEADLINES:

SmallTown Massacred and Burned by Unidentified Psychotic Teen…

Psychotic Teen Says Just: “Sunspots…”

‘Sunspot,’ Teen Mass Murderer, Singly Slaughtered EntireTown: pop. 3,076…

‘Sunspot’ Trial: Verdict, Mentally Unsound…

Sunspot Committed to Asylum…

Sunspot: Really Insane?

Riot at Asylum! Mass breakout…

55 Escape Mental Asylum; Manager: “Fluke”…

34 Patients Recovered After Asylum Breakout; 21 Still Missing…

20 Unidentifiable Charred Bodies Discovered by Small Child…

Last Inmate From Asylum Breakout; Manager Won’t Say Who…

SUNSPOT HAS ESCAPED

Mark and Jenna are on the bed in their apartment.

“Ready for round two?” Jenna asks.

Mark grins, rolls on top of her and sticks his tongue into her mouth.

A couple feet away, something crawls out of the toilet and hits the tiled floor with a mushy plop. It pulls itself along carried on invisible feet and leaving a yellow, puss-like trail behind it.

Jenna moans as Mark kisses her neck. The sheets slide down to his thighs and he pulls them back up. He always had this thing about doing it under the covers.

The bathroom door is ajar and the creature maneuvers its way through.

Mark begins to suck on Jenna’s nipple – the one with the piercing – when he suddenly bolts his head upright and sniffs the air. “You smell that?”

She takes a whiff. “What am I supposed to smell?”

The creature is at the foot of the bed. It attaches itself to the bed skirt and begins to climb.

Mark lingers. “Fuck it,” he says finally and disappears under the sheets.

The creature is having a hard time. The fabric of the overhanging sheets isn’t the easiest to cling to.

Jenna throws her head back as her husband works his lingual magic.

Mark grabs his member and begins masturbating. It's still flaccid.

“Mark?”

“What?” comes a muffled response from under the sheets.

“Put it in!”

"I'm working on it."

The creature pokes its rounded, slimy head over the edge of the bed, pausing momentarily to observe the couple with unseen eyes.

Mark’s feet are peeking from beneath the covers and the creature drags its way through the gap, which just happens to be big enough that it could slip through without touching him.

Mark finally emerges, face slicked in sweat. “There’s that god awful smell again.” He begins to sniff the air and then himself. “What is that?”

“Fuck the smell,” Jenna responds. She grabs onto his thighs. “Fuck me already!”

“You’ll probably have to suck me a little. It’s still sof–“

Mark feels the warm, slimy sensation on his balls about the same time Jenna throws her head back for the second time.

“OH GOD!” she screams digging her nails into his thighs and yanking him forward before he can react to what he’d just felt. “Go deeper baby!”

Something flaps against his inner thighs, the way a fish would when caught on a line.

“YES!” Jenna screams. “Baby you’re so big!”

Mark pulls her fingers from his thighs and yanks the covers away just in time to see a dark-gray, over sized, leech-like tail disappear into his wife vagina.

“JESUS!” he manages. He pulls his gaze away from his wife’s crotch so he could look into her eyes. Her face is contorted, her eyes hysterical, as she begins to convulse. “Baby?” Mark screams cupping her cheeks. “Are you okay?”

When she begins to cough mouthfuls of blood, he knows she’s not.

Okay...I managed an entry! Please see Murder Room in the Writer's Workshop LM thread.

Here's mine...

http://www.writingforums.com/writers...ml#post1206564

This jaggedy rogue molecule incubated in your big toe. Just internal the callus, which aches itself after a day in heels. You’d gladly pound one into the publisher’s head. He gave you the edition, taking all day was lechery. The rogue pain bites separately, familiarly. Deep in medial connective tissue. Harbinger of age, opening your fourth decade.

Tonight this mutant begins migrating home. Like salmon to spawn, were salmon miniscule sod-cutting plows furrowing your body’s commonest tissue, turning over reproductively each infected cell. If salmon shredded the stream, swam like slicing harrows, dove like scorching sword temperings. You kick off that pump and thin fire-nets glissade your calf. Toe pressure against elegant carpet brings sometime relief.

You flick on the overhead and city lights below vanish. You glance yourself outside, floating on Paris night. For a moment the reflection morphs anguish, that twinge passes. Two concierge left letters lie the curlicue table. Mail catching you after two weeks. Your phone not Europe-activated. Your deserved cycling-sans-ringing reward. For finishing well the articles. The publisher done today, home flight tomorrow.

Primary connective tissue formed secretly a slight hollow beside your optic junction. The covert laboratory of harmonizing frequencies cast by the Amber Flat Deluxe. “The monitor which detects your iris and accordingly adjusts.” Quickly recalled for side effects, but you joined underground users. A big hit with the Three Literary Sisters of Epsilon Phi at anniversary ten shopping spree. Those articles practically wrote themselves.

Benvenuto writes from Chile. Visit again, he urges you. This time bring both sisters, he wants it all. Not again the plague of biting gnats. Completely anomalous. Your toe feels better now, only that itch.

Middle sister J writes, “Dear H. I don’t know how to say. Wish your cell worked. Eldest sister M lies in agony, bound and drugged. And her opus due. Call me.” Best-selling-child-wizard-serial writer J! Frustrating you as ever, swirling up real life. Her book tour didn’t accommodate Chile.

You survived the Chilean virus not realizing replicating RNA coursed through leaving only vague urtication and undetectable triggers throughout the medial tissue. Every twentieth cell. The sentinel attaching silently near your terminal metatarsal.

An ephemeral tide, brewed in that hollow, reaches finally that last spark in your toe. At the infinitesimal level compatibilities unite against you and for months switches in the local connectives have clicked. Now the army of tiny devils, more numerous than all the killer bees, launches its swarm.

A copy of clipping falls from the envelope. Death-head moth to famished bat. You snatch to read. Quotes flit away “… viral vector AND essential environmental stimulus … medial connective tissue throughout the body except the brain … function not destroyed, fatality unlikely … served by poorly differentiated nerves so pain is transient, diffuse, displaced … varies widely and constantly. Aching, burning, stabbing … sedation and the pressure suit, marginal treatment at best … possible avenue for cure, but organizing … very limited population, won’t be of great importance … decades …”