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View Full Version : Halloween stories 2: Funeral March



rickyknight1
October 19th, 2016, 03:40 AM
You wake up from sleep, on a large luxurious bed; the frame is covered in drapes. There's a window on the other side, a few calm paintings hang on the redwood walls. You shift out from under the sheets, a set of blue pajamas strings onto your body; your bare feet are now reaching down for the cold lumber.

Suddenly--a harsh pain is rushing through your skull. Your fingers instinctively start nursing the stitches on the left side of your head. You look over and notice the bathroom, then rush over to the mirror above the sink. When you flick on the lights--you fright at the horror--your eyes bewildered at what you see. There's blood splattered all across the walls, you accidently smear some on your sleeves.

The shower curtains look dangerously inviting--you have to know what's behind it: you reach out your hand, and pull it aside. You jump and are now getting a shear shock from what you see. A dead woman lying naked in her own blood.

You bolt for the door, and when you open it--a butler is standing right in front of you. He is a tall hispanic man with a fair built; his flocks are long and combed, its thick with a rich black color--like hairs on a horse.
He has strong cheek bones with a thin mustache, creating a minor goatee. His black formal wear is well fitted on his broad shoulders.


"Good morning, master Jack Wayne." He says.
"Please--call the police! There's a dead woman in my bathroom," You start shouting.
"A dead woman, sir?" He looks puzzled. You are now both running back into your bathroom, but when you arrive--it's empty.
"But I don't understand?" You mutter. When you investigate the blood on your shirt sleeves--they too have vanished.
"Wow, it's just all in my head,"
"Your head sir?"
"Yes, I'm probably just hallucinating, because of the huge gash on the side of my head-"

You catch glimpse of yourself in the mirror; when you notice that, there are no stitches on the left side of your head. It's as if they were never there, no trace is left of that old familiar scar. Later on that day--you put on your casuals and try to move on pass your strange morning, you approach the wooden platform outside your bedroom.

It is connected to both stairs on either side, they are both leading down to the main floor--which eventually leads to the front door. A silver and gold platted chandelier is dangling from the roof; the windows on the side are very wide and tall--exposing the trees outside. It is now evening.

You recognize the paintings on the wall--one is: Jack the Reaper, and the other: The headless Horseman. You are now making eye contact with the buttler, who is standing at the bottom of the steps.
"A Lord Frederick Bensin--is here to see you, sir."
A large man in a grey suit catapults through the front door; his hair is orange red, matching his frizzy manly beard. He launches his hand out to greet you.

"Good evening Mr. Jack wayne, it has been far too long! How are you doing?" He asks. You don't answer right away, but instead you notice the piano in the next room. You invite him to take a seat so that you can play for him.

"You must hear me play," You exclaim excitedly.
"Ok very well. But after that--we must talk." He says. When you open the song book, its tittle read: Chopin- Funeral March. When you play, the notes crawl out of the piano like spiders. Scurrying along and climbing up on the walls.

The music is now residing in every room of the house; the blood within you starts surging with adrenaline as you keep pressing the keys on the piano. It's taking effect on you psyche, making you grow lust for blood. The moon is now turning a blood red outside--its dimmer light reveals the number of tombs buried out front--it's a giant graveyard.

"What the hell is going on?" Frederick brutally asks. Your body jerks onto the floor--convulsing you until you fade. Then, shortly after--your physique expands three times its normal strength: a set of horns shoots out of you forehead. You eyes turn black as night, and your teeth become sharp knives.

Frederick is in panic with his back agaisnt the wall.
"W-what the hell are you?"
You are a demon. You've survived for many centuries by feeding on the souls of others; you walk over to him, and stick your hand through his chest--pulling out his soul to eat it.

Ptolemy
October 19th, 2016, 03:50 AM
Is this technically written in 2nd person? If so very bold choice man I like it.

rickyknight1
October 19th, 2016, 04:19 AM
Is this technically written in 2nd person? If so very bold choice man I like it.
Thank you!