The Circus

Delivery

A short horror story I wrote:)

Word count: 1757

TW: Gore, psychological horror

Click, click, click, thunk!

It could not comprehend what it saw above us.

A scarlet red sky greets us as we finally left the dusty old warehouse.

Dark buildings casted their shadows over the old and empty streets, only letting red light stream into view at specifical parts, showing what I wish not to see, almost like a spotlight on a stage.

To be honest I’m glad that the package I have to deliver can walk by itself. The thing would be way too heavy to carry.

Standing slightly shorter than an adult, this porcelain-looking (I don’t know, I’m not the collector, might be porcelain after all) automaton, is the object I’m meant to deliver.

Since the world has gone to hell, I’ve been doing deliveries for people with money and resources that are too scared to get stuff by themselves.

It’s a dangerous job, but to survive in need of things like food. This, right now, is the most comfortable job.

I point towards one of the dark buildings, only one of the door handles on which can be seen the reflection of the red light.

The automaton turns its head slowly upwards to look at me and then turns its head to the door. I can hear the gears working overtime.

Carefully and slowly we make our way to the door.

At the door I stop and the package does the same.

I swear that is some great tech…

While readying my crossbow, I listen to all the sounds around me.

The trusty sound of my crossbow.

The gentle ticking of the automaton’s gears.

The dripping of water… or blood.

Then I turn my concentration to whatever is behind the heavy doors.

The quickest way to the point of delivery is right through this building, so there isn’t much of a choice. Of course I could walk around it, but the chance of being seen by monsters is too big of a risk and I’m unsure if the little one here can run or not.

It was so strange, well the whole thing.

The guy that wanted me to get the automaton… crazy inventors I guess.

I found the machine inside a coffin shaped box.

I was told that the machine could walk and that I should use that to my advantage, so of course I did.

I can’t carry a whole coffin in my lonesome, no matter how hard I train.

A soft sobbing behind the door takes my attention.

I listen more carefully.

There is a distinct difference between the cries of a monster and that of a human luckily.

So, there might be another survivor in there.

My hand hovers over the doorknob, which looks almost to be glowing thanks to the lighting.

I’m scanning it in a way, trying to sense if there’s any heat coming from it.

But there’s no warmth coming from it and as I finally lower my hand I feel the cold iron entering through my gloved hand.

It might sound bad, like it’s completely frozen, but it isn’t. It’s just clear that it has been a long time since the door was opened last.

As quietly as possible I turn the knob and open the door.

The heavy object lets out a, for my feeling, too loud creaking.

Immediately I feel cold sweat in my neck.

Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. Carefully. Careful. Be careful!

I nod to the automaton that it can enter, but it doesn’t understand.

“Get in!” I whisper to it.

I can hear some of the gears turn, finally it responds entering the darkness without a word or hesitation.

I follow suit and close the door behind me again, terrified that something might have heard it.

Suddenly I sense something moving.

There really is still someone in the building.

Let’s hope that it isn’t one of the insane roaming around.

The constant blood red sky doesn’t help much when it comes to calming folks down.

Exposed too long and one might lose their mind… or so is told. I haven’t had any trouble with it yet.

There’s a shadow moving, well more like trembling in fear, behind the altar.

The red light behind him exposes him to be a priest.

Calmly I walk forward, until I make out his wrinkled face.

The look he shows me is one of pure terror.

I lower my weapon.

“Good evening sir.” I greet him, while holding my free hand up in the air to show that I’m not planning to do any harm.

“Y-y-you’re not o-one of t-them?” He asks, still trembling and almost falling over his own words from fear.

“No sir, as you can see I’m not.”

I sense the ticking of gears approaching closer to me and the priest shrieks.

I see him opening his mouth to scream, but I won’t let him. In a flash I rush over to him and cover his mouth with my hand.

“I need to deliver this package in one piece, so please don’t give away our location.” Then I silently add: “That would benefit you too.”

I can feel the thin old body shaking in fear, making me feel bad for scaring him like this.

Slowly he closes his mouth again and falls to his knees.

Quivering he puts his hands together, but just before his two hands touch, he drops them to the floor again.

“We’re just passing through, I don’t have a problem with you praying.” I tell him in a gentle tone.

The old man shakes his head, his state says it all, he’s seen too much.

“I-I don’t think God i-is h-here.” He cries.

I’m not a person of faith, I never was, so I’m not sure what to tell him.

“Do… Do you think I-I’m wrong?” He asks after listening to my silence: “T-that there never t-truly was a G-God?”

I sigh, just what the hell am I supposed to answer to a priest who has lost his faith?

“Sir.” I bow down to him, holding out a hand for him to help him up: “I just deliver packages. I don’t know what is the truth and what isn’t.”

He doesn’t take my hand and instead turns his head to the dusty floor: “Perhaps the teachings were wrong after all…” He mutters more to himself than to me.

I scratch the back of my neck: “Well…” Don’t say it, just don’t: “There’s a place with other survivors I can bring you to, if you want that is.” Only in my head I add ‘You can talk about this stuff with them’.

But he shakes his head.

“Leave! You won’t understand!” His voice is suddenly filled with anger and frustration.

“We’ll be going anyway.” I shrug.

“Leave!” He yells again and I suddenly hear something big climbing over the roof.

I curse and quickly grab the automaton’s arm.

“We gotta go!”

We rush further back.

Back door. Back door.

Where the hell is the back door?!

Part of the ceiling breaks down and a huge, spider like monster drops down, casting the room in even more shadow.

I hear the priest scream.

The monster turns to him.

I can’t see anything, but the next thing I hear confirms my suspicion.

The crushing of bones.

The tearing of flesh.

The dripping of blood.

As I turn back to the machine, it seems almost as if it found the door.

It’s holding it open and looking at me with its normal expressionless face.

“Great job, buddy!” I whisper to him, taking his arm again and rushing back out into the crimson coloured streets.

In order to keep to the shadows, we enter another building.

I believe this was a university at some point, built around the 13th century.

It’s much bigger than the church.

Again I hold my weapon ready.

You never know, it’s because this building is so big, it could be a nest for those things.

“Let’s be quiet.” I whisper to the mechanical being next to me and immediately think about how strange it is to talk to it. It’s a machine, not a human or a pet.

But it’s nice to have something to talk to, even if it’s just a bundle of gears and porcelain. As long as it’s not a hungry monster I’m okay with anything.

While wandering around I sense something moving inside one of the rooms.

I stop in my tracks and as the automaton notices, it too stops.

I remain silent and listen to the soft noise.

There might be another person in that room.

Quietly I walk towards the door and open it.

A person inside is sitting behind a desk that I'm pretty sure used to be a teacher’s.

This person doesn’t look as frightened as the priest from before, or perhaps I’m imagining it.

“Oh… so you’re human?”

I nod: “What did you expect? Or what did you hope for?” I did notice the man’s disappointment even though it was just a slight hint.

He seems to have noticed that I noticed and turns his gaze back to something on the desk: “I used to teach here, you know.”

“I see.”

“Do you have any memories of attending school?”

I shrug: “Nothing that stands out, just a more peaceful life and worries about nothing.”

The man smiles, his face looks red in the light.

“I see, that must be nice.”

I take a step closer.

“What are you reading?” I ask curiously.

“A book of faith.”

“Faith?”

“It’s all true you know.”

“They mention the apocalypse and the end of the world.” As he speaks he loses his composure and starts speaking rapidly in a desperate tone: “It’s all because people went to church less and less. I never did after all and you certainly don’t look like the type that would. Oh God, I should have gone and prayed, but instead I’ve weakened the Lord’s power to protect. This is divine punishment.”

“I see.” I answer: “If you want to, I can take you to where the other survivors are.”

The teacher shakes his head: “Never! We are meant to perish! It’s the only thing that can save this forsaken world!”

Crap that only made him yell even louder.

I notice a strange shadow in the corner of my eye.

Something from outside is trying to climb inside.

Arms that almost look human, but also very far from it.

I warn the man by pointing behind him.

“God is the one who decides my faith! You should join me in it!” He stretches out his arms to grab me, but instead the creature behind him has already taken hold of him.

I don’t want to see what happens next, so I quickly rush out of the classroom, taking the automaton with me.

We rush out, further, out of the city.

Into a forest, here even the leaves are red, but not scarlet like the sky.

As I believe that we’re far enough away from the shadows of the old city, we slow down.

I take a seat on a tree trunk and let my traveling companion sit next to me.

“Don’t mind all those people, buddy, just decide what you want to believe for yourself.”

Slowly I see the automaton’s head go up and down and then up again.

Wait…?!

Is it nodding?!

Recently I had a pretty strange dream.

In it I finished a Resident evil 7/8- like game and unlocked a special mode in which the game suddenly turned in this weird interactive reality tv-show about the final boss and the protagonist swapping homes for a week or so.

The protagonist (who spend the week in that huge horror mansion) was all like "Great place, nice staff, though it's unfortunate that the toilets are always clogged."

And the end boss started talking about how he had always wanted to live in a tiny house (the protagonist had a normal house, pretty big for just one person) and had always been wanting to try and be self-sufficient.

All this in a horror game...

When I woke up I thought it was unfortunate that there isn't any game I know of that does this. I think it would be pretty funny.

List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers :3

Cats

Metal music

Hiking in nature

Horror Stories/movies/games

Doing something creative

Do you remember?

I hope you all had a great christmas!!

Here is another short horror story I wrote recently, that I thought to be fitting:)

Word count: 362

TW: horror

Do you remember?

The falling snow?

The warmth of the fire?

The kind smile on your mother's face?

That day we met... do you remember?

That day, many, many years ago.

When you came by and we became fast friends.

You were so kind.

I didn't have any friends, but you wanted to be mine.

I have always really appreciated that from you...

Your kindness.

Your openness to whomever, whatever...

Remember when we first played outside together?

The crunching of freshly fallen snow underneath our feet.

The woods surrounding your house, slowly getting darker and darker.

That day we completely lost track of time.

That day was truly amazing.

Remember that day when there was a snowstorm outside?

We couldn't play outside, so we sat by the warm fire in the living room.

We played with your toys and told each other stories.

I still remember all of them.

Do you?

Do you remember our first sleepover?

We talked and talked, until your mother came to your room, telling us to be quiet.

At night it would start storming and you tried to keep me from getting scared.

So warm, so gentle.

But now... you've changed.

You've... gone cold in a way.

Still breathing, yes, but you feel like a colder person now.

Do you even remember who you used to be? What you used to be like?

Has it really been that long?

Is there something I should remember?

When you just looked at me, you made a face like you were looking at vermin.

Remember the crunching of snow, remember the crackling of the fire, remember our laughter from those many, many days gone by.

I guess it's time.

Nothing else to be done other than this.

If I leave you like this...

You're going to be wasting away.

You're going to rot.

You're going bad.

You'll be spoiled before long.

I guess to you I might not even be vermin, I honestly think more that you might see me as a monster.

I'm different from you.

I scare you.

I scared your family.

Well I might be truly a monster to your kind.

Hiding in the shadows.

Eating creatures that are still alive.

Drinking their blood.

Most of your kind don't do that... right?

Or perhaps they do in some other way?

Do you remember?

Because I don't.

My head is too busy thinking.

Thinking about how I will stop playing with my food.

Yes, you guessed right.

You are.

Because if I don't... you'll expire.

Writing for the lost

A short horror story I wrote a while ago.

Word count: 2096

I've always wanted to be a writer.

I've always so desperately tried, to then always fail.

I've written stories about dragons, stories about strange civilizations, and yet it seems to be that all my hard work has been for naught.

I grasp to every chance to write something, be it a competition or just for others.

And I always end up getting hurt, again and again and again and again and again.

Perhaps they've been right all along, I just don't have any talent.

That my stories are mere imitations of the great ones.

Well, they might be, for all I know they might all be damned.

Perhaps it would be better to stop, to call it quits, but I can't.

I can't.

I just can't.

As the thing I've been working towards my entire life, I can't let it go now or I will really have lost.

I work jobs I don't like in order for me to be able to purchase the things to write and to give myself time to read.

But a masterpiece is something I will never be able to write.

I remember once entering a competition just to be told that my writing lacks emotion and originality. Well I've been told worse before.

But still, I try and try again.

Probably until I can't anymore.

Until even breathing is something too difficult.

Recently I moved to a new house, it's old.

It's also difficult to keep clean, but the rent is dirt cheap.

I might be able to stay here for longer than half a year, so I'm pretty happy with it.

Perhaps it's time to hire a maid, though I would need to work even harder to afford one... Yeah, I should just do it myself.

Even though this house is in a bad shape, it feels almost as if it has a soul.

Like the house is a whole character in itself.

In a way it makes me feel less lonely.

The paint is slowly peeling from the walls and not all the lights work, but in a way it speaks to me.

Like something I've long lost or have yet to gain.

In all truth, there is something amiss with this house, something strange, but I dare not call it wrong.

The first night I sat by my mattress on the floor and took out one of my old notebooks.

"Alright, I think I'm going to write now." I said to the house, I said to myself.

Speaking aloud is something I do often when I'm alone, so I did not expect a response.

"What will you be writing?" a voice echoed through the house, entering my bedroom.

I was quiet for a moment, listening to the suddenly eerie atmosphere that had entered the room.

After a long while I finally mustered the courage to answered: "A story"

"What is this story about?" The house asked.

"I-I don't know yet..." I whispered.

I could feel my hand holding the pen tremble, but I didn't dare to run away, I didn't even dare to look behind me.

"How about you write a story about me?" The voice asked slowly.

"I-I can do that, please t-tell me." I hated the fact that I couldn't stop my voice from shaking.

"Hmmm..." The voice seemed deep in thought: "How about we write it together?"

I could feel a cold hand touch my shoulder, to then enter my body.

It was truly a strange sensation, nothing I had ever felt before.

But I guess I can say, I got possessed.

When I came to, I had written almost an entire book, my hands covered in blisters were sore as can be and I felt like I had had the strangest dream.

I dreamed that I was someone else.

I dreamed of the feelings they felt.

I dreamed of the pain they had to have endured.

As I looked at the pages written in a handwriting that wasn't mine, I could remember the dream more vividly.

I looked up to find an almost transparent man before me.

"Not enough." He mumbled: "Not enough."

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully.

"This is simply not enough..."

I let him think in silence for him, afraid of what would happen if I were to anger the spirit before me.

"It's not the whole story yet." He finally answered: "It has yet to be finished."

As I tried to get up, holding up my arms for him, wanting to tell him that he can try again, dark spots start appearing in my vision and before I know it I fall over.

"That must be the problem." I heard him say: "You are too weak."

The words sound harsh, but I also know that they spoke the truth.

I was weak... No I still am.

I can't do anything.

I have no talent for anything.

I am useless.

Somehow the ghost decided to take pity on me and sat next to me.

"You gotta eat something, my friend." He said in a kind voice.

I could feel an ice cold hand on my shoulder, so cold that it felt like it could freeze my body and turn it into solid ice.

Slowly I got up, my 'friend' following closely behind me, making sure I wouldn't fall over.

He helped me sit down at the table, where I reached for some of the fruit in the basket.

I took a bite and only then noticed that it had long spoiled, still I continued until I had finished it completely.

"What is it that made you so obsessive over writing a story?" My friend asked.

"Good writers live forever within their works, good writers never leave this earth."

"What caused you to think like that?"

"People disappear often, swiftly and without much noise. I don't want to go out like that."

My friend hesitated and then answered: "I see." I think he said it because he didn't want to invade my privacy.

"So, why do you want to have your story written?"

He shrugged: "I guess it's almost the same reason as for you to write. I don't want my story to disappear. I came to my end in a way I don't wish upon my most feared enemies."

"Why not find someone stronger and more talented than me?" I asked out of curiosity.

"You're the first."

Just what does he mean with that?

"The first that was able to allow me to write to speak out my anguish."

As I have regained some of my energy I carefully stand up, this time not falling over nor seeing dark spots cloud my vision.

"Alright, let's work together." I offered and my friend nodded in agreement.

Days went by in which I took better care of myself and had a moment in which my friend could take up my pen.

Day after day, more empty pages got filled with a story, the story of him.

As the final day grew closer, I could feel his frustration slowly ebb away.

Then it came.

It arrived much too early for my taste to be completely honest.

After all, I made a friend, a good one at that, someone that only I could hear and see, someone that told me different from my dark lingering thoughts.

"May I request something?" He asked kindly like always.

"But of course, anything that may be of help to you."

His face turned serious.

"I would like it if you were to publish this, under your own name."

Shocked, I looked at him: "But this is your story, yours and yours alone, you can't leave it to me! If you want it published so badly, I can bring it to a publisher and say that you, my friend, are the writer of this masterpiece."

He looked down.

"But you wrote it." He silently protested.

I immediately shook my head: "No, you did, you did it, you wrote the story of your life."

Then he slammed his fist on the table.

"Dammit! I want you to take it, you have been nothing but kind to me. I have worn you out to have my last wish be granted through you. Most people would run away if they ever were to even lay eyes upon me. You are the only one to understand me, so please... just listen to me."

Shocked by his sudden burst of anger and frustration, he reminds me that his last day is coming closer.

This time I look down: "Fine." I mumbled: "I will publish it under my name, but I will tell everyone that I wrote it with the help of a friend."

A sad smile crossed his face: "You better do."

And thus I went to the publisher the very next day.

It was one of those that had refused me before a couple of times, but this was the closest one to my house.

As I knocked on the door, I was greeted by the man that owned the company.

"What the hell are you doing here so early in the morning?!" His voice was stern, perhaps angry even.

"I've come to show you something."

"Again?! You know I ain't reading anymore of that garbage that is written by you!"

"I wrote it with a friend."

"Oh, yeah, who ist?"

"He... he prefers to remain anonymous."

"Anonymous? Bah, the only thing I smell here is bullshit!"

"It's because it's his personal story."

A mailman walks by giving the owner a couple of letters.

At first I wasn't sure, but I noticed that one of them had something like 'EVICTION' written on it.

He then confirmed it to me.

"Look pal, there is no story big enough to save this company of mine. Rent is due and there are mouths to feed."

"Please..." I begged him: "Please just read, even if it's only the first page. No first half of the page is good enough."

He sighed.

"Fine then, but this is your last chance. If it's bad again, I will never allow you to enter this place anymore."

Thanking him, he let me inside.

Carefully I handed him my manuscript as he sat down on a chair.

"Half a page you said?"

"Yes." I nodded.

To my delight, as the owner started reading the story, he almost seemed to get absorbed in it.

He didn't read half a page at all like I had requested, page after page he read.

At some point I could see tears well up in his eyes, at another I could see the frustration in him like that of the protagonist of the story.

And then he closed the last page.

It had already gotten dark outside and he had read every word, not skipping anything.

With a satisfied sigh, he wiped his head and then looked at me.

"Well that certainly is how you do it, son."

I bowed and thanked him.

"I-it's truly almost something close to a miracle."

"Could you publish this for me?"

The man nodded: "Yes, yes. Of course."

It didn't take long before I could find my book in the local bookstores.

But I didn't take the time to celebrate this victory.

My best friend was gone after all, his place felt empty.

I couldn't care less about my income or the fact that I could finally live somewhere else that was cleaner or in better shape.

I visited his grave often, even talking to him, knowing full well he wasn't there to listen anymore.

Then one day another one came.

A spirit.

A lost soul.

Someone in need of my help.

Like before I wrote them a book, I wrote their story.

And in time they left me again too.

I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, I wrote and wrote.

Somehow in time I had become somewhat of a best-seller, people would even recognize me in the streets and ask me for an autograph. And I would always tell them that I never wrote a story alone.

I always told them that I shouldn't get all the praise.

Eventually I started noticing myself growing weak again.

Weaker than I had ever felt before.

Though some spirits would try to take care of me, I got sicker and sicker.

It wasn't something a doctor could cure.

It's my curse after all.

My curse is sucking away at my life force.

My unnatural talent is killing me!

Scared, I look up, dropping the pen from my trembling hands, spilling small drops of ink over the floor, my hands and on some of the pages.

"Are you okay?" The man, or rather ghost, before me looks worried.

"I...we..."

He looks down with eyes filled with regret: "Yes, you and I are the same. We both have the same curse, if you're not careful enough, death will come to get you earlier as well."

The puppet master

A short horror story I wrote.

Word count: 777 (Lucky number:) )

TW: Body horror, psychological horror & gore

The room is dark.

Is it even really a room?

I don't know.

But there are stage lights, so it's probably a room.

The stage lights are for my puppet show.

I control all here.

I am the puppet master here.

An invisible jester.

A magician without a wand.

And a wordless storyteller.

It's a magical show and I am the one in control of the puppets.

It is a show about life and a show about death.

A show of the fortunate.

A show of the unfortunate.

An everyday story.

An awesome adventure.

Out of all the puppets, there is one in peculiar, that I have the most control over. It is also the one that takes the most out of me.

There is a crimson thread coming out of each of my fingers, like that of the veins in a body.

Maybe they are my veins.

I don't know, it's not important.

Four parts of the legs, two of the arms, one for the body, one for the neck, one for the head and one for the facial emotions.

I, of course am also able to control the others to a certain extent, their crimson threads are bound to my own arms, legs and neck.

Maybe we are alike.

It might look a little silly, but even so my control over them is almost flawless.

This is going to be another great show.

This is going to be another great day.

Another hope for applause.

Another hope for approval.

In this room, where the audience goes unseen and the light only shines on my puppet show.

Honestly I'm not sure if there even really is an audience, but it doesn't matter.

No time.

The show starts.

And the curtains rise.

The protagonist wakes up and gets ready for its work.

As the public watches the puppet moving as if it was alive, I can hear some gasps.

Did I really?

Perfect, it is all going smoothly.

After a long day being overworked it returns home for a late dinner.

It decides to watch tv.

The crowd seems to have gotten bored. Maybe I should let something weird happen the next day.

At night the protagonist stares up at the ceiling, wishfully hoping for change in its repetitive and stressful life.

I can show this without sound, without words. Just the movements, lights and the face.

Some audience members seem to relate.

Isn't this all just in my head?

The next morning, the same routine starts.

It is stressing me out, I can hear their dissatisfaction.

Continuing, something happens at work.

Something bad.

The protagonist is treated worse than before.

The audience seems to be more interested in the plot now.

This problem seems to be getting worse and worse by day and yet the protagonist bottles it all up.

I let it seem like it has been bottling things up, it is a puppet after all. It doesn't have feelings.

Now I'm planning for the protagonist to make a heroic comeback, because that's what my audience loves after all.

A new day and more anticipation than before, because this might be the day and if not, it will most definitely be the day after.

The protagonist meets the bully.

Not yet, please not yet. Later is better, later is good...

Then suddenly a thread snaps.

It is the one controlling the emotions.

Voiceless I scream.

It hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts really bad.

Blood is pouring out of the thread, turning it gray.

So it was a vein?

The empty darkness is shocked.

This is not heroic at all!

As I try to grasp for control, I lose it all.

One by one they snap, leaving me in anguish.

So much pain.

All threads turn grey.

Yet I can't scream or cry.

The public starts booing.

They are already bored, they wanted a hero.

They wanted an interesting story.

A totally unique story.

A story they could relate to, but also making them feel better.

A story so strange, but also so normal.

Real and fake.

I need to change something.

I need to do something!

But then after my puppet has started yelling and hitting the others, the other threads snap.

The threads of the others.

Blood is everywhere and I have gotten numb from the pain.

The audience is disgusted by the sight of the bloody battlefield, that is the small stage.

My puppet show is ruined.

After all the other puppets have been ripped apart, 'my' puppet turns around to face me.

It's face filled with broken emotions.

It is broken.

They are broken.

Slowly the protagonist walks my way.

Were they always this tall?

Was the size just an illusion?

Maybe it is magic...

Step by step they get closer.

Each step sounding more human than the last.

The protagonist is approaching and I have nothing to defend myself with.

No weapons.

Not even words.

I only have the broken threads, the threads that were supposed to control everything.

I look to my sides for help.

Only the ignoring darkness stares at me.

Watching, blind eyed.

I wasn't good enough.

I'm not real.

It seems I was the puppet all along.

The only 'it' in this play was me.

Plastic mannequin city

A short horror story I wrote a while ago:)

Word count: 849

TW: Blood, insanity, body horror

As artificial light enters the shop, I start to get ready for the people who will be visiting soon.

I hang the new clothes on the plastic hangers on which they're supposed to be and clean in and around the store. Most of the clothes here are made of polyester, nylon or acrylic.

"We will open soon." I hear my colleague whisper in my ear.

I nod in response and help out with putting out the plastic signs.

As the store slowly starts to get flooded with customers I take my place behind the counter and finish some more chores before someone comes to me to buy something.

After a good few minutes some come to pay for the clothes they deem fit to their bodies.

"Do you want to pay with card?" I ask.

"Do you need a bag with it?" I ask after.

"Do you want the receipt?"

Some of them don't like the questions and get annoyed, asking me not to ask them. Unfortunately my memory isn't good enough to remember who asked who. After a long time, their grey faces have become nothing but a blur in my dreams.

They all look the same after all.

The faces of mannequins are difficult to remember after all...

Every time I scan something the cash register makes an annoying bleep, one that keeps getting more and more annoyed the longer the day continues on, making me thankful for the mask I wear.

A client thinks I'm doing my job wrong and swears at me. I've been working here for a while now, so compliments are hard to come by.

I have a few colleagues who do get many, they look a lot like the customers, other colleagues usually leave soon after starting.

I wonder how long I can hold out...

A couple of hours later I swap places and start working more throughout the store, it's a big one, but I will manage.

I have to...

Customers with their plastic grey faces come to me for questions now.

With their long thin bodies they ask me how much something is, if we have something in another size or even if something makes them look fat.

That last one always surprises me, their plastic bodies all look the same.

They're taller than me.

They're tinner than me.

They're much more beautiful than me.

Is this their way of calling me out?

Do they like asking me these questions in order to mess with me?

I've had enough of that by my colleagues already.

I get sent to the storage room.

Did I do something wrong?

Did I make a mistake I didn't know of?

Or is there something that really needs to be done there?

Please just let it be that!

I turn on the light, it's one for a rather big storage. Unlike everything outside, this light is powered by gas and it's old, very old.

The shadows this light creates always scare me a bit.

The shadows look almost like the mannequins outside.

They look down on me condescendingly.

They judge me.

Their glares are so cold they send me shivering.

I start unpacking boxes, one after one, I do it as perfectly as possible.

I don't want to lose this job.

Suddenly the knife I'm holding for the boxes glides into my hand.

I wince out of pain and am just able to stop myself from cursing.

Thick, dark red drips onto the ground, staining the white plastic floor with the fluid.

A dark thought enters my mind: Perhaps in order to overcome my fear, I should become it.

I look down on my quivering hands.

Could I replace them to become like them?

Could I replace my skin and have a plastic layer instead?

To have no eyes, no nose and no mouth.

To be perfect, just like them.

Would it hurt or bite as the hot plastic would creep up my fleshy arms and legs.

Would I feel pain at all after the procedure and be perfect?

Would I be able to join them after it and be able to get just as many compliments and love?

But then again in all truth, I don't like their perfection.

Their perfection is one of arrogance.

In fact, I think I might even hate it.

I've tried so hard to become like them for such a long time.

I wear a mask to have my face look like them, I skip my lunches in order to become thinner like them.

But all of it...

All of it is for nothing.

It doesn't matter how hard I work, no one will ever accept me.

No one will ever care.

I shouldn't become like them to overcome my fear, I should become something far worse.

Something only I can be, something they can never be.

The floor beneath my feet seems cracked all of a sudden, cracked on the place on which I am standing.

The Gaslamp flickers approvingly, like it tells me to do what I want to do.

I don't remember the last time someone or something said something nice to me or even approved of an idea of mine.

But this lamp, the only real one in this entire building does.

I drop the mask and it shatters into a thousand pieces.

I love the noise it makes as it hits the ground.

Will they make that noise too?

I look down to the object in my hand.

I wonder what color they would bleed.

The not-so-genius detective

I recently decided to challenge myself to write a non-horror short story.

This is my first time attempting to write a story that is supposed to be funny.

When I told my family about this they asked me if I was sick...

Without any further ado, I would love to hear what people think of this attempt at a comedic story:)

Word count: 2076

TW: Profanity (Doesn't go much further than 'shit' though)

“And this is detective Jayden Falkenstein.”

My boss has his hand on one of the shoulders of some kid, while looking like a proud father.

“That’s your nephew isn’t it?” I remark.

The chief looks astonished: “Oh my, you’re already familiar with him?”

“No.” I answer honestly: “But I feel like there’s something you too have in common.”

The man laughs as if I was giving him a compliment: “Oh well, he’s actually a lot brighter than me.”

“You wouldn’t say.” I scan the child before me with my eyes, there’s just something… terribly annoying about him. His clothes are made of many bright colours that don’t go well together, making me believe that he might be color blind. He looks unprofessional and attracts way too much attention.

His face bears the expression of a terrified child trying to hide his fear, with a look of fake confidence that is way too easily shattered.

There’s just no way that he’s a detective.

“So, sir, is he going to work here with us? Like an intern or something?” Or is he here to be baby-sitted by one of us? I secretly add.

“Oh, no, no, no. We need my dear nephew here to help us solve something.”

“Is he good with computers?” The chief is old, maybe that’s the problem? Was an IT-guy too expensive?

“I told you before, he’s a detective.” The man’s face turns serious, he must have noticed that I’ve been having difficulty with believing him.

His nephew must really want to play detective, there’s no way he went to school for it. Let alone leave with diploma in hand.

“You two are about the same age, so I expect you two to get along.”

“Around the same age?” I ask dumbfounded. I know the chief is getting old, but does he really have such difficulty with discerning 15-year olds with those in their twenties? It’s just impossible, he doesn’t even look close. And his terrible sense of fashion…

That and I don’t believe he would even be allowed to take his first driving lessons, let alone be allowed to step inside a bar.

The kid smiles at me: “I’m twenty-five, you know. I heard that you’re two years older.”

What…?!

I shake my head: “You’re not allowed to lie to a police officer, show me your ID.” I gesture to him to hand it over.

“Officer Coldon!” The chief calls out to me in frustration.

But the ‘detective’ hands me something “Here.” he says in a kind tone.

I take the object not really taking it seriously, until the picture and text reaches my sight.

…

…

He really is…

I feel utterly flabbergasted and it takes me a bit to finally find my composure again. While double checking if the ID is real or not.

I cough: “So chief, what’s the plan?”

The man in question looks at me still slightly annoyed: “Well, we got a message from the art gallery asking for help. Someone is threatening to take down the building.”

“I see, have they had the thread on paper or via mail?”

“Paper. The author of the note mentioned something like ‘sneaking inside like a snake’.”

“Can I see it?” I unconsciously reach out, hoping for him to give it to me.

Instead the older man shakes his head: “It’s being analysed by the lab right now. And it’s almost time to go.”

“Already?” The detective asks pouting.

That really can’t be an adult…

Both me and Jaiden get sent back home to change into more formal wear.

I’m lucky that I live quite close by to the gallery itself, I can head straight to the building.

After quickly finding something I believe to be fitting for a guest, I leave my apartment behind and walk to the place the chief wants us to meet up.

It’s in a park close by, I see they were able to get a normal looking van.

Then the other thing that I notice…

As if someone had eaten rainbows and puked them back out…

I frown and try to look away from the almost glowing thing standing before me: “Hell no, you’re not getting in there dressed like that!”

Surprise, surprise… It’s Jaiden standing before me, dressed in a manner even a freezing and naked hobo wouldn’t want. That hobo would most likely prefer to die.

Unconventional, torture to the eye itself. That describes it at best. I can feel the shame… Yet he does not seem to show that at all.

He’s comfortable in that?!

Detective Falkenstein looks at me with a smirk: “Well you’re dressed way too fancy for someone just visiting a museum.”

The audacity.

Suddenly the chief pulls both of us by our collars: “Damnit, both of you, get changed!!”

Both are forced to change on the spot for more casual looking clothes.

As we enter the building I glare at my colleague that did get his way by secretly keeping his God awful looking shirt underneath, slightly better looking clothing.

The chief had decided that the two of us have to partner up. There are others that are doing the same, but are given different routes to walk.

“So, one ticket for an adult and one for a child?” The lady behind the counter asks, taking my thoughts of annoyance to another place.

“I-I’m sorry ma’am, could you repeat that?” I’m pretty sure I heard something wrong.

“One adult.” She nods towards me, speaking almost in slow motion: “And one child.” She nods to Jaiden.

Immediately I shake my head: “That’s a grown man.”

A mischievous smile crosses my colleagues face, one I don’t like the look of.

“Sorry ma’am, my dad is only joking.” He takes my arm and I do my best to resist the urge to slap it away.

The lady behind the counter smiles a little, though clearly with murderous intent when her eyes rest on me.

Then she turns back to Jaiden, a soft smile crosses her face: “Would you like to participate in the scavenger hunt?”

The idiot smiles brightly: “Yes please.”

We get the tickets and I hear the lady whisper to one of her colleagues: “He’s so polite, he really did not get that from his dad.”

The other nods, “Yeah, he probably has a much better mother.”

When we’re finally out of hearing range, I pull the detective closer to me in anger: “That’s illegal!” I whisper-yell: “With our job we need to set a good example!”

Jaiden smiles carefree: “We also aren’t allowed to stand out.”

I hate to admit it, but in a way, just a tiny bit, he has a point. I better talk it out with him later.

Or perhaps I should set him the good example.

Engrossed in the piece of paper that was handed to him earlier, he mumbles: “Hmmm… where should we go next?”

It really isn’t the time to go on a scavenger hunt.

We soon find ourselves inside a long hallway, the walls are neatly lined with many paintings each in slightly different colours and moods.

I can understand why people calls this true art, the way the emotions are showing, the dreams and ideas of their creators all come together in one-

“That one looks super ugly!” My colleague bursts out in a loud laughter.

I look at him threateningly, but he doesn’t seem to notice at all.

“That…” He points at it: “Is truly the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. No one would want it on a t-shirt. They did call this art right? Is this the collection of the ugliest man-made squirts?”

“Jaiden!” I hiss his name at him to quiet him down, but it only seems to show him that I’m still here.

He turns to me, ignoring the emotions that I’m clearly showing and asks a question in an annoyingly casual way: “So, the scavenger hunt is asking me to give this one a name. I’m thinking of ‘barf in the barn’ or ‘shit cow exploding’…”

He’s asking me.

Damnit, how clueless can a person be?

I take a deep breath to calm myself down: “We should continue to the next.” I try to remind him. There’s no time to be loitering around here, we have a criminal to catch!

I cannot truly see what this painting means, but I bet it has something to do with the painter's hidden anger bursting out. I think to myself as we’ve entered another hallway and a painting has taken my attention.

“Ha, a six-year-old could do better.”

I’m a cop. I remind myself. Murder is a crime.

Though I need to repeat it multiple times in order for it really to seep into my mind.

Continuing on I suddenly notice someone in the crowd acting strange.

A man is staring at a painting, without moving or even blinking at all.

Is he even still breathing?

Carefully as to not get his attention I glance his way a couple of times.

Trying to concentrate, I think about what I should do.

Should I let my other colleagues in- and outside know?

Or should I-

Crunch…

Crunch……

The sound of someone eating right next to me takes me out of my train of thought.

Guess who it is…

Jaiden…

Again.

Yep. That’s right…

He’s eating a bag of chips.

I’m thinking of ripping the thing out of his hands, but he walks off just before I’m able to.

You’re not allowed to eat inside this part of the gallery! I want to yell, but he’s already stepping towards the man I’m suspicious of.

I can see him say something to the suspect and then hold up his bag of potato chips.

The suspect is taken out of his trance and smiles, accepting the offer and taking some of the chips from the bag.

The detective comes back to me: “You know officer Coldon, not everyone is a suspect. That man was simply entranced by the painting. It isn’t pretty, the painting, but to him it feels like something special.”

I would love to be allowed to hit this kid over the head.

I remain silent, trying to show in this way that I still don’t agree.

“We should go this way.”

“Why?” I ask.

Did he suddenly have a good idea?

“The scavenger hunt continues down that hall.”

I follow him, tired out by my own anger and frustration.

I want to be part of what saves this gallery, but now I’m unsure if I can really do it.

“This has to be it!” Jayden suddenly calls out.

“Please lower your voice…” I feel too tired to lecture him again.

He picks up a random looking, empty piece of paper.

“This piece of paper must have another message… like with invisible ink.”

I swear I’m done with this guy.

“There’s no way…” I say, knowing that it’s clearly bull.

Not paying attention, while taking a few steps back, he accidentally bumps into someone.

“Ah, I’m sorry.” He immediately apologizes.

I guess he does have basic manners.

“Don’t worry, it doesn't matter.” The man he walked into answers in a kind tone: “It still happens to me from time to time as well.”

“Still I’m really sorry.”

Are these two going to keep doing this or are they finally going to stop and move on?

We still have to catch someone.

“Oh right, sir, do you happen to have a lighter?” Jayden quickly asks: “I need it for the scavenger hunt.” He points at the piece of completely ordinary paper.

“Oh yeah, I have one.” The man starts digging through his pockets: “Please do return it to me.”

“Thank you.” My babysitting job answers politely.

Carefully he lets the small flame from the dark metal object lick the paper.

As his face turns sour he finally turns off the lighter.

The paper really was just a piece of random paper.

Before returning it, he takes a quick glance at the small object in his hand. For a moment it looks like something clicked inside his mind.

With a smile on his face he returns the lighter to its owner.

“Thank you for letting me borrow this. Unfortunately it seems like this isn’t part of the scavenger hunt.” He hangs his head down showing rather theatrically his frustration.

“I see, well kid, I hope you find it.” The man takes the lighter and calmly walks away.

As the man has gone around the corner, Jayden suddenly jumps and pulls my sleeve: “That’s him!” He stops himself just in time from yelling: “The snake mentioned in the letter, it’s on the lighter! His means of destroying this place is by fire.”

Too tired to struggle, I press against my hidden earpiece and call for backup, giving everyone the best description I can of the suspect.

As we’re finally called back, the chief tells us that our suspects fingerprints matched that of the letter that was sent.

But a better investigation and court will be held later to find out what really happened.

I glance at my colleague.

I guess he might have his charms, solving a case might not entirely be beyond him…

Though dumb luck did most of the job.

But I still can’t get over his horrible sense of fashion!

Book cover I made

This is a book cover I made for a book I finished writing last month.

If you were to find this within a bookstore, what would your thoughts be? What do you think it's about?

The fears of an inanimate object

I wrote this one a while ago, but still found it fun to share.

I hope you enjoy this short horror story:)

TW: Gore, blood, dolls

Word count: 1534

I have gotten so used to the smell, I don't even notice it anymore.

It's the smell of old books, old people and old junk.

I've sat here, day in, day out. Never able to do anything. I can't move or speak. I can't even blink.

My head has always been fixed in one position and that is forward.

I am like many in this old thrift store, an old, dusty object.

I am a doll.

I know I am, I've seen myself in a mirror before, that's when they brought me here and it is my very first memory.

It honestly is very strange, I am an inanimate object with thoughts and feelings, yet I can't do anything or let anyone know.

I was quite upset and shocked when I found out. Scared, but unable to show the emotion. Wanting to scream but unable to tell anyone. Unable to move, but wanting someone to comfort me.

That was the worst part of my being.

I just woke up, learning that my life held no meaning and I would never be able to do anything or be loved by anyone.

I hated it.

I hated my existence.

I hated whomever put me here.

I hated my creator, yet there is nothing I can ever do about it.

So I just sat here. Always in the same place, always dressed the same, always looking the same. Always with a little extra layer of dust covering me. Always praying. Always hoping for a change.

I've seen the sun come up and go under for a long time now, from a tiny window in the back of the store. Each time it came, it took a little bit of color from the objects in its way. Until they turned gray and were thrown out.

I was lucky, the sun never shone on me, it couldn't. So the light just lurked ever so slightly under my feet. Like a hungry predator, waiting for its prey to run. But I of course would never move, so it just left every time it had to go again.

At some point, I got jealous of the sunlight, it was able to shine. It was able to move. It was always there for the people and animals and I could or would never be able to.

Such a stupid thing to be jealous of.

I was even more jealous of the tiny birds by the window, as short as their lives might be, they were my only source of entertainment.

The birds sang to one another and could fly, they could travel. Oh how much I wished that I would have been born a bird and not an inanimate doll.

I've seen people come and go, I've seen them get older and then eventually one day they just stopped coming and new people took their place.

Take me home, take me home...

I silently wished.

But who would listen to the pleading of a voiceless doll, an object without a soul.

Something that can't do anything or even think.

Well of course they are wrong at that last part. I am very lucid after all.

Unfortunately...

Then one day, The happiest day of my inanimate life, a little girl and her mother came to visit the store.

The girl saw me.

As soon as she did, her eyes started sparkling. I've never seen anyone's eyes do that before. Especially when they saw me.

The girl almost seemed to fly towards me, that's how quick she was.

She was the very first person that would speak to me.

"Hello Dolly, what's your name? Do you wanna be friends?" Her little arms stretched out to me in a hug.

I've never had a hug before, it is so warm. I wanted to cry, but of course I couldn't.

I wanted to tell her to please take me away from here, oh please.

Of course I wanted to be her friend, I've always wished for one and she would be my first.

It was like she could read my mind.

She begged her mother to get me for her.

Her mother wasn't too sold on the idea at first and called me 'that creepy old thing', but her daughter didn't care.

She wanted me and started to throw a fit, then the shopkeeper said that they could have me for free.

What a nice guy.

Now the mother couldn't refuse anymore and she gave in.

"Fine, but keep that thing away from me." She told the little girl, while looking at me like I was a dirty old sock.

Well I forgive her, I was too happy anyway. I had been here for god-knows-how-long and even the spiders didn't like me.

And so, I left the old thrift store and started anew with a new family and a best friend.

Molly (the little girl) and I did a lot of things together, she would dress me up at least 17 times a day. With clothes her grandmother had made for me. She told us that she once had a doll like me, that also looked very similar. She was also able to repair and clean me a bit and after that I had become a lot prettier.

After all that, even Molly's mother didn't even feel that bothered by me anymore.

We had tons of tea parties and Molly had of course given me a full tour of the house and introduced me to all the other dolls and stuffed animals.

I knew all their names by heart. I wonder if any of them were like me, but there wouldn't be any way of knowing.

I might not be able to do or say anything, but I really did have the time of my life there.

I have a home.

We would eat breakfast together, we would go on walks together. We would talk about anything, well more like I would listen, but I really don't mind.

Unlike other kids, Molly is a very gentle soul and always takes very good care of me. She has never even dropped me, not even by accident.

One day school had started for her again, we met during the summer holiday after all.

I felt sad to let her go, she wasn't allowed to take me with her.

Every time she came home, she looked a bit upset. She seemed to try to hide.

One day she asked me: "Dolly, can I ask you something?"

I could see tears welling up in her reddish eyes. "Dolly, do you hate me too?"

This broke my heart.

Of course I didn't hate her.

I would never.

She was my dearest friend.

My personal hero.

I felt awful, I couldn't do anything. I hadn't felt like this in a while, it was like I was back in that awful dark place. Where I would never be able to do anything.

I want her to be happy.

She doesn't deserve whatever she's dealing with right now.

Not with how kind and gentle she is.

And yet, I just can't do anything...

I wanted to talk to her, I wanted to support her or at least to be supported. Her mother is quite busy and didn't always seem to notice.

I wish I could let her know, even if it is only her.

But I am just an inanimate object, incapable of speech.

Tonight something awful happened...

Someone broke in.

It was unplanned, he didn't seem to know the layout of the house.

The burgler was probably looking for valuables.

Only Molly and her mother were at home that night.

Both asleep.

The man accidently entered the wrong room.

Molly and my room.

Molly is a very light sleeper and woke up by the gently creaking door.

She noticed the bugler and started to scream.

So he hit her, he didn't want any witnesses.

He was desperate.

He would even kill to get his prize.

He hit her again with his bat.

And again.

I could do nothing but watch this horrible scene in front of me.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to save Molly.

He hit her again and she stopped crying, bleeding heavily.

Something snapped in me.

My emotions, but also my shackles which had kept me stuck for so many years.

I was going to kill him.

This man... had to go.

I don't know how, but I got out.

Out of my cell, which was my body.

Out of my dusty prison.

I shattered the room's window and with the glass shards, I pinned the man against the ceiling.

Anger.

Anger was the only feeling.

Anger and rage. Then maybe, also hate.

He screamed.

He cried.

It made me feel something... like joy.

Blood dripped down like a slow waterfall, creating a pool on the wooden floor.

Blood stained the carpet.

Bleed more...

BLEED MORE!!!

I think I killed him.

Did I go too far?

He stopped crying.

He stopped screaming.

Molly's mother runs into the room to save her.

I quickly return to my body, she probably hasn't seen me.

She screamed when she noticed the man on the ceiling.

She got her daughter out of that room as soon as possible, leaving me behind.

Leaving me behind in the mess I made.

I can see blue and red flashing lights outside.

The cops have arrived.

The paramedics as well.

Molly seemed to have had a slight concussion, lucky girl.

I'm so glad, it didn't get any worse.

Molly doesn't really know what happened though, probably just her child mind keeping her protected.

It has been a week and Molly is ready to return to school again.

And I guess I'm lucky too, it is take-your-toy-to-school day.

Molly has promised to take me.

I'm glad.

Now I can find out who made her upset like before.

And now I can do something about it.

With my new power, I will surely be able to make her happy again.