Just finished watching Inception. (better late than never, right?) Very interesting idea. Kudos to Mr.Nolan for such an amazing mind. However, I guess it is true that: "The most resilient parasite? An idea."
Yeah, if only we could "build" our own dreams. I would create one of harmony for a change. Level One: Rainbows Level Two: Unicorns Level, oops, I woke up and started farting glitter....
....get real. If it weren't for my love of Juno and Titanic, this movie would have never made it into my mind. That's one hundred and fifty minutes of reality that I will never get back.
"I'll take the wheel," I said with an uncontrollable excitement, the glint in my eye reflecting off the shiny ~ almost gaudy ~ skin of the massive vehicle.
His laugh was deep and profound and it reverberated off the aluminum walls of that spacious garage.
When his chuckle winded down, his demeanor changed ~
He leaned in close ~ his breath was warm, and carried a lingering scent of stale cigarettes and day-old garlic.
His words were rigid.
"Honey, I'm the one driving this spaceship."
Why do bad things happen to good people? Or do we just assume they're good people?
Are we all not a mix of kind words and harsh opinions? Of good acts and wicked intent? Of sweet love and lecherous thoughts?
And how wide is this invisible line between good and evil; the dark and the light?
Nightmare # 71:
I lifted my head and found myself in a Roman Catholic church. My one hand was leaning on a pew made from red oak and an open missalette was in the other. The Gospel reading came to a close and a loud bustle of commotion ensued as the whole congregation took to their seats. The priest stepped off the altar, genuflected and took a seat in the front row. From the vestibule entered a thirty-something man with thick, blond hair and Clark Kent glasses. He walked with a limp to the podium.
Clearing his throat, he introduced himself as Dr. Jekyll. I scanned the immediate area wondering why I was the only one a bit startled by his name. Those around me sat in an attentive manner - never flinching - their eyes fixed on our speaker. This so-called Dr. Jekyll raised his right hand into a fist, as if he were summoning an army behind him. He brought the fist to his upper torso and pounded his chest with such force and so many times, I thought he might knock himself out. Instead, he stopped his penance abruptly and moved both arms out to his sides. When he addressed the congregation, he spoke in a boisterous voice and in true form of evangelists everywhere.
"It is no longer enough to just be aware of evil in this world. You must acknowledge it, embrace it, and confront it. You must look evil square in the eyes, not with fear or even pity, but with a confidence so extraordinarily strong that it cowers from you, turns away, and runs with its pointed tail between its legs."
He paused, allowing us time to take in his words.
Then he asked, "Are you aware of the evil in your life? Of the evil in you?" His voice raised another octave. "It is important to remember that evil takes on many forms, but so, too, does goodness. And in the words of Ellen: Be kind to one another."
A malicious cackle filled the church.
My attention wavered from the good doctor to the source of the chuckle. It came from a menacing-looking creature that had entered from the back door of the church. The creature slithered through a few of the pews, like a criminal scoping a mark. It made its way up the aisle, resting in front of the now open-mouthed congregation.
A trail of white slime followed its path and congealed in its wake.
A baby bawled in the background.
The creature was both handsome and hideous. It stared at me with dead eyes. I stared back, angry with myself for being unable to break its trance. Its complimenting features included a tall, slender build that held onto a very crisp suit, complete with tie and cuff links. Muscle mass bulged in all the appropriate areas and in perfect proportion. From what I could sense, he emitted a scent like cherries.
And in the next moment he changed.
Just like a hologram, he shifted into a leathery, wart-like creature with a thick, reptilian tail that jutted out the bottom of his suit jacket. His skin took on a melted feature and he winked at me. I made no movement, but continued to stare like an onlooker of a horrific car accident.
"Mr. Hyde," the evangelist at the podium growled. "You are not welcome here."
"My dearest Jekyll," Mr. Hyde replied, his hologram facade swaying back and forth from divine to deformed. "If I may be so bold as to remind you that without me you couldn't exist. You would be undervalued and ignored. You would be as boring and as bland as food without salt; as a sauce without spice; as a cookie without sugar." Hyde chuckled louder this time, his cackle bouncing off of the walls and all around those assembled.
"You need me. You need me even if it's nothing more than a reminder to know that you are true at heart. And as hard as it is to admit, I am inclined to say that neither of us could exist without the other. Don't you see? We are cast from the same shadow. We are forged from the same signature. We are forever intertwined, you and I."
And the organ rang out.
And the baby cried again.
And I made a sign of the cross.
Written by: Deevious
Just what are we capable of? I would like to think that we, as humans, are born basically good. That evil is an after thought. Perhaps each of us is a little bit of good and evil; a little bit of both the light and the darkness; a bit of sweet and sour; a little bit of Jekyll and Hyde. Your thoughts?
Alrighty... ....now that Halloween is a thing of the past for 2011, let's get back to business. I can now refocus my attention from witchcraft to writing and from ghost stories...well, to more ghost stories. But first... ....I saw this amazing footage and just had to share it. While watching, I couldn't help realize how intimidating nature really is and yes, Hitchcock so crossed my mind. :)
This past week I've seem to run into a theme. At a time of year when my focus is usually centered around ghouls and goblins, I've found my focus diverted to love. Yep, of all crazy things, Love. Well, since we all know one can't stop love, I decided to just roll with it and feed the frenzy. Here are two of Love's most recent stories that are too worthy to ignore.
"Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize y'awl's neighborhood
And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse's shell
The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the Thriller"
~ Vincent Price
Quite possibly my favorite month.
There's just something about the autumn hues and crisp sunsets;
the bone-chilling ghost stories and preparation of costumes...
pic by dpb
From its vibrant colors to its lure of candy, October is filled with some amazing sights, incredible designs and even more spooktacular superstitions.
Here are my top five favorite beliefs of the holiday:
5. One Halloween superstition derives from an old English tale. It cautions that you should never look at your shadow in the moonlight on the eve of Halloween or you will be the next to haunt a graveyard. (Yikes!)
4. If you see a spider on Halloween, it is believed to be the spirit of a loved one watching over you. (Try not to stomp on it.)
3. A Gaelic Halloween superstition suggests that all souls in Purgatory are released for 48 hours on All Hallows Eve. (This easily explains all of the haunted sightings reported this time of year.)
2. Masks and costumes became a sort of camouflage for humans on Halloween and are supposedly used to confuse the spirits of the dead who roam the earth on this night. (Especially those sexy little numbers like French Maids and Sassy Devils.)
1. The time of year when the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead is at its thinnest. (Nothing to joke about here.)
Did she forget how the sun felt on her skin?How a cool breeze could twirl her hair?How the sand had tickled her toes?
Did she forget about the taste of chocolate brownies or how her mouth would water, almost painfully so, right before she bit into a granny smith apple?Forget about the smell of freshly made popcorn? The aroma of chocolate chip cookies as they were pulled from the oven?
Did she forget what it was like to awake in the early morning, curl up beside her lover and breathe him in as he held her close?
Could she not remember Christmas?The glow of stringed lights?The way the snow would glisten upon the driveway, like glitter on an art room floor?
Did she forget her favorite song?Or the way she could laugh, almost with failure to breathe, over a rerun of Seinfeld?Did she forget about that book she started to read?
Would she miss her dog?
Did she just get tired?
What was she thinking as she tightened that white leather belt around her neck? As those silver circle notches began to leave their imprint?
What were her thoughts when she was choking out that little girl who made sand angels on the beach?While she was suffocating the teenager who experimented with make-up and boys?While she was snuffing out the last of the young woman who had just started to plan her wedding?
With this kind of listing, I might have to pass on it.
A huge thanks is extended to Jay Anson, (1921-1980), for bringing such sleepless nights to so many. Much controversy still exists over the story itself ~ one side screaming truth, the other side yellinghoax. Whatever side you fall on, there can be no denying the fact that this is one of the best ~ an exhilarating cult classic that deserves its place on the horror shelf of Evil's library. Read more about it.
The Hook: Marge heard herself accept Victoria’s invite. “I guess I could stop by for a minute,” she told the young girl.
Victoria bounced up and down like a cheerleader being voted in as team captain. Her dark brown curls hung large and loose around her shoulders, cupping her face like feathered hands. “It’s gonna be the Best. Party. Ever. Just you wait and see.”
Marge smiled, trying not to grit her teeth. She mentally kicked herself for being kind to Victoria from day one; for being her mentor around the office; for sharing lunches in the cafeteria and whispering complaints about their boss and all the other frivolous chitchat they had exchanged over the last couple of months. The last thing Marge wanted to do was make friends. She was too old for friends. Hell, she was four years away from retirement. She was way too old to show up at a twenty-something party and chug fruity umbrella-drinks and listen to the endless banter of the young. Marge knew she would have nothing in common with Victoria outside the office. She knew the conversation would be strained and just downright exhausting, absolutely sure it would center on stupid shit like the newest phone App or the latest barroom hookup. Marge knew this party would be a mistake.
But she didn’t understand how big of a mistake.
“Just call and cancel,” she told her wrinkled reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Just tell her something came up with the family.” Marge chuckled. Nothing ever came up with the family, well, not these days. Her son and daughter were off making their own family memories, each married with children of their own. Yep, these days, no one needed Marge. No one came to visit. No one called to talk, unless it was her birthday or a holiday. Then - and only then - would a visitation occur or maybe a phone conversation happen, only to end just as soon as it started, with a hurried tone of a busy life.
Marge shuffled into the bedroom and took a seat on the edge of her lonely bed. She stared at the framed picture - a wedding photo from another lifetime. She picked it up, studied it - as if for the first time - and allowed her tears to fall. “Damn it, Victor. I just did my make-up.” She managed a smile, and unknowingly, slid her fingers over his face with a sigh.
It still hurt as bad as the day he left. The ache never goes away, not really. Maybe if he had been a son-of-a-bitch with a bad temper or a drinking problem. But no, not Victor, he was a good man. He was a good man with a good heart and he was taken before his time.
Time, the bitch that it is, never healed any of her wounds as it claimed it could. But Time did take Victor from her. The doctors called it cancer, but she knew who to blame. Time was like a little disobedient child - spoiled rotten - and would never rest till it had its way. It took Victor from her, and although the years have passed quickly - they always do after thirty - her heart was as wrinkled as her face, so shriveled up from heartbreak that if it was torn out of her chest it would emulate a raisin. Maybe if it was torn from her chest she wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. She wouldn’t have to face the disappointment when her children broke plans and promises with her; she wouldn’t have to think about her other son – the one whom Time took at birth; she wouldn’t have to worry about the mound of hospital bills that still rolled in through her mailbox every couple of months from Victor’s treatments, so many years ago; she wouldn’t have to remember how he had opened his eyes that last time – eyes filled with excruciating pain – just to give her a wink, just like he had years before on their first date. She had given him a wink back, tears flowing from her own tired eyes, knowing it was over. “Don’t you leave me, Vic," she had pleaded with him. "Don’t you dare leave me alone.”
He softly shushed her, that cold hospital room sending chills over her body. “I’ll be waiting for you, Margie. I’ll save you a good seat.”
This had made her laugh, giggle even.
Then, he was gone.
Just like that.
Like a snap of the fingers.
She had held onto him until his body went cold; until the hospital staff all but peeled her off him and pulled her out of the room and ordered her to go home.
“What home?” she now whispered, looking around the empty room.
She stood up abruptly and stormed back into the bathroom to reapply her mascara. She would go to this party. She would stay for a little while and make nice with the other guests. She would do it because she told Victoria she would, and she never broke her promises. And so what if she was forty years older? It might actually do the retired housemother some good to get out and mingle with the youth of today. Shake it up a bit, allow herself to be entertained with their wild stories of irresponsible splendor; of their cavalier ways and that nostalgic “the –world-still-owes-me something” mentality. Plus, she kind of liked the girl.
And she loved her name.
Loved calling her Vic.
Loved hearing it roll off her tongue in public again.
“It'll be a hoot,” she assured herself, checking her upper teeth for lipstick stains. With a new found determination to become more social, Marge grabbed up her purse and slammed the front door behind her.
“Hurry. It’s almost time,” her voice was strained with panic.
“I’m moving as fast as I can, Vic,” a male voice yelled.
“We need to feed it now,” she yelled back.
Marge could hear their voices but couldn’t seem to wake up.
Where was she that she couldn’t wake up?
Ah, yes, the party.
She was terribly hungry, and although not a scrap of food was offered to the party guests, it was a nice welcome. From what Marge was remembering, Victoria was extremely kind to her, parading the retired housewife and mother - now office manager at a non-profit organization - around the house and out back to the spacious deck, introducing her to everyone as her favorite co-worker at the office. It flattered Marge to be spoken to with such regard; she actually craved the attention, shockingly unaware at how long it had been since she was the center of anyone’s attention. She smiled warmly at every introduction, extending her hand and greedily accepting their approval. Victoria never once left her side, and Marge loved the young girl for that. And even though there was no food to be had, the drinks were marvelous and Marge had to keep reminding herself to drink slower because she would eventually have to drive home. Plus, she didn’t want to be that oldfool who couldn’t handle her drink and passed out at the party. She didn’t want to become the brunt of a bad joke next week at work. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if they still froze your bra if you were the first to pass out. She doubted that this crowd was the sort to gang up on some worn-out housewife near the end of her career. Yet, something felt wrong…
Her head hurt. Hurt something terrible.
It had to be that last drink. Remember how it bubbled up? It was delicious, tasted like strawberries and peaches and she loved the way the fizz had tickled her nose, making her sneeze. Then, that was it. That was all she could remember.
Now, Marge heard a rumble underneath her.
What the hell?
Her eyelids fluttered.
“She’s moving,” a man’s voice barked near her ear.
“Nothing you can do about it now,” Victoria hollered, the same panic in her voice now rising higher in her throat. “Get outta there!”
Marge’s eyes popped open, and even though her head was fuzzy her vision was not. She could see clearly the bright blue pegs she was attached to. Her legs were crossed and tied at the ankles and her arms were outstretched; the ropes at her wrists tied to the pegs. Her body formed the letter Y and for one brief moment she chuckled, half-expecting to find three other bodies beside her in the shapes of an M, C and A. Maybe the alcohol was still having its way with her.
She mumbled for Victoria, her voice far from audible. She struggled to free her hands, maybe her feet, but she couldn't budge them. She tried picking up her head - it was terribly heavy - but she forced herself to move it. She could see her young co-worker and the others watching anxiously from the back deck, like a group of on-lookers awaiting a fireworks display.
Another rumble erupted underneath her. It was so strong that the ground began to shatter like a broken windshield; its grass facade fragmented into clusters. Through the cracks, tiny worms began to seep out – not just a few, like after a hard rain - but hundreds of them. She had never seen so many worms in her whole lifetime. They began to jump and dive from one crevice to the next, like mini-dolphins at sea, springing back and forth across Marge’s body. She held her breath, looking confused and accusingly at Victoria and her new group of supposed friends. Most turned away from her glare. Victoria, bolder than the rest – and obviously in charge of the spectacle - smirked at the older woman.
“It’ll be quick, Marge. I promise you.” As she spoke, her voice gained confidence and strength. “Just close your eyes and relax. The more you struggle, the more it’ll hurt.”
Marge wasn’t as angry as she was afraid. And she wasn’t afraid of dying, oh my no. She had come to terms with that idea years ago. She believed that dying would be its own reunion party, one where she would meet up with Victor and their son and her parents. To Marge, it was if they were all at some big Gala in the sky and she was merely awaiting her lost invitation in the mail. Truth be told, she welcomed death; wanted to be rid of Time once and for all. But what was bothering her now – what had always gotten her nerves in a bunch – was the way in which she would go out. She had always feared the worst, like a slow, labored fight with cancer, or a heart-attack while driving, maybe even an unsuspecting blood-clot during her evening bath. But never once could she have imagined this - whatever this would be. Never once would she have fathomed this kind of ending.
“What is happening, Vic?” she all but cried from the ground. “What are these things?”
Victoria shushed the old woman. “Keep quiet, and very still.”
Marge’s skin was crawling with goose bumps, but in her mind she believed it to be the hundreds of worms dancing and leaping about her. “What are they?” she yelled out again, demanding an answer.
“That’s my pet,” she heard Victoria announce with pride. And as if on cue, the army of worms that spun over top of Marge’s body dropped. Most fell to the ground. Some of them, Marge could feel wiggle over her clothing or about her arms, searching for the others. Then, the group of worms began to fuse together forming one huge unit. The army of worms were now an army of one.
And a big one at that.
Marge gasped, unable to believe what had just formed in front of her. She squeezed back a whimper and all but ripped her arms and legs from their sockets trying to escape. She tried over and over again to free herself, but it was in vain.
The massive snake-like creature slithered to the end of Marge’s feet. A tiny cup of a mouth at its one end opened, and opened, and opened wider. It's feeding hole grew large, almost as round as her grandmother's serving dish. It began its feast at Marge’s feet and in one swallow had engulfed both of her legs – and the blue peg – up to her knees.
She screamed, the acid from its mouth burning her skin. It was like being attacked by an anaconda in the middle of someone’s backyard. She could feel her heart as it threw itself against the inside of her chest over and over again. Perhaps a heart-attack would get her before this beastly thing could devour her whole. Maybe it would all be over quickly. Then, she remembered Time. That old friend was back and would not allow her the comfort of a fast death. She knew Time was out to get her – just like it’s out to get all of us – and that it would not be gracious.
She decided to take Victoria’s advice. She closed her eyes.
Shut them up tight.
Cleared her head of the nastiness that was happening to her body - the wretched gulping noise as she was being devoured; that horrible burning from the creature’s mouth; her heart struggling to keep up and her lungs gasping for breath. Instead, she focused only on her memories. She fixated only on those eyes…Victor’s tired eyes, and his boyhood wink, and his bright smile, and those calming words….”I’ll save you a good seat.”
After all, it isn’t how we leave this world that we need to focus on, she reminded herself, it’s who’s waiting on the other side. And somewhere in her thoughts, her focus faded into an amazing hue of golden wheat yellow, like a field in autumn, and with a light so bright it was blinding. She walked slowly forward, shadows and shapes eventually coming into vision. The figures of her family, of those who had gone before her, came into view. They had all been waiting for her. Victor gave her a big smile. And right beside him – just as he had promised her – was a chair. It was a beautiful chair too. Burgundy in color with gold etching that glowed bright. It had a high back that curved towards the top and angled in at the sides. It was a wing chair of the most elaborate proportions. Victor patted the cushioned seat and gave her a wink. The End
The wind chime clung to its hook on the side of the small porch.
She could hear its metal pipes knocking together, assuring her that the storm was getting close now. Its din carried on the wind, through the open window, and to her ear ~ only the right ear. Her left one was buried in the mattress.
The ceiling fan spun above her; its melodic hum ~ almost calming ~ soothed her, as she lay immobile. She could feel her heart flutter and her muscles tighten. Her body shook and grew incredibly cold. From her mouth, she choked out small puffs of air ~ like an iron huffing steam.
Her eyes, glassy and bloodshot, stared straight ahead.
Whatever had done this to her, walked past her line of vision again. Its exoskeleton, just inches away, radiated a horrendous stench and her last hope was that it wouldn't be the last thing she had to see.
I was falling, and for a brief moment flying ~ flying down and down and down towards the light. The wind picked up behind me and pushed me further, forcing me to lose control and lashing me around at unimaginable speeds. The air raged against me; my head ached from the pressure and I felt disconnected from it. I could only compare the fall to the acclaimed Road Runner series, where Wile E. Coyote would topple over a cliff, plunging to his death. Even the rocky landscape from that cartoon surrounded me; different shades and shapes of rock and rubble encased me, filling my peripheral vision with its distortion.
Faster and faster I fell. Faster and faster I plummeted ~ not knowing what awaited me at the bottom, but assuring myself it was not good. And as if to answer me, a horrendous laugh echoed from the pit below. And then, came the heat. In an instance, I was gasping for breath; wiping the sweat that ran into my eyes; and coughing soot from my throat. I was being thrown to and fro, now heading face first ~ and even through my watering eyes I could see the fire and how quickly I was heading towards it. But more disturbing than that was the creature that stood among the flames. I'm sure it was the devil ~ again, in cartoon form ~ with a curved red tail that came to an arrowed point and leathery red skin that glowed like embers in the fire.
His face, however, was far from animated. It was charcoal-burnt and still melting, with an oozing eye that was beginning to droop from its socket. From a hollow hole ~ masquerading as his mouth ~ four tiny snakes wiggled about, their tongues hissing and lapping up the melting skin around his features; and from it erupted another horrific laugh causing my ears to pop and bleed from its boisterous bellow. He raised one arm above his head and erected a pitchfork, anticipating my landing and all too ready to hook my body and hold me over the flames to toast me to my death ~ like a marshmallow at summer camp. I pressed frantically with my hands, assuming they would emulate brakes and slow my speed, but to no avail. I was dangerously close now, my skin beginning to bubble and blister from the heat. I opened my mouth to scream ~ but how ironic ~ no sound would follow through my voice box. I could feel my ears were overheating and soon they would burst into flames along with the rest of my body. Perhaps falling onto that pitchfork would be more humane than going out by fire.
I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself for impact.
~~~ I awoke with a jolt.
I was sitting up in bed, sweat pouring from my forehead and down my back.
I was ~ maybe ~ ten years old and safe in my parent's house.
Roger laid in a fetal position, coughing up clots and trying, with all of his might, to remain brave. He reached for his cell, pulled it out of his back pocket and slid the unlock icon, seemingly unaware of the massive surge of light it cast into the dark hallway. His fingers dialed the magic numbers, leaving red smudges across the phone's screen.
It rang four times.
"911. What is your emergency?"
His voice shook out a whisper. "I don't know how it got in."
"Hello? Sir? Speak up. What is your emergency?"
He spat another clump of blood onto the hardwood floor. "I don't know... how the...the trouble got in..."
"Sir? Are you okay? Is someone in your house?"
"Not someone...something," he choked.
"Sir? We don't take kindly to pranks-"
"-this isn't a prank," he interrupted. "Please...help me."
"Sir. Are you hurt?"
He stared at the pool of blood billowing around his body. In shock, and unable to believe his fate, he tried to speak. Swallowing hard, Roger cried out, "Oh, God. I am."
The operator giggled. "Sir. God is your only hope right now."
A loud crash boomed from the next room. A shadow emerged and filled the door frame ~ its silhouette large, ominous and shifting; its eyes were the only feature Roger could make out. And he tried not to stare into them; into those blanched eyes that burned white hot into his own.
"Please," he spoke to the dark figure, raising his bloodied hand as a feeble move to defend himself. "Please," he whispered into his cell to the operator on the other end.
"Please," the operator mocked him in a childish tone and chuckled. "Roger. Be strong. This will all be over in another minute."
The cell phone went dead.
Then, the light from its screen shut off.
The pitch blackness was back and all Roger could make out were those eyes.
Those white hot eyes.
And they moved towards him.
He mumbled a half of a prayer, wondering if God would hear him; would even know him.
Those malicious white eyes were level with his own now and he could feel the heat that radiated from them.
A tear slid down his cheek and landed at the corner of his mouth. He welcomed the salty taste.
The red shed sat alone in the field, its only visual company a flock of evergreens on its one side. Spread upon its boards, a fresh coat of red paint that dripped onto the snowdrifts billowing around it.
The structure looked so out of place and how Tara ended up here was beyond her recollection.
She panted little clouds of smoke into the frosty air and trudged on through the snow drifts. Upon reaching the door, that bitter stench of paint filled her nostrils and made her woozy. She grabbed hold of the bronze handle, red paint brushing against the side of her hand. "Damn it," she cursed the air. She tried rubbing it off onto her jeans, but only managed to smear the stain in both places.
She grabbed for the knob again.
This time, she hesitated. Why did she have to go in? What was it that brought her here? Why was she trembling? What did she know that she couldn't remember? Why was she here, stuck in this dream? This nightmare?
She breathed deep, drawing the cold air into her lungs.
She turned the handle and stepped inside the shed.
It was dark and ridiculously quiet.
With only a little stream of light from the open doorway to guide her, Tara paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the shadows.
Looking around, she could see sawdust at her feet; red boards, with that same fresh-paint smell, encased the walls of the room; and in the corner sat a large white basin.
She tiptoed forward, forcing herself towards the porcelain monstrosity.
Her boots click-clacked across the wooden floor.
Nearer the object, a terrible stench of urine caught her nose and she felt herself swallow a bitter taste that seemed to fill the air. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to see it. She didn't want to know. She knew she should run out of there. She knew there was nothing good that was coming out of this dream. This nightmare.
But she couldn't run.
She could barely hold herself up to peer into the basin.
But she did.
And she could never unsee it.
And she could barely catch her breath.
In that same minute, the shed door slammed shut behind her, snuffing out the little bit of light that had guided her.
She heard its handle latch.
She didn't even try to yell.
She didn't run to the door and bang on it or holler for help.
Tara knew why she was here.
She was here to atone.
Her tears fell hard and they fell fast.
She glanced once more into the over-sized basin. All that blood. All those bones. How many victims were there? How many more would there be? How long would she have to stay in this dream? This nightmare?
Tara slumped to the floor and covered her mouth to keep from screaming, knowing now why they called it a slaughter tub.