Nightmare #108

The clown came to me and recited a poem...

Do not go near the pond or it will swallow you whole.
Do not stroll along the beaten path
For there are things that want to make you their own
And I cannot control their wrath.

Do not go looking for ghosts
For they will find you first.
And do not taunt the spirit world
For you cannot predict what they will curse.

Fear the dark and respect the night;
Hold close your own shadow and soul
Bask in the sun and ignore the moon,
Lest it play you for a fool.

~Deevious ~
     #CreepOn

NightLightsCastShadows.com

The Demon's At The Door

  Hi Creepsters.

  Here is another short story from the recesses of my mind.

  It is based on a nightmare that I had a while back 

  and I thought it was time to bring it to life.

  I think the underlying nature of this tale is that of guilt 

  and uncertainty 

  and perhaps a sliver of evil.

 #ReadOn

 #CreepOn

  The Demon's At The Door - Nightmare #130

  by:Deevious

  I left him.

  I did.

  I left him behind in that darkness.

  And I've been ashamed of myself ever since.

  Sick to my core.

  Unable to forgive myself.

  Unable to forget that -

  That thing;

  That creature.

  That hideous monster that devoured him like a last meal.

  I see his face everywhere -

  It haunts me -

  Taunts me -

  Tortures me worse than any creature ever could have hurt me.

  I remember his eyes -

  Big, brown, clear eyes, full of light and promise.

  Full of conviction and passion.

  Until he saw it.  

  I could see his eyes fill with fear and disbelief.

  I think we saw it at the same time.

  I didn't even pause.

  I didn't think he would either.

  But he did.

  I told him to run, but he froze in place.

  Stood still and stiff, like a statue outside a stadium.

  I didn't even turn around, not until I was in the church.

  Not until I was through the doorway.

  That's when I heard his first scream.

  Then, another wail followed.

  It sounded wet and I knew he had blood in his throat.

  I looked into that cold, dark night and saw his body drop to the ground.

  A huge, shadow-like creature with silver hair 

  and crustacean claws hovering over him.

  I yelled so loud and so long I thought my lungs would burst, "David!"

  But the people behind me pulled me into the chapel and closed the doors.

  I kicked and screamed and fought them like a junkie being hauled off to rehab.

  I refused to be consoled and blamed them for his demise.

  I cursed them out in this holy place until there were no hateful words left to spew.

  When I finally collapsed, I laid the blame on myself.

  Blamed myself for loving him in the first place; 

  for accepting his marriage proposal in such a wicked and uncertain time; 

  for allowing myself to believe in a future.

  My mind tortured me with visions and illusions of his death.

  My guilt conjured up unreasonable scenarios and ridiculous outcomes.

  After the tears and the self-loathing, I passed out.

  I fell into an exhausted sleep only to find a land of broken dream pieces 

  and hellish nightmares that left me with more questions than answers.

  And when I awoke to more screams, I realized they were my own.

  A fevered sweat and a swollen head 

  and an aching heart brought me back to reality.

  Brought me back to this wretched new world where monsters roamed free 

  and humans became the hunted.

  A knock at the main door interrupted my thoughts.

  No one would answer it.

  No one would dare.

  But I dared to open it.

  I wanted answers.

  I threw away any regard for safety or for myself.

  I ran to the door with grandiose thoughts of a David reborn, or better yet, saved.  

  I led myself to believe that he had survived the attack.

  The others begged me not to open the door; 

  Reminded me not to invite whomever - or whatever - 

  was at the door into our safe space; Into this holy place.

  “Remember, they cannot break the threshold unless you invite them in,” 

  one of the elders reminded me as I reached for the door handle.  

  “Do not invite them in,” another elder whispered from behind me.

  I threw back the deadbolt and swung open the oak door.  

  “David?” I asked, expecting to see him, 

  wanting nothing more than to fold up that previous nightmare 

  and tuck it away into the alcoves of my mind.  

  Instead, a ghastly creature of great height and width filled the doorway.  

  It’s skin was gray and brittle, like dried leather. 

  It had patches of silver fur around its neck, like a lion’s mane.  

  The creature was huge and hideous and looked like it hadn’t slept in years.  

  “What did you do with David?” I demanded.  

  It studied me.

  “What did you do to him?” I cried out with all the anger I had ever felt in my life.

  It breathed heavily, emitting an awful air of what smelled a lot like  

  raw burger cooking in a frying pan.   

  It spoke softly and with a grin, “I set him free.”

  ~ Deevious 2018-2019 ~

❤Thank you for being here in the darkness with me.

Read more wicked tales at my label: Nightmares 

Nostalgia

Nightmare #144
written by: Deevious

The gloomy shades of winter cast their shadows upon the day and the early night settled in.
A night that made him feel cold and alone.
He longed for a time that had past;
A time so sweet that it left its mark on his memory, like a handprint in cement.

But John knew she wasn't coming back.
He knew she was gone.
His heart told him so, or rather the void in it did.
Was it such a bad thing for them to have been so happy?
To have found each other in this crazy, mixed-up world?
Why couldn't they have had more time?
More good moments?

He blamed himself.
She was distracting him from his mission.
He knew that's why she was taken from him.
He should have just left her alone.
Ignored her that day in the coffee shop.
Shunned her when she bumped into him and dropped her cup.
He should have never extended his hand and introduced himself.
He should have resisted her smile and laughter and charm.
He should have never spoke her name...
Cooper.
What kind of name is that for a lady, anyhow?
But it fit her perfectly -
Her steampunk style;
Her classic, chiseled features;
Her light.

He thinks back to that first meeting with a smile.
Such an impression they had on each other.
But he also knew in that special moment, as soon as he repeated her name, he knew certain wheels had been set into motion.
He knew it was dangerous territory, but he fell hard and fast and needed to be around her.  Her energy was contagious.  Her manner, intoxicating.  She made him better somehow, and above anything else, she made him happy.  A feeling he hadn't had in eons.

"At least I'll have the memories," he whispered aloud.
And he'll savor those memories, like morsels of food, until time decides to take that away as well.
Then what?

He couldn't even be angry anymore.
He was exhausted from all the hostility.
He just wanted to be done with this world.
Done with himself.
He needed the rest.
He was so tired nowadays.
Tired of the shadows only he could see;
Of the voices only he could hear;
Of the messages he was sent to deliver;
Of this curse he was destined to live.

He was just thankful that he hadn't been the one who had to take Cooper.
That would have been awful;
Unforgivable;
Unfathomable;
No bouncing back from that one.
Maybe the Powers knew that and spared him that chore.
He mentally thanked them.
He stored his memories of Cooper into the back of his mind for later.
She did not belong here where he was now.
He would not taint her memory with such an act.
He would pull out those thoughts of her later and sift through them like old photographs and fall asleep dreaming of her.
But for now, he had business to tend to.
He made a pact and he must stick to his end until it was all finished;
Until he was allowed to move on.
Then, maybe, the Powers That Be would allow him to see Cooper again.
Even if they allowed it for a brief moment;
To see her in all of her glory and light;
To spend the afterlife with her.
Yes.
That was something to look forward to indeed.

But now.
Now, he had to focus.
He took a deep breath and pushed Cooper into the recesses of his mind.
He was here on business and he had to focus.
John licked his finger and ran it over his scythe.
He inspected the house - it's clapboard siding; the cookie-cutter shutters; a wrought iron gate that he locked behind him.
He walked up the sidewalk;
Up the three steps on the porch;
Right up to the red oak door.
They weren't expecting him at this time of day, if at all.
They never do.
He took a deep breath and walked into the house.

~ Deevious ~

House Call

I posted this in a five-part series earlier this month.
Here it is in its entirety ~
Hope you enjoy it, Creepsters.

House Call 
written by: Deevious

A spray of chicken chunks and brown slime splashed onto the paper princess, it's pink, crayon-colored dress soaking up the stain.

"No.
 No.
 No.
 No.
 No," the little girl screamed in spurts, emulating the beats in a dubstep remix. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and started to cry.

Her mother scooped her up off the floor. "It's alright, Lyrica. It's all gonna be alright." Grabbing a tissue from the desk, Abigail wiped her daughter's mouth and the snot and blood that oozed from her tiny nose.

"I ruined her," the girl cried out through the tissue, pointing at the princess in her coloring book.

"Eric!" Abigail yelled over her shoulder. But her husband was already running from the kitchen with a dish towel in hand. He squatted beside the vomit and started to wipe up the mess.

The little girl sobbed louder.

"Shhh, Lyrica." Her mother rubbed the girl's bald head. "It's okay, baby. It's okay."

"It isn't. I ruined everything," Lyrica bawled, contorting into a coughing fit that sent a clot of blood flying to the floor.

"Don't fret, Pumpkin." Eric slid a piece of chicken from the picture. "We'll get you another princess. Maybe one who can appreciate a fine meal when it is served to her." He stood up with a click of his heels - imitating a butler's stance - and manipulated his face into a variety of funny faces that seemed to cheer the girl. Her sobs turned to giggles.

The doorbell rang. Abigail and Eric exchanged a look.

"Is it two o'clock already?" She asked with wide, bloodshot eyes.  "We're not ready. We can't possibly do this now." Abigail set her daughter back on the floor by her book.

"If not now, when?" Eric asked, studying his wife's face. Her once luminous complexion, now punctured with wrinkles and worry and fatigue. Her once beautiful, wavy hair, now replaced with a knot of dark roots clumped on top of her head - crazy strands of dead-ends hugging her cheekbones. He knew his own features mimicked hers -
The drawn-in cheekbones.
The cracked lips.
The dark, hollow eyes.
The emptiness.

"If not now, when?" he repeated.

"I just can't -" she whispered, choking on her own words. "I can't go through with it."

Eric caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "It isn't about you."

They both looked at the little girl who sat on the floor, desperately trying to salvage the princess from slime. Sitting there in her own fragility, the little girl looked much older than eight.

Abigail's eyes pleaded with her husband. "Maybe we should recheck his references?"

The doorbell rang again.

"It's time," he said and left the room.

In the foyer, Eric steadied himself and breathed deep.

He studied the front door.
It stood strong and stoic, it's brass handle catching the afternoon sunlight and gleaming an invitation to open it. The etched glass of its center reflected a large shadow, creating a distorted figure on the other side.

Eric stepped quietly.

He took another breath and opened the door.

The man on the porch stood tall against the neighborhood backdrop, filling the space of the door. A dark duster hung on his large frame, reminding Eric of a gunslinger in a cowboy movie. Dark eyes stared through him. Black, leather gloves tightened their grip on a large briefcase.

"Welcome." Eric held out his hand.

The stranger inspected Eric - head to toe, refusing his hand. When he spoke, his voice was deep and he formed the words with his lips before he gave voice to them. "Swanson?"

Eric nodded.

The stranger continued, "I am Cadwell.  I am here for Lyrica."

Eric nodded again, but did not move.

The man in black took a step forward, bending beneath the arch of the doorway, and forcing Eric back. He slammed the door shut behind him, locked it and turned the deadbolt. He turned to Eric - towering over him - and spoke. "Give me the order."

"Uh..." Eric stuttered for a minute or two, confusion overtook him. A little seed of anger began to grow in Eric - a bit of resentment towards this Cadwell, who dared make him feel inferior in his own house.

"Give me the order," Cadwell repeated.

And as if he was suddenly struck with profound wisdom, Eric obliged. "Ah. Yes. The order." Eric fumbled in the back pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a worn brown trifold and with shaky hands, sifted through its contents. He unfolded a scrap of paper and read from it. "Order number 1379."

The huge man nodded approval and made his way further into the house.

Eric followed the stranger into the living room.

The man's boots clanked against the hardwood floor as he strode past Abigail - still cleaning up blood drops, and Lyrica - who resumed working on another princess, this time making her the colors of rainbows. He strode over to the big bay window and looked out onto the sleepy, suburban street. He drew the curtains, snuffing out the afternoon sun. Darkness invaded the room.

"Uh, honey," Eric spoke, his voice a bit shaken, "this is..."

The man turned to the family. "Cadwell."

"Yes. Of course. Cadwell," Eric repeated.

The stranger looked at the imaginary watch on his wrist, ignoring the attempt at conversation. He strolled over to a banister that housed about a dozen carpeted steps from the living room to the second floor of the Swanson home. He gripped the railing and yanked on it repeatedly.

To Eric, it was if the man was trying to rip the structure to shreds.

"This will do just fine," Cadwell commented and made his way to the middle of the room. Here, he inspected the floor, nodding and mumbling to it, as if it held some secret agreement with him. He set his oversized briefcase on the coffee table and with a flick of the numbers, popped open the leather box.  He slipped his hand into a flap on the top inside of the case and pulled out a tiny piece of plastic.  He unfolded it until it expanded to the size of the floor before him.  With a snap - as if he were hanging out the laundry - he laid down the plastic sheet and pressed out its wrinkles.

"What is that for?" Abigail asked, a quiver in her voice.

"It may get messy."

"Messy?" Abigail questioned and clutched Lyrica to her side.

Reaching back into the briefcase, Cadwell pulled out a cable tie and duct tape.  He turned and faced the mother. "Mrs. Swanson?"

Abigail stared at the stranger's hands as he tore off a piece of the tape and replaced the roll back into the leather case. He tilted his head and started towards her.

"Hey," Eric started and stepped in front of his wife. "Hold on a minute."

Cadwell ignored Eric's plea. He reached around the husband and snatched Abigail by the arm, separating mother and daughter.

"Mommy!" Lyrica cried out and latched on to her dad's leg.

"Why are you doing this?" Eric asked, surprised by the calm in his voice.

"She will scream the most," Cadwell stated.

"We didn't sign up for this," Abigail pleaded with the stranger. "Eric!"

"Stop it," Eric yelled, ripping Abigail from his clutches. "Stop it right now."

Cadwell brushed off his duster, walked back to the table, closed and collected his briefcase. "I will go."

Eric looked down at his daughter - her shiny head, the tired eyes, the bandages that covered up all those needle marks, more numerous than those of any junkie.
He was tired.
Tired of it all.

"Please," Eric said. "Wait."

Abigail glared at her husband.

Cadwell paused by the archway to the foyer.

"No." Abigail shook her head vigorously, backing away from her husband.

"Yes." Eric placed his hands square on her shoulders and penetrated her eyes with his own. "This is it, Abby. This is our last chance. Aren't you tired? Tired of all those words?
 Inoperable?
 Incurable?
 Terminal?"

"I know." Tears streamed down the mother's face. "I know."

"Why are you crying, Mommy?" Lyrica asked.

"It is her last chance," Eric said with resolve.

"But why does he have to be so...so...aversive?"

"I don't care what he is, Abby.  He comes highly recommended."

She nodded.

"We did not make this decision lightly.  Now did we?  We are out of options."

She swallowed a sob and nodded in agreement.

Eric gave his best smile of encouragement and turned to Cadwell.  "Please.  Continue."

Cadwell spun around on the heel of his boot. He set up his shop again on the table and approached Abigail. Before she could object, he slapped the piece of tape across her mouth and dragged her to the banister where he zipped the cable tie around her wrists and to the railing.

"Mommy!" Lyrica cried out.

"It's okay, Pumpkin," Eric assured the little girl with a hug.

"What's he doing?" Lyrica screamed for an answer.

"He's here to fix you, Pumpkin."

Cadwell turned to Eric. "Dad?"

"Can't I just hold her?"

"I won't use the tape, if you don't make me." His dark eyes were sincere - but only for a moment. "She'll need to hear a voice."

Eric choked on a sob. "Okay, then."

He placed a soft kiss on top of Lyrica's head and let her go. He stepped next to Abigail at the banister and offered up his wrists. Caldwell obliged him.

Lyrica ran to her parents.

"Come with me," Cadwell's deep voice boomed at her.

"I don't wanna!" The little girl screeched and hung on to her mother's arm.

Cadwell wrapped his arm around Lyrica's waist -

"Mommy!"

He dragged her to the plastic.

"Daddy!"

"It'll be okay, Pumpkin." Eric assured her from across the room, trying to believe his own lies.

Abigail's muffled scream got lost in her throat.

Lyrica struggled to break free from the giant stranger - even managed a good, swift kick to his side.

"She's a fighter," Cadwell told Eric over his left shoulder. Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a syringe, pumped it once and then twice until fluid spewed from its top. Without hesitation, he looked down at the helpless girl and stuck her in the neck with it.

Lyrica yelped like a maimed animal.

From her banister prison, Abigail belted out another muffled scream and like a horse fallen from a race, her legs flailed; her body jerked; and she came dangerously close to dislocating her arms from their sockets.

"Oh, my God," Eric whispered through disbelief. "What have we done?"

Cadwell held onto the girl until she went limp. He laid her on the plastic sheet, smoothing out any wrinkles that creeped up around her. Leaning over his briefcase, he pulled out a jar. It was one of those weird looking mason-esque jars that you'd see in the laboratory of a mad scientist. Inside, three large chunks - immersed in a gooey water-like substance - swam rapidly around in circles, their little legs churning through the yellow liquid.

"What the hell are those?" Eric asked through wide eyes.

"My pets," Cadwell coddled the jar, as a mother would her newborn, and set it carefully beside Lyrica on the plastic.

"Are those leeches?" Eric asked in disgust.

"Something better," Cadwell assured him.  Next, he took out a rectangular pouch and unzipped it, revealing a shiny, large scalpel.

Eric gasped.

Abigail - still trying to break the cable around her wrists - gyrated in madness, like a wind sock puppet at a car dealership.

Cadwell raised his arms out to his sides, a priest at the altar. He mumbled some words under his breath and made a sign of the cross using the scalpel.  He squatted down close to the girl.  With his free hand, he folded Lyrica's shirt to expose her belly.

"No!" Eric cried out.

Bringing down his right hand, Cadwell pressed the sharp blade into her soft skin, releasing a thin line of red.

"Please. We've changed our minds," Eric begged, pleading like a man before the barrel of a gun. "Please. Do not do this-"

"You gave the order," Cadwell reminded him, cutting deeper into the girl's flesh.

"Oh, Gawd!" Eric buried his face into his hands, clawing at his own skin, and telling himself he should just pull it off his bones.

Setting the scalpel onto the plastic sheet, Cadwell picked up the Mason jar and unscrewed its top.

A popping sound echoed through the room.

He dipped his gloved hand into the slimy liquid and removed the first of the parasites.  Long and chunky - the size of a dill pickle spear, and gray in color - the tiny creature wiggled like mad in the man's grip.  He lowered the specimen to Lyrica's belly.  With his other hand, Cadwell opened the incision on her stomach with his thumb and middle finger.  Blood oozed down the sides of her tummy as he inserted the organism into her cavity.

Eric looked away.  He gagged and vomited onto the white Berber carpet that covered the stairs.

 Abigail gave one last muffled cry;

hyperventilated;

and passed out.

Cadwell pressed his hand gently on the little girl's torso and gazed up at the ceiling.  He mouthed a few inaudible words.  The incision stopped bleeding in an instant.  Next, he took another parasite from the jar and opened Lyrica's mouth. Offering it to the oral cavity, he waited as the creature arched its body - as preparing for a dive - bent and slithered into the girl's mouth.

Limp and unconscious, Lyrica still managed to gurgle and cough.

Cadwell removed the final creature from the jar and placed it under the girl's nose.  It struggled to adjust to the size of the nostril, and after what seemed to be an examination of her face, the organism reshaped it's chunky body into a long and slender build. Then it slinked into her left nostril.

"That's the way," Cadwell cooed the parasite. He looked at his imaginary watch and caressed Lyrica's bald head. "It won't be long now."

"You bastard," Eric still spat particles of his lunch onto the carpet. "You son-of-a-bitching bastard."

Cadwell ignored Eric's insults and laid down beside the girl.  He cleared his throat and hummed a melody that sounded more like a funeral march than any song Eric had ever heard.

Minutes passed into an hour.

Abigail awoke and weeped.

Then another hour came and went.

His humming continued.

Eric mumbled to himself, mentally abusive words rang out from time to time.  Once, maybe twice - he's tried to forget it all now - he actually saw the pickle-sized formation of those creatures maneuver under his daughter's skin.

Another hour inched by.

Abigail sat slumped against the steps, streaming in and out of consciousness.

Eric sat, silent.

Staring.

Unaware, like a doped up patient in an asylum.

"Almost there," Cadwell finally spoke.

After another half an hour, Cadwell lifted himself off of the plastic wrap, like a corpse rising from a coffin.

Eric stared at the stranger.

Abigail stared at him too - her eyes dead.

Leaning over Lyrica, Cadwell inspected her belly, nose and mouth.  Just under the skin of her abdomen, a bump was forming.  It took the shape of a ball and raced back and forth above the girl's belly button.  In another minute, the chunky head of the organism popped out from the incision. Cadwell grabbed onto it and pulled it from her gut.  Slime and blood dripped from it and onto the plastic.  He placed it into the jar.

Next, movement began in her cheeks.

Another bump formed.

And another.

Two tails rose out of her mouth.  Lyrica choked and gurgled.  Cadwell snapped up both parasites just as Lyrica awoke.  He dropped them back into the yellow liquid and screwed the lid back on the jar.

Lyrica's chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

Cadwell reopened the mason jar - just a crack - and swiftly dribbled some of that gooey substance onto Lyrica's belly.  Her incision smoked, sizzled and closed shut within seconds.  He pulled her shirt back into place.

The girl rolled over and spat up a batch of blood.

Cadwell tightened the jar and set it back into his briefcase.  He removed a damp cloth and wiped down his gloves and scalpel.

Lyrica coughed uncontrollably and spat up more gobs of blood onto the plastic.

Cadwell grabbed another cloth from his case.  He gently cradled the girl's head in his left hand and wiped her mouth with his right.  He dabbed the wetness under her eyes and followed up with a wipe of snot from under her nose.

He smiled down at her.

She smiled back.

He dropped the used cloths onto the plastic, closed his briefcase and locked it.  He stood, picked up the scalpel and walked over to the banister.  "It is done," Cadwell said and placed the scalpel in Eric's hands.  He turned to Abigail and tipped an imaginary hat. His boots clanked against the floor as he left the room.  The front door clicked twice and closed behind him.

Two Months Later 

"Her recovery is nothing short of remarkable," the doctor said from behind the desk. He rifled through his charts. "I guess the chemo did work after all. And it worked much faster than we could have expected."

Abigail smiled with rested eyes and rubbed the stubble of hair on the back of Lyrica's head.

Eric squeezed his wife's other hand.

"It wasn't the chemo," Lyrica sang out, "it was the cowboy."

"The cowboy?" The doctor questioned with a chuckle.

The couple shared a knowing look.

"Yep. The cowboy with the pickles," Lyrica explained. "He made me all better."

"I'm sure he did," the doctor smiled at her, a bit condescending. "I'm sure he did."

Eric gave his daughter a wink.

Lyrica adjusted the plastic tiara on her head.  She smiled big and winked back - as only a princess could.

  

The End

The Endless Way

Nightmare #91

I couldn't explain my curiosity.
And if I could, I don't think I'd change a thing.
I needed to see it for myself.

I drove that road every day to work and back home again.
That's five - sometimes six - days a week.
I couldn't help myself.
I saw that dirt road - it ran up the hill and into the skyline - and I had to know where it led;
What was at the end of it?
What treasures did it hold?
What were the views like from up there?

I expected to see a beautiful horizon;
Maybe a flowing field of flowers;
Or a pasture filled with grazing animals.
I assumed it would be similar to what you would find at the end of a rainbow.
All goodness and gold.
But it was not.
There was no magic here at all.
Only horror.

I saw things I should not have seen.
I now know things I should not know.
I hold secrets that will haunt me.
That own me.
That I must take to the headstone.

If I tell, They will come for me.
They made that quite clear.
They will distribute their own brand of justice upon me.
All because of my curiosity.
My stupid curiosity.
My childish thoughts of grandeur.

But that blood;
The smell of rot;
The impending doom;
There was nothing pretty about that at all.

It was the thing of nightmares.
And it proved to me the existence of monsters
and the arrangement they have with man.

That road is a path to hell, I assure you.
Take my word for it.
It is a hell on earth and I pity the souls who must walk it.
I pity us -
For we will all have our chance.
Sooner or later, we will all have to take that walk out of here.

But until that day comes...
I truly wish you well.
I wish for you the protection of angels
and the sanity of ignorance.
Above all, I pray for your soul
and for mine.

~by: Deevious~

The Caretaker

Nightmare #34

Her name was Evie.
She walked into my dim, dreary office at the end of the workweek.
She had long legs, short hair and an insatiable taste for acoustics.
She preferred pastels;
looked good in blue jeans;
and smelled like sugar cookies in December.
She lit up the room.

And for this she would have to be punished;
Banished;
Sent away, forever.

After all, I could not have my darkness disturbed -
the spell broken.
I could not have a single shred of light puncture my shade.
And she definitely looked like someone who would want to extinguish the night.

It made me sick for what I had to do.
I didn't want to snuff out her light, but I had to do it.
I had to prove myself;
Show my worth;
Send a message to the others in my profession.

You see, my work is not some menial task.
No, my work is essential.
It's for the corporation.
Thy corporation.
The ones who determine where our souls go to either rot or to flourish.
I could not be interrupted by her lure;
By her sparkle.

So, I accompanied her into the night.
Took up her offer of drink and dance until the wee hours of the morning.
I knew I could poison her drink;
Maybe con her into some dark alley;
Choke out her glow.
And the remorse, well, it would only be temporary.
After a day or two, I would forget all about Miss Evie and carry about my business as usual.
That's the nature of things and I've had to do so in the past;
Had to put many precious flowers to rest.
But that's part of the job ~ the one I agreed to years ago.
Hell, maybe it's been eons now, but I made my pact with blood and I must honor my side of the bargain - and I hate to admit it, but it's quite a rush to have such power; such influence.
I try not to abuse the skills I possess, but sometimes it's hard not to show off my talents;
To flaunt my carving skills;
My relevance.

You see, I am of a specific importance to the underworld.
I make the decisions - the important ones - of who gets to live forever and who gets to be forgotten.

I am the collector of souls; the keeper of spirits; the night watchman.
I consider myself upper management, if you will.
I make or break people.
And even though I would've loved to be stronger than my own will and not have taken Evie to bed with me that morning, I am still only a mortal and quite weak.
And I'm a sucker for long legs.

As I look back upon it now, I can see where I made my mistakes -
when I lost the upper hand.
It was somewhere between her legs and the melting sunrise that spilled into the room.

And to be honest, it didn't hurt as much as I had imagined.
Maybe she was being kind - perhaps she had a soft spot for me as well - or maybe she was just more of a professional.  Whatever the case, the puncture to my abdominal hurt only for a minute, and then it went dark.

And as I examine all the information left in my head, I realize that I was replaceable all this time - that the pact wasn't for eternity, but rather, for a lifetime.
And that I, too, would have to pay for my sins;
Be charged for my debt;
Succumb to my fate.

And even though my fate is not what I had imagined for myself,
I must admit that those last minutes of mortality were the best I had felt in years -
The warmth of the morning sun upon my back;
That taste of burnt liquor that lingered on my lips;
And that sweet smell of cookies...

That makes it all okay.


 ~Deevious~

Stranded

Nightmare #109

I often think back to that day and wonder how things could have been different.  I remember the blue skies of the morning, the warmth of the September sun, and the cool breeze that flowed through the valley and into my car window to play with my hair.
It was perfect weather.  

It was the perfect day.

And what if I had made the slightest change that morning?
Maybe took the time to apply some eye shadow?
Maybe paused in front of the mirror just a second or two longer?
Perhaps if I had went back into the house for my earrings?
But, no, I was already running late.

What if I hadn't pushed that snooze button?
But got right up the very minute Katy Perry sang to me?

What if I had taken the time to pray?

To leave a note?

To send one last text?

Now, all I can do is replay all the what ifs and should haves and the maybes.

Going over and over in my mind how cruel time can be;

How being a minute earlier or just another second later would've erased me from that accident;

Would've removed me from that wreckage;

Spared me from this cold metal slab.

And now, I wander back and forth ~ stuck in this coffin of time ~ 

Aimlessly waiting for direction;

Wanting to go back but unable;

Trying to move forward but denied.  

~by: Deevious~

Cursed

Nightmare #177

Anna Weston was awkward.

Always had been.

Always had that black cloud swarming about her head.
Ever since anyone could remember.

Ever since that day.
The day of the incident.

That's what her family and the town refer to it as ~ the incident.
It happened years ago when Anna was four and still trying to figure out this gift.  Some say she was born with it; others felt she taught herself that kind of darkness.
Anna couldn't quite figure it out herself.  She knew not what it was or where it came from or why it had chosen her.  But Anna knew she was different and tried desperately to hide it.  Had done a good job of it too, until that day.  Well, until that night.
That night she had been shunned from everyone and everything, her family made sure of it.  They felt an obligation to the community to protect it, no matter the cost to their own daughter.
Anna was, after all, different;
peculiar;
cursed.

At school~
Her classmates heard rumors of her abilities; her sacrilege.
They feared her presence among their classes and locker rooms.
Kept a close eye on her in the hallways.

The school board banned her from most school activities, such as dances and social gatherings and sporting events and her very own graduation.  The Principal even failed to mention that she should be the valedictorian.  She was, after all, smarter than all of them put together.  Anna knew it.  And what was worse was that everyone else realized it too.
The teachers resented her knowledge; secretly hated having to teach her what she already knew;
Classmates loathed her for being astute; for acing every test given; for her brains and raw beauty.  Anna was growing up to be quite the looker.

At home~
Dinner was always served to Anna in her bedroom~ which was little more than a cubby-hole in the attic. Anna would listen with great intent at the popularity of her sister; at the laughter that poured from the supper table she was not permitted to sit at; at the smells of warm bread and succulent meats that she never got to see be created into a meal.  She was only given leftovers - unwanted scraps of fat and gristle; half-chewed pieces of cold, hard bread ~ sometimes with the mark of leftover lipstick stained on its crust.

At night ~
Her father and mother would visit her, both heavily armed with rosary beads and garlic.
They were barely able to look at her as they completed the task of chaining and binding her to the bed.
She would laugh ~ out of spite and sadness, knowing that the shackles they bestowed upon her would not-- could not -- contain the energy she held; the energy she could use to summon her friends from the dark side. She laughed, demonically at them, these people she had to call family.
It wasn't till after they left her room, that she permitted herself to sob.
She would cry into the wee hours of the morning, cursing her own self, wanting nothing more than to be treated like a human being.
Just once to be in the limelight;
Just once to be admired and respected.
Or simply loved by another.

Even her own, older sister, Emma, was forbidden to speak to Anna since the incident.  She was taught to fear her; loath her; wish her dead.  Her whole family shunned her for something that wasn't even her fault.   They all lived in tensions, afraid that she would summon Them again; Afraid she would try and offer up another sacrifice ~ maybe succeed this time around.

But Anna never got her chance.  She was destined for greater things, no matter what the past had held against her, she would shine.  She would shine even if it were for only a moment.  She would prove she wasn't a monster; a conduit of evil; a freak that needed to be hidden from society.  So what if her past was speckled with mischief.  She hadn't asked for this curse
For this gift;
For this damnation.

Anna was sad and sorry.
So sorry;
Sorry for it all.
Sorry for scaring her parents;
For being different;
For being bad.
But it wasn't her fault and she didn't know how to turn it off; didn't know it was wrong;
And surely she couldn't be held accountable for something that happened in her youth!

But she was still paying some sort of price; still being hated by those who were to love her.

She thought back and cursed the one known as Dark Heart; those voices; the shadows.  She knows now that it was wrong.  But how was she to know then?  She was only a child.  A four-year-old conduit of some darkness she did not know how to fight.  She remembers it clearly.  Too clearly.

That night ~
She crept into her parents bedroom with a steak knife that had been left in the kitchen sink.  She crawled into bed between them, slit her own wrists (horizontally) and chanted some peculiar language that sounded more like music than anything else (her mother later stated).  Then, Anna held her bleeding wrists above their faces, ordering them to drink the blood of the Dark Heart.
Needless to say, the Weston's never felt safe again.  That is until the day that Anna graduated from Dudleyville High.  It was also the day Mr. Weston handed her a suitcase full of her belongings, a bundle of fifty dollars bills and ~ with a clear conscious ~ wished her well on her way out the door.

Anna was completely alone now.  And quite comfortable with it.  She shrank into the shadows she knew all too well, and although she came and went as she pleased, she knew she wasn't in control of her self.  She only had to suffer her own temporary existence.  And then, one day ~ soon ~ she would be called to offer her body as a gift to the Darkest of Hearts.  So, she moped around town;  cursing her fate;  killing her time between data entry and old movies.

And then, one day, about six years later, she got the call.
Her sister was to be wed and her presence was requested ~ and she was certain ~ objected profusely by Emma and her parents.  But they eventually succumbed to the pressures and charms of the priest of the ceremony, who assured them that family was the skeleton key to the House of Righteousness.

The reverend should have done his research and taken the family's accusations seriously.  For even though the ceremony went off without a hitch, the reception was to be most memorable.
Even to this day, the people of Dudleyville won't speak of it.   But the rumors about that night have made the town iconic and renowned for its dark aura that the townspeople still insist lingers today.

That evening, after the ceremonial wedding of Emma Weston to Joseph Dudley, things turned rancid. At the reception hall, a succulent dinner was served; the finest booze was distributed; and the merriment of guests abounded among the walls of the Dudleyville Town Hall.

It was about two hours into the celebration that Anna became giddy.  She licked the last of the bubbles from her champagne and stood up.

It was time.

She walked out onto the dance floor.  The guests fell silent.

Anna never danced. She was way to self-conscious for that kind of attention.
She had spent her last 25 years trying to become invisible.
She preferred books over people; music over conversation; and hardly ever left her cat, Griffin, and their one-bedroom apartment.
The only reason she was here ~ had to be here ~ was because of her sister. And she was hoping to be accepted before she had to go.  She wanted to finally be part of the crowd;
Part of something normal.
Just once to be accepted as human.
But she wasn't.
And deep-down she knew she never would be.
But she had to try.  And this was, of course, her last chance.

And so what if everyone there refused to speak to her.
Who cares if they only spoke about her in hushed tones.
She thought she'd give them a show anyways.
One last sentiment before she brought down the house.

The wedding band played and she let the music take hold of her;
Move her;
Possess her.

Others, who were on the dance floor at the time, took notice and slowly cleared the floor, giving way to her solo performance.  It was an amazing routine ~ breath-taking by all accounts.  Her family gasped; Emma cried out for her to stop.  Others just watched in silence.  Some women whispered among themselves with a green tongue; others couldn't look away.  The men at the reception - groom included - salivated, unable to hide their want.
All who were there that evening still remember it.
The performance;
The desire;
The blood.

Anna spun around and around the hardwood floor.
She was graceful;
mesmerizing;
sexual.

She danced with the elegance of an angel in flight;
She spun an intricate step of all genres of dance, from ballet to hip hop to folk;
She truly rocked the Town Hall as though it were the performance of her life.
And it was.

The band encouraged the affair and played to her movements.  They howled a beat that was somewhat of a cross between rock-n roll and a tribal march.  But after awhile, they too needed a break.

The spell had been broken.
Or so they thought.

Still, Anna continued to dance as if to her own music ~ a music only she could hear.

But a faint tune was gathering;  gaining sound among the whispers.
And within minutes, the band's music was replaced by another melody - a darker, more callous tune - later described by some of the guests as a sort of jewelry-box-music, and it rang loudly throughout the reception hall.

All eyes returned to Anna as she dominated the dance floor, sweat rolling off her gyrating body.

She was in a trance now, becoming one with music and oblivious to the crowd gathering, that now began to seep concern ~ not really for Anna, but for themselves.

Anna's dance exuded a rhythm from deep inside of her.
It needed to escape.
It had to be released.
Along with her curse.

Words formed and spewed from Anna's lips.
A chanting of some long-ago verse.
And she had no idea she even knew the words.

She ripped off her magenta-colored bridesmaid dress.

The crowd gasped.
No one looked away.
Not yet.

Covered in nothing but her own sweat, Anna swung her body to and fro, possessing every movement with grace and ease.  She twirled around the dance floor like a pinwheel on the wind.

She was hovering just above the floor ~ in a twist spin ~ when the first bone broke.
It jutted out of her calf.
Her screams told the tale of how excruciating the pain was to her.
A few ran to her aide;
tried to soothe her;
console her.
Somewhere someone called for help.

But she wouldn't let anyone near her.
She wouldn't stop dancing.
Maybe didn't want to stop.
Maybe couldn't stop even if she tried to.
So, she kept on twirling.

Another bone protruded from her thigh.
Blood sprayed across the wooden floor.

She stumbled a bit, yet, she continued to dance.  The tune changed slightly, to accommodate her limp and the jewelry -box-music picked up a pace that invoked Anna to perform a solo tango.  She was dragging her one leg to the other side of the room, when the next bones broke.
It was both the left and right humerus that sprung out of flawless skin in her upper arms, like a set of wings put into motion.
The crowd - all but a handful - ran from the reception hall, screaming of the terror that they couldn't even trust that their eyes had seen.
Later, many would even question what they saw and shrug it off as one too many 7 & 7's.

But a few brave souls hung in the reception hall a little longer, only to snap some pics and video on their phones for future evaluation.  Images that later would be too obscure and too out of focus to make out.

By now, Anna's face was beginning to distort, her face rippling like a wave.
She was beginning to lose consciousness.
Her body had betrayed her;
It was no longer her own;
She had no control over it.
It was being sacrificed to the Dark Heart and she could do nothing but dance and comply to its musical tyranny.
And she was okay with that.
At least someone wanted her.

The minutes rolled by, with that tinkle of eerie music that controlled her.  It forced the rest of her skin from her body.  It melted and trickled off her bones like wax off a candle.

She was, literally, a walking skeleton.  Or rather, a dancing one.  And her skin lay upon the floor like a discarded pile of clothes.
Next to it, blood and tissue gushed like water and formed a neat pile up along side of the skin.

Anna and her bones clanked on dancing to its own private, primal tune.
Her jaw bone opened and from it came a yell so excruciating that even the hounds of hell whimpered in their dwellings.

Her screams rocked the room; shook the tables to their sides and broke every last glass and bottle in the joint.  The last of the onlookers ~ whose shock finally jolted them free ~ bolted into a mad dash for the exit.

She laughed a horrendous, evil clown laugh.  A laugh so deep and twisted it shattered the windows, bathroom mirrors and fractured Anna's own bones into fragments.  These fragments crumbled.  Bone dust sprinkled to the floor like glitter.

The music stopped.



If you ask anyone in Dudleyville ~ to this day ~ most still hold their silence about the incident at the Town Hall that night of November 12, 2001.
Others, who spoke openly about the events have long been forgotten by some freak accident or untimely death.
No video or picture from the reception has ever been recovered.
The rest of the people in town remain silent.
The people of Dudleyville know how to keep a secret.
The Weston family buried the dust remains of Anna in the local cemetery.
Once buried, they never stepped foot near her grave again.
A keeper of the cemetery grounds insists that he hears a kind of jewelry-box-music emitting from her grave site whenever the moon is full.


~written by: Deevious~

Burn With Me

Nightmare  #189

A whisper tickled my left ear.
I adjusted my pillow.

Another murmur resonated in my thoughts.  It was low and throaty and I could barely make out the words but I was damn sure it was part of my dream, part of my unconsciousness.

Burn... me.

Hardly awake, I shifted the covers over my shoulder and basked in the warmth from the blanket.

Burn.  With.  Me.

I sighed heavily. A low grunt of my own wiggled in my throat.  Go away, I thought.

Burn.  I heard a voice growl louder.  The word echoing through the room like some club remix.

Burn-burn-burn-burn-burn-burn-burn-

I opened my eyes.

A lady stared back at me.

She had the darkest brown eyes I'd never seen, like chocolate.
And hollow.
And empty.
And I could somehow see through them.

I maneuvered some sort of karate kick under the blankets - that went no where near the threatening figure - and mixed it with a barely audible scream.

I was definitely awake now.  The haze of some forgotten dream lingered faintly in my mind.  I blinked the film from my eyes.  The bedroom was dark with a slight haze of a streetlight that poured in through the crooked blind.  The hour was unknown, but I guesstimated I had to be lost in the darkness closer to dawn.

I shook the remnants of slumber from my head and was certain the lady was gone, just a leftover morsel of a bad meal.

But I could feel her somehow.  Knew she still lingered.

My eyes darted about the room as I grabbed for some sort of weapon on my nightstand.
Noisily, I clunked around it contents and ended up holding a bottle of eye drops.

Nice, I thought.  Then out loud, "Yeah, that will scare her."
I waved the tiny bottle of salt water ferociously as a blade.
"Get outta here," I called out.  "Just go."

She popped up from the corner of my bed.

I screamed.  Very loud.

I could see the lady clearly now, as she stood standing...
floating...
lingering...
near the corner of my bed.  And she seemed to mock my screams by tilting her head and forcing a confused facial expression.

I got a better look at her now.  She was easy to make out in the darkness, her body glowing brightly as if stuck under a black light.  Her skin radiated a bright white, with the bluest of veins and purple hues.
Her lips glistened the most perfect shade of pink; but were lined with black cracks and bloodied scabs.
A thick heap of silver hair matted her face and through it emerged a pinkish hue.

Her head was seeping blood.

I screamed again.  Then, I stared.  My mouth hung open, and I shivered from fear, waiting for some sort of death to come over me.  I questioned myself mentally, wondering why she just floated there, not attacking me like so many horror movies I had watched in the past.

I was petrified at the silence;
at the stillness of the scene;
at the anticipation.

I tried to push another scream through my open mouth - believe me I tried - but could not force one.
I had fallen just as silent.

Then, I heard it.

Burn.  Burn.  Burn with me.  She moaned through cracked lips that now dripped a blood to match that which fell from her hairline.

I gasped, certain I was having a nightmare; certain I only had to wake myself up.  So, I started shaking my head, violently.  I must have shook my head a dozen times.

But she was still there;
still bleeding out;
still wishing me to burn...

Then, I smelled it.

All that shaking must have jarred something loose and my senses came alive.
All of a sudden, I could hear the flicker.  My nose breathed in the smoke.

I threw the blankets off my body, slithered across the bed (away from whatever she was that was blocking the other side) and swung open the door.  I ran into the hallway.

Flames licked the walls.

Fire swooped across the ceiling, drinking the plaster as it danced.  It was making it's way from one end to the other, and I was in its path.

Why the hell isn't the smoke alarm ringing its lungs out?!?!

I spun around to confront my intruder.
The lady who surely started this inferno.
The one who wanted me dead.

But she wasn't there.

She was no where in the room.

I knew I didn't have time for this bullshit.
I ran to the window, flipped the lock, slid it open, popped the screen and shimmied out into the crisp night.

As my bare feet felt the cold, January ground, I spun around to see the severity of the situation.  It was a complete inferno that was consuming the house and it grabbed chunk after chunk of the place like a hungry orange monster at a buffet.

I silently thanked God that I lived alone and that I made it out; I cursed myself for not grabbing my cell phone; and I wondered if any of my books would survive?  Maybe just one of them?

But as I watched the flaming monster devour every square inch of my now former residence, I doubted anything would survive its fiery vengeance.

The building was crumbling now and near collapse.  I could hear sirens in the distance.
I saw a silhouette move past my bedroom window.  The lady slid the blind to one side and stared out at me ~ her skin still glowing, her head still leaking blood.  She almost seemed to smile.

Then, it hit me.
I gave her a nod.  A sort of thank you gesture.
A feeble attempt at some gratitude for waking me;
for scaring the shit out of me;
for getting me moving at such an hour.

Don't waste it.  I heard her creepy voice in the back of my mind.  And with that, she nodded back; folded her hands in prayer and stepped backwards, disappearing among the blaze.

"I won't," I whispered back.  "I won't."

~by: Deevious~

Frightened

Perhaps we are what we fear the most.

~Deevious~

Taut.

Found image at We Heart It

Tired.
Twisted.
Tangled.
Tattered.
Taunted.
Tormented.

Their Intentions

They try to break me ~

The darkness, wanting to take me ~

Evil, trying to make me ~

Hell, dying to bake me.
          
  ~Deevious~

Breakfast

Breakfast - Nightmare #117
I awoke, not knowing the hour.
All I could smell was bacon.

I sensed something too ~ the fact that I wasn't alone.
I bolted upright in bed; my heart racing; my nerves uneasy.
Struggling with my surroundings in the prominent darkness, my mind ached as it came out of some sort of dream that had dissolved with my sudden movement.
I tried to focus, unsure where I was and unable to determine anything familiar in the room.
And although I couldn't fully envision anything for certain, my other senses were working perfectly.

I could hear something breathing.

It was a low, interrupted wheezing sound, like that of an elderly man with emphysema.

I dared not speak.  Figured the sound was just in my head - a leftover morsel of a bad dream.
But I heard the breathing again.
It sounded closer this time.
My mind raced with ideas and scenarios and questions and ways to escape.
I doubted that I could make it to the light switch; questioned if I could even find it.
I decided to sink down, slowly, with the least possible movement or noise.
I slipped back under the blankets, using them as a sort of protective shield.

If I'm covered up, nothing can possibly get in.  
Right?!
Oh, the false teachings we're given as children.

I pulled the warm covers over top my head, allowing only the slightest slit for my nose.
I tried to calm my breathing; thought happy thoughts of vacation and lovers; told myself this was all just an overactive imagination; a late-night snack fighting me back.

I listened intently, the silence cutting through my ears like a locomotive's horn.
Nothing.
I no longer heard the wheezing.

Definitely just my mind playing tricks on me.

And then, I heard a tussle of my blankets.
I felt the warmth of a breath on my face.

No.  
No. 
No.

It's breath smelled, at first, like bacon sizzling in a frying pan on a Sunday morning.
Then, it turned.  It turned sour and bitter, like milk left on the counter overnight.  I tried not to vomit.  Tried desperately not to breath it in; not to acknowledge it at all.

Don't open your eyes.  
Do not open your eyes. 

I squeezed them tighter.  Clenched my jaw and prayed silently, hoping God really could hear my thoughts.

A horrific scream stung my ears.  A wail so loud, it was like a knife jabbing me in the chest. I caught my breath.  My eyes could only react and they jolted open.

I couldn't take it back.  It had seen me.  Worse yet, It had seen me seeing It.

And I knew at that very moment I was going to die.  Maybe worse than that, suffer and then die.
I knew it just as sure as you know a cop's siren is meant for you and not the guy in front of you.  I knew it like you know you're going to puke ~ that awful churning feeling, coupled with a rancid taste and a dizzy head.  And I did.  I threw up.  I threw up all over this thing.

This thing could only be described as a creature; some sort of specimen that those cryptozoologists would love to have in their labs.  It was all twisted and taut, it's body resembling a tree more so than a human or animal.  It's eyes were red and glossy with a milky substance that oozed from its corners.
My God did it stink ~ a terrible smell that emulated the laundry room of a hospital.
It had no mouth, and for a moment I was relieved knowing I wouldn't be it's next meal.  But then its neck opened up.

Yep, it's goddamn neck opened up like the trunk of a car.  It let go another scream, just as horrendous as the first one.  It's neck vibrated, releasing a spray of what could only be described as motor oil.

I screamed back.  Just as loud and just as long.

The creature stopped.
It stood up, revealing to me its enormous size.
Tilting its head, and towering by, at least 12 feet, it studied me for a moment.
Then, it leaned in.  We were face to mangled face.

I covered my mouth with my hands forcing the scream to a muffle.
I started to cry.
Again, the creature opened its neck and spat the oil at me.
I closed my eyes from the sting.  Suddenly, I felt tired.
Very, very tired...

I awoke, not knowing the hour.
All I could smell was bacon.
                     

         ~Deevious~

Trapped

Nightmare #20

Find pic and/or purchase artwork here

The darkness will find you
---living large
---stuck in the light
---free from worry.
And It will trick you
---get you
---and drag you
To where the flame flickers no more;
To where there isn't a key for the door.
And you can scratch
---and tear
---and pick
at the wood forevermore.
             
               ~Deevious~

Dipped in Blood

Nightmare #128
As you sleep, They stand next to me.
It seems Heaven forgot about me
And Hell waits, patiently, to take me in -
To fill me up with It's sin.

On the wall, they dance.  
Upside-down shadows twist to a music only they can hear.
If I have to go - forgive me.
Don't look for me -
Waste no prayers on me -
It'll be too late by then.
I'll already be 
-unstable
-unsavory 
-unholy.

And, make no mistake, I will try to suck you in ~
To drink your blood 
And devour your soul.

Run from me.
Hold your crucifix up high.
Stand your ground and pray for the angels to take you home.
                                                        
                                            ~Deevious~