Unarmed - Part Two

The little blonde hairs on my arm lift up and I strain my eyes into the darkness, blinking and waiting for them to adjust.  But I cannot see what I need to see.  I can only hear those awful shrieks - each one in unison, as if they practiced before they came here - and they're coming down the short hallway to my room.

Mixed with the shrieks are the pitter-patter of feet.  It sounds as if hundreds of footsteps are pounding against the ground, like the corridors of a school after the final bell for summer break.

What the hell?

Is it a parade?

A herd of animals?

A crowd of people?

Could it be a colony of ghosts?  

But do ghosts have feet?

I would assume ghosts would be somewhat quieter than this group that’s out in the hall.

Maybe it's rats?

It is the city.  It would not be unheard of here.

My guess is some salt heads looking for cheap jewelry and their next fix.

But how many are there?

If only the lights worked.

The television set, that's usually on all hours of the night, sits quiet.

My cell is off.  I know it had been fully charged at bedtime, but now it sits dead and of no help to me.

My arm reaches out to the lamp beside my bed.

I flip its switch.

I click it again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

Everything is dead.

What - or who - could cause this?

Living alone for this long - and having seen enough Criminal Mind episodes to know one must always be prepared - I am a little surprised by my lack of protocol.  I do have an alarm system (thanks to the previous owners); a gun (thanks to an over-protective dad) and a bottle of hornet spray next to my bed (thanks to an episode of 20/20) but what I want right now is to be able to see in this room.  I want to be able to see what’s about to come through that door.  (Which brings up a very good and debatable question.  Would you want to see it coming?  And by it, I mean death.  I guess the answer is different for all of us.  Personally, I’m not convinced either way, but I sure would like to know who the hell is on the other side of my door.)

I'm guessing from the parade of footsteps that the alarm has either been disabled or broken.

As for the gun, I know I’m not fully awake enough to find it and load it with bullets, which I think may be in the closet anyway.  (I curse myself for not taking safety more seriously and for not having it ready for such an incident.) 

So, as the stampede of footsteps inch closer and closer to my door - playing more with my over-active imagination than my nerve - I grab for the hornet spray on my nightstand, 

cock the bottle, and say a silent prayer. (I'm sure God is wondering who I am and where the hell I've been up until now, but I figure it's worth a try.)

With my finger on the trigger, I am ready to defend my honor, my collection of glass unicorns (don't ask), and my measly lifestyle.

I stare, wide-eyed, into obscurity - still trying to make out any kind of shadow or light that might seep underneath the door.

Nothing.

I stare in apprehension and into complete darkness.  

I am ready to fight.

The screams and footsteps stop abruptly.

I sit poised with my bee spray.

I wait to attack whoever - or whatever - is about to come through that door.  

But, I hear nothing.

I hear nothing for a long while.  

The silence deafens my ears.

It feels like time, too, has decided to stand still.  Maybe it's taking a short break from running itself.

Perhaps a time warp of sorts?

Who knows, but this time lapse is making me sleepy again.

My body relaxes a bit, it's initial adrenaline-rush replaced by fatigue.

Finally, the door creaks open - ever so slowly and just like in a mother-fucking horror movie or like one of those ghost-hunting shows after they brow-beat the spirit into communication and it decides to show them a sign. (Probably just so it can be left alone or go back to sleep.)

I take a quiet, but deep breath.

I hold it in.

I aim, ready to open fire of hornet poison to whatever stupid son-of-a-bitch has dared to enter my humble dwelling.

Wham!

The door slams open and I almost piss myself.

My heart smacks against my rib cage.

A loud whoomph echoes through the apartment as the door hits the wall.

I scream.

I jump out of bed and in the process drop my only line of defense.

The spray can clinks to the hardwood floor.

The room fills quickly with hoards of floating entities. 

In unison, these ghastly figures give out one long, loud, horrendous scream from their throats. The mirror on my wall cracks beside me. I can hear glass break in my bathroom. Their sound makes my ears bleed.

I scream back just as loud, out of fear and pain and panic.

I drop to the floor, struggling on my hands and knees to find that spray bottle.

I cannot find it.   

I am doomed and I decide to use profanity as an imaginary shield.

Incomprehensible words fly out of my mouth.

In retrospect, it wouldn't have mattered if I had emptied that whole can of spray on these beasts or unloaded a whole chamber of lead into them.  They were coming for me one way or another and they were not leaving until their job was finished.

It was obvious to me and to any onlooker - had they been there - that I was 

out-numbered;

Unarmed;

Undermanned.

My eyes, however, were adjusting to my circumstances and I was finally able to get a good look at my intruders.

That's when I started to cry...

(Find out what happens to Deanna and what the creatures are after.

Stop back for the rest of the story tomorrow.)

#ReadOn

#CreepOn

UnArmed - Part One

Unarmed 

          by: Deevious

Nightmare #89

Hi.

My name is Deanna.

Deanna Grayson.

I have always been a follower.

Take one look at my Twitter account and you'll see it's true. 

I've never made any decisions - well, any important ones.  Today, I have chosen the black yoga pants over the gray ones, but besides that, I struggle with almost anything new.  

And I'm okay with that.  

I’ve always been this way.  

I have always been grateful to slide through life, effortlessly. 

To follow the pack;

To hang on the sidelines and watch others play the game.

I was happy with this measly existence.

Then, the monsters came.

One day, I was living a quiet, normal life - a lonely one, mind you - but it was mine, all mine.

I had a nice, little two-bedroom apartment in the city and a hub of nearbys ~ 

My favorite pizza shop, where they make the best thin crust around;

A hair studio, with reasonable prices and busy beauticians who never ask too many personal questions;

The Supermarket, which is really a gigantic warehouse where I can get anything and everything I would ever need and where I can blend into the crowd easily;

A kick-ass Fruit stand, which is super important to me;

And the book store, where I buy all of my reads and it’s literally called The Book Store.

My life consisted of a five-block radius.

I knew the people;

The hours;

The routine.

I wasn't changing the world, but hell, it wasn't changing me either.  It was a schedule, dammit.  And I was happy with it.  So what if I wasn't big on socializing with everyone I met.  I'm an introvert and that's what we do.  We ignore people and live in our heads and spend our time alone.  

That doesn't mean I wasn't here.

That doesn't mean I wasn't living.

Then, one Tuesday evening I'm sipping broth from a bowl of Ramen Noodles (a favorite of mine since my college days and I’m not talking the good ones from the Asian market down the street, I’m talking the really cheap ones that come wrapped in plastic); I'm watching a little TV to unwind from my day of repetition and disapproval (telemarketing isn't for the weak).  But now that I am thinking about it, horror isn't for the weak either.  Which reminds me of that quote by Jean Lorrain:

"The charm of horror only tempts the strong." 

Maybe I’m just that strong and that is why these things came to visit me.

That has to be it.

I'm only one of the very few who could actually handle their invasion.

But why me?

Why now?

Am I to blame somehow? 

Is it my genetic make-up, on some level, that has made me more vulnerable than others?

Should I examine this further?  Research the argument between nature versus nurture? Maybe Freud was right all this time.  Perhaps all of this could be put on my mother.

That would explain a lot.  (And totally reinforce my suspicions of her.)

But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself.

Try and keep up.

You must forgive me for jumping around in conversation.  These days, my mind takes fits and it isn't what it used to be.  (Hey, once you've been haunted to this extent then you can talk to me about focus.)

Anyways, it was a Tuesday.

After a nine-hour telemarketing shift, I indulged in my normal routine:

Oodles of Noodles;

A couple of cold beers;

The latest Netflix series;

And then off to bed.

It was sometime before the dawn - when time hangs suspended somewhere between the darkness and the first light.

All at once.

Without warning.

Without hesitation.

The monsters came.

And let me tell you something about them, they were organized.  

Organized like those flash mobs in the park.

At first, I thought it was a dream.

But the screams assured me it was not.

Nothing in this lifetime will wake you up like a bloodcurdling, ear-piercing, heart-pounding banshee scream at four in the morning.  Nothing.

Sometimes - if it's really, really quiet- I think I can still hear that scream echoing inside my head.  

And when it does, a migraine haunts me for about an hour.  

So, I try not to think too much about that night, but it's hard to suppress the horror; all those images; all the terrible creatures.

 And I believe that on some psychological level, I need to get it all out and tell someone.  I feel compelled to share my story.  

Sharing it helps calm the tremors.

It helps with the voices too.

And since I cannot share it with my grocer or beautician or on social media - well, not without consequence - I thought of you.  

Why not create a little do-it-yourself therapy session and transform these neurotic emotions into text; into words; into a story to share and pass on; to warn and inform.

Why not share the scare?

And I think to myself, what if it helps one other person out there?  

What if, someday, they come for you?  

Then you’ll know you're not alone.  

You might even survive.

And if you do, then you can come and find me and we can hash out these demons as one.  

We can face them together.

There's always been a certain safety in numbers, and I've come to learn that company can be a good thing and that being alone all the time isn't the best way to spend a life.  Maybe these leftover morsels of screams and fits of anxiety are actually a reminder - 

A memory designed to keep me in check; to stay on point; to be appreciative, grateful, ferverous. (If that is even a word.  I think it should be, so I'm leaving it in.)

There I go again, spouting off crazy shit and examining my neurosis.  

Sometimes it does get the best of me, but I'm working on it.

Aren’t we all a work in progress?

Okay, back to it.  I was caught somewhere between REM and reality - in and out - in and out - kind of like that sleep you get on an airplane - short, refresher naps that always end in a head jerk, where everything is a bit broken up and foggy.

I did a final head jerk and opened my eyes.   

I immediately knew something was off.  The air was electric and it was wearing static like a pair of leggings out of the dryer.

You could actually smell the energy in the room - a strange, warm scent that seemed to replicate more fire than smoke.

And I'm back there again...

(Stop back for part two of the story tomorrow)

One

Did you come to raise the dead?







#MusicMonday

#One

#RockOn

#CreepOn

#RaiseTheDead

Stop Back

My Creepsters,

I have an incredible short story coming to you next week. 

It will drop in 3 parts starting on Tuesday, the 23rd.

It's something to look forward to as it was one hell of a nightmare that I had and decided to add some character to it.  I hope you'll stop back to take a look and give some feedback on its voice.

Thank you, once again, for being part of the darkness around here.

Thank you for being so good to me so I can continue to write and live my nightmare, 

er, I mean my dream.

#CreepOn,

  ❤DeeVious

Got Ghosts?

Now is the best time to visit other worlds and realms and ideals through books.

Here is a short story that many have found to be creepy and charming.

I hope you like its darkness.

I hope you'll go and Meet Meredith too.

And when you do, leave a review for the others!

Meet Meredith Now

👻

#ReadOn

#CreepOn

A Word From the Author

My love of the darkness has been a bitter struggle.

I have defied it for years and years; 

I have fought its lure and its invasion; 

I have tried to shut it out time and time again.

At first, it was due to youth.

I was simply frightened by it.

I was afraid of the dark and its shadows and its uncertainty.

I had nightmares from a very young age and didn't know what to do with them.

So, I suppressed.

I ignored them.

I also had a sister who made it easy.

Many nights, when the shadows reached out to me, she would reach for my hand, comfort me and chase them away, back into the darkness; back into their hell.

As I grew up, I invested my energy in school and activities.

As a teenager, I was much too old to believe in ghosts anymore.

So, when nighttime came, I would shut out my nightmares with flashlights and television and the promise of morning.

I kept on suppressing these dream demons; fighting their presence; ignoring their call.

Then, came life.

As we age, we are taught to fear the real monsters of this world - people who want to do us harm. 

So, I traded these beliefs as my own and prevented my imagination from developing into anything more than what I was told.

I focused on work and play and drink.

After all, no one needed to hear about an adult having nightmares.

Today, I have come full circle.

I have accepted the nightmares and the stories they tell me.

I am a grown up and no one can tell me what-is and what-is-not anymore.

I realize that these nightmares are teaching me two things: 

First, my own mind is working on itself, sorting through the everyday stuff that lingers in the unconsciousness.

Second, there is something sinister that awaits in the shadows.  

So, I log these dream demons now.  

I do this in the hopes of understanding myself better.

I do this to acknowledge that other world that we, as grownups, have tried to suppress for years now.

I keep these nightmares in stacks of journals for reference.

Some I create into stories for entertainment purposes. 

Some, well, some I keep hidden because I fear giving them a voice may also give them a life.

And this life might give them too much power;

And it also might give us too much pause.

Because no one needs to know what's watching them as they sleep.

So, in conclusion.

That's a little bit about me.

That's a little bit about why I write and why I love it.

That's a little look into my world.

Thank you for listening.

Thank you for taking the time to read it.

Thanks for being here.

Until next time, my Creepsters.

Sleep well and

Get a night light.

#CreepOn,

 ~ ❤DeeVious

"Never go into the forest,

for there are many dangers there,

and they will ensnare your soul."

 ~ Robert Beatty ~