Fenix, my adorable cat. Rather my room mate's cat. I love him as though he was my own. Always purring, always affectionate, Fenix is my buddy. There was this odd time where he was more than a bit weird. It was a warm afternoon, with Fenix wanting to play. His fat feline frame bouncing on and off the couch in my room up in the attic. I was wrinkling up paper and tossing it for him to catch. After an hour or so, I was getting tired so I passed out on my couch with the purring cat in my arms being the last thing I felt.
A few hours later I woke up from my nap and saw the cat on the floor. He was laying there, as cozy as he ever was. I stumbled up out of the couch and started to walk towards him. Fenix hissed at me, his ears pulled back and eyes open wide. It threw me back. He'd never been this aggressive to me before. The cat's wide eyes met mine, then shot up to gaze above me. Fenix turned around and bolted away right before my tired, sleep filled eyes. Down the stairs he darted with a putter-patter at a rapid pace.
Still waking, I merely thought of how weird that was. Before I could think of anything else, I heard the deep, heavy breathing directly behind me. I felt hot air brush my neck, and I ran down the stairs as almost as fast as the cat.
I never saw what was behind me. I hope I never will.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Saturday, August 16, 2014
The Clawing Darkness Part One
Dolor house, is where it began. My
nightmares all turn to that melancholic place hidden in the woods. I
cannot sleep in my old age without dreaming of its fantasies and its
terrors. The eldritch dreams are still easy to recollect after all
these years, let alone the actual recollections of the events in that
mansion. I however cannot remember the location or the placement of
it's geography. If it's due to the mind at an old age, or rather that
the place never existed within this plane of reality, I'm not sure if
I will ever or want to find out.
As a youth I lived in a family estate on a small island inside of a lake. It was often referred to as a moat. The waters were more than fairly muddy, the fish plentiful in both variety and sheer amount. There was a very thick forest to the east of the lake, which I was prohibited from wandering into. Father often told me there was dragons lurking about while having a hearty chuckle. I obeyed mother's strict commands for not going into those very thick woods. Yet after some years it's mystery and adventuring invitations became to great to dismiss out of fear of my parents wrath. I grabbed a boat on the dock and paddled east.
Upon docking my boat, the air had a noticeable heft. Petrichor danced around the trees. It was mid day, yet a dimming of light seemed to fall along the ground. It was like dusk at lunchtime. I shook it off as cloud cover and pressed onward. Weaving through the foliage and trees in a wanderlust, I traveled deeper into the forbidden wood. For several hours I trekked into the thick until I came upon a cliff.
It was a deep, steep, ragged drop. A rocky verge leading to a bed of dead vegetation with rotting roots protruding through it's layers. I sat down at the cliff, enjoying the wonder of the environment; With a deep breath I let my imagination process those dragons father spoke of in this fantastical place. I couldn't figure out if I was pulled by my ankle, or rather the ground below me gave way. I began to slip and descend to the ground below. A great pain shot across my anatomy followed by nothingness.
As a youth I lived in a family estate on a small island inside of a lake. It was often referred to as a moat. The waters were more than fairly muddy, the fish plentiful in both variety and sheer amount. There was a very thick forest to the east of the lake, which I was prohibited from wandering into. Father often told me there was dragons lurking about while having a hearty chuckle. I obeyed mother's strict commands for not going into those very thick woods. Yet after some years it's mystery and adventuring invitations became to great to dismiss out of fear of my parents wrath. I grabbed a boat on the dock and paddled east.
Upon docking my boat, the air had a noticeable heft. Petrichor danced around the trees. It was mid day, yet a dimming of light seemed to fall along the ground. It was like dusk at lunchtime. I shook it off as cloud cover and pressed onward. Weaving through the foliage and trees in a wanderlust, I traveled deeper into the forbidden wood. For several hours I trekked into the thick until I came upon a cliff.
It was a deep, steep, ragged drop. A rocky verge leading to a bed of dead vegetation with rotting roots protruding through it's layers. I sat down at the cliff, enjoying the wonder of the environment; With a deep breath I let my imagination process those dragons father spoke of in this fantastical place. I couldn't figure out if I was pulled by my ankle, or rather the ground below me gave way. I began to slip and descend to the ground below. A great pain shot across my anatomy followed by nothingness.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
I think I've been here before.
Here I was at the university; my third year! I could finally go to a dig site and get hands on experience. Gobekli Tepe was the assignment. Located in turkey, it would be the farthest I'd travel from home here in the states. My excitement ran amok when I was told that less than five percent of the site had been explored. I could make archeological history on a simple assignment! I rushed to pack my things and rest for the upcoming trip.
The little bit of sleep I got was troubled at best. Odd dreams of rituals and sacrifice haunted me throughout the night. I brushed it off as anxiety and jitters from the trip. I told my parents I love them, kissed my girlfriend goodbye, and headed to the airport. Amazement on my mind and ambition in my intent, I was going to make a find.
During the flight, I was quite tired so I decide to get some shuteye. Those dreams kept coming back, of tribes and fire; of spirits and sacrifice. This time they were far more vivid. My professor woke me to get me to calm down during my sleep. Finally we made it to turkey.
The sun bearing down on me that first day was nearly unbearable, the work was brutal too. There was no major findings to speak of. Yet the sheer excitement never left my face even for a second. It took minutes for the simple assignment to become a labor of love. Professor Milton was more than excited to see my work ethic flourish on the field. I couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity though. It was a wicked case of Deja Vu.
On day three, after extensive digging we came across a finding: a skeleton. The nearly complete skeletal remains of a person, Missing a few ribs, a foot, and it's hands. The professor said by looking at the pelvis we can make an educated guess that it was a male, possibly in his 20's. He had been there a while by the looks of it. Then someone said they found a watch fossilized in stone which caused a huge hush. While everybody was talking about it, I found my piece of history. It looked like a talon made of nickel or some shiny metal.
So I picked it up and everything went black.
Oh god, I've been here before. They're cutting off my hands! Help me! I'm here! I'm not supposed to be here!
Professor Milton spent two weeks to find Micheal to no avail. He told Micheal's family, assuming he died due to exposure. The professor went to task identifying the watch for investigation. After brushing off sediment he cam across some writing on the back. While he couldn't get it all cleared up, one word was fully visible: Mike. So he thumbed through the school photos and there it was, Micheal's lucky watch.
The little bit of sleep I got was troubled at best. Odd dreams of rituals and sacrifice haunted me throughout the night. I brushed it off as anxiety and jitters from the trip. I told my parents I love them, kissed my girlfriend goodbye, and headed to the airport. Amazement on my mind and ambition in my intent, I was going to make a find.
During the flight, I was quite tired so I decide to get some shuteye. Those dreams kept coming back, of tribes and fire; of spirits and sacrifice. This time they were far more vivid. My professor woke me to get me to calm down during my sleep. Finally we made it to turkey.
The sun bearing down on me that first day was nearly unbearable, the work was brutal too. There was no major findings to speak of. Yet the sheer excitement never left my face even for a second. It took minutes for the simple assignment to become a labor of love. Professor Milton was more than excited to see my work ethic flourish on the field. I couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity though. It was a wicked case of Deja Vu.
On day three, after extensive digging we came across a finding: a skeleton. The nearly complete skeletal remains of a person, Missing a few ribs, a foot, and it's hands. The professor said by looking at the pelvis we can make an educated guess that it was a male, possibly in his 20's. He had been there a while by the looks of it. Then someone said they found a watch fossilized in stone which caused a huge hush. While everybody was talking about it, I found my piece of history. It looked like a talon made of nickel or some shiny metal.
So I picked it up and everything went black.
Oh god, I've been here before. They're cutting off my hands! Help me! I'm here! I'm not supposed to be here!
Professor Milton spent two weeks to find Micheal to no avail. He told Micheal's family, assuming he died due to exposure. The professor went to task identifying the watch for investigation. After brushing off sediment he cam across some writing on the back. While he couldn't get it all cleared up, one word was fully visible: Mike. So he thumbed through the school photos and there it was, Micheal's lucky watch.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Two sentence horror stories.
The last man on earth was in his locked room reading a book. His concentration was broken by a knock at the door.
Disregard what you have heard about the boogeyman. The creature has no problem wearing the skins of it's victims.
I couldn't stand the barking dog just outside to my bedroom window at night. I became terrified because I realized I live on the 5th floor.
As a single man living alone, I was startled by the doll I discovered in my bedroom. Countless attempts to throw it away have failed.
Seeing my daughter after all these years was strange. Her body hadn't decomposed at all in the past 20 years.
Prison is a bitch. Especially when you're the only one locked in there.
This bathtub has a terrible clog. The blood just simply won't go down the drain.
Despite what anyone says, I'm fine. Please help me.
Tonight's meal was simply delicious! The little girl went well with the side of potatoes.
I peered into the darkness of the train tunnel with mild fear and curiosity as I said "I'm just paranoid." The darkness whispered back "No you're not".
The tendrils keep reaching my windows. I cannot fight them back much longer.
I awoke in the spring afternoon from the comfort of my bed. To my horror my intestines and blood were covering my covers.
Disregard what you have heard about the boogeyman. The creature has no problem wearing the skins of it's victims.
I couldn't stand the barking dog just outside to my bedroom window at night. I became terrified because I realized I live on the 5th floor.
As a single man living alone, I was startled by the doll I discovered in my bedroom. Countless attempts to throw it away have failed.
Seeing my daughter after all these years was strange. Her body hadn't decomposed at all in the past 20 years.
Prison is a bitch. Especially when you're the only one locked in there.
This bathtub has a terrible clog. The blood just simply won't go down the drain.
Despite what anyone says, I'm fine. Please help me.
Tonight's meal was simply delicious! The little girl went well with the side of potatoes.
I peered into the darkness of the train tunnel with mild fear and curiosity as I said "I'm just paranoid." The darkness whispered back "No you're not".
The tendrils keep reaching my windows. I cannot fight them back much longer.
I awoke in the spring afternoon from the comfort of my bed. To my horror my intestines and blood were covering my covers.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Weird image in my downloads: Creepy IRL
This is an image I found in my downloads folder on my PC. I don't remember ever downloading this image. I couldn't see much, so I ran it into Gimp(an image editing software.) I assumed it was a wallet pic or just a bad image a friend took.
After increasing brightness and contrast quite a bit, this was the best I could get. The room definitely isn't in my home, none of my friends have hats like the one in the image. Kinda looks like there's a dog on the couch, and a book on a coffee table. A doll is hanging on the wall. It's all quite eerie.
I've been checking my download history, I can't find this image on there. Google reverse image search has brought me nothing. It's all quite odd.
I've been checking my download history, I can't find this image on there. Google reverse image search has brought me nothing. It's all quite odd.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Mignas
There's a story around these parts about Jesse and Mignas. A few long years ago, Jesse was a young girl, around the age of 5 or 6. Quite the introvert, Jesse did not play well with kids. She had an imaginary friend that the young girl named "Mignas". Her parents were puzzled by the name, it definitely didn't sound like something a young lady would have in her developing vocabulary; maybe she made it up from a compound word, or a storybook. Her parents thought that an imaginary friend would harm her social skills as a child. So they decided to get her a toy, a toy to share with others when playing: a puppet. Jesse could play with the puppet and entertain the other children.
They had a toy crafted from a dutch immigrant toy maker from around these parts, his shop's still around, although it's an abandoned little building now. Willem's toy shop. The puppet was quite expensive, made from solid oak, painted beautifully with great care, strung up with wool, and quite nicely accessorized with little wooden toys to fit the hands of the puppet. It was artwork as much as it was a plaything. They were quite happy and rushed to take it home before little Jesse made it home from kindergarten class.
Jesse's parents died in a fatal car accident on the way. You can still find records of it at the library from those news strips. It looked like a sudden stop followed by jerking the wheel caused the car to flip. The were found buy the school bus driver taking Jesse home. In the wreckage police found a damaged, albeit well crafted wooden box with Jessie's name on it. It was released to the poor girls aunt to give to her. The puppet remained intact for the child to play with.
Upon receiving the toy, the girl lit up with a wonderful smile. She also called it Mignas, his name was carved into his feet and she began to hold puppet shows on the street for the other kids. The puppet helped her tell stories of magical lands and amazing adventure. The kids around the block spoke of sir Mignas the brave, of Mignas the candy giver, and so on. Little Jesse was very happy and made great friends. For two whole years Mignas was her outlet for stories and her way of making friends.
Jessica was starting second grade, and wanted to take Mignas to show and tell. She wanted to show her teacher all the stories and adventure the puppet could have. Mignas was a bit faded, and a bit worn, but the smile upon his wooden face was as wide as it ever has been. The puppet and the girl started with knock-knock jokes, followed by the tale of Mignas flying in a plane, and reaching a climax with the puppet dancing. Everyone cheered until the puppet hurled into the air, striking a child. The wooden body of Mignas became covered in blood. The boy's skull had been cracked open. The young girl was sent home and suspended that day. She kept claiming that the puppet jumped from her hands.
The next day, Jesse was nowhere to be seen. Her aunt did not come into work as well. Three days went by until an officer came by to check on the house. What the found was terrible and gruesome. The town was horrified by the gruesome nature of the discovery. Jessica's aunt was found in her bedroom, with a wool string tightly pulled around her neck. Her skin was ripped from her flesh in a grotesque manner across her belly, her scalp torn off, and her eyes plucked out. A stagnant pool of blood on the floor under the bed. The worst was yet to come.
Jesse's frail body was hanging by three wool strings across her neck, slashes striped her back. Blood caressed her body, but the blood wasn't pooled. Across the wall, red lettering spattered the walls into three words:
A few weeks later, Willem's toy shop suffered extensive fire damage and Willem was found dead inside, with extensive burns. Police filed various reports and investigated thoroughly. The town was terrified, and the local paper assumed it was the act of a serial killer.
We don't go around Willem's toy shop. Late at night you can hear the clacking of wood in that building.
They had a toy crafted from a dutch immigrant toy maker from around these parts, his shop's still around, although it's an abandoned little building now. Willem's toy shop. The puppet was quite expensive, made from solid oak, painted beautifully with great care, strung up with wool, and quite nicely accessorized with little wooden toys to fit the hands of the puppet. It was artwork as much as it was a plaything. They were quite happy and rushed to take it home before little Jesse made it home from kindergarten class.
Jesse's parents died in a fatal car accident on the way. You can still find records of it at the library from those news strips. It looked like a sudden stop followed by jerking the wheel caused the car to flip. The were found buy the school bus driver taking Jesse home. In the wreckage police found a damaged, albeit well crafted wooden box with Jessie's name on it. It was released to the poor girls aunt to give to her. The puppet remained intact for the child to play with.
Upon receiving the toy, the girl lit up with a wonderful smile. She also called it Mignas, his name was carved into his feet and she began to hold puppet shows on the street for the other kids. The puppet helped her tell stories of magical lands and amazing adventure. The kids around the block spoke of sir Mignas the brave, of Mignas the candy giver, and so on. Little Jesse was very happy and made great friends. For two whole years Mignas was her outlet for stories and her way of making friends.
Jessica was starting second grade, and wanted to take Mignas to show and tell. She wanted to show her teacher all the stories and adventure the puppet could have. Mignas was a bit faded, and a bit worn, but the smile upon his wooden face was as wide as it ever has been. The puppet and the girl started with knock-knock jokes, followed by the tale of Mignas flying in a plane, and reaching a climax with the puppet dancing. Everyone cheered until the puppet hurled into the air, striking a child. The wooden body of Mignas became covered in blood. The boy's skull had been cracked open. The young girl was sent home and suspended that day. She kept claiming that the puppet jumped from her hands.
The next day, Jesse was nowhere to be seen. Her aunt did not come into work as well. Three days went by until an officer came by to check on the house. What the found was terrible and gruesome. The town was horrified by the gruesome nature of the discovery. Jessica's aunt was found in her bedroom, with a wool string tightly pulled around her neck. Her skin was ripped from her flesh in a grotesque manner across her belly, her scalp torn off, and her eyes plucked out. A stagnant pool of blood on the floor under the bed. The worst was yet to come.
Jesse's frail body was hanging by three wool strings across her neck, slashes striped her back. Blood caressed her body, but the blood wasn't pooled. Across the wall, red lettering spattered the walls into three words:
MIGNAS IS GOD
A few weeks later, Willem's toy shop suffered extensive fire damage and Willem was found dead inside, with extensive burns. Police filed various reports and investigated thoroughly. The town was terrified, and the local paper assumed it was the act of a serial killer.
We don't go around Willem's toy shop. Late at night you can hear the clacking of wood in that building.
Friday, March 14, 2014
Contract Killer
With excitement Ronald walked up to the sedan with his briefcase. After a lucky jackpot the grizzled bastard won a good sum of $20,000 in the lotto. After years of being bitter, and hating the world around him, only one good cause was in Ron's head for that cash: revenge. It took a bit of time to find a hit man, because Ron is a special kind of stupid. The kind of stupid that doesn't have any self inflection. The middle aged man held a spite for many of his issues on a great deal of people. Yet he failed to see his own follies.
He opened the door to the car. A blast of a mixture of gunpowder and leather assaulted his nostrils. Ron powered through the stench and sat down to meet Mack, his contract killer. "Hey there Ronnie!", the man sitting in the drivers seat said cheerfully. The car door closed; the sedan drove away.
Ron was surprised on how friendly Mack sounded. They went through a burger joint's drive through, grabbed lunch and sat in the car in a parking lot just a few blocks from a church on the outskirts of town. Mack's light demeanor despite his alleged profession put Ron in a state of suspicion. Ron blurted out "Are you really a killer?", only to see Mack let of a smooth chuckle before putting down his burger. The hit man pulled his wallet from his jeans, and revealed some photos. Photographic proof of various jobs he'd completed.
Mack had a charm to him. Something like you'd see in a TV show about the kind prince off to save the princess. He was almost half Ron's age; he looked good and positive where Ron looked angry and tired. Ron was shocked to see a 20-something be capable of doing these things in the photos. But here the photos were, in front of him. Mack holding up a corpse as he was still in frame for the picture in some kind of twisted selfie with his young charm still protruding from the picture. It was odd and puzzling to Ron.
Mack broke the silence, "Who's my target?", almost sounding like he was accepting a task with an eager willingness to face any challenge. Ron opened his suitcase to pull out two folders. "There's two people I'd like you to ki-". He was hushed by the killer. Mack looked at him and stated, "I don't use that word. Dealt with, silenced, finished off, whacked, put out, anything but that word." His charm never went away. Like an actor, Ron thought to himself, this guy always plays it cool.
Mack read both files, put his hand through his blonde hair, let out a breath, and said, "Ron, we got a problem." The customer turned white, thinking this was a trap. set up by the cops. "Dude, yer short on cash for me to do both these jobs." W-What?", Ron stuttered. "I have 20 grand! I thought that would be enough!" Ron hated coming up short. It burned him something bad that he did not have enough to fulfill his one goal and the attitude of Mack started to get to him after the news. "One of these jobs requires me to drive out of state, that's and extra two thousand my friend. How about we weigh your options and you pick one, for now?"
Ron was forced between Sarah, his younger sister, and Jessica, his ex wife. Sarah, who gained all of the attention, all of the praise, and in the end, all of the inheritance in the family. She was a rotten, stuck up bitch who forced him to live in her shadow. When she succeeded, Ron found his whiskey. When Ron asked for help, she left him homeless.Then there was Jessica, that thieving, cheating woman wrecked Ron's life for ten long years. It was a difficult choice to make.
After a while, Ron came up with a fun idea. His brilliance shocked even him. His graying features met the youthful killers and he started to tell him the idea. "How about this one? You pick out which one caused me more trouble, don't tell me, and I pay you the full 20,000? I'll be surprised by it." Mack let out a hearty laugh,"You are crazy dude, you sure?" Ron nodded his head with a grin. They both had a laugh. Then the gun went off in the car, half of Ron's head splattered against the windshield. "You're the cause of all your own problems buddy.", The hit man said as he left the car, cash in hand.
He opened the door to the car. A blast of a mixture of gunpowder and leather assaulted his nostrils. Ron powered through the stench and sat down to meet Mack, his contract killer. "Hey there Ronnie!", the man sitting in the drivers seat said cheerfully. The car door closed; the sedan drove away.
Ron was surprised on how friendly Mack sounded. They went through a burger joint's drive through, grabbed lunch and sat in the car in a parking lot just a few blocks from a church on the outskirts of town. Mack's light demeanor despite his alleged profession put Ron in a state of suspicion. Ron blurted out "Are you really a killer?", only to see Mack let of a smooth chuckle before putting down his burger. The hit man pulled his wallet from his jeans, and revealed some photos. Photographic proof of various jobs he'd completed.
Mack had a charm to him. Something like you'd see in a TV show about the kind prince off to save the princess. He was almost half Ron's age; he looked good and positive where Ron looked angry and tired. Ron was shocked to see a 20-something be capable of doing these things in the photos. But here the photos were, in front of him. Mack holding up a corpse as he was still in frame for the picture in some kind of twisted selfie with his young charm still protruding from the picture. It was odd and puzzling to Ron.
Mack broke the silence, "Who's my target?", almost sounding like he was accepting a task with an eager willingness to face any challenge. Ron opened his suitcase to pull out two folders. "There's two people I'd like you to ki-". He was hushed by the killer. Mack looked at him and stated, "I don't use that word. Dealt with, silenced, finished off, whacked, put out, anything but that word." His charm never went away. Like an actor, Ron thought to himself, this guy always plays it cool.
Mack read both files, put his hand through his blonde hair, let out a breath, and said, "Ron, we got a problem." The customer turned white, thinking this was a trap. set up by the cops. "Dude, yer short on cash for me to do both these jobs." W-What?", Ron stuttered. "I have 20 grand! I thought that would be enough!" Ron hated coming up short. It burned him something bad that he did not have enough to fulfill his one goal and the attitude of Mack started to get to him after the news. "One of these jobs requires me to drive out of state, that's and extra two thousand my friend. How about we weigh your options and you pick one, for now?"
Ron was forced between Sarah, his younger sister, and Jessica, his ex wife. Sarah, who gained all of the attention, all of the praise, and in the end, all of the inheritance in the family. She was a rotten, stuck up bitch who forced him to live in her shadow. When she succeeded, Ron found his whiskey. When Ron asked for help, she left him homeless.Then there was Jessica, that thieving, cheating woman wrecked Ron's life for ten long years. It was a difficult choice to make.
After a while, Ron came up with a fun idea. His brilliance shocked even him. His graying features met the youthful killers and he started to tell him the idea. "How about this one? You pick out which one caused me more trouble, don't tell me, and I pay you the full 20,000? I'll be surprised by it." Mack let out a hearty laugh,"You are crazy dude, you sure?" Ron nodded his head with a grin. They both had a laugh. Then the gun went off in the car, half of Ron's head splattered against the windshield. "You're the cause of all your own problems buddy.", The hit man said as he left the car, cash in hand.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Drain.
In this cold undistinctive winter, I had grown unsettled inside the solace of my home. Boredom had become a monotonous dredge of daily life. The cold was I knew of my environment. I carry an illness that prohibits my ventures into the cold. So when the claws of frigid air released their grasp on this town, I could only urge for one thing: adventure. I decided to hike into the nearby woods. Despite the setting sun, I decided that my chance to walk was too great for me to repel.
There was a small set of woods, followed by an open field that ran along a drainage ditch. The moonlight made the woods easily visible by the radiant, clear sky above. The trees were barren; the ground was devoid of color. Typical of winter. The field was devoid of live grass and visibility was well in the silver light. I could see above the ditch and across as though it was day. The brisk air was comforting on my senses, causing a state of euphoria throughout my mind and body. I rested along the incline dipping into the drainage ditch, allowing myself a few moments of clarity to exalt the solitude of the shimmering radiance through the darkness encompassing me.
I heard a sloshing sound at the ditch that snapped my thoughts back to focus. I assumed it was simply a rat, or possibly a beaver, splashing in the water. I looked down into the ditch to see the crevice to be completely dry. I could see the fractured concrete with dead foliage seeping through from underneath. I was puzzled from the sound that I swore I heard. Then I heard it again, a splash of something wet, but with an echo. I was able to locate the sound to a storm drain nearby. But the entrance to the drain was dry, not even the slightest amount of moisture was seen in the light of the moon.
My adventurous nature got the better of me; I hiked closer to the drain pipe. The was another splashing sound echoing within the pipe's great depth. It was a good three foot in diameter pipe. The moonlight barely lit the entrance and first few feet in. I pulled out an LED flashlight from my jacket and pointed it into the cavernous pipe. The white light filled a great distance, showing nothing but dry concrete as far as the eye can see. "Just my imagination" I whispered into the void. That's when I received a reply.
"Help me please", it was a little girl's reply. "I crawled in here and now I'm stuck." I was stunned. "Stay calm, Kid", I shouted. "Can you see my light?" I kept it on, waiting for a response. "I'm stuck, Please!" The girl cried. I could not refuse her cries.
There was a small set of woods, followed by an open field that ran along a drainage ditch. The moonlight made the woods easily visible by the radiant, clear sky above. The trees were barren; the ground was devoid of color. Typical of winter. The field was devoid of live grass and visibility was well in the silver light. I could see above the ditch and across as though it was day. The brisk air was comforting on my senses, causing a state of euphoria throughout my mind and body. I rested along the incline dipping into the drainage ditch, allowing myself a few moments of clarity to exalt the solitude of the shimmering radiance through the darkness encompassing me.
I heard a sloshing sound at the ditch that snapped my thoughts back to focus. I assumed it was simply a rat, or possibly a beaver, splashing in the water. I looked down into the ditch to see the crevice to be completely dry. I could see the fractured concrete with dead foliage seeping through from underneath. I was puzzled from the sound that I swore I heard. Then I heard it again, a splash of something wet, but with an echo. I was able to locate the sound to a storm drain nearby. But the entrance to the drain was dry, not even the slightest amount of moisture was seen in the light of the moon.
My adventurous nature got the better of me; I hiked closer to the drain pipe. The was another splashing sound echoing within the pipe's great depth. It was a good three foot in diameter pipe. The moonlight barely lit the entrance and first few feet in. I pulled out an LED flashlight from my jacket and pointed it into the cavernous pipe. The white light filled a great distance, showing nothing but dry concrete as far as the eye can see. "Just my imagination" I whispered into the void. That's when I received a reply.
"Help me please", it was a little girl's reply. "I crawled in here and now I'm stuck." I was stunned. "Stay calm, Kid", I shouted. "Can you see my light?" I kept it on, waiting for a response. "I'm stuck, Please!" The girl cried. I could not refuse her cries.
The pipe was too small to walk in; on my elbows and knees I crawled into the drain. The cold concrete chilled my hands as I wriggled deeper into the pipe. The small flashlight bobbed the light in a natural sway. My breath carried an echo, my boots caused a boom as I crept. The air was stagnant, but moving like a breeze. The air was an assault to my nose, making each breath a struggle. The girl's whimpers sounded near. I looked back only to see a small circle that seemed miniature. I must have been writhing forward in this pipe for well over an hour. Distracted by my heroics and fueled by adrenaline, I found the end of the pipe.
The pipe opened up into a cavernous walkway underground. It was a large concrete hallway of sorts. The whimpering was still audible. "I'm coming, kiddo, just don't stay quiet okay?" I spoke onto the darkness calmly. "Help me please", the whimpers continued. As I walked along to see a small drainage pipe at my feet, concrete started to transform to mud. It was boarded up, about two feet in diameter. The cries and whimper came from the other end. I quickly started to pull apart the boards. "I'm coming!" I shouted.
My stomach was on the cold mud as my arms pulled me into the chamber. I noticed I could stand in this chamber; I staggered up covered in filth and lit the chamber with my flashlight. My eyes scanned every inch of the mud crusted walls with vines and stalactites drooping overhead.
There was no whimpering. No sound outside of a dripping sound echoing and my own heavy breathing. My eyes tried to find a figure of the little girl. "HEY!" I shouted, "where are you!?" Panic rose as my fears of the little girl being harmed, or worse, filled my thoughts. "Here..." was barely audible, but recognizable. I stepped a little closer to the sound and pointed my flashlight in the direction I heard it. I never should have come.
There was no girl, no girl at all. My flashlight shone onto a creature of horrible features. A tangled face of tentacles and teeth in an unrecognizable, grotesque fashion. It wore something like leather, oily black, in a gown form. Two long arms with fingers like talons reached out. It smelled of sewage and something sickly sweet, with something like copper hanging in the air. It's skin was not of a flesh tone I had ever seen. I began to panic. I made a mad scramble for the drain at the floor.
My torso was already into the pipe, clawing the earth to quickly pull myself out of that chamber. My leg pushed me forward. The panic refused to leave me, my body pushed me further to just survive this nefarious trap set by that thing. I felt that my other leg was being grabbed, followed by a sharp pain, then released. I kicked out and scrambled for the drain leading to the ditch. On all fours I dragged myself through that pipe at a pace I could never even attempt to replicate. I saw the moonlit exit and barreled out, landing on my side. My eyes were heavy and I was exhausted. Pain was coursing through my leg and my horror and frenzy had not left me. I was too weak, blackness overcame my senses.
I awoke in the field; it was daylight. I felt sore but decided to walk home. It all seemed like a dream, with the only evidence being the odor I needed to wash off and this odd wound on my left calf proving anything happened. I took a bath, and nursed the perfectly circular wound. I found myself tired, so I curled into bed. It felt safe to sleep. and my body needed it.
I awoke in my room that night to hearing something outside. "Help me", a little girl cried.
The pipe opened up into a cavernous walkway underground. It was a large concrete hallway of sorts. The whimpering was still audible. "I'm coming, kiddo, just don't stay quiet okay?" I spoke onto the darkness calmly. "Help me please", the whimpers continued. As I walked along to see a small drainage pipe at my feet, concrete started to transform to mud. It was boarded up, about two feet in diameter. The cries and whimper came from the other end. I quickly started to pull apart the boards. "I'm coming!" I shouted.
My stomach was on the cold mud as my arms pulled me into the chamber. I noticed I could stand in this chamber; I staggered up covered in filth and lit the chamber with my flashlight. My eyes scanned every inch of the mud crusted walls with vines and stalactites drooping overhead.
There was no whimpering. No sound outside of a dripping sound echoing and my own heavy breathing. My eyes tried to find a figure of the little girl. "HEY!" I shouted, "where are you!?" Panic rose as my fears of the little girl being harmed, or worse, filled my thoughts. "Here..." was barely audible, but recognizable. I stepped a little closer to the sound and pointed my flashlight in the direction I heard it. I never should have come.
There was no girl, no girl at all. My flashlight shone onto a creature of horrible features. A tangled face of tentacles and teeth in an unrecognizable, grotesque fashion. It wore something like leather, oily black, in a gown form. Two long arms with fingers like talons reached out. It smelled of sewage and something sickly sweet, with something like copper hanging in the air. It's skin was not of a flesh tone I had ever seen. I began to panic. I made a mad scramble for the drain at the floor.
My torso was already into the pipe, clawing the earth to quickly pull myself out of that chamber. My leg pushed me forward. The panic refused to leave me, my body pushed me further to just survive this nefarious trap set by that thing. I felt that my other leg was being grabbed, followed by a sharp pain, then released. I kicked out and scrambled for the drain leading to the ditch. On all fours I dragged myself through that pipe at a pace I could never even attempt to replicate. I saw the moonlit exit and barreled out, landing on my side. My eyes were heavy and I was exhausted. Pain was coursing through my leg and my horror and frenzy had not left me. I was too weak, blackness overcame my senses.
I awoke in the field; it was daylight. I felt sore but decided to walk home. It all seemed like a dream, with the only evidence being the odor I needed to wash off and this odd wound on my left calf proving anything happened. I took a bath, and nursed the perfectly circular wound. I found myself tired, so I curled into bed. It felt safe to sleep. and my body needed it.
I awoke in my room that night to hearing something outside. "Help me", a little girl cried.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
The Damned Kid
As an old man I can at least tell that what I saw I'll never see again. These aging eyes just lose more in sight every day, and my memory isn't so good for the recent events. Days go by in a blurring whirlwind that melds everything into a bunch of incoherent events. I am lucky to remember my lunch after I've eaten it. These days I can't remember much, but the days in the past are seared into me. Leaving scars of things I cannot forget no matter what I wish for. Of these is the kid; the god damned child that nobody should have hurt. and the hell he brought to us all. It's hard to sleep at night without thinking of the kid, without dreaming of the kid, without fear of the kid.
It must have been 45 or so years ago when I met the kid. Everybody called him the kid. Jeffery Kidd, the quietest teenager to do some of the craziest things anyone saw in town. He was an A student, but would steal booze to drink at the drainage ditch without second thought. He never said a word unless it was important to say it. He'd get into fights, but fight for a woman's honor, fight to defend a helpless kid. His fists would stay down if it was his honor, he'd just walk away. "I'm worthless." was a saying he had, although it was rarely said. Jeff was a good guy, a crazy, quiet, honorable guy. The kid was practically a quiet hero of high school.
We were all around 15 or 16 when shit started going south. Jeff pretty much stopped talking for over a month. He refused to hang out and refused to get booze. His strong demeanor seemed gone. his stern face was filled with sunken features and a pale complexion. He stopped talking with girls, stopped defending the bullied kids, and quit being seen outside of class. Rumors were that he stabbed a kid and was almost sent to jail. I got worried so I visited his house.
The cheerful looking home almost seemed as a mockery of how the kid looked. He was home alone when I stopped by. "Is it alright if I chat, man?" was all I could say when I saw his gaunt features. He was nearly half a foot taller than I at the time, but he looked like hadn't eaten in days. I must have had 30 pounds on the kid. He looked like the geeks that he defended in the tank top he had on. His black hair was a mess; he looked like James Dean met Edgar Allan Poe. All I got was a nod indicating a yes.
Inside I asked about the sudden change and if the rumors about the stabbing were true. He nodded a a slow yes. I stood up out of my chair and asked what caused it. "He called me a faggot." Jeff said in a soft, stern tone. I yelled at him, upset that Jeff would do so much harm over petty words. "Why do that man!? I thought you said were worthless! You always defended others! why start now!" I shouted. The kid, the crazy tough guy, the defender of the weak, was crying in front of me. "Coach Ryan...", he sobbed into his hands, "...fucked me." He sunk into his chair , face into his palms and wept.
Jeffery Kidd never liked gym class. He never liked showering with the other kids, and we understood that. Coach Ryan never understood anything past attempting to make football players out of every young man he taught. Jeff never liked him.
Jeff told me that after class he was held back to talk with coach, thinking it was coach about to make him do 20 push ups for not showering after class, he went into his office. He told me about the gun Coach Ryan had, a revolver, and how it was pointed at him. How the coach forced him into the shower and strip; how Coach raped him. In the five years I knew the kid, he never talked so much as he did in that chair.
I was speechless at the shock of it all. Tears were running down his face, his pale features were a bright red, his eyes a pinkish hue. I'll never forget those eyes. I tried to assure him we'd make it right, we'd get coach for it.
Telling Jeffery's parents did more harm than good. His father called him a faggot, his mother merely wept. The coach was still teaching after a month when I got the news. The kid killed himself.
I found out the details from the circle of friends. It was a small town so cops kids were bound to tell what they in turn heard. The kid, Jeffery Kidd, slit his wrists in the bathtub. On the wall was the words written in his own blood:
I AM WORTHLESS
I felt terrible. I let my friend down; I let him die. We all had school off for three days to lets us kids grieve. We'd return to a memorial at school for him. I wept for three days for what happened. He fought so hard for kids like me, and had no one to run to when he needed it. I caused more pain by telling his parent, and now my friends was gone, because of me.
Those three long days went. The memorial was at the auditorium. Flowers were hung up around a picture of Jeff was there, front and center. First his parents talked about him. Some bullshit about how a troubled youth needs someone to turn to and they wished Jeff would've gone to them. I felt sincere anger towards that lie. My fists clenched from hearing all this.
What happened next I could never forget. Even today, at my old age, I'll never lose this memory. Coach Ryan walked to the podium and was about to talk, when he made this guttural choking sound. Almost like a gag. He started grabbing his throat violently and coughing the word "no". It was then his head separated from his body. It made a terrible ripping sound, almost like tearing denim, but with a wet sloshing sound going with it. Blood spurted everywhere. All of us started running and screaming in blind panic. Mr. Kidd, Jeffery's father, was next. A cracking sound was heard just before he hunched over to expel a lot of blood and what appeared to be his heart before falling over dead. I was in shock. I couldn't look away in sheer terror of what I was seeing. Some unknown force was killing Jeff's tormentors. His mother was last. A loud screech belched from her lungs as her dress was stained with her own blood. I couldn't see what was done to her in the panic, but she lurched over dead in seconds.
There was the kid's photo, surrounded by flowers. I saw in blood one word was written:
WORTHLESS
The incident was written off as an accident. During summer break the school burned down. The fire started in the gym. I still think that the kid did it.
I still fear that the kid, the damned kid, is after me. I feel guilt for what happened. Even at my old age, I fear death. Maybe the kid is there, waiting for me.
It must have been 45 or so years ago when I met the kid. Everybody called him the kid. Jeffery Kidd, the quietest teenager to do some of the craziest things anyone saw in town. He was an A student, but would steal booze to drink at the drainage ditch without second thought. He never said a word unless it was important to say it. He'd get into fights, but fight for a woman's honor, fight to defend a helpless kid. His fists would stay down if it was his honor, he'd just walk away. "I'm worthless." was a saying he had, although it was rarely said. Jeff was a good guy, a crazy, quiet, honorable guy. The kid was practically a quiet hero of high school.
We were all around 15 or 16 when shit started going south. Jeff pretty much stopped talking for over a month. He refused to hang out and refused to get booze. His strong demeanor seemed gone. his stern face was filled with sunken features and a pale complexion. He stopped talking with girls, stopped defending the bullied kids, and quit being seen outside of class. Rumors were that he stabbed a kid and was almost sent to jail. I got worried so I visited his house.
The cheerful looking home almost seemed as a mockery of how the kid looked. He was home alone when I stopped by. "Is it alright if I chat, man?" was all I could say when I saw his gaunt features. He was nearly half a foot taller than I at the time, but he looked like hadn't eaten in days. I must have had 30 pounds on the kid. He looked like the geeks that he defended in the tank top he had on. His black hair was a mess; he looked like James Dean met Edgar Allan Poe. All I got was a nod indicating a yes.
Inside I asked about the sudden change and if the rumors about the stabbing were true. He nodded a a slow yes. I stood up out of my chair and asked what caused it. "He called me a faggot." Jeff said in a soft, stern tone. I yelled at him, upset that Jeff would do so much harm over petty words. "Why do that man!? I thought you said were worthless! You always defended others! why start now!" I shouted. The kid, the crazy tough guy, the defender of the weak, was crying in front of me. "Coach Ryan...", he sobbed into his hands, "...fucked me." He sunk into his chair , face into his palms and wept.
Jeffery Kidd never liked gym class. He never liked showering with the other kids, and we understood that. Coach Ryan never understood anything past attempting to make football players out of every young man he taught. Jeff never liked him.
Jeff told me that after class he was held back to talk with coach, thinking it was coach about to make him do 20 push ups for not showering after class, he went into his office. He told me about the gun Coach Ryan had, a revolver, and how it was pointed at him. How the coach forced him into the shower and strip; how Coach raped him. In the five years I knew the kid, he never talked so much as he did in that chair.
I was speechless at the shock of it all. Tears were running down his face, his pale features were a bright red, his eyes a pinkish hue. I'll never forget those eyes. I tried to assure him we'd make it right, we'd get coach for it.
Telling Jeffery's parents did more harm than good. His father called him a faggot, his mother merely wept. The coach was still teaching after a month when I got the news. The kid killed himself.
I found out the details from the circle of friends. It was a small town so cops kids were bound to tell what they in turn heard. The kid, Jeffery Kidd, slit his wrists in the bathtub. On the wall was the words written in his own blood:
I AM WORTHLESS
I felt terrible. I let my friend down; I let him die. We all had school off for three days to lets us kids grieve. We'd return to a memorial at school for him. I wept for three days for what happened. He fought so hard for kids like me, and had no one to run to when he needed it. I caused more pain by telling his parent, and now my friends was gone, because of me.
Those three long days went. The memorial was at the auditorium. Flowers were hung up around a picture of Jeff was there, front and center. First his parents talked about him. Some bullshit about how a troubled youth needs someone to turn to and they wished Jeff would've gone to them. I felt sincere anger towards that lie. My fists clenched from hearing all this.
What happened next I could never forget. Even today, at my old age, I'll never lose this memory. Coach Ryan walked to the podium and was about to talk, when he made this guttural choking sound. Almost like a gag. He started grabbing his throat violently and coughing the word "no". It was then his head separated from his body. It made a terrible ripping sound, almost like tearing denim, but with a wet sloshing sound going with it. Blood spurted everywhere. All of us started running and screaming in blind panic. Mr. Kidd, Jeffery's father, was next. A cracking sound was heard just before he hunched over to expel a lot of blood and what appeared to be his heart before falling over dead. I was in shock. I couldn't look away in sheer terror of what I was seeing. Some unknown force was killing Jeff's tormentors. His mother was last. A loud screech belched from her lungs as her dress was stained with her own blood. I couldn't see what was done to her in the panic, but she lurched over dead in seconds.
There was the kid's photo, surrounded by flowers. I saw in blood one word was written:
WORTHLESS
The incident was written off as an accident. During summer break the school burned down. The fire started in the gym. I still think that the kid did it.
I still fear that the kid, the damned kid, is after me. I feel guilt for what happened. Even at my old age, I fear death. Maybe the kid is there, waiting for me.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Cold (A Poem)
It's difficult to breathe at this moment. A sharp pain fills my side
with each shallow inhale I take to preserve these precious moments.
My thinking is cloudy, fractured thoughts race through my head grasping at my conscious like a claw of dread in a veil of sleep. It's difficult to focus but I must, if only to preserve these precious moments.
These hands are numb and slick with vitae that held me up for so long. The cuts feel like a tingle now. It feels like ages since the screaming stopped. These legs must find purchase on this soft earth. I must stand to preserve these precious moments.
Knees are weak, eyesight is covered with red hue, but I refuse to stop now. My hearing muddled as though I am in the water, I can't make out the words, nor do I have time to hear them. For I must preserve these precious moments.
Warmth has left me, willpower is all I've got left to use. I must climb! The pain is not enough to bear is a lie I must tell myself as I reach out. The agony is a tool to hold on. The torment sharpens me through the cold. I must keep climbing to hold on to these precious moments.
An eternity of hellfire is holding my failing body together. Each impulse is to stop fighting; each step is in defiance of my own instinct. I am shivering in this cold. Pushing farther is all this will has got left to keep making these precious moments.
I finally lose this fight. I embrace the cold. The pain fades. The euphoria is unlike anything before. It's okay to be cold in these last precious moments.
My thinking is cloudy, fractured thoughts race through my head grasping at my conscious like a claw of dread in a veil of sleep. It's difficult to focus but I must, if only to preserve these precious moments.
These hands are numb and slick with vitae that held me up for so long. The cuts feel like a tingle now. It feels like ages since the screaming stopped. These legs must find purchase on this soft earth. I must stand to preserve these precious moments.
Knees are weak, eyesight is covered with red hue, but I refuse to stop now. My hearing muddled as though I am in the water, I can't make out the words, nor do I have time to hear them. For I must preserve these precious moments.
Warmth has left me, willpower is all I've got left to use. I must climb! The pain is not enough to bear is a lie I must tell myself as I reach out. The agony is a tool to hold on. The torment sharpens me through the cold. I must keep climbing to hold on to these precious moments.
An eternity of hellfire is holding my failing body together. Each impulse is to stop fighting; each step is in defiance of my own instinct. I am shivering in this cold. Pushing farther is all this will has got left to keep making these precious moments.
I finally lose this fight. I embrace the cold. The pain fades. The euphoria is unlike anything before. It's okay to be cold in these last precious moments.
Quick Stop to the Gas Station(rough draft)
The second round of snow storms was on the cusp of beginning to ruin this small town. Streets were empty, muggers and kids wanting to cause a stir were staying in. Only the occasional car was spotted on the main roads; even at three AM, it was more quiet than usual. The little town looked abandoned, nobody was out in this.
Nobody, but Frank.
Frank was a little messed up as a kid. His parents were ritualistically murdered when he was 10, in front of him. He was a very violent teenager, and a more violent young man. He was always put in the nuthouse because he never killed anybody, and was pretty much looked upon as having a few broken bulbs in the house.
Frank decided he wanted blood at the ripe age of 34. It was time for a trip to the gas stop. The lanky fellow grabbed a hammer, slipped it into his jacket, grabbed his keys and locked up his apartment by the high school. You can never be too careful with kids these days. Frank always hated kids. They looked like cockroaches leaving the high school. It was that amusement that kept him from trying to burn the school down. People were roaches, plain and simple.
The brisk air chilled his bones through his jacket, almost making him want to return home. "It's only two blocks", he stated to the emptiness of the streets. Two blocks of cold wind between him and destiny. Frank the soon-to-be-killer made a strut out of it. Headphones in, music on, and the coldness might not be so bitter after all.
There was the gas stop, right across the main road in town. Practically the only way out of town. A white mercury drove right on by as he entered the parking lot. More roaches, thought the man. Hammer at the ready for this messy task; Frank was giddy. A grin crept upon his face. A grin he hadn't had since his parents were killed and he was covered in their blood.
The clerk was some young buck. Little pasty white boy sitting at the counter, reading some college textbooks. The lad looked up at Frank with a warm smile and greeted him. "Getting something last minute before we get the worst of it?" "Sure thing!", Frank said warmly. He walked up to the counter and snickered out "need something for these damn roaches!" as the hammer swung across the boy's face.
CRACK! The blow to the cheek did some damage knocking the kid down onto the floor into a pooling puddle of dark red blood. A quick hop over the counter and Frank was back on top of the kid. A resounding THUD followed by a few more echoed over the gas station. College boy was gone. "Roach with a caved in skull", Frank chuckled in the empty station.
In the 20 minutes it took to bring the kid to the dumpster, Frank got worked into a sweat. He decided to take a shit and get ready for the walk home. Maybe grab a free coke and hot dog. I'm sure the clerk would be okay with that! The thought made him laugh a bit.
On the can with the door closed, Frank the Killer was taking a shit when Officer Dewitt walked in. Blood was pooled over, but the red painted concrete hid it well. He shouted out "Anybody in?", In an authoritative tone, "This is Officer Dewitt of the GCPD". Frank had to snicker before saying anything. "On the can, Sorry. Bad case of runs. Do you need Gas?" Dewitt felt bad for the guy. Hell, Freezing cold and having the runs right before a snowstorm. Shitty luck. Dewitt just needed some java. "Got any Coffee?" He spoke to the bathroom door. Frank's grin was ear to ear. With a groan he grunted "What's in the pot is yours man. On the house! It's gonna be rough out there." Dewitt liked this guy. "Thanks pal!" Dewitt grabbed his cup and left. Ignorant of anything that had just happened.
Frank heard the door chime and had a giggle. Then the door to the toilet swung open. What he saw was worse than a ghost.
College boy was standing in front of him. Gore and brains coming out of the hole in his head. One eye dangling out of the socket, and a sagging jaw were what was left of his facial features. It gargled out two words, "Hi Frank", before advancing.
Officer Dewitt came back a few hours later to find a corpse of a young man with a caved in skull holding a dead man by the neck in the bathroom. Blood was slick all over the floor, and a stench filled the room.
But there was a fresh pot of coffee for the road.
Nobody, but Frank.
Frank was a little messed up as a kid. His parents were ritualistically murdered when he was 10, in front of him. He was a very violent teenager, and a more violent young man. He was always put in the nuthouse because he never killed anybody, and was pretty much looked upon as having a few broken bulbs in the house.
Frank decided he wanted blood at the ripe age of 34. It was time for a trip to the gas stop. The lanky fellow grabbed a hammer, slipped it into his jacket, grabbed his keys and locked up his apartment by the high school. You can never be too careful with kids these days. Frank always hated kids. They looked like cockroaches leaving the high school. It was that amusement that kept him from trying to burn the school down. People were roaches, plain and simple.
The brisk air chilled his bones through his jacket, almost making him want to return home. "It's only two blocks", he stated to the emptiness of the streets. Two blocks of cold wind between him and destiny. Frank the soon-to-be-killer made a strut out of it. Headphones in, music on, and the coldness might not be so bitter after all.
There was the gas stop, right across the main road in town. Practically the only way out of town. A white mercury drove right on by as he entered the parking lot. More roaches, thought the man. Hammer at the ready for this messy task; Frank was giddy. A grin crept upon his face. A grin he hadn't had since his parents were killed and he was covered in their blood.
The clerk was some young buck. Little pasty white boy sitting at the counter, reading some college textbooks. The lad looked up at Frank with a warm smile and greeted him. "Getting something last minute before we get the worst of it?" "Sure thing!", Frank said warmly. He walked up to the counter and snickered out "need something for these damn roaches!" as the hammer swung across the boy's face.
CRACK! The blow to the cheek did some damage knocking the kid down onto the floor into a pooling puddle of dark red blood. A quick hop over the counter and Frank was back on top of the kid. A resounding THUD followed by a few more echoed over the gas station. College boy was gone. "Roach with a caved in skull", Frank chuckled in the empty station.
In the 20 minutes it took to bring the kid to the dumpster, Frank got worked into a sweat. He decided to take a shit and get ready for the walk home. Maybe grab a free coke and hot dog. I'm sure the clerk would be okay with that! The thought made him laugh a bit.
On the can with the door closed, Frank the Killer was taking a shit when Officer Dewitt walked in. Blood was pooled over, but the red painted concrete hid it well. He shouted out "Anybody in?", In an authoritative tone, "This is Officer Dewitt of the GCPD". Frank had to snicker before saying anything. "On the can, Sorry. Bad case of runs. Do you need Gas?" Dewitt felt bad for the guy. Hell, Freezing cold and having the runs right before a snowstorm. Shitty luck. Dewitt just needed some java. "Got any Coffee?" He spoke to the bathroom door. Frank's grin was ear to ear. With a groan he grunted "What's in the pot is yours man. On the house! It's gonna be rough out there." Dewitt liked this guy. "Thanks pal!" Dewitt grabbed his cup and left. Ignorant of anything that had just happened.
Frank heard the door chime and had a giggle. Then the door to the toilet swung open. What he saw was worse than a ghost.
College boy was standing in front of him. Gore and brains coming out of the hole in his head. One eye dangling out of the socket, and a sagging jaw were what was left of his facial features. It gargled out two words, "Hi Frank", before advancing.
Officer Dewitt came back a few hours later to find a corpse of a young man with a caved in skull holding a dead man by the neck in the bathroom. Blood was slick all over the floor, and a stench filled the room.
But there was a fresh pot of coffee for the road.
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