I have been on this weird creepy high all day and why? Because I LOVE halloween. The music, the colours the history...the MACABRE. I love death and blood lust and all those creepy things that people tend to associate with Halloween.
Tonight I'll be out at the Calgary NaNoWriMo Kickoff so I can't do my usually movie marathon but it usually includes:
- Hocus Pocus
- Legend of Sleepy Hallow (the Johnny Depp one)
- The Amityville Horror (the original)
- The Witches
- Trick r Treat
Anyways, the point of this article is to present you with a little treat; some macabre stories. I've got a small collection of stories that I've written over the past few years all with a darker theme to them. You can find them in the 'Short Stories' tab up there ^ (though not all of them are scary)
My favourite one so far (and the one I'm going to share with you) is called 'Dollhouse' and I wrote it for Friday the 13th back in July. My other two favourites are 'Gore' and Flashback'.
The iron gates loomed over him, protesting his presence as he stepped through, prying them apart form each other like petulant children being separated form their mother, slamming shut before he was completely through. But he didn’t look back at the bellowing laughter of the iron bars; he was mesmerized by the building before him. Grey walls and a white roof, spanning the length of the horizon without a single window to allow sunshine inside. Surrounding the house was a forest of trees scattered across the front lawn to thrust the building into the background, a billowing cloud looming over a pleasant, natural scene.
The inside wasn’t much better. The walls were white and the room was grey and the doors lining each side of the meager hallway were exactly three inches apart, leaving little room to move about inside – so he assumed as all of the windows looking into the room were blacked out with what looked to be red paint, still dripping wet - they must have made the changes just for him appearance; lucky him.
There was no one to greet him when he came in the front door and he had the fleeting hope that the entire building was abandoned, that his trip was fruitless and he would have to go home. But even as he thought it, a scream pierced the empty hallway, absorbing the silence as a body somewhere to his right – though he dare not look – was thrust against the door, shaking the frame of the building, laughter breaking out in retaliation from somewhere above him in the one story building. He caught himself looking up, the flickering white lights, drowning out the walls and the windows around him, sucking him into the ceiling and tossing him down the hallway until he was standing at the other end. The walls were a darker shade of grey here, the lights less blinding. The darkness bread humanity.
The door before him also blacked out with a slab of red paint but the gold letters were still visible: ‘E. Bathory PhD Psychology; President.’ Shrugging his shoulders to readjust his blazer on his trembling shoulders, he knocked three times in rapt succession, pulling his laptop bag further up his shoulder as he waited for confirmation to enter.
She called to him but he honestly couldn’t picture her voice until he saw her, smiling at him from her wide, clean cherry-wood desk. “You must be Mr. Pendrick.” Her voice was cool but sent a flush of smooth surprise down his spine as she stared at him from behind her long, rounded glasses perched on her nose covering what must have been the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. With her hair piled high on her head, he smirked inwardly, she could have passed for a sexy library.
“Please, call me James.” He extended his hand to her but she continued to smile at him, looking at him expectantly.
“I understand you wish to interview one of my girls Mr. Pendrick.” He opened his mouth, prepared to speak but it became more of a squeak when she adjusted her glasses on her nose with perfectly long, pointed fingers stained red – probably from the paint.
“Ye-ye-yes,” he muttered, watching her fingers clasped together “I wish to interview Megan Andrews, one of your patients.”
“I’m well aware of who Megan Andrews is Mr. Pendrick, the question is: do you?”
He cleared his throat when she stood, revealing her black dress-suit, coming to her bare ankles and dipping just low enough to be distracting, his eyes dropped to the bottom of her dress, following the slit up to her waist revealing her milky flesh beneath. “I-I know that Megan Andrews murdered her parents when she was nine and that she turns eighteen in less than a month and that once she’s released from this facility I’ll never get an interview with her.”
Her eyes racked over him hungrily, running her tongue over her lips, suddenly finding it bleeding and sucking her tongue and closing her eyes to the ecstasy. Her eyes flew open, a striking shade of purple that he’d obviously misinterpreted as blue, and she smiled at him. “Follow me.”
She led him down the same hallway he walked but now the walls and the lights took on a whole new meaning to his eyes which had previously betrayed his sense of security; light bread comfort. As they walked, he kept observing the blood red walls with fascination. “How do you like the doll house, Mr. Pendrick?”
“Don’t you mean mad house,” the words left him before he realized and he suddenly found himself thrust against the nearest wall, her green eyes boring into his with an intensity that stole his breath.
“Everyone’s mad, Mr. Pendrick; this is where they put the sane one so they can play with them.”
“Ca-can you just show me to Megan Andrews’s room?”
“Why do you want an interview with her?”
“I told you because”
“Wouldn’t you rather be like her; one of the sane ones?”
“I’ll pass.” He giggled for the anxiety of the situation.
“And who says you have a choice?” She smiled, her chin jutting out to give him a clear view of her cleavage and the way her long, angled nails were scrapping across them, drawing just the faintest hint of blood to stain her pale skin. “Once you crossed the threshold of my home you became my property.”
“I-If I had known”
“You still would have come.” She informed him, pressing her body into his, his eyes darting down to her chest, clean and as heaving, presenting themselves to him in temptation “because deep down you desperately want to be one of them; a doll. My doll.” She smirked, her fingers trailing down his shirt lightly, stunning him with the light, almost gentle caress of her fingertips.
He let her take his shirt off; he couldn’t remember it happening but there he was, shirtless and just aching for her to touch him – possess him. She ran her palms down his chest, pressing hard on his erratic heart beat before holding his gaze and trailing her fingernail down the center of his chest. He didn’t feel it until the cold sting of her absent fingers tempted him into looking down and he saw the line of blood breaking his skin. Still looking at him, she slipped her fingers into the left side of his exposed skin, caressing his insides with the same ecstasy on her lips that he’d seen before. And he cries out in a pain somehow familiar to him that he knows he will feel it again for the rest of his life – which won’t be long if the cries of manic laughter from the rooms surrounding him are to be believed. She still caressing the inside of his chest when she runs her lips over her teeth again and he catches sight of her long, silk white fangs just before she plunges them into his neck and his feet finally found salvation by collapsing beneath him, pulling them both to the floor. Now straddling him on the floors stained white, she continues to feast on him until she feels his life leave his body. Then she carefully stands, adjusts her dress, and unlocks the door to let her dolls out of their cage.
Have a spooky halloween tale (either your own or someone elses) let me know in the comments; I want to start a collection of death.
Be safe if you're going out tonight and be sure to wipe the blood off before you walk in the door.