Horror Horror Tales

[Indian Princess]

Ristrcted Indian Princess Rahul
Guys... new tale is posted... It is again based on london... I am thinking of keeping the city and culture same...
Next tale possibly in 3-4 days

Very well written as always

I wonder how do you manage to write a foreign city and culture based stories so well? Have you lived abroad for a while?

The story had a good start, but the horror element was a little less. It's a good story but your previous story has set the really bar high. I mean that one had blood and maggots and mirrors and evil laughter and what not. Perhaps a bathtub is scarier than a camera, a person is more vulnerable alone in a state of undress or perhaps I relate better with a dysfunctional family than a happy one.

Also the end, well, personally for me it would have been scarier if Mathew's family would have been affected, instead of the whole city. Apocalypse kinda situation is a little difficult to relate.

 

[Indian Princess]

Next story

 

[lone_hunterr]

I wonder how do you manage to write a foreign city and culture based stories so well? Have you lived abroad for a while?

All thanks to sir Arthur Conan Doyle .... Big fan of his writing.. And he has painted a good image of london in my mind

 

[lone_hunterr]

It's a good story but your previous story has set the really bar high.

The story was written during exam time.. That's why probably little here and there.. But promise you the next story would be better than all previous one

 

[Ristrcted]

THE CAMERA

The car-trunk sale took place every Saturday on the edge of Crouch End. There was a patch of empty land there; not a parking lot, not a building site, just a square of rubble and dust that nobody seemed to know what to do with. And then one summer the car-trunk sales had arrived like flies at a picnic and since then there’d been one every week. Not that there was anything very much to buy. Cracked glasses and hideous plates, moldy paperback books by writers you’d never heard of, electric kettles, and bits of hi-fi equipment that looked forty years out of date. Matthew King decided to go in only because it was free. He’d visited the car-trunk sale before and the only thing he’d come away with was a cold. But this was a warm Saturday afternoon. He had plenty of time. And, anyway, it was there. But it was the same old trash. He certainly wasn’t going to find his father a fiftieth birthday present here, not unless the old man had a sudden yearning for a five-hundred-piece Snow White jigsaw puzzle (missing one piece) or an electric coffeemaker (only slightly cracked) or perhaps a knitted cardigan in an unusual shade of pink (aaaagh!). Matthew sighed. There were times when he hated living in London and this was one of them. It was only after his own birthday, his fourteenth, that his parents had finally agreed to let him go out on his own. And it was only then that he realized he didn’t really have anywhere to go. Crummy Crouch End with its even crummier car-trunk sale. Was this any place for a smart, good-looking teenager on a summer afternoon?

He was about to leave when a car pulled in and parked in the farthest corner. At first he thought it must be a mistake. Most of the cars at the sale were old and rusty, as worn-out as the stuff they were selling. But this was a red Volkswagen, L-registration, bright red and shiny clean. As Matthew watched, a smartly dressed man stepped out, opened the trunk, and stood there, looking awkward and ill at ease, as if he were unsure what to do next. Matthew strolled over to him.

He would always remember the contents of the trunk. It was strange. He had a bad memory. There was a show on TV where you had to remember all the prizes that came out on a conveyor belt and he’d never been able to manage more than two or three, but this time it stayed in his mind . . . well, like a photograph.

There were clothes: a baseball jacket, several pairs of jeans, T-shirts. A pair of Rollerblades, a Tintin rocket, a paper lampshade. Lots of books; paperbacks and a brand-new English dictionary. About twenty CDs— mainly pop, a Sony Walkman, a guitar, a box of water-color paints, a Ouija board, a Game Boy . . . . . . and a camera.

Matthew reached out and grabbed the camera. He was already aware that a small crowd had gathered behind him and more hands were reaching past him to snatch items out of the trunk. The man who had driven the car didn’t move. Nor did he show any emotion. He had a round face with a small mustache and he looked fed up. He didn’t want to be there in Crouch End, at the car-trunk sale. Everything about him said it.
“I’ll give you a tenner for this,” someone said.

Matthew saw that they were holding the baseball jacket. It was almost new and must have been worth at least fifty dollars.
“Done,” the man said. His face didn’t change.
Matthew turned the camera over in his hands. Unlike the jacket, it was old, probably bought secondhand, but it seemed to be in good condition. It was a Pentax—but the X on the casing had worn away. That was the only sign of damage. He held it up and looked through the viewfinder. About twenty feet away, a woman was holding up the horrible pink cardigan he had noticed earlier. He focused and felt a certain thrill as the powerful lens seemed to carry him forward so that the cardigan now filled his vision. He could even make out the buttons—silvery white and loose. He swiveled around, the cars and the crowd racing across the viewfinder as he searched for a subject. For no reason at all he focused on a large bedroom mirror propped up against another car. His finger found the shutter release and he pressed it. There was a satisfying click; it seemed that the camera worked. And it would make a perfect present. Only a few months before, his dad had been complaining about the pictures he’d just gotten back from their last vacation in France. Half of them had been out of focus and the rest had been so overexposed that they’d made the Loire Valley look about as enticing as the Gobi Desert on a bad day.

“It’s the camera,” he’d insisted. “It’s worn-out and useless. I’m going to get myself a new one.”
But he hadn’t. In one week’s time he was going to be fifty years old. And Matthew had the perfect birthday present right in his hands. How much would it cost? The camera felt expensive. For a start it was heavy. Solid. The lens was obviously a powerful one. The camera didn’t have an automatic rewind, a digital display, or any of the other things that came as standard these days. But technology was cheap. Quality was expensive. And this was undoubtedly a quality camera.

“Will you take ten dollars for this?” Matthew asked. If the owner had been happy to take so little for the baseball jacket, perhaps he wouldn’t think twice about the camera. But this time the man shook his head.
“It’s worth a hundred at least,” he said. He turned away to take twenty dollars for the guitar. It had been bought by a young black woman who strummed it as she walked away.
“I’ll have a look at that . . .” A thin, dark-haired woman reached out to take the camera, but Matthew pulled it back. He had three twenty-dollar bills in his back pocket. Twelve weeks’ worth of shoe cleaning, car washing, and generally helping around the house. He hadn’t meant to spend all of it on his dad. Perhaps not even half of it.
“Will you take forty dollars?” he asked the man. “It’s all I’ve got,” he lied.
The man glared at him, then nodded. “Yes. That’ll do.”

Matthew felt a surge of excitement and at the same time a sudden fear. A hundred-dollar camera for forty bucks? It had to be broken. Or stolen. Or both. But then the woman opened her mouth to speak and Matthew quickly found his money and thrust it out. The man took it without looking pleased or sorry. He simply folded the notes and put them in his pocket as if the payment meant nothing to him.
“Thank you,” Matthew said.
The man looked straight at him. “I just want to get rid of it,” he said. “I want to get rid of it all.”
“Who did it belong to?”
The man shrugged. “Students,” he said—as if the one word explained it all. Matthew waited. The crowd had separated, moving on to the other stalls, and for a moment the two of them were alone. “I used to rent a couple of rooms,” the man explained. “Art students. Three of them. A couple of months ago they disappeared. Just took off—owing two months’ rent. Well, what do you expect! I’ve tried to find them, but they haven’t had the decency to call. So my wife told me to sell some of their stuff. I didn’t want to. But they’re the ones who owe me. It’s only fair . . .”
A plump woman pushed between them, snatching up a handful of the Tshirts. “How much for these?” The sun was still shining but suddenly Matthew felt cold.

. . . they disappeared . . .

Why should three art students suddenly vanish, leaving all their gear, including a hundred-dollar camera, behind? The landlord obviously felt guilty about selling it. Was Matthew doing the right thing, buying it? Quickly he turned around and hurried away, before either of them changed their mind. He had just stepped through the gates and reached the street when he heard it: the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. He turned around and looked back and saw that the bedroom mirror he had just photographed with the new camera had been knocked over. At least, he assumed that was what had happened. It was lying facedown, surrounded by splinters of glass.

The owner—a short, stocky man with a skinhead haircut—bounded forward and grabbed hold of a man who had just been passing. “You knocked over my mirror!” he shouted.
“I never went near it.” The man was younger, wearing jeans and a Star Wars T-shirt.
“I saw you! That’ll be five bucks—”
“Get lost!”
And then, even as Matthew watched, the skinhead drew back his fist and lashed out. Matthew almost heard the knuckles connect with the other man’s face. The second man screamed. Blood gushed out of his nose and
dripped down onto his T-shirt. Matthew drew the camera close to his chest, turned, and hurried away.
“It must be stolen,” Elizabeth King said, taking the camera.
“I don’t think so,” Matthew said. “I told you what he said!”
“What did you pay for it?” Jamie asked. Jamie was his younger brother.
Three years younger and wildly jealous of everything he did.
“None of your business,” Matthew replied.
Elizabeth pushed a lever on the camera with her fingernail and the back sprang open. “Oh, look!” she said. “There’s film in here.” She tilted the camera back and a Kodak cartridge fell into the palm of her hand. “It’s used,” she added.
“He must have left it there,” Jamie said.
“Maybe you should get it developed,” Elizabeth suggested. “You never know what you’ll find.”
“Boring family snapshots,” Matthew muttered.
“It could be porn!” Jamie shouted.
“Grow up, moron!” Matthew sighed.
“You’re such a nerd . . . !”
“Retard . . .”
“Come on, boys. Let’s not quarrel!” Elizabeth handed the camera back to Matthew. “It’s a nice present,” she said. “Chris will love it. And he doesn’t need to know where you got it . . . or how you think it got there.”

Christopher King was an actor. He wasn’t famous, although people still recognized him from a coffee commercial he’d done two years before, but he always had work. In this, the week before his fiftieth birthday, he was appearing as Banquo in Shakespeare’s Macbeth (“the Scottish play,” he called it—he said it was bad luck to mention the piece by name). He’d been murdered six nights—and one afternoon—a week for the past five weeks and he was beginning to look forward to the end of the run.

Both Matthew and Jamie liked it when their father was in a London play, especially if it coincided with summer vacation. It meant they could spend quite a bit of the day together. They had an old Labrador, Polonius, and the four of them would often go out walking on Hampstead Heath. Elizabeth King worked part-time in a dress shop, but if she was around she’d come, too. They were a close, happy family. The Kings had been married for twenty years.

Secretly, Matthew was a little shocked about how much money he had spent on the camera, but by the time the birthday arrived, he had managed to put it behind him and he was genuinely pleased by his father ’s reaction.
“It’s great!” Christopher exclaimed, turning the camera in his hands. The family had just finished breakfast and were still sitting around the table in the kitchen. “It’s exactly what I wanted. Automatic exposure and a light meter! Different apertures . . .” He looked up at Matthew, who was beaming with pleasure. “Where did you get it from, Matt? Did you rob a bank?”
“It was secondhand,” Jamie announced.
“I can see that. But it’s still a great camera. Where’s the film?”
“I didn’t get any, Dad . . .” Matthew remembered the film he’d found in the camera. It was on the table by his bed. Now he cursed himself. Why hadn’t he thought to buy some new film? What good was a camera without
film?
“You haven’t opened my present, Dad,” Jamie said.
Christopher put down the camera and reached for a small, square box, wrapped in Power Rangers paper. He tore it open and laughed as a box of film tumbled onto the table. “Now that was a great idea,” he exclaimed.
Cheapskate, Matthew thought, but wisely said nothing.
“Now, how does it go in . . . ?”
“Here. Let me.” Matthew took the camera from his father and opened the back. Then he tore open the box and started to lower the film into place. But he couldn’t do it. He stopped.
And slid into the nightmare.

It was as if his family—Christopher and Elizabeth sitting at the breakfast table, Jamie hovering at their side—had become a photograph themselves.
Matthew was suddenly watching them from outside, frozen in another world. Everything seemed to have stopped. At the same time he felt something that he had never felt in his life—a strange tingling at the back of his neck as, one after another, the hairs stood on end. He looked down at the camera, which had become a gaping black hole in his hands. He felt himself falling, being sucked into it. And once he was inside, the back of the camera would be a coffin lid that would snap shut, locking him in the terrible darkness . . .
“Matt? Are you all right?” Christopher reached out and took the camera, breaking the spell, and Matthew realized that his whole body was trembling. There was sweat on his shoulders and in the palms of his hands. What had happened to him? What had he just experienced?
“Yes. I’m . . .” He blinked and shook his head.
“Are you getting a summer cold?” his mother asked. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I . . .”
There was a loud snap. Christopher held up the camera. “There! It’s in!”
Jamie climbed onto his chair and stuck one leg out like a statue, showing off. “Take me!” he called out. “Take a picture of me!”
“I can’t. I haven’t got a flash.”
“We can go out in the garden!”
“There’s not enough sun.”
“Well, you’ve got to take something, Chris,” Elizabeth said.
In the end, Christopher took two pictures. It didn’t matter what the subjects were, he said. He just wanted to experiment. First of all, he took a picture of a tree, growing in the middle of the lawn. It was the cherry tree that Elizabeth had planted while he was appearing in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard just after they were married. It had flowered every year since. And then, when Jamie had persuaded Polonius, the Labrador, to waddle out of his basket and into the garden, Christopher took a picture of him as well.

Matthew watched all this with a smile but refused to take part. He was still feeling sick. It was as if he had been half-strangled or punched in the pit of his stomach. He reached out and poured himself a glass of apple juice. His mother was probably right. He must be coming down with flu. But he forgot about it later when two more actors from “the Scottish play” stopped over and they all went out for an early lunch. After that, Christopher caught a bus into town—it was a Wednesday and he had to be at the theater by two—and Matthew spent the rest of the afternoon playing computer games with Polonius asleep at the foot of his bed. It was two days later that his mother noticed it.
“Look at that!” she exclaimed, gazing out of the kitchen window.
“What’s that?” Christopher had been sent a new play and he was reading
it before his audition.
“The cherry tree!”

Matthew walked over to the window and looked out. He saw at once what his mother meant. The tree was about ten feet tall. Although the best of the blossom was over, it had already taken on its autumn colors, a great burst of dark red leaves fighting for attention on the delicate branches. At least, that was how it had been the day before. Now the cherry tree was dead. The branches were bare, the leaves brown and shriveled, scattered over the lawn. Even the trunk seemed to have turned gray and the whole tree was bent over like a sick, old man.
“What’s happened?” Christopher opened the kitchen door and walked out into the garden. Elizabeth followed him. He reached the tree and scooped up a handful of the leaves. “It’s completely dead!” he exclaimed.
“But a tree can’t just . . . die.” Matthew had never seen his mother look
so sad and he suddenly realized that the cherry must have been more than a tree to her. It had grown alongside her marriage and her family. “It looks as if it’s been poisoned!” she muttered.
Christopher dropped the leaves and wiped his hand on his sleeve.
“Perhaps it was something in the soil,” he said. He pulled Elizabeth toward him. “Cheer up! We’ll plant another one.”
“But it was special. The Cherry Orchard . . .”
Christopher put an arm around his wife. “At least I took a picture of it,” he said. “It means we’ve got something to remember it by.”

The two of them went back into the house, leaving Matthew alone in the garden. He reached out and ran a finger down the bark of the tree. It felt cold and slimy to the touch. He shivered. He had never seen anything that
looked quite so . . . dead. At least I took a picture of it . . . Christopher’s words echoed in his mind. He suddenly felt uneasy—but he didn’t know why.

The accident happened the next day.
Matthew wasn’t up yet. Lying in bed, he heard first the sound of the front door crashing open—too hard—and then the voices echoing up the stairs toward him.
“Liz! What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, Chris!” Matthew froze. His mother never cried. Never. But she was crying now. “It’s Polonius . . .”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know! I don’t understand it!”
“Lizzie, he’s not . . .”
“He is. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry . . .” That was all she could say. In the kitchen, Christopher made tea and listened to the cold facts. Elizabeth had walked down into Crouch End to get the newspaper and mail some letters. She had taken Polonius with her. As usual, the Labrador had padded after her. She never put him on a leash. He was well trained. He never ran into the road, even if he saw a cat or a squirrel. The truth was that, at nearly twelve years old, Polonius hardly ever ran at all.

But today, for no reason, he had suddenly walked off the sidewalk. Elizabeth hadn’t even seen him until it was too late. She had opened her mouth to call his name when the Land Rover had appeared, driving too fast around the corner. All the cars drove too fast on Wolseley Road. Elizabeth had closed her eyes at the last moment. But she had heard the yelp, the terrible thump, and she had known that Polonius could not have survived. At least it had been quick. The driver of the Land Rover had been helpful and apologetic. He had taken the dog to the vet . . . to be buried or cremated or whatever. Polonius was gone. He had been with the family since he was a puppy and now he was gone.

Lying in bed, Matthew listened to his parents talking, and although he didn’t hear all of it, he knew enough. He rested his head on the pillow, his eyes brim ming with tears. “You took a picture of him,” he muttered to himself. “A picture is all we have left.”
And that was when he knew.

At the car-trunk sale, Matthew had taken a picture of a mirror. The mirror had smashed. His father had taken a picture of the cherry tree. The cherry tree had died. Then he’d taken a picture of Polonius . . .

Matthew turned to one side, his cheek coming into contact with the cool surface of the pillow. And there it was, where he had left it, on the table by his bed. The film that he had found inside the camera when he bought it. The film that had already been exposed.
That afternoon, he took it to the drugstore and had it developed. There were twenty-four pictures in the packet. Matthew had bought himself a Coke in a café in Crouch End and now he tore the packet open, letting the glossy pictures slide out onto the table. For a moment he hesitated. It felt wrong, stealing this glimpse into somebody else’s life . . . like a Peeping Tom. But he had to know. The first ten pictures only made him feel worse. They showed a young guy, in his early twenties, and somehow Matthew knew that this was the owner of the camera. He was kissing a pretty blond girl in one picture, throwing a baseball in another. Art students. Three of them . . .

The man at the car-trunk sale had rented part of his house to art students. And this must be them. Three of them. The camera owner. The blond girl.
And another guy, thin, with long hair and uneven teeth. Matthew shuffled quickly through the rest of the pictures. An exhibition of paintings. A London street. A railway station. A beach. A fishing boat. A house . . .
The house was different. It was like nothing Matthew had ever seen before. It stood, four stories high, in the ruins of a garden, slanting out of a tangle of nettles and briars with great knife blades of grass stabbing at the brickwork. It was obviously deserted, empty. Some of the windows had been smashed. The black paint was peeling in places, exposing brickwork that glistened like a suppurating wound. Closer. A cracked gargoyle leered at the camera, arching out over the front door. The door was a massive slab of oak, its iron knocker shaped like a pair of baby’s arms with the hands clasped.

Six people had come to the house that night. There was a picture of them, grouped together in the garden. Matthew recognized the three students from art school. Now they were all dressed in black shirts, black jeans. Two more men and another girl, all about twenty, stood behind them. One of the men had raised his arms and was grimacing, doing a vampire impersonation. They were all laughing. Matthew wondered if a seventh person had taken the picture or if it had been set to automatic. He turned over the next photograph and was taken into the house. Click. A vast entrance hall. Huge flagstones and, in the distance, the rotting bulk of a wooden staircase twisting up to nowhere. Click. The blond girl drinking red wine. Drinking it straight from the bottle. Click. A guy with fair hair holding two candles. Behind him another guy holding a paintbrush. Click. The flagstones again, but now they’ve painted a white circle on them and the guy with fair hair is adding words. But you can’t read the words. They’ve been wiped out by the reflection from the flash. Click. More candles. Flickering now. Placed around the circle. Three members of the group holding hands. Click. They’re naked! They’ve taken off their clothes.

Matthew can see everything, but at the same time he sees nothing. He doesn’t believe it. It’s madness . . .
Click. A cat. A black cat. Its eyes have caught the flash and have become two pinpricks of fire. The cat has sharp, white teeth. It is snarling, writhing in the hands that hold it. Click. A knife. Matthew closed his eyes. He knew now what they were doing. At the same time he remembered the other object that the man had been selling at the car-trunk sale. He had noticed it at the time but hadn’t really thought about it. The Ouija board. A game for people who like to play with things they don’t understand. A game for people who aren’t afraid of the dark. But Matthew was afraid.

Sitting there in the café with the photographs spread out in front of him, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. But there could be no escaping the truth. A group of students had gone to an abandoned house. Perhaps they’d taken some sort of book with them; an old book of spells . . . they could have found it in an antiques shop. Matthew had once seen something like that in the shop where his mother worked: an old, leather-bound book with yellowing pages and black, splattery handwriting. A grimoire, she’d called it. The people in the photograph must have found one somewhere, and tired of the Ouija board, they’d decided to do something more dangerous, more frightening. To summon up...
What?
A ghost? A demon?

Matthew had seen enough horror films to recognize what the photographs showed. A magic circle. Candles. The blood of a dead cat. The six people had taken it all very seriously—even stripping naked for the ritual. And they had succeeded. Somehow Matthew knew that the ritual had worked. That they had raised . . . something. And it had killed them. They disappeared. Just took off . . .

The man at the car-trunk sale had never seen them again. Of course they’d returned to his house, to wherever it was they rented. If they hadn’t gone back, the camera would never have been there. But after that, something must have happened. Not to one of them. But to all of them.

The camera . . .

Matthew looked down at the prints. He had worked his way through the pile, but there were still three or four pictures left. He reached out with his fingers to separate them, but then stopped. Had the student who owned the camera taken a picture of the creature, the thing, whatever it was they had summoned up with their spells? Was it there now, on the table in front of him? Could it be possible . . . ?

He didn’t want to know. Matthew picked up the entire pile and screwed them up in his hands. He tried to tear them but couldn’t. Suddenly he felt sick and angry. He hadn’t wanted any of this. He had just wanted a birthday present for his father and he had brought something horrible and evil into the house. One of the photographs slipped through his fingers and . . .
. . . something red, glowing, two snake eyes, a huge shadow . . .

. . . Matthew saw it out of the corner of his eye even as he tried not to look at it. He grabbed hold of the picture and began to tear it, once, twice, into ever-smaller pieces.

“Are you all right, love?”
The waitress had appeared from nowhere and stood over the table looking down at Matthew. Matthew half smiled and opened his hand, scattering fragments of the photograph. “Yes . . .” He stood up. “I don’t want these,” he said.
“I can see that. Shall I put them in the trash for you?”
“Yes. Thanks . . .”
The waitress swept up the crumpled photographs and the torn pieces and carried them over to the trash can. When she turned around again, the table was empty. Matthew had already gone.

Find the camera. Smash the camera. The two thoughts ran through his mind again and again. He would explain it to his father later. Or maybe he wouldn’t. How could he tell him what he now knew to be true? “You see, Dad, this guy had the camera and he used it in some sort of black-magic ritual. He took a picture of a demon and the demon either killed him or frightened him away and now it’s inside the camera. Every time you take a picture with the camera, you kill whatever you’re aiming at. Remember the cherry tree? Remember Polonius? And there was this mirror, too . . .”

Christopher would think he was mad. It would be better not even to try to explain. He would just take the camera and lose it. Perhaps at the bottom of a canal. His parents would think someone had stolen it. It would be better if they never knew.

He arrived home. He had his own keys and let himself in. He knew at once that his parents had gone out. The coats were missing in the hall, and apart from the sound of vacuuming coming from upstairs, the house felt empty. As he closed the front door, the sound of the vacuum cleaner stopped and a short, round woman appeared at the top of the stairs. Her name was Mrs. Bayley and she came in twice a week to help Elizabeth with the cleaning.

“Is that you, Matthew?” she called down. She relaxed when she saw him.
“You mom said to tell you she’d gone out.”
“Where did she go?” Matthew felt the first stirrings of alarm.
“Your dad took her and Jamie up to Hampstead Heath. And that new camera you bought him. He said he wanted to take their picture . . .”

And that was it. Matthew felt the floor tilt underneath him and he slid back, his shoulders hitting the wall. The camera. Hampstead Heath. Not Mom! Not Jamie!

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Bayley came down the stairs toward him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“I have to go there!” The words came out as a gabble. Matthew forced himself to slow down. “Mrs. Bayley. Have you got your car? Can you give me a lift?”
“I still haven’t done the kitchen . . .”
“Please! It’s important!”

There must have been something in his voice. Mrs. Bayley looked at him, puzzled. Then she nodded. “I can take you up if you like. But the Heath’s a big place. I don’t know how you’re going to find them . . .”
She was right, of course. The Heath stretched all the way from Hampstead to Highgate and down to Gospel Oak, a swath of green that rose and fell with twisting paths, ornamental lakes, and thick clumps of woodland. Walking on the Heath, you hardly felt you were in London at all, and even if you knew where you were going, it was easy to get lost. Where would they have gone? They could be anywhere. Mrs. Bayley had driven him down from Highgate in her rusting Fiat Panda and was about to reach the first main entrance when he saw it, parked next to a bus stop. It was his father’s car. There was a sticker in the back window—LIVE THEATER MAKES LIFE BETTER—and the bright red letters jumped out at him. Matthew had always been a little embarrassed by that stupid line. Now he read the words with a flood of relief.

“Stop here, Mrs. Bayley!” he shouted.
Mrs. Bayley twisted the steering wheel and there was the blare of a horn from behind them as they swerved into the side of the road. “Have you seen them?” she asked.
“Their car. They must be up at Kenwood . . .”
Kenwood House. It was one of the most beautiful sights of the Heath; a white, eighteenth-century building on a gentle rise, looking down over a flat lawn and a lake. It was just the sort of place where Christopher might have
gone for a walk . . .

Gone to take a picture.

Matthew scrambled out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Already he could imagine Elizabeth and Jamie with their backs to the house. Christopher standing with the camera. “A little closer. Now smile . .
.” His finger would stab downward—and then what? Matthew remembered the cherry tree, colorless and dead. Polonius, who had never stepped into the road before. The mirror, smashing at the car-trunk sale. A gush of blood from the fight it had provoked. Even as he ran along the pavement and swung through the first entrance to the Heath, he wondered if he wasn’t mad, if he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. But then he remembered the pictures: the empty house, the candles. The shadow. Two burning red eyes . . .

And Matthew knew that he was right, that he had imagined none of it, and that he had perhaps only minutes in which to save his father, his mother, his younger brother. If it wasn’t too late already.

Christopher, Elizabeth, and Jamie weren’t at Kenwood. They weren’t on the terrace, or on the lawn. Matthew ran from one end of the house to the other, pushing through the crowds, ignoring the cries of protest. He thought he saw Jamie in the ornamental gardens and pounced on him—but it was another boy, nothing like his brother. The whole world seemed to have smashed (like the mirror at the car-trunk sale) as he forced himself on, searching for his family. He was aware only of the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, and the multicolored pieces, the unmade jigsaw, of the people in between.

“Mom! Dad! Jamie!” He shouted their names as he ran, hoping against hope that if he didn’t see them, they might hear him. He was half-aware that people were looking at him, pointing at him, but he didn’t care. He swerved around a man in a wheelchair. His foot came down in a bed of flowers. Somebody shouted at him. He ran on.

And just when he was about to give up, he saw them. For a moment he stood there, his chest heaving, the breath catching in his throat. Was it really them, just standing there? They looked as if they had been waiting for him all along.
But had he reached them in time?
Christopher was holding the camera. The lens cap was on. Jamie was looking bored. Elizabeth had been talking, but seeing Matthew, she broke off and gazed at him, astonished.

“Matthew . . . ?” She glanced at Christopher. “What are you doing here?
What’s the matter . . . ?”

Matthew ran forward. It was only now that he realized he was sweating, not just from the effort of running but from sheer terror. He stared at the camera in his father ’s hand, resisting the impulse to tear it away and smash it. He opened his mouth to speak, but for a moment no words came. He forced himself to relax.

“The camera . . .” he rasped.
“What about it?” Christopher held it up, alarmed.

Matthew swallowed. He didn’t want to ask the question. But he had to.
He had to know. “Did you take a picture of Mom?” he asked.
Christopher King shook his head. “She wouldn’t let me,” he said.
“I’m too much of a mess,” Elizabeth added.
“What about Jamie?”
“What about me?”
Matthew ignored him. “Did you take a picture of him?”
“No.” Christopher smiled, perplexed. “What is all this, Matthew? What’s the matter?”
Matthew held up his hands. “You haven’t taken a picture of Jamie? You haven’t taken a picture of Mom?”
“No.”
Then—the horrible thought. “Did you let them take a picture of you?”
“No.” Christopher laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “We only just got here,” he said. “We haven’t taken any pictures of each other. Why is it so important anyway? What are you doing here?” Matthew felt his knees go weak. He wanted to sink onto the grass. He felt the breeze rippling past his cheeks and a great shout of laughter welled up inside him. He had arrived in time. Everything was going to be all right. Then Jamie spoke. “I took a picture,” he said. Matthew froze.
“Dad let me!”
“Yes.” Christopher smiled. “It’s the only picture we’ve taken.”
“But . . .” Just four words. But once they were spoken, his life would never be the same. “What did you take?”
Jamie pointed. “London.”
And there it was. The entire city of London. They were standing on a hill and it lay there, spread out before them. You could see it all from here. St. Paul’s Cathedral. The Post Office Tower. Nelson’s Column. Big Ben. That’s why the Kings had come here. For the view.
“London . . . ?” Matthew’s throat was dry.
“I got a great picture.”
“London . . . !”
The sun had disappeared. Matthew stood watching as the clouds closed in and the darkness rolled toward the city.

story was awesome men

Thoda emotions ki khalish lagi merre ko emotion bole to horror wala

Aurbsorry men

 

[lone_hunterr]

Indian Princess Ristrcted
Here is next story... Not as good... It is improvement of someone else's work....
The next story of Power Plant is mine.... plot is based on old movie on Godzila and Ghidorah

 

[lone_hunterr]

CHILD

I‘m not afraid of the darkness. Spiders don‘t bother me, nor do snakes or heights or any of the regular things. I‘m afraid of the child growing inside me, breathing my blood, displacing my organs, until he eventually rips his bulbous head free from my body and leaves me in ruin. I‘m afraid that I will resent all the pain and obligation and loss of opportunity in life, and that all that hatred will make it impossible for me to love him. I‘m still more terrified that that I WILL love him – so much that it hurts. So much that I sacrifice everything for him, neglecting myself and my friends and my art… … until the day when his own ambitions pull him away from me, and I‘ll be left mourning the dissolution of my dreams and the emptiness of my life. And then I will sit down my aching limbs and wait for the weariness of old age to erode my cherished memories and free me from this heart-breaking desire to be someone. Then I will bless the day when I finally forget to ask myself what might have been, if only I had been selfish and lived my life for me. I wasn‘t afraid at the beginning though. I thought I wanted it – that we wanted it. My husband Kirk and I had just moved into our first house, and I was ready. Sure we still fought about stupid things, but we loved each other, and that should have been enough to make him love the child too. Okay. Do you want to make the appointment to take care of it, or should I?‖ That‘s all he said. We‘d been married a year, and he didn‘t even ask if I wanted to keep it. We started to argue, and then the fight took on a life of its own in that insidious way which leaves us screaming at each other about nothing and everything. I thought he was being immature – he thought I was the one who needed to grow up and quit painting. I said he didn‘t take enough initiative at work, and he said I didn‘t respect him. Before I knew what was happening, his pickup was spraying gravel in my face as I sobbed incoherently in the driveway. I didn‘t see him again for four months, which was more than enough time for me to doubt every decision I‘ve ever made in my entire life. Then suddenly one night he was crawling into bed at 2 AM, stinking like death, blubbering apologies and promises. I was so relieved that I didn‘t even mind that he was drunk. We were intimate as a husband and wife should be, and when I fell asleep on his chest afterward, I thought everything was going to be okay. ―I‘m so happy you came back,‖ I whispered, nestled against him. ―I changed my mind,‖ he said. ―I want the baby now.‖ "He's yours," I promised as I drifted off to sleep. There was so much blood when I woke up that I thought I‘d been stabbed. I rushed to the bathroom, screaming for Kirk to help me, but he was nowhere to be found. A miscarriage doesn‘t just plop out and leave you as good as new. The baby drained from me over the whole next day, taking my soul with it. Big bloody clots, leaving me shrieking in anguish on the bathroom floor. I chanced to see myself in the mirror, and the sight of the network of bloody trails running down my thighs was enough to make me smash my fist straight through the glass. The pain was good. It reminded me that I had a body outside of the one that had just died. I couldn‘t flush it. I couldn‘t toss it. I couldn‘t even touch it. I just left it there on the floor and crawled back to my empty bed. I tossed and turned for hours until the clenching pain subsided, but it was nothing compared to the pain of knowing Kirk did this to me. I don‘t know how, or why, but when he came back last night, he killed my baby. And if my feelings in that moment were any indication, then he might have killed me too. I wasn‘t expecting to see Kirk again. I took myself to the doctor as soon as I was able to drive, and that was when I got my first big shock. The ultrasound confirmed a perfectly healthy, growing baby boy inside me. There wasn‘t even any indication of blood loss – all my vitals were strong, and I didn't have anemia. The doctor couldn‘t explain what happened, but finally convinced me that I had a hysterical hallucination and that everything was fine. The bloody pool in my bathroom which greeted my return told a different story. I don‘t know what came out of me, but I couldn‘t force myself to scoop it up and bring it in for analysis. I just mopped everything off the floor and thanked every God that would listen that my child was still alive. The second big shock was from Kirk. When I heard the knocking on my door, I figured he was back again with another apology. Well it wasn‘t going to work – the child and I were both better off without him. When I opened the door though, it was his father who entered with his hat in hand. I sat quietly on the sofa with him while he explained his sympathies. I know you counted on Kirk, but I want you to know that you can count on us too. No man knows what he can bear until it‘s been put on his shoulders, and I‘m just so proud of you for carrying on without him.‖ The poor old man was moved to tears when I said they were welcome to stay involved with my life and the life of their grandchild. He hugged me, and patted my stomach, and told me all about the games Kirk used to play as a child and what to expect when my boy started growing older. Finally he said his goodbyes, promising to check in with me next week to see if there was anything I needed. ―I just wish Kirk was still around to see him grow up,‖ he said as he was leaving. I didn‘t want anything more to do with Kirk, but I was so touched by his father‘s sincerity that I still extended the offer. ―Tell Kirk that he‘s welcome to meet the baby too,‖ I said. ―Even if he won‘t be a father to him.‖ Kirk‘s father gave a hard-pressed smile. ―I think he‘d like that. The funeral is this Sunday, so I hope you and that baby will come say goodbye.‖ The words didn‘t register until after the door had closed. Kirk hadn‘t just left us. He‘d left everything. It had only been two days previous when I‘d seen him last, but I‘ve kept that meeting a secret until now. Everyone else at the funeral was convinced that he‘d put a shotgun in his mouth two weeks ago. Whatever had visited and been with me that night had told me it wanted the baby now, but it wasn‘t Kirk. That‘s when I started to become afraid of the child growing inside of me. I can‘t shake the thought that the stuff pouring out onto the bathroom floor – that was my real child from the real Kirk. What was now growing inside me – that must have come from the visitor. So there I was left wondering what I‘m more afraid of: That the child will be too horrible to let live, or that he is so beautiful that my life will be the one ending that day. It was too late to get it "taken care of", but I don't think I would have done it even if I could. It wasn't until I was well into my 8th month of pregnancy when I heard the 2 AM knocking again. I lay in bed trembling, holding my breath, wondering if it would just go away. No, there it was again. Hard insistent pounding – like something that would break the door in if I kept it waiting. "I know you're in there." It was Kirk's voice. I would still recognize it even if I didn't hear it again for fifty years. ―Go away.‖ I regretted it the moment I replied. An hour passed in the next few seconds of silence. As gut-wrenching as the stillness was, the sound of the opening door was worse. He was inside the house, but the thought of getting out of bed and confronting him – of confronting IT – that was unthinkable. I got out of bed to grab my phone from the nightstand and called the police instead. ―I need help,‖ I blurted into the phone. ―Someone‘s in my house and –― ―Did you make him a promise?‖ It was Kirk‘s voice on the line. My fingers were shaking so badly I couldn‘t even hang up. I just threw the phone across the room and jumped back into bed. This was all a bad dream. It was another hysterical hallucination. I just had to go back to sleep and –But how was I supposed to sleep when I heard footsteps climbing the stairs? ―What promise did you make me?‖ Kirk‘s voice was right outside my bedroom now. I couldn‘t answer him. I could barely breathe. I should have tried harder though, because when the door opened, it was even harder to think straight. Kirk was standing in the doorway, only half of his face was now missing from where the shotgun bullet entered his mouth. Had he looked like this the last time we were making love? It had been so dark, but the stench of death seemed all too familiar. ―There is no baby,‖ I forced myself to say. ―He hasn‘t been born yet.‖ ―I don‘t care. He‘s mine.‖ The malodorous atmosphere engulfed me, and I could taste it like rotten cabbage dripping down the back of my throat. He was getting closer, but still blocked the only door out. ―You‘ll kill me if you take him now,‖ I told him. ―Please wait. At least until he‘s born.‖ ―I don‘t care! I want my son!‖ He lifted his stiff limbs with his hands to clamber into the bed beside me. I didn‘t see any weapon, but the thought of him trying to pull the child out of me with his rotting hands was even more terrifying. I gagged so violently that I would have fallen over if his hands hadn‘t clutched my shoulders. The icy nails sank into my arms, and I forced myself not to watch as I felt some of his own decaying skin slide off to splatter across my bed. Those disgusting fingers – I had placed a ring upon one and sworn my love before my family and before God. That open wound disguised as a face – I did not know myself until I whispered my secrets to him and washed myself with his acceptance and support. If I closed my eyes, the arms that clenched around me could almost still have been the ones that held me every night as I fell asleep. ―Do you still love me?‖ I asked what used to be my husband. ―Does it matter? You can‘t love me in return.‖ ―If I could.‖ Every word I spoke carried the weight of my life and the life of my child. ―Would you still love me back?‖ ―You can‘t. If you could, I never would have left.‖ ―You still do, or you never would have come back.‖ Mother‘s make sacrifices for their child. That has been documented across eons of history, cultures, and even species. Kissing him wasn‘t for my child though. I did it to save my own life. In that moment, I would have ripped my own baby boy from my body and handed it to him if I could escape unharmed. I must be the worst mother in the world, because when Kirk was done with me that night, I still promised to give him the child when he was born. It‘s amazing how much my mind changed after I held my boy for the first time. Suddenly he wasn‘t just a medical condition which needed to be resolved. He was more a part of me now than he was inside me, and I finally understand that living for him wouldn‘t be a sacrifice. He is my soul, and everything that I do for him, I do for me. I know I‘ve been selfish with my love. I know I‘ve made promises which I don‘t intend to keep. I know I‘ve lied to what was left of my husband when I pleaded for my life. But now I truly have something worth living (and dying) for, and I‘m not going to give him up no matter what happens. Until then, I am doing the best I can getting by as a new parent who can‘t seem to get any sleep. It‘s not the baby keeping me up though. It‘s just the waiting for the 2 AM knock on my door.

 

[lone_hunterr]

POWER PLANT

Four years in the army, and not once did I hear an order from anyone ranked above a Major(O4). Now I‘ve been at the Dalton Power Station for two months, and I‘ve already received three phone calls from James Mattis, the US minister of defense.

It seems like a mundane enough job, right? My stint in the army helped pay my way through a bachelor‘s in power plant technology after I got out, and I was ready for a reliable income with good honest work. I spent a few years in equipment operations, then checking readouts, and on up to personnel supervisor. Nothing more exciting than a few power lines being blown over in a storm until I was promoted to Plant Operator in Dalton.

"You‘re going to notice a few anomalies with this plant," the old manager Nathan told me. He was retiring, although by the size of his waste-line and the dull glassy glaze over his eyes, I‘d guess he retired about ten years ago and just hadn‘t left yet.

"But I don‘t want you to worry," he added. "I worked here 20 years and nothing going on will interfere with your job."

"Looks normal enough to me," I replied. Was this some kind of test? "Single open cycle gas turbines, probably around 140 megawatts, right?"

If I was expecting praise for my perception, I didn‘t get it. That was the first time I‘ve ever seen a grown man spit on an office floor.

"Not about the output boy, I mean our client. We‘re just supplying one building up in the hills. The rest of the city is handled by that hydroelectric station downtown."

This had to be a test. It didn‘t seem fair since they already offered me the job, but there wasn‘t any harm in playing along.

"No sir, that‘s impossible. This station should be able to supply around 140,000 homes."
"Or one government building," he grunted.
"Are we not producing at capacity?" We are. Hell, they‘d take more if they could get it."
What are they doing up there? I don‘t understand."

Nathan clapped me on the back like I had just won an award. "And they like to keep it that way. So if you want to stick around like I have, then you‘ll do what I did and keep your nose out of their business. Besides that, everything should run pretty smooth for you here."

But Nathan was wrong. Right from the start, nothing ran smoothly. First of all, the other plant workers acted mighty strange toward me. Every one of them kept their eyes locked on the floor, all wearing that same glassy eyed complacency I had seen in Nathan. They followed orders readily enough, but they did so without any initiative or individuality.

I caught one guy, Robert, chewing his pencil for ten minutes straight in the break-room. I asked him what he was doing, and he mumbled that his schedule dictated a break every two hours. As soon as his ten minutes were up (to the damn second, I think), he stood up and left the room without another word.

And then there was James Mattis calling every few weeks. Those were the most awkward, forced conversations I‘ve ever had to sit through in my life.
"Acting Manager?" were always the first words out of his mouth.
"John Doe (not my real name) speaking."
"Clearance code?"

I‘d give it to him, and then he invariably asked a string of the vaguest imaginable questions. It felt almost like he was being held hostage and had to speak in code to gather information. A few examples:
"Would you consider everything to be more, or less ordinary than normal?"
"Have you had any unusual requests for output to anywhere besides that building?" "In an emergency, how fast could you shut down power to everything if you had to?"

The financing is another thing that didn‘t make sense to me. Usually a plant this size will have a couple dozen workers and need its own financing department to keep track of everything. Here we‘ve just got Megan.

"There‘s not much to do really," she told me. "There‘s no money coming in. I just prepare a folder every month with all our expenses, mail it to some office down in DC, and they take care of it. They‘ve never denied anything before."

Three days ago topped it all off when I received the strangest question yet from Mattis. He asked: "Have you noticed any of your employees trying to escape?" Then he coughed like he was trying to clear his head, not his throat. "I mean, any of them try to quit or just stop showing up?"

The mystery was unbearable to me, but I was trained to follow orders, and despite everything I could have maybe still accepted the situation if it wasn‘t for the black van which came by yesterday. "Shuttle service," they called it, although it was only picking up Robert and another technician named Elijah. I watched the van take them up the dirt road winding into the hills.

Yesterday morning they were back at work and I asked them what happened, but they both just laughed and said they went out for a few drinks. Even the laugh felt wrong – like they weren‘t doing it because they thought it was funny, but rather made the sound in the hopes that I would find it funny and move on.

First thing I learned about working in a power plant is that a pair of professional overalls and a condescending attitude can get you in just about anywhere. All I had to do was strip one of the underground cables leading to the building, file a report on the output fluctuation, schedule my own appointment, and show up. There was a guard post out front, but I showed them my diagnostics appointment and they let me inside (under escort) without complaint.

I called it a building before just because I‘d only seen its location on a map. A mine shaft might describe the phenomenon more accurately, or perhaps a crater. The complex was clustered around an abyss located at the bottom of an enormous valley whose jagged slopes looked like the result of a cataclysmic primordial explosion, long since eroded and overgrown with spruce and pine. There was an unusual energy about the place, and I felt compelled to walk gently as though stepping atop a living creature. That was probably on account of the constant vibrations rippling through the ground like something deep below the earth was stirring.

Most unsettling of all perhaps were the rows of black vans parked outside. Four of them were being loaded with long bags about the size and shape of a human body. I caught the eye of the guard accompanying me and noticed its glassy shine.

"Any power cuts have serious repercussions here. Please resolve the issue as quickly as humanly possible."
Humanly....... Maybe my discomfort had me imagining things, but somehow it seemed like he said that in the same way you or I might say 'He‘s pretty smart, for a dog.‘

The guard led me to a control station about a hundred feet away from the main complex. I couldn‘t get a good enough angle on the abyss to glimpse what could be down there, but up close the vibrations resolved themselves into the distinct sound of drilling.
"I don‘t suppose I‘m allowed to ask –" I started.
"Won‘t do you any good," he answered promptly.
"I don‘t know any more than you, and that‘s already more than enough."
Have you ever been inside?" He shook his head, glancing around nervously. Then in a hushed whisper:
"I never seen anything, but sometimes I‘ll hear things. Like something is down there that don‘t want to be." I raised my eyebrow, hoping he‘d continue. He opened his mouth like he was going to say more, then shook his head.
"None of my business, none of yours. How long is this gonna take?"

I didn‘t push my luck by staying long. I traced the power restriction to the cable I striped and followed the line back away from the complex to the spot where I damaged the cable.

I‘ve been keeping an especially close eye on Robert and Elijah all day today. I can‘t shake the feeling that they‘re not quite here. I caught Robert chewing his pencil again, but he was doing it so absent minded, that by the end of his ten minute break he had eaten straight through the entire thing.

Elijah was even worse. He was microwaving a cup of noodles in the break room, anxiously pacing back and forth like he was waiting for a bomb to go off. Then it beeped, and he actually collapsed to the floor in shock. I retrieved his glasses for him and helped him to his feet, noticing his eyes were so pale as to be almost completely white. I‘m positive they weren‘t like that before he went into the building.

I searched through the computer databases for any unusual mentions of the two, and found this log written by Nathan dated two months before I arrived.

Robert and Elijah first pickup service today. Good for five rounds each before they‟re used up.

Current staff: Round 0: 3 Nights

Round 1: 5

Round 2: 11

Round 3: 7

Round 4: 2

Round 5: 1

I am the only one at round 5. Requesting replacement for myself in two months after my final round. May God have mercy on our souls.

I scanned back further through his logs and saw a list of similar numbers. It seems like every week another pair of people are sent to the building and their ―rounds‖ are increased by one. Elijah was currently a 4, while Robert was a 3.

There was also a schedule of future pickups. I scanned ahead a few pages and didn‘t see my name anywhere. It was a relief at first, although the more I searched, the more unnerving it was to be the only one not on the list. Well, here goes nothing.

I edited the next week to switch my name with Megan‘s (she was a round 1). It seemed like people were returning from whatever was going on there, and I know I‘m not going to rest easy until I got a look inside. I don‘t know what happens past round 5, but after trying to call Nathan‘s personal number, I‘m pretty sure that I don‘t want to know.

I learned from his wife that he put a bullet in his brain the day he left the plant. If all goes well, I hope I‘ll get to the bottom of this before I reach that point. And if not, well it‘s as Nathan said.
May God have mercy on our souls.

"Tell me everything you remember," I ordered Elijah the next day. I had waited until he entered the bathroom before following and locking the door behind us. The black van was going to be here in a few hours, and my excitement was quickly being replaced with dread. I needed answers, and I needed them now.
"I don‘t know what you‘re talking about," he replied in a monotonous voice. Forcing myself to stare into his cloudy white eyes was harder than I expected.
"On the nights you‘re picked up by the ‗shuttle service‘," I said. "I know you‘ve gone four times now, and I know you weren‘t just drinking. I want you to tell me what really happened."
A euphoric smile replaced his pallid countenance. Then a frown, as though trying to remember the insubstantial details of a passing dream. "But that‘s all that happened," he said. "The shuttle picks us up and they give us something to drink. Then I wake up in my home, and it‘s time to go to work again."
"And you feel just the same as you did before?" The frown deepened. Then his eyes stretched so wide I thought they would pop straight out of his head. For a second he seemed about to scream, but then his face reverted back into a blank slate. It all happened in such a flash that I couldn‘t be sure the expression was there at all, but when he smiled again, I could sense the tension still trembling in his cheeks.
"Better than ever," Elijah replied. "I find it invigorating." He continued staring me in the face while he opened his belt and dropped his pants around his ankles. I would have liked to ask him more, but I was too shocked and revolted when he began to piss in the sink right beside me. I just turned around and exited the bathroom without another word. Whatever being done in the building had seriously damaged these people, and it looked like there was only one way for me to find out the truth.

When the van arrived, my name was called alongside Wallace Thornberg. Fat guy in a bulky coat with a hat pulled low over his face – I don‘t remember seeing him before today. He nodded curtly at me but kept his distance, shoving his way into the van the moment the doors slid open.
"Fransisco with the shuttle service." The driver bounced out from his seat and held the door open for me. He was dressed in the same blue suit as the guard who had escorted me before, but this man‘s eyes were perfectly clear.
I hesitated. "Where are we going?"
"You know," Fransisco replied. I found his tone overly familiar, and my doubts redoubled.
"What happens if I don‘t want to go?"
"But you do." The driver grinned and put on a pair of headphones. After that, he didn‘t speak another word for the remainder of the drive.

I climbed in and sat on one of the two benches bolted to the metal floor on either side of the van. The fat man sat on the other side from me, arms crossed, hat pulled low over his face, looking like he was trying to disappear into himself.
"You been there before?" I asked.
"Wouldn‘t remember if I did," came the gruff reply. "You‘re not supposed to be here though. You weren‘t on the list."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"Because I wrote the damn thing, and I didn‘t want you to be," Nathan finally looked up. He grinned to see the shock on my face. "Of course I‘m not supposed to be here either, so I won‘t tell if you don‘t."
Nathan did his best to explain the situation to me as we rumbled into the secluded hills. After each of his first five rounds of procedure, his memory had been wiped clean every time.
"Waking up afterward felt like I was an alien in an unfamiliar world," he told me. "Books, songs, people I had seen a thousand times before, they all started giving me trouble like some sort of puzzle. I even tried to quit once, but the longer I went without another round, the more lost I felt. It became like an addiction, and I couldn‘t live without my fix. It would have been damn irresponsible for me to keep working when I could barely tie my own shoe laces, so I requested a replacement. That‘s why I wanted to keep you off the list – so we could have at least one level headed soul to keep everything running."
"Your wife said you put a bullet in your brain." Nathan chuckled and slid his hat further up his head. A bandage was wrapped around his temple with a great bloody spot like a Japanese flag.
"You blame me? I didn‘t think I could go on after my fifth round, and this seemed easier than having to manage without it. Next I know, I‘m back awake and swearing like the Devil. How‘s that for clearing your head? Worked like a charm too. I felt more like my old self than I had in years. Now I know they‘d never let me walk after a stunt like that, so I let people keep believing I was gone."
What are you?" I knew he couldn‘t remember what they did, but the question slipped involuntarily from my mouth.

Nathan glanced at the driver, still wearing his headphones. We were descending at a sharp angle now and must be entering the valley. Nathan moved across the van to sit beside me, speaking in a hushed tone. "I figure there are two possibilities: that they made me into something that isn‘t human, or the good Lord brought me back. Either way, it‘s my obligation to stop them doing this to anybody else, so I switched with Wallace to throw a wrench in the cogs. Can I count on you to have my back?"

He caught me staring at the bloody bandage and slid the hat back low over his face. I nodded stiffly, although I hated the idea of committing myself to a war when I didn‘t have the first idea who was in the right. It didn‘t seem like people were being forced here, but if they were being manipulated with an addictive drug, then that was just as bad.

The van pulled straight past the control station and stopped in the parking lot where I saw the bodies being loaded last time. The hum of drilling was omnipresent here, and my whole body vibrated like my bones were looking for a way out.

The guard handed us each a pair of headphones as we parked outside the building. "Wear these," he practically shouted. "It‘s only going to get louder inside." Nathan shifted his coat awkwardly, clutching something in his pocket with one hand while he put the headphones on with the other. When he said "wrench", did he mean he was smuggling some kind of weapon in here? The guard didn‘t seem to be paying any attention and simply walked into the towering structure with us at his heels.

"Can you hear me okay?" Fransisco‘s voice came through the headphones. I nodded, absent mindedly walking forward in awe of the gargantuan internal structure. Three, maybe four stories tall on the outside, but it must have been built down into the abyss because the balcony I was standing over dropped down further than I could see. In the distant depths I thought I could make out a faint red glow, but my eyes were repelled from the void by an instinctual terror that I could not overcome.

Endless rows of balconies marched below me into the penumbra of shadow, each containing a massive machine with cables extending downward into the pit. Each machine had a tether of wires extending from the other end which connected with helmets being worn by a men sitting beside it. There must have been hundreds of them sitting so peacefully in repose that they might have been asleep, and hundreds more men in blue suits attending to the machines.

"What the shit?" I couldn‘t believe my eyes. I took a step back toward the entrance and almost tripped as I walked into something. I turned to see the guard offering me a glass of clear liquid. Nathan was already studying a second glass in his hand.
"You‘re going to take a drink and sit down at the machine," Fransisco said. "When you wake up, none of this will have happened, but you‘re going to feel so alive that you might as well be dead now."
"Not remembering it and not happening are completely different things," Nathan said. "But if we ain‘t gonna remember, you might as well tell us what‘s going on."

The guard sighed and rolled his eyes, languidly pulling a .44 magnum handgun from his belt and playing with it in his hand. "I‘ve told you every time, Nathan, and I must admit it‘s getting old. And every time I‘ve told you, you still took the drink, so why not just trust me and do it again?"

Nathan growled and pulled his hat off to reveal the bandage. He reached inside his coat and produced a cellphone with a prominently flashing light. "Well maybe I‘m not as easy to convince anymore," Nathan said. "So why don‘t you humor me?"

Fransisco calmly leveled the gun at Nathan‘s face as Nathan lifted the cell to his ear. I took the opportunity to begin circling the guard, but then the magnum pointed my way and I froze.

"Five rounds might keep you alive, but how well do you think your friend will bounce back from a bullet in the face?" Fransisco asked.
"Acting manager?" Nathan spoke into the phone. His voice was different. I‘d heard that voice over the phone before, but it had been from the office of the secretary of defense.
"Put the phone down, or I‘ll shoot," the guard said. "I swear to God Nathan –"

"Clearance code?" Nathan asked. "I want you to shut down the plant the moment I give the word. Are you ready?"
"You can‘t," Fransisco said. "If we have a power out, every one of these people will die."
"Bullshit. You‘re just trying to save your own ass," Nathan spat. "Tell me what‘s really going on."
"He‘s telling the truth," I interjected. "It happened last time there was a power restriction too."
"I don‘t fucking care!" Nathan bellowed. He gripped the phone so tight his fingers turned white. "Living like this – they‘re dead either way. I want an answer. Now."
Fransisco swallowed hard. He nodded. "We‘re feeding it. If we stop, it‘s going to be angry."
"What is?" Nathan asked. I caught the guard glancing over his shoulder, and turned to look. Another man in a suit was holding a rifle on the opposite balcony.
"Nathan, watch out!" I shouted.
"Put down the phone, Nathan," the guard said. "You have to trust me."
"What is down there?" Nathan shrieked.
"Nathan put it down!" The guard beside us nodded sharply. A crack split the tumultuous sound of the drill and blood sprayed from Nathan‘s face. The rifle bullet had punctured straight through the back of his skull to emerge from his mouth. He looked over his shoulder in bewilderment at the man with the rifle, his whole face splitting open as he turned his head.

Two more cracks rent the air from the handgun. Nathan was staggered to his knees. He hadn‘t let go of the phone. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor and rattled off a rapid string of numbers. Another bullet slammed a hole straight through his forehead, but he didn‘t even hesitate.

The guard lunged at Nathan, but I blocked him with my body and we both went spinning to the ground. "Authorization granted. Shut it all down," Nathan said.

My face went numb as the butt of the handgun slammed into my forehead. I groped the air blindly and caught hold of the guard‘s suit jacket, but he ripped free and dove at Nathan. The former manager scrambled backward, screaming into the phone the whole while.
"Do you hear me? My name is James Mattis. I want the whole station offline right now." The four bullets in Nathan didn‘t even slow him down as he scrambled away from Fransisco. I locked eyes with Nathan right as he reached the edge of the balcony.
"Did I save them? Did I do the right thing?" Nathan‘s voice broke with desperation into my headphones. I pulled myself up from the floor, unable to tear my eyes away from his bloody face.
"You did what you thought was right," is all I could muster. Everyone held their breath, looking around at the lights and the humming machines.
"Connect me to the plant," the guard screamed into his headphones. "Tell them to keep the power –"

And suddenly the silence and the darkness were all there was. Red emergency lights flashed along the walkways for a moment, but row by row they snuffed out as the backup generators were overloaded. The lights on every balcony winked out. The hum of every machine spluttered to a stop. The vibrating pressure of the drills grinded to a halt. In the absence of all other light, my eyes adjusted to see faint outlines visible from the red glare in the pit.

Fransisco roared with frustration and ripped his headphones off. He grabbed Nathan by the coat and rammed him against the railing. I leapt to Nathan‘s aid, but too slow. Nathan didn‘t make the least move to resist as he was tipped over the balcony to plummet into the abyss. I ran to his aid – too late. The last glimpse of him I saw was a spiral of blood raining through the air in his wake.

"What‘s going to happen now?" I shouted. The guard didn‘t answer with words, but his message was clear enough. He dropped his gun and started sprinting for the door. I should have just followed him, but I couldn‘t let all of this be for nothing. My feet plodded pulled me like a moth being drawn by flame until I could directly over the balcony and into the abyss.

Somewhere miles below the earth where the drills once tore through the crust emanated a baleful glow. I watched transfixed as it shifted, seeming to slide from one side of the pit to the other. I turned and ran from the building. Guards, mechanical technicians, doctors – streams of people poured from the place to fill the black vans. The men tethered to the machines were being left behind, but they couldn‘t have all been dead. I saw one slide to the ground and begin to crawl, only to be trampled beneath a stampede of men in blue.

I helped the man to his feet and dragged him out of the building with me. His lips kept moving as though he were muttering something, but I couldn‘t hear it over the sounds of panicked screams and thundering footfalls.

No-one seemed to notice that I didn‘t have a blue suit in the mad escape. I crammed into one of the vans and huddled in the back while it roared up the valley walls. A noisy rush of speculation surrounded me, but I was incapable of joining the conversation. I stayed quiet though, because somehow even describing what I saw aloud would be enough to make it real.

We were about halfway back up the valley when a deafening explosion knocked half of us from the benches to sprawl on the floor. The van bucked and heaved like a wild animal, but managed to stay upright as it roared down the road. There wasn‘t a back window, so we all had to wait along the right side until the van made a turn up the switchback road before we saw it. The foundations of the building had been detonated and the entire structure slid off into the pit.

The man I had saved from the machine, haggard fellow with a long beard and eyes as white as starlight, kept muttering along the rest of the drive. He was hard to look at because of the bloody sores on his head. The "helmet" he was wearing had wires which plugged directly into his brain, and when I had torn him free, I had left great patches of his scalp behind.
"It can‘t die. It‘s already out. It‘s inside us all."
No-one else spoke along the drive, so they all must have heard him too. We all just fixed our eyes out the window though, afraid to acknowledge what we all knew. I don‘t know how many people had looked into the pit before they ran, but I‘m sure enough of us knew that the red glow wasn‘t really sliding like I thought at first. It was opening, and from somewhere in the depth of the earth, I had looked into a colossal an eye staring back at me.

After the convoy of vans exited the crumbling valley, we made a stop about a mile away from the plant. I heard mention that others were continuing on to a nearby army base, but six cars (mine included) peeled away from the rest. The vans parked in a sharp circle, bumper to bumper, with their sliding doors all opening toward the middle.

"Everyone out of the vans and into the circle." It was Francisco. He was holding a rifle now, prodding people as they filed out. "Remove any hats, bandages, glasses – anything which obscures your face. Nobody is leaving here until I get a chance to look at their eyes."

He had to be looking for signs of the treatment. The bearded man I had saved was still in the back of our van with me. He looked so thin and weary – I wonder how long he'd been down there. I caught his eye, and the pure white orbs looked back with helpless pleading.

We both flinched as a gunshot echoed throughout the caravan. Then three more shots, one right after the other. "Filthy animal. Just die already," Francisco said.

Three of us were left in the van: the driver, the haggard man, and me. I was about to step out when emaciated probing fingers clutched desperately at my shirt.
"Help me. Please. I only did what they told me to."

The driver pushed past us to exit in front. If it hadn't been for Nathan's interference, I would have had my first treatment today. Then I would have been the one to be executed, assuming I hadn't already been killed when the building was detonated. These people had been strong armed and manipulated into obeying orders, and now they were being punished by the same people who made them do it.

Besides that, I still wanted more answers. By the enormity of the thing's ancient presence, I had no doubt that it was still alive down there. The people who had been "feeding" it must know as much as anyone what we were up against. Mankind might be diversive in our values at times, but when a common enemy as calamitous as that whispers our doom, we've no choice but to stand together against its oppression. Anyone like Francisco who sought to divide us had to be labeled as an enemy too.

I saw the car keys poking out of the driver's back pocket as he climbed out of the van. I snatched it, applying pressure to his back to distract him. I was trying to be subtle, but he lost his balance and fell straight out of the van onto his knees.
"Hey, what the Hell man?" the driver was loud. Too damn loud. All eyes fell on me.

"That's the guy who helped Nathan!" Francisco shouted. I launched the van door shut just as he was raising his rifle. The haggard man shoved me to the floor, but before I could fight him off, I heard the metallic clang of bullets punching through the door where I'd stood a moment before.

"Let's move!" the bearded man shouted, practically flinging me through the air and into the driver seat. The van roared to life, smashing into the adjacent van to make enough space for us to escape.

More bullets were raining through the wall, and a spider-web of cracks filled the passenger side window. It must be bullet proof glass, but it still wouldn't hold up for long under this assault. The pale-eyed man grunted as a bullet punched through his door and into his shoulder, but the projectile seemed to barely break his skin before deflecting onto the dashboard.

I slammed the car into reverse, plowing into the van behind me and finally edging out enough room to drive. The car shot off down the road like a stone from a slingshot, the bullets rattling off the back as we went.
"Are you hurt?" I asked the man.
"It'll take more than that to slow me down, so don't let it slow you either. Not until we reach the plant."
"We can't stop. That's the first place they'll look," I said. "They've all had rounds, and that makes 'em targets now. We have to save as many as we can."
"How do you know about that? Who are you?"
"Dillan, I used to be called. Don't seem right to call me that anymore though. Not much of Dillan left."

We didn't have long to compare notes before I reached the plant. Two of the other vans were close on my heels the whole way. I'm not sure if we can fight them off and escape, but having a whole crew that can take bullets like vitamins seems like a pretty solid advantage to me.

I didn't slow as we passed through the checkpoint – rammed straight through the automated gate. I didn't want to risk crossing any more open ground than I had to, so I drove right through the glass door at the front of the building and parked inside.

A bullet skipped by the ground near my feet the second I opened the door. I thought I had gained some ground on them – they couldn't be here already. Another bullet – this was coming from inside the building. They must have begun clearing the plant before I even got there.

Dillan pulled me from the van and covered me with his body as we sprinted through the building. I saw him take two more bullets, both rattling to the ground after impact. Every room we passed was already strewn with bodies.

Robert is dead. Elijah, Megan – both have been decapitated. Undergoing the treatments seems to have given these people a considerable resistance to injury and death, but there's no coming back from that. Dillan and I managed to get to the security surveillance room to see if anyone is left, but it's only a matter of time before they find me. All the video feeds showed men in suits fanning out through the power plant, most armed with long machetes still stained with blood. There's nowhere left for me to go.

"Look! There's a few hanging on," Dillan pointed at one of the screens. Three plant workers – didn't even have a chance to learn their names yet – were huddled in terror in inside one of the supply closets. Dillan showed no hesitation, already bounding out the door as though he knew the way by heart. I started to follow, but he was quick to close the door behind him.

"You stay hidden," he said. "I've been down there too long. There's nothing they can do to me that they haven't already tried, but you – you'll pop like a ripe melon hit by a hammer."

That thought was vivid enough for me to stay put. I watched him on the security feed as he dashed through the hallways with inhuman speed. If you'd asked me before this started, I would have always told you the humans are the good guys and the monsters can go to Hell. Scanning the familiar workrooms and seeing the bloodbath, watching the men with machetes butchering corpses which still struggled to move, then following the trails of bloody footprints all over the building – well maybe there are no good guys here. Shit, I don't know, maybe I'd even be better off joining Nathan and the thing in the pit.

Even thinking that felt wrong though. The visceral terror I experienced while looking down into that great red eye will be enough to haunt me for the rest of my days. If I could just get out of here, I could let the whole mess of them tear each other apart and stay out of it. I was just about to make a run when the door was kicked open.

Francisco stood alone with a bloody machete in each hand. His eyes were wild, looking even less human than Dillan's vacuous stare. Red hand-prints crawled their way around his legs where his victims doubtlessly clutched at him right before the killing blow fell.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said, his dress-shoes making a wet squelch as they plodded across the room toward me. I backed up against the wall, but I was cornered.

"I'm still human. Nothing's been done to me yet," I said. "You don't have to do this."
"I didn't have to kill the others either," he said. "I wanted to. The moment they were plugged into those machines, they were more beast than man."
"We're both men though – we're both on the same side." I was throwing any words that came to mind into the space between us, but nothing seemed to slow his relentless advance. I picked up the office chair and brandished it at him, but he only laughed. Think again, smart-ass.

I hurled the chair into the surveillance screens and watched it smash them to pieces. Francisco's smirk twisted into a snarl.
"I know where the others are," I said. "You won't find them without my help. Not before they escape."
"Fine – I'll let you live," he growled. "Just tell me who is left."
"Not good enough," I replied. "I want to know what's been going on. I want to know everything you know."
"There's not enough time –"
"Then stop wasting it." He glanced at the broken monitors, then again at the long track of hallway where he came from. Francisco expelled an irritated sigh, propped the chair up, and had a seat. That's when I finally got the whole story.

The valley had been the result of a primal asteroid smashing into the Earth. A scientific expedition to unearth fragments resulted in the discovery of unusual movement within the lithosphere of the Earth's crust. Two tectonic plates had switched directions and were moving against the surrounding mantel, which resulted in much of the mountainous terrain in the area.

The government deployed a mining expedition, looking for clues as to the buildup of pressure. That's when they discovered IT - the Devil – the beast – the monster – whatever impoverished word man has in the face of such a cataclysmic being dwelling beneath the Earth. The scientists speculated that it was much too large to have been carried on the asteroid, but perhaps a seed or a hatchling had survived the journey and grown through the eons into the monstrous form that was uncovered.

The mining further served to disturb the being, and its increasing activity threatened its pending escape. Nothing short of a nuclear weapon was likely to harm it, and this would be impossible to covertly detonate without radiating the groundwater and devastating the nearby population centers.

The only method which seemed to slow the being down was crudely referred to as "sacrifices". The thing displayed considerable less activity after it consumed the initial miners, and subsequent experiments devised a way to feed it via the network of machines and mental energy which I had witnessed. They had powered the machines for the last 20 years, but the sudden cessation of energy seemed to have woken the creature, prompting the shaft's demolition.

If there was more to the story, I didn't get a chance to hear. Francisco was getting impatient, and I didn't know how much more time I could buy. Luckily, I didn't have to. Dillan returned during the recounting, and while Francisco's attention was still distracted, he pounced.

I say pounced, because only an animal could have flown through the air like that pale eyed Demon. Before Francisco could turn his head, Dillan had wrapped his thin arms around the guard's neck and snapped it like a twig. I would have been grateful if it hadn't been for what happened next.

Dillan bit deeply into Francisco's neck while his limp form was still convulsing in Dillan's arms. Even with human teeth, Dillan was able to rip out great chunks of flesh from the man. The teeth sank through the mesh of veins and arteries, crunching through the spine, and straight out the other side. It took almost a full minute for him to gnaw his way through; I don't think he was even eating it, but simply reveling in the satisfaction of his power.

I didn't say a word. I didn't look away. I just let it happen. Every time I thought I knew what I was doing, the scale of events far surpassed my expectations and I was left a helpless onlooker. After Dillan finished, he gave me a sloppy grin before leading me safely through the building. Heads were separated from bodies everywhere we went, and it was clear which were cleanly severed with a machete and which had been gnawed loose. Dillan had saved the other three people though, and I owed him my life as well. That's how I learned the last part of the story that Francisco had left out.

The people hooked to the machines – they weren't just feeding the thing. It wasn't just the human mind passing down the cables, it was also the mind of the beast passing up into them. With each round of treatment, the subjects became a little less human and a little more monstrous, until they became something like Nathan or Dillan that couldn't live and wouldn't die. Dillan had been one of the original scientists who sacrificed himself to the creature over 20 years ago, and he had voluntarily shackled himself to the machine all that time. He's right though, I shouldn't call him Dillan anymore. Dillan died a long time ago.

As soon as I was out to freedom, I parted ways with the subjects. I got in my car and drove as far and as fast as I could. As far as I know, the creature is still down there, buried beneath countless tons of rock in the hills of Colorado. I don't know whether its body is still trying to get out or not, but I don't think it even matters. The beast thinks with Dillan's thoughts and moves with his body, and like an avatar of some forgotten God, he now freely walks the earth. His zealous protection of the other subjects makes me believe it is the beast's imperative to protect his own, so I can only assume that Dillan is now working to either free the creature, or spread its influence by bringing more sacrifices to its underground lair.

I don't know that he can be killed – don't know that he can be stopped. He must feel some sense of human compassion or he never would have let me go as thanks for aiding him, so one enduring hope still remains to me: that once the beast has risen to the height of its size and power, it still finds enough room for mankind.

 

[Indian Princess]

CHILD

I‘m not afraid of the darkness. Spiders don‘t bother me, nor do snakes or heights or any of the regular things. I‘m afraid of the child growing inside me, breathing my blood, displacing my organs, until he eventually rips his bulbous head free from my body and leaves me in ruin. I‘m afraid that I will resent all the pain and obligation and loss of opportunity in life, and that all that hatred will make it impossible for me to love him. I‘m still more terrified that that I WILL love him – so much that it hurts. So much that I sacrifice everything for him, neglecting myself and my friends and my art… … until the day when his own ambitions pull him away from me, and I‘ll be left mourning the dissolution of my dreams and the emptiness of my life. And then I will sit down my aching limbs and wait for the weariness of old age to erode my cherished memories and free me from this heart-breaking desire to be someone. Then I will bless the day when I finally forget to ask myself what might have been, if only I had been selfish and lived my life for me. I wasn‘t afraid at the beginning though. I thought I wanted it – that we wanted it. My husband Kirk and I had just moved into our first house, and I was ready. Sure we still fought about stupid things, but we loved each other, and that should have been enough to make him love the child too. Okay. Do you want to make the appointment to take care of it, or should I?‖ That‘s all he said. We‘d been married a year, and he didn‘t even ask if I wanted to keep it. We started to argue, and then the fight took on a life of its own in that insidious way which leaves us screaming at each other about nothing and everything. I thought he was being immature – he thought I was the one who needed to grow up and quit painting. I said he didn‘t take enough initiative at work, and he said I didn‘t respect him. Before I knew what was happening, his pickup was spraying gravel in my face as I sobbed incoherently in the driveway. I didn‘t see him again for four months, which was more than enough time for me to doubt every decision I‘ve ever made in my entire life. Then suddenly one night he was crawling into bed at 2 AM, stinking like death, blubbering apologies and promises. I was so relieved that I didn‘t even mind that he was drunk. We were intimate as a husband and wife should be, and when I fell asleep on his chest afterward, I thought everything was going to be okay. ―I‘m so happy you came back,‖ I whispered, nestled against him. ―I changed my mind,‖ he said. ―I want the baby now.‖ "He's yours," I promised as I drifted off to sleep. There was so much blood when I woke up that I thought I‘d been stabbed. I rushed to the bathroom, screaming for Kirk to help me, but he was nowhere to be found. A miscarriage doesn‘t just plop out and leave you as good as new. The baby drained from me over the whole next day, taking my soul with it. Big bloody clots, leaving me shrieking in anguish on the bathroom floor. I chanced to see myself in the mirror, and the sight of the network of bloody trails running down my thighs was enough to make me smash my fist straight through the glass. The pain was good. It reminded me that I had a body outside of the one that had just died. I couldn‘t flush it. I couldn‘t toss it. I couldn‘t even touch it. I just left it there on the floor and crawled back to my empty bed. I tossed and turned for hours until the clenching pain subsided, but it was nothing compared to the pain of knowing Kirk did this to me. I don‘t know how, or why, but when he came back last night, he killed my baby. And if my feelings in that moment were any indication, then he might have killed me too. I wasn‘t expecting to see Kirk again. I took myself to the doctor as soon as I was able to drive, and that was when I got my first big shock. The ultrasound confirmed a perfectly healthy, growing baby boy inside me. There wasn‘t even any indication of blood loss – all my vitals were strong, and I didn't have anemia. The doctor couldn‘t explain what happened, but finally convinced me that I had a hysterical hallucination and that everything was fine. The bloody pool in my bathroom which greeted my return told a different story. I don‘t know what came out of me, but I couldn‘t force myself to scoop it up and bring it in for analysis. I just mopped everything off the floor and thanked every God that would listen that my child was still alive. The second big shock was from Kirk. When I heard the knocking on my door, I figured he was back again with another apology. Well it wasn‘t going to work – the child and I were both better off without him. When I opened the door though, it was his father who entered with his hat in hand. I sat quietly on the sofa with him while he explained his sympathies. I know you counted on Kirk, but I want you to know that you can count on us too. No man knows what he can bear until it‘s been put on his shoulders, and I‘m just so proud of you for carrying on without him.‖ The poor old man was moved to tears when I said they were welcome to stay involved with my life and the life of their grandchild. He hugged me, and patted my stomach, and told me all about the games Kirk used to play as a child and what to expect when my boy started growing older. Finally he said his goodbyes, promising to check in with me next week to see if there was anything I needed. ―I just wish Kirk was still around to see him grow up,‖ he said as he was leaving. I didn‘t want anything more to do with Kirk, but I was so touched by his father‘s sincerity that I still extended the offer. ―Tell Kirk that he‘s welcome to meet the baby too,‖ I said. ―Even if he won‘t be a father to him.‖ Kirk‘s father gave a hard-pressed smile. ―I think he‘d like that. The funeral is this Sunday, so I hope you and that baby will come say goodbye.‖ The words didn‘t register until after the door had closed. Kirk hadn‘t just left us. He‘d left everything. It had only been two days previous when I‘d seen him last, but I‘ve kept that meeting a secret until now. Everyone else at the funeral was convinced that he‘d put a shotgun in his mouth two weeks ago. Whatever had visited and been with me that night had told me it wanted the baby now, but it wasn‘t Kirk. That‘s when I started to become afraid of the child growing inside of me. I can‘t shake the thought that the stuff pouring out onto the bathroom floor – that was my real child from the real Kirk. What was now growing inside me – that must have come from the visitor. So there I was left wondering what I‘m more afraid of: That the child will be too horrible to let live, or that he is so beautiful that my life will be the one ending that day. It was too late to get it "taken care of", but I don't think I would have done it even if I could. It wasn't until I was well into my 8th month of pregnancy when I heard the 2 AM knocking again. I lay in bed trembling, holding my breath, wondering if it would just go away. No, there it was again. Hard insistent pounding – like something that would break the door in if I kept it waiting. "I know you're in there." It was Kirk's voice. I would still recognize it even if I didn't hear it again for fifty years. ―Go away.‖ I regretted it the moment I replied. An hour passed in the next few seconds of silence. As gut-wrenching as the stillness was, the sound of the opening door was worse. He was inside the house, but the thought of getting out of bed and confronting him – of confronting IT – that was unthinkable. I got out of bed to grab my phone from the nightstand and called the police instead. ―I need help,‖ I blurted into the phone. ―Someone‘s in my house and –― ―Did you make him a promise?‖ It was Kirk‘s voice on the line. My fingers were shaking so badly I couldn‘t even hang up. I just threw the phone across the room and jumped back into bed. This was all a bad dream. It was another hysterical hallucination. I just had to go back to sleep and –But how was I supposed to sleep when I heard footsteps climbing the stairs? ―What promise did you make me?‖ Kirk‘s voice was right outside my bedroom now. I couldn‘t answer him. I could barely breathe. I should have tried harder though, because when the door opened, it was even harder to think straight. Kirk was standing in the doorway, only half of his face was now missing from where the shotgun bullet entered his mouth. Had he looked like this the last time we were making love? It had been so dark, but the stench of death seemed all too familiar. ―There is no baby,‖ I forced myself to say. ―He hasn‘t been born yet.‖ ―I don‘t care. He‘s mine.‖ The malodorous atmosphere engulfed me, and I could taste it like rotten cabbage dripping down the back of my throat. He was getting closer, but still blocked the only door out. ―You‘ll kill me if you take him now,‖ I told him. ―Please wait. At least until he‘s born.‖ ―I don‘t care! I want my son!‖ He lifted his stiff limbs with his hands to clamber into the bed beside me. I didn‘t see any weapon, but the thought of him trying to pull the child out of me with his rotting hands was even more terrifying. I gagged so violently that I would have fallen over if his hands hadn‘t clutched my shoulders. The icy nails sank into my arms, and I forced myself not to watch as I felt some of his own decaying skin slide off to splatter across my bed. Those disgusting fingers – I had placed a ring upon one and sworn my love before my family and before God. That open wound disguised as a face – I did not know myself until I whispered my secrets to him and washed myself with his acceptance and support. If I closed my eyes, the arms that clenched around me could almost still have been the ones that held me every night as I fell asleep. ―Do you still love me?‖ I asked what used to be my husband. ―Does it matter? You can‘t love me in return.‖ ―If I could.‖ Every word I spoke carried the weight of my life and the life of my child. ―Would you still love me back?‖ ―You can‘t. If you could, I never would have left.‖ ―You still do, or you never would have come back.‖ Mother‘s make sacrifices for their child. That has been documented across eons of history, cultures, and even species. Kissing him wasn‘t for my child though. I did it to save my own life. In that moment, I would have ripped my own baby boy from my body and handed it to him if I could escape unharmed. I must be the worst mother in the world, because when Kirk was done with me that night, I still promised to give him the child when he was born. It‘s amazing how much my mind changed after I held my boy for the first time. Suddenly he wasn‘t just a medical condition which needed to be resolved. He was more a part of me now than he was inside me, and I finally understand that living for him wouldn‘t be a sacrifice. He is my soul, and everything that I do for him, I do for me. I know I‘ve been selfish with my love. I know I‘ve made promises which I don‘t intend to keep. I know I‘ve lied to what was left of my husband when I pleaded for my life. But now I truly have something worth living (and dying) for, and I‘m not going to give him up no matter what happens. Until then, I am doing the best I can getting by as a new parent who can‘t seem to get any sleep. It‘s not the baby keeping me up though. It‘s just the waiting for the 2 AM knock on my door.

Bold fonts, why?

Awesome story as always lone_hunterr bheery spooky

As a horror writer you must be well aware that what really adds to the horror element is the vulnerability of the victim. This comes usually comes with very young age, very old age, irrerently abled or disease ridden people and of course pregnant women, especially whose husband is not around.

The first few lines of the story, they really disturbed me as I have similar issues of my own. And then the story begins, the heart crushing betrayal of the husband leaving his pregnant wife behind. And then there is the twist that the husband is dead.

That scene about when the dead husband comes knocking at 2 am was the scariest. Especially when she calls the police and hears his voice. And then he comes to the bedroom with half a face

The ending was...I dont know, not upto the mark. I mean it was bright and happy but somehow felt out of sync with the rest of the story. Although most people like happy endings, even I do, but somehow it just doesn't seem to suit a dark story. A dark ending like in your first story would have been great I guess. But that is just my opinion.

Onto the next story

 

[lone_hunterr]

Bold fonts, why?

Galti se mistake hui gawa

Awesome story as always lone_hunterr bheery spooky

The ending was...I dont know, not upto the mark. I mean it was bright and happy but somehow felt out of sync with the rest of the story. Although most people like happy endings, even I do, but somehow it just doesn't seem to suit a dark story. A dark ending like in your first story would have been great I guess. But that is just my opinion.

This story was written by someone else for mothers day... There was no horror in that... It was a story of how a mother protect her unborn child... I induced horror forcefully in it because of a bet... So have to keep that ending

Next story will not disappoint you