The creature appeared from behind the statue, pulling itself across the woodland floor on its front, the snapping of small twigs and the rustling of leaves accompanying a malignant deep and dank dragging sound. Occasional slopping of fleshy tentacles against the floor drummed a morbid beat as the thing dragged itself towards me. I was frozen to the spot with what I assumed at first was fear, but it was fascination, as I looked at the black entity with all its tentacle limbs and, from what I could see, useless legs, its body engorged and too heavy for such frail limbs. The fear soon set in, however, but I still could not stop looking at the creature. From the corner of my eye I saw something move, and I finally ripped my gaze from the horror before me only to find something much worse. Leaning against the stone was a mutilated body of a young child, a boy. Even though bone and muscle was exposed across his ribcage and entrails spilled out, he still moved. His arm with exposed bone was raised towards me. His face was mostly missing, his single lip beneath a collapsed nose was uttering words, words I could not hear or understand. But two words rang through my mind again and again.

“Help us…”

I tore my sight from the view of this dying child only to see his sister, for now I knew these were the children who went missing all those years ago. Too many years for them to be still young and if like this all that time, still alive. The little girl was curled up in her brother’s arms as if in some last attempt to protect herself from the horror. Her back and legs were stripped bare of flesh and muscle, her feet missing, stumps grinding against the dirt as her legs twitched, no longer under her control. I looked back at the monster that still crawled towards me, it was barely a few feet away now. It raised some of its upper tentacles, exposing a dark orifice, surrounded by teeth, rows of teeth, each small but razor sharp. I could smell the fetid breath of the creature as I stood over it, a wave of nausea hit me and I fell backwards, my balance ruined by the overwhelming stench of decay and death. A root completed the motion and I found myself hitting the floor and the breath knocked from me. I gasped for air and it took a moment for me to regain my senses. I was alone. The horror had gone, as had the disturbing sight of the children.

The statue still glowed with eerie strength in the night, its luminance falling short of me. I turned on all fours to pick myself up and suddenly, as my head passed into the unnatural light, the creature that should not be upon this earth leapt at me, its tentacles reaching out towards my face. I raised my arm to shield my head as I heard an unearthly scream being released from my own throat. A wet, heavy and sluggish tentacle landed on my bare skin. I screamed again, this time in pain as the fluids burned into my skin and I could smell my own flesh beginning to dissolve. I pulled back from the appendage and the light, as the monster tried to reach for me once more before fading into nothing. As I looked over at the statue, the children faded also. I don’t know how long I sat there, could have been hours, minutes, or just a few seconds. It was enough for the events of this evening to play over and over again in my mind. The glow from the statue I dared not go near showing me another place, not of man’s domain, but only a light particle away. I ran home, stumbling into bushes, trees and shallow holes. I reached the wall with a breath of relief and stormed through the gate, slamming it shut. I slowed now, catching my breath and began my way back to the house, the thorns of rose bushes bothering me little. I did not sleep that night or for many nights to come.

I returned to London the following day, exhausted but needing to be away from that place. My arm healed over the following weeks, but left scaring of a strange nature and it still stings after bad dreams, even now. I only returned to the house to board it up, staying at the pub overnight. The locals could see in my eyes that I had seen something in those woods, but I never told anyone. They still talked of strange things in the woods, supernatural, hauntings and curses, but I could not enjoy those tales like I once did, now that I know what is in those woods, what is in the light. I never sold the estate, I just let it drift into a forgotten realm of my life. I will not take my family there, I will not let them inherit it, I will not sell to another unfortunate soul. Whilst I am alive, I shall leave it well alone and after my death, it will be in the hands of the lawyers.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

As I stepped into the woods, I could a sense a significant drop in the light and temperature alike. Even though the air had been still just a moment ago, a chill wind blew through the trees. My skin prickled like a wave across my whole body, causing me to shiver. To my mind it had felt like somebody passing by, rather than a natural wind of which logic dictated. I looked into the woods and then through the gateway behind me, no leaf or branch stirred. The sense of foreboding I had felt back at the folly had returned and brought along friends. I decided that with the failing light I should only enter the woods so far as to be still within sight of the wall behind me. I knew this was a decision based on my own nerves, rather than risking the chance of becoming lost in the woods. Continuing in my triumph of common sense over unsubstantiated fears, I walked deeper into the forest. It always amazed me how, with a change in the light, nature could go from beautiful to terrifying. The unknown of the dark and twisted shapes, suggesting evil creatures lurking, waiting, hunting and finally feasting in ways beyond human perception. But still I carried on, occasionally turning back to look at the wall still faintly showing in the dying sunset. I did not expected to see much, but faintly in the distance I could see a clearing in the forest, an open patch where light gave it a ghostly appearance. Something stood in the centre, about three feet tall and bright amongst the dark edges of the clearing. I tried to make out the object, but was unable to in the rapidly fading light. I turned my head towards home but could not see the wall, more as result of the arriving night than my distance from it. I viewed my surroundings and located one particular unique tree twined with its nearest neighbour to become one. I decided that as long as I head for this tree from the clearing, I would easily be able to navigate myself back to the wall, and with that I continued onwards.

I tripped on numerous roots as I made my way, my eyes unable to pick out the ground as they tried to adjust between the light in the clearing and the darkness of the woods. As I stumbled closer, the light in the clearing seem to solidify, and I could see that the sky above it was black with arrival of countless stars. A sight that always amazed me each time I returned from London and all its manmade luminescence. The sun had finally set and the night had arrived. I continued onwards but suddenly stopped with the realisation that the clearing was still lit and I was sure the moon could not be having such an effect so early in the night. I knew my knowledge of the skies was limited to that of most folk, and tried to assume it was the moon in all her mystic glory. Now almost creeping, I moved closer to the open space, the strange object I saw from afar coming into view. If I did not know better, I would have sworn that the object gave off an unnatural glow, not like that of a light bulb, but more as if the light was sourced around it, an aura that illuminated the immediate surroundings. The trees that edged the clearing stood tall and looming, the under-lighting creating shadows like tortured faces set into the chaotic patterns of the bark. I had to suppress a laugh when the old man in the pub described the trees that surrounded the statue, but now I shivered in fearful awe, remembering his words. As my eyes fell upon the object, triggered by the memory of the tale, I could see it was a statue made of stone. I crept closer, daring not to leave the darkness that surrounded me and enter the clearing. Once settled behind the front line of monstrous guardian trees, I stared at the stone. It was certainly not of a natural shape, but it looked more organic than the chisel work of man, more like it had grown, like the trees that looked down upon it with terrifying gazes.

Part of me wanted to flee this place, head home, back to the safety of my house, but I could not take my eyes off the statue, with each passing moment gleaning more of its detail. It was certainly no recognisable creature, maybe because the elements have taken their toll upon this rock over the centuries. It seemed roughly humanoid, thin spindly legs supporting a grossly inflated body. This was where all humanoid similarities ended, however, and I could not discern a head, but something like a mouth, circular and ringed in regular circles of raised stonework like fearsome teeth, was placed in what one would assume was its chest. The rest of the upper body was lumpy with numerous tentacle-like limbs, a few raised skywards in a circular lean. It was a horrific sight to behold, never had I imagined something like this could exist in flesh or stone. I hated the object and instantly decided contract be damned, I would not have this in my grounds! The moment of self-righteous anger suppressed any previous emotions of uncertainty and fear, and I stood up, stepping forward with my hand against one of the giant trees for support. The light struck me and for a moment I felt faint. Something changed around me and suddenly I was not alone. My rage was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

It was the early 1900s and the house belonged to a family, a father, mother and three young children. The winter had been harsh and they lost the youngest child to whooping cough. The mother had taken the loss badly and was not showing any signs of ending her mourning for the child. Many of her duties as a mother have now fallen to the servants, as the husband was kept in London by his work. The servants believed he did not want to return home, his love for the family damaged by the loss and his wife’s darkening presence. As the following winter approached and the first snows fell, there was little sign of improvement in the family, and the children became more and more isolated from their parents. Despite warnings from the servants not to wonder beyond the wall, brother and sister went into the woods after a scolding from the maid for disturbing their mother’s rest. It was many hours before the maid called for them, as the evening meal was to be served soon, but her call was not answered. A search by the servants was quickly brought about, the house, the gardens and the woods, both larger and more wild than today. No sign of the children was found as the last of the daylight disappeared, and all that could be done was to send word to their father in London and to rally help for first light. The children were never found, only sign that they had even been in the woods was the young girl’s toy, a rag doll given to her by her mother. The loss of the children broke the family, the mother took her own life within a few months and the father was found drowned in the Thames a year later. The events had fuelled local talk for many a year after, with elaborations on the suffering and deaths of the parents. But no man, woman or child ever embellished the fate of the children, for it was only one fact that convinced them all of what happened to them. The girl had always carried that doll, battered and worn, as it was her favourite and rarely left her side. It was found by an old statue in the oldest part of the woods, where a circle of trees stood like tall, wooden entities true to whom the statue embodied. Over the years, with nature taking its toll upon the stone, time had distorted its true representation in the minds of men and women alike. Some said it was a pagan witch who feasted upon the flesh of children when the great trees where just saplings, others said it was older than even her. But all knew it was something to be feared and respected. The old ways still had their part to play.

…

My eyes slowly become accustomed to the darkness inside the folly, and I then noticed an engraving upon a centre brick in the back wall. It read ‘In memory of John Connelly’. I had no idea for whom this not inexpensive tribute was, the surname not manifesting in any of the legal documents I had read. It was something I could investigate upon my return to the City, as my position granted me connections in such matters with ease, but I cursed that no dates had been carved in the beautiful ornate script. With the thought of a man’s final demise lingering, the inside of the folly seem to take on a dark and damp atmosphere, which felt almost tomb-like. I shuddered and quickly stood up to leave the folly, and as I stood my eye caught another inscription on the stone floor. Unlike the more formal dedication, this was scratched crudely by what looked like a knife blade, and it only said one word: ‘Lilith’. Another shudder fell across me and I hurriedly left the folly, letting the rose thorns scratch me as they pleased, more concerned with seeking the light than protecting my exposed skin. Those brief few seconds had turned my mood suspicious and unnerved. The sky still gave off a blue hue and seemed so much brighter than before I had entered the folly and it had quickly helped dispel the foreboding sensations.

Another wooden arch covered in ivy stood over the continuing path into the woods. I went through it and began to follow the path. I could see now just how like a labyrinth the garden was, it was not a maze as many might assume, but followed one path, as a true labyrinth would. The only difference was the destination was not the centre, but then I thought, that depends on your perspective of what the centre is. For this garden, I felt it was the woods. The path twisted and turned, so had it not been for the nearing tree line, I would have easily lost all sense of direction. Sometimes statues of angels and mythical beasts stood set back into the planting beds, the overgrown branches allowing them to hide in wait with unknown intent. The Victorian zeal for the Gothic evident in each piece of craftsmanship, nature adding its haunting quality in the green and red tones of the moss and lichen that lived upon the stone. I revelled in the overall effect of the garden, it was beautiful and full of mystery, it let my imagination run wild and filled my heart full of morbid delight in the fading light that brought an air of sinister excitement to the place.

Before long, I had reached the end of the labyrinth garden and could see the distinct line of the woodland ahead, which was bordered by a tall brick wall with a single ironwork gate allowing access to the woodland. I recollected seeing the wall in the plans of the grounds and thinking how strange it was to have such a defensive wall inside the grounds. Many reasons came to me now that I stood there. Like the statues, it was more ornate than its purpose required, but the walls seemed too high and the gate too solid and simple to be just pleasing to the eye. Recalling the tale of I was told of the missing children, it would have prevented them from playing in the woods, assuming the gate was kept locked. It was the thought that maybe the wall kept something out, something in the woods or the woods themselves, which troubled me. My mind wondered with too much morbid suspicion and folklore. I approached the gate, gently pushed against it, and it opened with the expected squeal of unkempt hinges. Once the unbearable high-pitched noise stopped, I realised how quiet it was. No birds sang and no wind moved the trees, it was a deathly silence and momentarily made me hesitate about continuing. But I told myself it was the environment and my own mind which created this sense of foreboding. There was no wind in the still night and many animals would be resting and it was still too early for the night time creatures to be noticeable. I pushed the gate fully open and stepped through.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

I had soon left the house and strode across the lawn with a purpose. The darkening blue sky looked ethereal buffered against the blackness of the tree line, which marked the beginning of small woodland partly contained within my boundaries. There had been some historical documents with the deeds, which set out that the woodland was ancient in origin and protected by a contract almost as old. Through my brief glance of the contract regarding the preservation of the woodland, I noted an odd statement that any objects of historical nature are also protected against removal or any disruptive investigation. I had dismissed the information at the time as I had no plans for the forest, and all my energies were aimed at the house and the work it required. So it was not until hearing the tales that I began to question what “objects of historical nature” lay within my grounds.

As I made my way across the open space of the lawn, I recollected my first visit to the local public house. On announcing that I was the proud owner of this house and gardens, I was quickly, if with some strange hesitation, regaled with local folklore for the price of a pint or two of ale. There was talk of worship of the old gods, strange creatures, ghostly figures, and even human sacrifice in a time before the Romans had conquered our lands. It made fascinating conversation of an evening, and I heartily enjoyed the tales of our once wild and savage land, full of mysticism and magic. But whilst the tales varied in age and content, all of them centred around the woods; my woods.

Reaching the end of the lawn I entered the only path into what, I was informed, is a variation of the more traditional labyrinth garden. The entrance was between two giant evergreens, the years of unkempt growth now required force to push past the branches, which seemed to refuse my entrance. I stepped into the lost derelict gardens, where flowers bloomed in chaotic patterns and all plants fought for space. It was beautiful in a wild kind of way. It had not been tended for a long time but the lack of attention had not let the garden spectacle falter. I personally preferred the more wild look and even more so when nature was reclaiming what man had once controlled. Gnarled roots rose from the twisting pathway, forcing me to be wary of my step as I made my way. Rose bushes intruded across borders, occasionally forcing me to protect my face with raised arms against the scratching thorns. Each rose was pure white or blood red, an alluring combination bringing a Gothic feel to the surroundings. The rose bush branches climbed up and over a wooden arch, finally descending into the entranceway, like barbed tendrils of a hidden monster waiting to ensnare a passing innocent soul. To its left, there was an old wooden bench that had given up a long time ago, the wooden slats broken and rotten. The archway brought me through to a small circular patio with, much to my great delight, a small folly in the centre. It was nothing grand, a simple circular tower, but with an open front and a fairytale roof which rose to a crooked pinnacle, supported on the curved back wall and two columns. Inside was a stone bench against the back wall, suitable for two people. I did not recollect any notes about the structure in details of the property, beyond the comments of garden ornaments being included in the sale. It was an unexpected but welcome gift indeed. Ivy creepers and rose stems fought for space across its walls and columns, and I had to carefully move thorny branches aside to gain access. It was dark inside, as what little light there was now available was filtered by the leaves and branches. I sat down on the bench and found the air inside quite cool, compared to the warm summer night. I wondered what other mysterious surprises these gardens and ancient woodlands had to offer, if something as delightful as this was not mentioned. My thoughts drifted back to the tales about the woodland I was told by the locals, and one in particular stood out. It was told to me by one of the more reclusive old men in the pub, while others spoke of ancient rites, he told me a more recent and more unnerving story.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

This was not the story that I originally started, it was meant to be a traditional chilling ghost tale for Christmas. But the problem with ghost stories for Christmas is you don’t really think to write one till the Christmas spirit is upon you, and you think how nice it would be to write a ghost story in time for Christmas Eve, only to have no time because you left it so late. So this carried on into the new year, and hints at ghostly things as you expect for Christmas, but it ended somewhere very different as the decorations came down and we got on with our daily lives.

When writing, it is all too easy to stray into already trod paths when your own is not very clear. When I began this tale, I knew it was already following one of these existing paths, and as I typed I could hear its tone, all too familiar as these existing short stories bounced around my imagination, not wanting to leave. So I let it follow the same path, but letting go to an end I did not see where it was going till it got there. I have left what you could call an ‘Easter Egg’ in this age of DVD menus to point you in the direction of this particular influence. I am sure Google will point you in the right direction as you search in the nocturnal hours and recommend them heartily if you like this sort of thing.

So now read on and enjoy, but not too much.

…

The statue had stood in the woods for more than seven centuries, if you believed the stories that are closely twisted around the cold worn stone by the locals as they enjoyed more than a few glasses of local ale of an evening. A year or more ago I myself enjoyed the tales told by the rough voices as the wood fire burned away, keeping the pub warm in atmosphere as much as heat. I relished the revival of childhood interests in the supernatural, hauntings and curses. Now, it is different; now I cannot dismiss the tales round the fire as just entertainment. Now I fear that all legends and folklore tend to be tethered by some truth, these tales told over the years bend and turn to the storytellers whim. But often the oldest roots are solid, whether we choose to believe in them or not.

…

I had bought the house and surrounding grounds the previous year, soon after my role as a member of a prestigious law firm in London had taken a positive step up the so-called ladder, as did my income. I had always dreamed of a retreat in the forest, and when an estate of a recently deceased client of the firm was offered for sale at a very reasonable price, I was finally able to afford the mortgage for a home outside the city, while being able to rent a modest room in London for the working week. All was perfect for a time: I worked hard in my new position in the law firm, willing to spend the extra hours in the evening to prove that their decision had been the right one. At the weekend I would return to my new home with the tools and supplies to decorate and repair, enjoying the physical labour after spending days behind a desk, dredging through legal documentation.

I had decided to take a week off as holiday to finish the decorating, put away the tools for a while, and finally invite friends to stay over the weekend. Many of them were hinting at how they longed to escape the overbearing nature of the city and all it entailed. So with a certain amount of zeal, I got on with the work and finished it with a day to spare. It was late evening when I had put away the last of my tools. But as it was summer, dusk was only just manifesting and I decided to take a walk. The renovations had taken up all my time and attention, and I had still not fully explored the grounds. As I stood and looked out of the French windows, it occurred to me how odd it was that I had never stepped beyond the open lawn.  A strange sense of foreboding came across me, causing me to shiver. Was it really the renovations that had kept me from leaving the grass area for the dark passages through wild ornamental plants or had it been something else? As my mind began to wonder towards the fantastical horrors spoken of by the old men in the village, I gave myself a mental shake and with some bravado told myself that I would go see what lay in my gardens, at least until the light no longer allowed.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Often her love would stop in the early morning by the gate and just look into the grounds, normally for only a minute or so, but sometimes more. When her beloved did this, she would sneak as close as she dared, a few times almost seen, but she always hid away in time. When her sweetheart turned and walked over to the cake shop, she would sit there wishing she had let herself been seen. But she knew the truth deep down, her cake lady would be repulsed by her and blame her sadness upon her.

One cold winter morning when her love had stood there at the gates looking in, she swore they had met eyes. She had gazed into her cake lady’s eyes, and they had gazed back into hers. The moment felt like it lasted forever, and in that time they learned everything they needed to know. She saw how her decaying flesh did not matter to her beloved, that the love her cake lady felt was beyond the putrid skin and open wounds. There was forgiveness for killing and feasting upon an only child, a daughter who had run away after an argument with her mother, no time now to say sorry. None of this mattered, for the cake lady understood and blessed the monster that she was. Suddenly, her beloved turned and wandered slowly over to the cake shop as if nothing had happened. Why? She asked herself. Why had she left so suddenly? Yes! That was it, she had to follow, prove her love by leaving her home, her safe place. She ran as best she could, stumbling, arms outstretched, as she tried to scream “I’m coming”. Her throat racked with pain as decayed vocal cords vibrated. She finally made it to the gates of the graveyard and stopped.

She hesitated, the street empty this early in the morning. With a cry she threw herself past the iron gates and out onto the road. She willed her limbs to carry her, steadily she got ever closer to the little cake shop. Finally at the door, she watched her love walk through the beaded curtains into the kitchen. She continued inside and around the counter, following her love with a lifted heart, a sense of relief that she need no longer hide in the shadows. She reached the beaded curtains and looked through – she could see her. She was facing away from her as she arranged her tools on the desk, ready to begin decorating the large cake on the table. The sound of moving through the curtain caused her beloved to look around into the doorway

Her cake lady screamed. It was a moment of joy for she knew it was a scream of happiness. Her mouth wide not in terror, but of rapture that finally they could be together. She watched as her love steadied herself on the table, wanting her to join her, to love her, to kiss her, to seduce her. Her sweetheart had raised her arms in the air, open to receive her dead lover. She moved from the doorway, the curtain beads catching in the exposed bone of her shoulders, ripping small pieces of rotten flesh and muscle away. Throwing herself towards a loving embrace, trying to utter the words “I love you”, she saw the glint of metal in the hands of her lover.

The knife swung down in a forceful arc, cutting through the flesh and muscle like it was icing, deep into her neck. It smashed through the weakened neck joints and erupted out the other side like it had cut a rotten apple. Her body collapsed instantly, her head fell to the floor and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop. She could see her body, her legs making a thumping sound as they twitched. Her love stood over her, the knife now falling to the floor as she brought her hands to her face, crying and screaming. A tear began to form in the eye of the severed zombie head.

Part 1 | Part 2

Authors Note:
This short was a result of working through a book of how to write short stories. Like at school, you read the book then you do the homework. This particular brief was simply ‘Begin with ‘Once there was…’ and complete your story in four sentences’ so I did begin as it asked and I completed in four sentences. I did not take it seriously, I used to bring out my juvenile side and it was the ludicrous idea of an infatuated lesbian zombie. But the following brief was to make a thousand word story. As I wrote this piece of pulp it started to grow a serious edge, dealing with the death of a child and the dangers of the human mind when obsessed. So here are  those four sentences as some kind of DVD extra.

1. Once there was a girl zombie who was in love with the lady who sold cakes in town.
2. She tried to tell the lady how she felt about her, but as her vocal cords have almost rotted away only groans came from her mouth.
3. The cake lady thought that the zombie girl was going to eat her brains, so pulled out the chainsaw that she kept under the counter and chopped the zombie girl’s head off.
4. As the zombie girl’s head rolled across the floor and came to a stop, a tear fell down her decomposing cheek.

There was a gentle sound as the tear drop splashed against the wood. Whilst she laid there upon the floor, she could see her foot gently tapping, the sole of her red stained shoe against the exposed floorboards with an unnerving thump, thump, thump. She could feel the impact resonating through the wood as her left ear was pressed to the floor. A small stone caused slight discomfort against her lobe, but she could not move her head. She had nothing left now, only the hunger that always plagued her. Her last hope, her last grasp to life was gone, a final act by the one she loved told it all to her. As she let her last grip on humanity fall, she could feel the urge to feast and gorge herself fill her soul, she want to tear, rip, gouge and swallow it all. The drumming of her foot becoming more and more intense as the hunger filled her senses until she could not hold back anymore. Her mouth opened wide baring her teeth.

…

She had watched her go past her home for many months now, never able to approach her, never able to ask her out for a drink. She gazed across the road to where her love worked in the small cake shop. Faint wafts of baking would travel on the gentle breeze in the summer when the door was left open. When the light was right, she could see in through the window at the front of the little shop. She would watch her serve customers, smile and laugh. Once she had watched her cry after a visit from a police officer. She had not come to work for many days after, and when she did finally return, her step was slower and her smile gone. The cake lady would often stare out of the window and across the road, always with a sad expression of mourning, a sense of loss. It was during these times her feelings for this once happy cake lady intensified. She wanted to reach out to her, hold her, kiss her, make her smile again. But still she never approached her cake lady, she hid in her home, behind the walls, behind the old oak tree, never leaving, even when the gate was open by day.

She had stayed in this place for over a year now, long enough for her to call it home. It was dangerous outside, and even when her stomach ached with hunger, she stayed hidden from the outside world. During daylight when she was not watching her love, she stayed in the darkness, hidden inside. At night she would allow herself to wander upon the grass and beneath the trees in the grounds of her home. She would imagine them together, hand in hand, as they walked the paths between the stones. Some nights she would become violent and smash herself again the walls, both physical and mental, fighting the hunger when she had the strength to.

She held on to her humanity the best she could, but temptation sometimes strayed inside the old brick walls. Young couples on a midnight stroll seeking a scare to make them hold each other closer, drunks looking for a quiet place to drink and sleep and then others who came to embrace the solitude that this place brought as they could or would not go home. Not even she could hold back then, and afterwards, when the hunger briefly died away, she would be left tormented, unable to face what she had done and what she really was. Once the police came, when she had left her meal in the open after being disturbed. It was then they had spoken to her beloved cake lady, as well as searched her own home, but this place was old with many secret places to hide and after a few days the police had gone, no wiser to her existence.

Part 1 | Part 2

His scream was muffled as an abrasive hand clasped across his mouth, toxic hairs like needles dug into his skin and lips, irritating, piercing flesh and gums. Pin pricks in his flesh let blood flow into the bath water as the pressure of the hand increased. He involuntarily inhaled, breathing hundreds of tiny irritant hairs into his throat, nose and lungs. His internal organs reacted in ferocious defence against the foreign elements that had entered their domain. The increasing pain began to overwhelm him, his breaths became panicked as his body tried to gag on his own bile, mucus and blood. The face of the monster moved closer to Darren’s own face, which still struggled with its fight against the paralysis that sat in his muscles like black glutinous tar beneath his skin. Darren rasped in desperation, his eyes staring at the looming face that drew closer and closer to him. Eye sockets that had been grown over by the dishevelled skin of the demon seemed to peer deep in Darren’s eyes. Whilst it had no eyes to see, Darren could feel the penetrating presence burrow deep into his own eyes and ripping his soul in an organised but savage search for his past, as random events of his life rose and fell in his mind. Fetid breath exhaled from the monster’s repulsive mouth. The cavity was long and drawn out vertically, the bottom of the rough lips flowing out into separate limbs each with a single curved claw glistening as they moved around the cavity, cleaning and preparing. The reminiscence of his past increased in momentum. Unable to cope with the bedlam, his mind began to adulterate the memories and the vision that towered before him. The monster no longer stood over him, his mother was holding him down, her mouth opening in a sickening movement and clawed limbs ripped out tearing her face into a deformed manic grin. Blood fell like a waterfall from the coarse wounds, pouring over Darren’s chest and spilling into the already pink water, turning it a deep red. Black congealed lumps fell from his mothers face, each linked by umbilical-like cords. The lumps that hit his bare chest exploded, releasing dark clotted fluids that burned into his flesh. Skin fell away from his ribcage, sliding into the bathwater. Muscle followed and bone began to dissolve, the residue dripping onto his lungs and heart. Darren fought for breath as his lungs deflated and dissolved into the flesh soup bathwater. Finally this butchered vision of his mother pushed him in, down into the vile substance and a final resolve.

Darren looked at the tinfoil that his friend offered him along with the make-shift pipe to inhale the smoke with. He had never tried heroin before and was unsure of it now. Part of him wanted to find out the hit, another part told him where it would lead. As he stared at the tinfoil, he caught a reflection in part of the foil of a dark figure in a brimmed hat. He turned around only to see nothing there, breathing heavily with paranoia of potential actions.

“You want it or what?” said a voice.

The End

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

The figure stood tall, the tip of its fedora hat only just missing the moist ceiling as it approached the bath. It moved without step, gliding with an unnerving slithering across the black and white chequered floor, its legs hidden by the long, heavily stained trench coat. The collar of the coat was pulled up, hiding the visitor’s facial features, all that showed were the eyes, black and abyss-like. They reflected the image of Darren, his naked scrawny body partly submerged in the bath water. As the figure moved closer towards Darren’s still body, the reflection that viewed like a movie in an empty movie theatre pulled in closer to Darren’s upper torso and his head. As Darren’s eyes came into focus, his dilated pupils moved to look directly at the intruder that now stood over him. The waterfall that his drugged mind had perceived shrank suddenly, dragging Darren back to the surface, back to his reality.

Darren’s brain screamed inside his skull, but that was as far as the scream got. His senses exploded with repulsion, the smell wanted to make him vomit, the sickly presence that invaded his personal space made his skin crawl. But he could not react, no muscle operated, no limb moved and no sound came out. Only his eyes could move and all he could see was the horror that stood over him. As he laid in the now suddenly cold bath, naked and prone, all he could do was stare at the figure above him. His internal dialogue begging for his life, knowing it made no difference as whatever stood over him could not hear his pleas. The figure just stood and stared at the pitiful man below him and did not move. Under the trench coat, things slithered and moved, making strange bulges across the visitor’s chest and back. Darren’s mind tried to reason with itself, the rational part saying that his enemies had finally found him and his life would end soon, very soon. But then the part of his mind that told him to fear the dark screamed out at him and took control. This was not human, not even earthly, this was his demon that had come for him. His deeds, his sins were now to be accounted for. He had destroyed his life and all those who had given a damn about him. Through his addiction he had condemned himself, not just to death, to Hell. The drugs… “Wait” his thoughts told him, It’s a hallucination, just a hallucination. His face twitched into a manic smile with the realisation. In the maelstrom of his mind, Darren suddenly felt like he had hit the eye of a storm and peace descended over him. His thoughts moved with ease and took only moments for long thoughts to process. His suddenly clear head analysed the figure above him, he could see it now, his mind understood the horror that affronted him with a sense of calm. Even though his mind took in and understood the horror, his thoughts acted like he was casually sight-seeing. Slowly the figure raised an arm over Darren, extending gangling fingers. As the figure moved the collars of trench coat fell away revealing the face that was hidden beneath. Darren screamed.

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He lay in the bath staring at the ceiling through wisps of steam, while his mind was trying to explain his earlier experiences. At the time it all seemed so real, but now it looked like the drugs and his own paranoia were becoming partners in the reality game. Monsters don’t exist, not in the real world he hated so much. The hot water did its best to relax his tense body, but his mind was still working overtime. He thought about needing more heroin, his death on someones agenda and why in Hell’s name had he hallucinated those creatures in all their sickly glory. His head started to hurt and his muscles started to twitch and convulse as his body and mind cried out for another hit. Darren dragged himself out of the bath and walked into the other room, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the threadbare carpet. He picked up the various tools and supplies for his temporary escape. He placed the tools and substance of his addiction on a chair by the bath, and began the preparation for loading the syringe. He stepped back into the bath and slid into the warm comforting water. He reached over for his belt, and tied his arm ready for the delivery. This was the last of his stash, after this it is either face those who he has crossed or face cold turkey. He would face that bridge later – for now he could escape once more.

He found a vein amongst the various pinpricks trailing along his arm. They looked like a highlighted journey on a map, except the map got you nowhere good in the end. Picking up the syringe, he flicked it, making sure there were no air bubbles. Get one in your bloodstream and it could kill you. He considered the irony, if that finished him off. He found the spot, feeling the point of the needle on his skin. He applied force and the needle went in cleanly. He pressed the plunger and the brown liquid shot into the vein, to mingle with the weak red blood that flowed through him, keeping him alive. The hit was almost instantaneous. He sunk into the bath, the now murky water lapping at his lips. As he lay there in a self-inflicted state of paralysis, he stared passed the ceiling, his mind somewhere else, no longer in the same scape as his body. He sunk further and further into the water. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the water flowed vertically down as he fell below the water level. Like the giant waterfalls he had seen on television, mist erupted as it fell upon his flesh. The turmoil of liquid ignited the senses of his skin. The pressure pushing down and the heat mildly scolding, but all pleasurable as it scoured his sins away. He let himself sink deeper and deeper into the bliss that wrapped him up and made everything safe again. No one could touch him here, no one. Those who wanted him dead could do their worst, he would live forever if they found him now. He looked up at the rectangular hole in the water above him, it seemed so far away now. He could only see the ceiling above him and the naked light-bulb that steamed in the moisture-filled air. He could not see the bathroom walls or the door. This was when the bathroom door opened and a figure moved towards the bath.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5