Imagine Tales

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

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.

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