Tag: horror

Week 9 Post 2: (Untitled part 2)

On By MaryIn 2025, WritingLeave a comment

(I didn’t really know how to end this so it’s a total cop out.)

          Jennifer decided to record the next night’s message as well to see if it remained the same or gave more details. Instead, only one new word flashed over and over again: HELP.

          Did her neighbor need help in some way? Or was something wrong with Jason? She still felt that it had to be him, but couldn’t make sense of why he would be asking for help. Confused, she decided to grab a Ouija board that afternoon. It was nothing fancy, just the colorful board game version sold for kids. She felt nervous as she unpacked it. The rules usually said to not play alone, but she didn’t want to try to explain her insane reasoning to anyone else yet. Still, she decided to go all out in setting the mood. She lit a few candles and sat them nearby and dimmed the lights. She sat with her fingers resting softly on the placard and after clearing her throat, nervously said, “Is it you, Jason? What do you need help with?”

          She sat perfectly still. The seconds dragged into minutes, making her feel sillier as they multiplied. The house was very quiet, the only sound the ticking of the wall clock and the drip of her bathroom faucet. “I need more information. I need to know what you need help with,” she tried again.

          After several more moments she sighed and stood up. This was pointless and childish. She felt tears burn at the edge of her eyes, and she felt surprised at how emotional this was making her. A part of her had truly hoped she could hear from Jason again. She decided to go to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. As she turned, perhaps a little too quickly in her strangely emotional disappointment, the board flipped onto the floor and the candle toppled onto it, the wax crackling in the flame as the board threatened to catch on fire.

          Cursing, Jennifer quickly patted out the flames, ignoring the searing pain of the hot wax on her fingers. Now more angry than sad, she tossed the lot into the trash.

          That night she had trouble sleeping again. As she tossed and turned, half between dreamfulness and waking, she was convinced she could hear a soft knocking from somewhere in the house. She couldn’t tell if it was real or a dream. If it was morse code, it was too quiet and muffled to translate for her. She could hear Jason’s voice as well, calling out for her, and screaming. This, she knew, had to be a dream. Jason had died years ago, right after they had started college. They had been young and stupid and drunk and hanging with friends. They had decided to drive out (to what? Jennifer couldn’t remember. Some stupid local legend spot, like crybaby bridge or a haunted forest). And they had crashed. Jennifer could remember the blood rushing to her head as she was still strapped into her seat, her ears ringing. She could hear someone crying, and someone else screaming. And she could feel Jason tapping on her shoulder in morse code: please be okay please I love you I love you I love you.

          She had wondered why he wasn’t speaking but when she turned she could see the way his neck was crushed, the blood spread across his face and soaked into his shirt, the glazed look in his eyes as the life faded from them, the slowing tap of his fingers as he stilled.

          The next morning she reviewed the tapes again, wondering if perhaps she was reading a pattern into something that wasn’t real. The nightmares and memories had left her feeling unsettled and exhausted. But now there was a whole sentence repeating again and again: PLEASE COME HELP ME!

          Jennifer marched across the street and knocked on her neighbor’s door. She wasn’t sure what she thought – she was halfway between wanting to explain that she thought the older woman was in danger, and accusing the woman of having set up this awful prank in the first place. As she went to pound on the door, she realized it wasn’t fully latched closed.

          Pausing, she knocked, not as hard as she had originally intended. Despite the softer knock, the door creaked open. “Hello?” Jennifer called. She started to wonder if the woman was in danger, perhaps collapsed in one of her rooms. She didn’t seem old enough to hurt herself from the fall, but maybe she had a heart attack or something else? Jennifer pushed the door open and walked in. She decided to take a quick perusal of each room and then show herself out, just to make sure things were all right.

          The house was quiet, and no one answered. As she opened one of the bedroom doors, she found a room – what must have once been a home office or a small bedroom. Strange symbols were carved and scrawled all over the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. As she opened the door, the symbols flashed bright enough to blind her, then dimmed with a strange inner light. Jennifer could hear a knocking, morse code, beckoning her inside. She gasped as she tried to step back, but it felt as though something pulled at the same time, and she stumbled forward into the room.

          Wendy watched from the corner of the room, unseen by Jennifer as the younger woman stumbled in and disappeared as she entered the circle. She breathed a sigh of relief, glad that the trap had worked. When she had learned that the girl across the street had once been a twin, she had felt particularly blessed. It wasn’t often that you could offer two interlinked souls as a sacrifice, and she was certain the boon from this would be great.  

          She asked the being beyond what it would grant her.

          And smiled as she listened to its whispered promise.

Week 9 Post 1: (Untitled)

On By MaryIn 2025, WritingLeave a comment

(I know I’m going a little all over with what I’m choosing to post lately, but this struck my brain owing to the fact that the neighbor across the street has a berserk sensor floodlight. Once I get it out, I’ll finish out the other short about soulmates, and then work on the longer story again)

          The neighbor’s sensor light was going haywire. At first Jennifer thought that it only flashed on the occasional nights. She assumed it was windy nights when perhaps something was setting off a much-too-sensitive sensor. But then she realized it was flashing regardless of the weather. And during the day, when the sensor should have realized it was too light out to be necessary. Not only that, but it was bright – brighter than the others in the neighborhood. And it faced Jennifer’s bathroom and bedroom. She would lay awake at night, staring at her wall as it was lit up intermittently. It wasn’t the source of her insomnia – if she had fallen asleep, she might never have noticed. But she couldn’t sleep, so all she could do was stare at the flash. On. Off. On. Off. Through the night.

          When she had finally had enough, she angled one of her outdoor cameras toward it. She wanted video evidence of how annoyingly frequent it was. Her plan was to take it to her neighbor across the street and complain. The neighbor in question was an older woman. She lived alone but occasionally had the company of a man about her age who would come by to mow her lawn and take her out for the evening.

It was only while reviewing the video, speeding it up to count how many times it flicked on and off through the night, that Jennifer began to notice the pattern.

          Jennifer had learned morse code as a child. It had been her twin’s idea. Jason and her had become adept at it when they were in elementary school, tapping out messages on their bedroom walls at night. When he slept over at his best friend’s house, angled across the ditch and down the next street, he would bring a flash light and they would signal each other to say goodnight. Jason had managed to talk their parents into buying them little devices that would sound off a tone at the bush of the button. They would use it to communicate while playing with their neighborhood friends, making plans and laying traps. Their friends decried this as unfair, because none of them ever learned enough to be as proficient or quick as the twins.

It expanded through middle and high school – sometimes if they were in the same class, she would tap out test answers discreetly on the floor, bouncing her foot as though she were a bundle of anxious nerves. When the history teacher finally caught them, he had been impressed with their scheme. Still, the school had decided on separated them in their classes. Sometimes around their parents they would tap on each other’s shoulders or backs or discreetly communicate to each other.

          It had been like their own secret language. Morse code was emblazoned on her brain, as natural as speaking. It always made her think immediately of Jason, so strongly that she could feel her throat constrict, just as it did as she watched the video. She wondered if somehow he was trying to contact her from beyond the grave as she watched the one word repeat over and over:

          DANGER

          Jennifer didn’t know what to make of it. Sitting and watching the video filled her with more curiosity, strong enough to override her previous annoyance. She wanted desperately to communicate back, because she felt instantly that it had to be Jason. It was too strange of a coincidence otherwise – a sensor floodlight that shone directly into her window communicating in the same way she had always talked to her dead twin?

          What else could it be?

Week 8 Post 1: Soulmate

On By MaryIn 2025, WritingLeave a comment

          Almost everyone eventually found their Calling.

          Agatha Stone still considered herself young at nearly 30, but many thought it strange that she hadn’t had hers yet. It wasn’t impossible to have it until one was quite advanced in age – the oldest known instance had been with a couple well into their 50s. It was also possible to never have one. Some people committed suicide when they realized they were destined to be alone. Or in some cases, when the Calling told them that their partner had died before they could actually meet face to face – those were tragic tales. But it wasn’t something that bothered Agatha. She had never been interested in romance, so to her it seemed perfectly natural. Why would nature grant her visions of a soulmate when she wasn’t really romantically inclined? She had told her best friend as much once. “Oh, Ags. You only think you’re not interested because it hasn’t happened to you yet,” Tammy used to say, laughing and dismissively waving a hand at Agatha’s reasoning. But as many of their friends paired off or began to have the visions and dreams, Tammy’s dismissals became less frequent. Now, years after Tammy had met Alex and had her first child, she seemed to take Agatha’s explanation seriously. When friends asked, and Agatha explained, Tammy would nod, her expression serious. Some few rare individuals never paired off.

          Agatha was comfortable with never finding her Calling.

          And then she began having the nightmares.

          In the first dream, there is a body laid out before her. The skin is peeled back from the neck down. This person has been flayed. The thought is terrifying. She feels her heart flutter at the back of her throat as she leans in close. The eyes in that blood-soaked face are glazed over, and she thinks whoever it is has to be dead, until the mouth hinges open, shuts, opens, shuts – there is only the faintest croak from a throat that has obviously screamed itself hoarse. Agatha jolts at the sudden movement, and wakes. At first she thinks she is hearing the scream from the body on the table before she realizes it’s her – she’s the one screaming.

          She doesn’t know what inspired such a dream, and she feels uncomfortable sharing it with anyone.

          A few weeks later, there is another dream. She recognizes the same table, the same body – this time, truly dead. It must be. The chest is cracked open and all the organs have been carefully removed. The mouth is open and head tilted back in a silent scream to the ceiling, the eyes wide and staring, pale and dry and truly lifeless. A part of her wants to bend over and be violently ill all over the floor but the other part of her is strangely fascinated, staring at the exposed musculature that is starting to dry. She feels something strangely like ecstasy, sees her hands move up the sides of the body and back down, gently tracing the line of a muscle and then running down the skin left at the hips. Although they aren’t really her hands – they’re larger, as though they belong to a man. The hands dip lower, and as she realizes what she is about to witness she wakes suddenly, sitting straight up in bed. She rolls over onto her side and pukes all over the floor.

          The first dream could have been dismissed as some strange figment of her brain, some nightmare inspired by a horror movie. But the second dream made her begin to question. Could she be seeing something that really happened? Was really happening? Was she having her Calling? No, it can’t be, she told herself.

Week 7 Post 4: The End

On By MaryIn 2025, Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

Storymatic cards were person in love and movie director for one of the characters, and end of the relationship and hiding spot is discovered for things that must appear in story.

I like the idea of this one but it’s botched and poorly written. You’re welcome?

It was a well-known fact that Vince Waggoner was in love with Robin Rose. When they met, she immediately became his primary muse. He cast her in five films in a row as the leading lady, claiming that the roles were written with her in mind. They were married quickly. People often spoke of how he worshipped the ground she walked on, gave her everything she could ever want.

They also whispered of her many infidelities.

It was a tabloid feeding frenzy when their marriage inevitably fell apart. He took a short break from directing, and a handful of years passed where people thought his career was over. Far from it – he emerged, revealing he had been painstakingly writing a story for a series of films. Films that he wanted to film back-to-back. He threw himself into his work with reckless abandon. There were a whopping seven films in total, set in the same universe with cameos from each of the other films, but completely unrelated except for their thematic ties.

It became immediately obvious that Robin Rose was still his muse. Each leading actress that he chose bore striking similarities to her. Similar face shapes, the same pale skin tone and wide doe eyes. A few were familiar household names, but many of them were new. It was no secret that he was going for a particular look. The movies were set to be released yearly.

The disappearances started after the third release.

Miss Lane was a tragedy. She had been a fresh face in Waggoner’s first film without Robin Rose, and with the success of that, her star had risen. She was in talks to join a major film franchise when she had disappeared. No one could locate her. She hadn’t mentioned leaving to anyone, did not reach out to any of her family or friends. Her car was found abandoned in a parking garage, her phone still inside. She had made no monetary withdrawals and hadn’t used any of her cards since her disappearance.

It was strange and sad and many people speculated what could have happened.

But it wasn’t until Candy Zacharias disappeared next that people suspected Waggoner. Candy was the lead of the second film, and she disappeared the year after Miss Lane. Still, there wasn’t enough reason to suspect a thing – until the following year, when Francine Queen disappeared.

The cops focused their investigation on Waggoner, but found nothing. He was so harangued by the media and the cops that he finally left the country. After all, he had finished the films, with only the last few remaining in post-production. It was recommended that the remaining actresses beef up their security teams. Still, Michelle Ray managed to escape her bodyguards briefly (supposedly in a discreet attempt to buy some illicit substance) and was never seen again. When warrants were issued allowing the cops to search all of Waggoner’s properties, nothing was found. He proclaimed his innocence in every interview, and eventually tired of the questions so much that he became a recluse.

Time passed. The remaining women didn’t disappear yearly as predicted, but as their security grew lax, they did eventually all disappear. Each time, investigations were made into Waggoner, and each time – nothing.

Eventually, he died of an overdose. It became a strange unsolved Hollywood legend.

Robin Rose died relatively young. A suicide. No one was sure why.

While her estate was being cleared, all seven desiccated corpses were found in her basement.

One Night

On By MaryIn Prompts, WritingLeave a comment

The prompt cards for this one were “recluse” and “blood.”

Typically my first thought with recluse is spider, and my first thought with blood is sacrifice. I had to sit and think through a few more associations trying to brainstorm a short tale, and I kind of like the result. The ending could be tied together a little better with a stronger line. Also I’m second guessing every comma this time.

Anyhow, the story.

Tara lived alone in the middle of nowhere.

It was hard sometimes. She had once been something of a social butterfly and loved to go to parties and special events hosted by her friends. And she was a wonderful hostess as well. There was nothing quite like the thrill of being the center of attention, being the one drawing all the admiring glances, the one to cause the raucous laughter. Tara had loved the dresses she had worn, the company that she kept.

And now she spent her time alone, far from anyone. She slept her days away and quietly whiled away the nights. She absently thought of happier times as she hunted for herself and attended to the chores and upkeep of her own little abode. The loneliness made time stretch eternal, and she found herself wishing for happier days. But she could never return to that. The world had moved on, turned without her, and it was for the better.

One night, as she sat by the fire, there was a knock at the door. She set her book down, a frown creasing her brow, as she stared apprehensively at the door. Was there really a person so far out here? In the middle of the night? Had she been hearing things?

Now whoever was there pounded on the door, the sound so loud it made her jump. “Please…!” a female voice called, high pitched with desperation and worry.

With a heavy sigh, knowing it was a bad idea, Tara stood and opened the door.

Standing outside was a young woman, her clothes disheveled and torn, her eyes wide with terror. She had leaves in her hair, and scratches on her skin, and she was shivering. Tears streamed down her face. “Please, help me…” she whimpered.

Tara hesitated before stepping back to let the younger woman in. “Is there someone after you?” she asked, as she closed the door.

The young woman looked dazed. She nodded briefly, but then paused and said, “I’m not sure. I got away, but I don’t know if he… he…” and then she burst into a fresh set of sobs.

Tara placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, feeling desperately sorry for her, for so many reasons. Not just for what had likely happened, but for what was going to happen. Tara stared at a smear of blood along the woman’s jawline, and found her eyes drawn further down to her neck. Already the hunger was starting to take hold…

“I’m sorry,” Tara said simply.

And then she sank her fangs into the young woman’s neck. The woman screamed – not that it mattered out here, in the middle of nowhere, far from anyone that could hear. Likely whoever had brought the poor thing out this far had thought the same – so secluded, there was no help.

Tara would never have chosen to live as a recluse, but when she had been turned, she had found her hunger insatiable. It hadn’t taken long for her vampiric nature to be outed, and for her to be ousted. She had left everything behind and come so far into the woods so she could not be tempted by the sweetness of human blood. She could feel the young woman grip her hair, desperately attempting to pull her head away, but her ordeal had left her weak and Tara enjoyed heightened strength since her turning.

The blood burst salty and then sweet into her mouth, invigorating her. Tara moaned in pleasure at the familiar flavor as she drank deeply. It was the first human she had glutted on in years. After a time, the unfortunate woman stilled in her grasp – her heartbeat slowed, slowed, and then stopped as she was drained of more blood than the body could bear to lose. Tara laid her down on the floor.

She tilted her head, staring down at the woman’s corpse, and then glanced at the time. She made her way to the door, ready to scour the woods in the hopes of finding the man that had been mentioned. She had a few hours to kill before dawn.