Potential novel; Prologue

The oak-wood brush ran down the shining burgundy curls, smoothing out non-existent tangles in the candle-light, the soft, shushing sound of dry hair as it is cared for, almost painstakingly brushed into a shining glory, capturing the soft candle-glow and turning it into dark red highlights in the dark strands. The illusion of lit from within is lost as paler than new snow hands divide the hair into three, and braid it, the thick sections of hair weaving back and forth over, under and around each other, to form a neat, but thick rope of hair, reaching down to midback. This is where the story starts, with a braid of burgundy hair, cared for and prepared in the soft golden glow of candle-light.

The braid whips through the air, the end weighted, and cracks into a face, causing a howl of pain from a broken jaw, another howl and the wet splatter of blood on the wall, a hiss of dying air, and the sobbing moan of the wounded.

“Where are they.”

Only a moan, a pitiful thing, is the response.

“Where. Are. They.”

Another moan, escalating into a shriek as the broken jaw is grabbed and wrenched so that the wounded’s face is turned to his interrogator. He whimpers and points down the alley, curling up into a ball around his pain. A disgusted snort, and the owner of the burgundy braid steps over that piece of human refuse in the direction indicated.

A few metres down, and there is a scungy wooden door. A scan of the surroundings, the braid shifting slightly, heavily, against the owners back, lamplight catching the glean of the almost red strands. “I need to speak to Dmitri.” Is the greeting to the guard, who folds his arms, muscles bulging against the black muscle shirt.

“Who’s askin’?”

“No one of your concern.” Whiter than new snow, the hands and arms they are attached to move, and the guard finds breathing to be much more interesting than questioning the stranger, who walks in the door, the solid clump of a boot against the wooden floor. Another guard approaches, burlying up, muscles flexing, arms folding, eyeballing the intruder. “Who’re you?”

“I am here to speak to Dmitri. Where is he?”

“Aint no one seein’ Dmitri until we clear it.” The tall, bald bouncer looks rather smug at this.

A glance from eyes mostly hidden by shadows, on a paler than pale face, a snap of a wrist and there is a white hand around the bouncers throat, bringing him down to the newcomers height, “Where. Is. He.” A flex of the hand prompts the bouncer to betray his training and his boss, he points to the stairs.

“Of course.” Released, the bouncer stares at the intruders retreating back, the burgundy braid swinging slightly with the flexing of the body as they climb the stairs. First door on the left, a couple being less than discreet, first on the right is the same situation, albeit two pair, and not a one heterosexual. Down to the end of the dark hall, a blue door, two bouncers on either side, each eyeballing the stranger. No word had been sent up to expect anyone.

“Name, purpose?”

“My name is my own and will stay that way, I need to speak to Dmitri.”

The guards exchange a glance, before grunting “Aint been cleared. Gotta know who you are, before we let you in, an’ even then is chancy.” A slight smile curves what is visible of the lips of the stranger, before they move, a dark blur edged with snow white, the white of alabaster, and both guards are curled up on the floor, groaning and holding tender parts of anatomy, kidneys, throat. The door is opened, and the intruder steps in, idly flexing snow white hands.

“Kair. I’ve been expecting you.”

“Where are they, Dmitri?”

The chair behind the ebony desk turns and the seated male is visible, a small smile curving his lips beneath his moustache. “Where are who?”

A step forward from the stranger, that is all, but the threat looms larger than the slight stature. “Where. Are. They.” A low growl fills the strangers voice. A warning all on it’s own.

“I no longer have them. And neither will you get the name of who does.” Brave or foolhardy, two hours later, the guards outside the door, having recovered from their earlier interaction, and a subsequent rapid retreat when they attempted to defend their employer, hear a final shriek and a sharp crack of bone snapping. The stranger opens the door and steps out, a white kerchief in hand, wiping off blood before dropping it to the floor, stalking down the hall like a frustrated feline, and that braid of hair flicks like the tail of the irritated cat. A glance over the shoulder, the light catching and giving colour to the brilliant green eyes, so green as to have some yellow in the centre around the pupil. “Remind Dmitri’s boss that I do not bluff.” And the intruder leaves, as the phone starts to ring.

The guards peek into the room, one answers the phone, the other finds what is left of Dmitri Kobanlov. “Uh, I’m sorry but I can’t put Mr Kobanlov on the phone.....why not? ....uh because sir, he’s dead.” The phone is briefly taken away from the ear “Yes sir, that’s right. Dead sir. ...I don’t know sir. He said to let you know that he didn’t bluff, sir. ....I suppose so sir? .....sir?...” click, the beep beep beep that signals that the other line is dead, and the bemused guards look towards the remains of their former employer, blood soaking into and staining the carpet and thought, what could do such a thing?

Princess of Hell

As I stand on my balcony, looking out over the scenery -- Hell doesn't have to be all fire and brimstone you know, some parts are actually -nice-. Course, there's no light beyond the fires, as the sun doesn't shine here, so it's bleak compared to what humans are used to, but it has it's own beauty -- I realise that there is -alot- of hype over my mother and father.

I mean sure, fair enough, Satan and Lilith, the evil pair in the major lexicon of the mortal realms, but it's mildly irritating. Satan is one of the Lords of Hell, sure, he's got a bit more oomph than say, Lucifer, who is a asshole to say the least, who was rather stomping around in your great grandfathers day, or earlier -- time is a little confusing to me, or rather, the passing of it is irrelevant, who in turn is higher up than Beezlebub. Now -that- is a male you don't want to be alone with, not in the sense that he used to be the king of Hell, but in the sense that he is ...oily. Sleezy. A ...not pleasant male. Sure, Satan is slick and oily himself, but he does it with -class- you know?

Oh, who am I? I'm Dzeintra, or Xanthia, whichever tickles your fancy, youngest of the seven princesses of hell. I think. They might've gotten busy in the millenia or two I've been ...shall we say ... less than family orientated? I'mthe prodigal child, the black sheep of the family so to speak. And -considering- said family, it's not that hard to figure out -why-. See, I'm a seer. Not one of those white billowing robed things that are utterly irritating in their holier-than-thou attitude where you have to do impossible tasks to get an answer to your question, but ultimately they're on the Light side. That's the uh, 'good guys' for you mortals. Not that it's terribly accurate, but you go with the flow. See, I'm Dark, mother is Dark, we live in the shadows and revel in the destruction of things. It's rather fun actually. On the Light side, you have the celestials, the christian/catholic God -- arrogant asswipe as he is -- technically the Arcana, they're all about rules and whatnot, Gaeans, you know, Gaea, the green goddess of fertility, mother earth? Yeah, them.

On the Dark side, there's us, the demonic, (I'm actually of a different sort, Daemon), the vampires, and so on, all the nasty 'ghoulies' that haunt your nightmares. What was I saying? Oh, right, seer.

Okay, general run down, there are different power levels, as it would be pretty redundant to have an imp (essentially a paper shuffler) on equal power with say, cerberus'. It just wouldn't work, you know? Now a seer is someone (or thing) that can see into the future. Essentially speaking, they are Neutral. Dealing with the grey areas. But alas, the Neutral is divided just like the rest of things into Light and Dark. I, obviously, and a Dark sided seer, one of the rarer breed, Light sided are more common, as they find it ...shall we say... -easier- to align with the Light to get the path they want followed initiated. Some can only see the beginning of this path, others spot the middle, some eye the far end, and so on. Depending on the strength of the seer depends on how far, and how accurately they can see.

Take for example a spiderweb. At first, you wouldn't see it at all would you? But if the light hits it right, or if it was a cold morning and dew clings to the strands, you can see it clearly. A really strong seer can see -all- of the spiderweb, all the possible paths, those that are yet to be made and those that already -have- been made. This type of seer is called an Oracle. All-knowing, in theory. (Trust me, it's not that great). The weaker types will see say, the path they want, and one or two branches off of that path, but not much beyond it. That path generally tends to lead to the continuation of life as it is existing, if they are Light sided.

Remember how I mentioned I was Dark? Yeah, that's not the path I want. Oh don't look at me like that! Death is as much a part of the cycle as the sun setting every evening. The path -I- want (And the one, incidentally, that leads to the -least- tangles and issues later on, which is always a good thing) is one that has a major overhaul of things. Like, end of the world overhaul. Which would be seen as B.A.D by some folk.

But, out from the ashes rise the next generation, and it is towards -this- generation that I guide things. Yes, guide. Think of the Fates, in ancient mythology, where they measured, wove, and cut the thread of mortal life? I do that job, sort of. So, now you know about me, lets get back to Hell hmm?

It honestly isn't that bad! Sure, there is screaming, and fire, and hurting, and in some places snow -- yes, it -does- snow in hell, it's for those that didn't share warmth or something, they have to walk about in the cold without comfort -- water and so on. The only thing that is constantly absent from Hell is light. Sunlight that is, that's the province of Light, obviously, and we are not called Dark for no reason. Oh, and you recall how myths describe demons and such with glowing eyes? Nightvision baby, tenfold. But then....my eyes really -do- glow, they cast their own light.

So, there I am, musing over my balcony, idly toying with some of the flames, making them flare and whatnot, considering things, like how the fear of Satan, the dislike of Lilith, but above all, how much of a -large- part they play. Don't mention the Beasts name, for to say his name is to call his attention to you. Funny, how it takes only -one- person to say daddy dearests name for him to pay attention, but it takes at -least- seven and several hours worth of effort for humans to get the vague interest of Him Upstairs. Show you how much of an asswipe he is, huh?

Mother dearest walks in, my tail swishes slightly (yes, I have a tail, horns, hooves, the whole kit) before she speaks, informing me of a guest. I sigh, turn, bow, and make like a dutiful daughter to greet said guest. Did I mention that mother and I don't get along? Sure, we might both be succubi, but that doesn't mean I go for the whole 'sex 24/7' that she does...although it doens't have to be sex, in retrospect... Anyways, surprise surprise, my guest is actually one of her playthings. One that is mine as well, the gaean prince, so to speak. Next in line to take the throne from Gaea when that overhaul happens -- remember me mentioning it? Several reasons why it's necessary -- evidently just out of a session with mother dearest, judging by the bleeding and marks. Another sigh, and I grip the back of his neck, shadowstepping back to his glade so that he can heal -- side stepping the minotaur or two. You'd think these things'd learn, I mean, I've been tripping in and out frequently enough that the dryads have given me a gaean name. Ugh. But still, he's still their lord, and I'm just the adviser. Think grand vizier, -not- the going to kill him evil Jafar-esque thing, but the same powers.

So yes, I shadowstep back 'home'. I'm not comfortable around green things, it makes me want to burn them -- which is kinda frowned upon there -- and return to oh so patiently waiting for the time to pass. Things have a schedual you know, and at the moment, things are running on track for the overhaul, so I've got very little to do.

Oh, besides turn the enterprising invader back from the past, but those walkways are another story.

The Doll House

There was this village, out in the middle of nowhere in England. Rolling green pastures, a lake glimmers in the distance under the brilliance of the sun, and beyond it was a lush forest. It was a sleepy sort of village, the kind where you could walk into it in the middle of the day and there wouldn't be a soul to be seen, not in the creepy or frightening way of an abandoned derelict building, no, but in the homey, snoozy type of way, the way a cat napping on the windowsill feels.

Freshly moved into this sleepy, lazy, warm little town, was a couple. Brand new, off the honeymoon and first-home-for-raising-the-children-in phaze, where they vigorously and enthusiastically took part of the necessary 'baby-making'. But alas! The years roll by and still no pitter-patter of baby feet stomp down hallways in the wee hours of the morning, indeed, she doesn't even swell with the promise of those feet. A doctor is seen, and devestating news, both are infertile. The wife tearfully cries "I can't be! I've been pregnant before! I miscarried!" The doctor just shakes his head and shows them the result, decrying that both are unable to bring life into the world....but he cannot explain why.

It were almost as though he was tempted to say they were born barren, but alas...there is the miscarriage.

Distraught, melancholy and mournful, they return home, to their dainty little cottage at the end of the street, homey and warm, just like the rest of the town. More years pass, and the wife developes a passion for making dolls. China dolls, porcaline, the fine art collectors edition of every type, every race and breed, from the baby-kin, eyes screwed shut and toothless mouths open in eternal silent cries, to the toddler-esque, three feet high, bright eyed and curious. The husband doesn't really understand it, until one night the wife shows him a particularly pretty doll, somewhere between walking and not, sucking on a fragile porcaline lollipop, the colours smearing from her efforts, and whispers to him "Look honey, this is the baby we would have had." He blinks at her in confusion "These are our children, the ones we can't give life to, they are our darling ones...right?" A strange ripple at the nape of his neck, the hairs rising, prompt him to nod in agreement "Of course dear, come, have something to eat."

More years pass, and the number of dolls accumulate, their blankeyed stare filling the rooms, more dolls than furniture, all lovingly handcrafted, a dedication of the wife to each of her 'children'.

Twenty years on, from that mortifying news that they were infertile, and the husband dies. Or rather, is found dead by the cleaning lady one weekend, the wife was at a friends place, buying fabrics for her 'children'. There was a shattered doll beside him, what could be seen it was a younger one, perhaps two or three, eyes screwed up, tears down its little cheeks, and the shattered end of its arm imbedded in the husbands through, imbedded with such force that it came out the other side, the porcaline streaked with blood.

The cleaning lady screams and runs out of the house, calling the police, who upon arrival, before the wife returned home, found strangely, no shattered doll, no arm pushed through the husbands throat -- just a hole where it was, and a pool of drying blood.

The wife, with a few grey hairs now, is thrown into a fit of depression at the news of her husbands death, feverishly turning to her now, only solace -- her children.

Production of the unique dolls comes out as never before, a new one every week, and soon, she can't move for risk of knocking one of the life-sized, realistic creations over and risk shattering them. Two months later, she dies of a heart attack, an unfinished doll in her hands, older looking than any of the others, a girl of around eight, only half of her curling blonde hair was attatched, her face painted to hold infinite sadness, melancholy in her green eyes, and her dress half-sewn yet pulled on, tattered edges showing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years after the unfortunate couple's death, the doll house still stands, complete with the fortune of now antique dolls, a silent guard, balefully glaring at any who dare try to enter, the door unable to open for the dolls shoved up against it, wedged tight so as to not shatter under a hard shove. Yet strangely, in one room, sitting at one window, is a single doll, half-finished, as though she had been set aside briefly, to be finished at a later date, alone in this one room, watching the comers, watching them leave, alone in the study.

Some say, that lone doll seems mournful when the visitors get turned away, her sad, sad eyes seem to weep real tears when people flee before the glares of the other dolls, all perfect, pristine, finished works of art, crying the innocence of childhood, yet how they glare! It's as though they blame everyone for their mothers death....but that can't be true.

They're just dolls, after all. Attatching emotions to the inanimate is a foolish human trait.


Right?

The Theater

It was dark in the cinemas, but that's not really the right word. Cinema is like the meaning of industry, or a building complex. It brings to mind grey chairs, set in rows on dull blue carpeting with those little flakes of colour, as though someone had shaken sprinkles out onto the blue in an attempt to lighten it, but all it really does is make the blue seem more dull, more grey, more industrialised. Lastly, a massive screen at one end of the room, infront of all those rows of grey, generic chairs, and voila, there is a cinema. Moderately well lit, impersonal, lifeless, just one of a million.

This wasn't a cinema, it was a theater. This had scarlet carpeting, maroon chairs, set in rows, but curved towards the 'stage', where the screen sat, taking up the entire front of the room. There was an upper balcony, where more seats were set, above the lower rows, sectioned into four. There was beige painted murals carved into the woodwork of the ceiling, curtains covered the walls, and the walkways were lit with small lights. This was something alive, built from an era when you went and sat in those cramped rows to see a play, when movies where half an hour long, silent, and something of a treat. When the very act of going to the theater was a social occasion, not a spur of the moment decision. It wasn't well lit, it didn't have generic bulbs set into the walls, the ceiling, no, it had rectangular boxes to mimic the holders of a torch in a medieval castle, giving a murky, shadowed light at best.

A lone individual walks into this atmosphere, the murky, old-seeming lighting, blue jeans, sneakers, and a white t-shirt that says 'your village called, they want their idiot back', a backpack over one shoulder. She -- definitely a she, with breasts pressing against the white cotton, and the curve of her hips within the jeans -- scans the seating before turning and leaving, ascending the stairs to that upper balcony, to see what it felt like sitting where the 'upper crust' would have sat. She sat, leant back in the chair, listening to the imitation classical music with a few lyrics thrown in here and there, not particularly interesting ones, that came from everywhere, and nowhere in particular. It was dark, close, almost claustrophobic or comforting, enough to encourage a doze, and it was empty, from her brief scanning gaze.

She starts to drift off, the soft music, not very riveting, lulling her into dozing, leaving her ignorant -- she's just an average person after all -- and deaf to the soft brush of fabric against the soft felt of one of the seats, the quite whump of a footstep, followed by a couple others as a darker shadow in the murky, isolated lighting moves down the row. Sleep, so soft, soothing, and close, beckons seductively.

A soft thing startles her out of the beckoning arms of sleep, at first, she is unaware of what it was that changed, and she frowns for a few moments, before sitting up, still not seeing the shadow almost at her back. Ah, now she realises what it was that disturbed her, the music was no longer playing. Strange, the previews hadn't started. It was as though for those few seconds, the world had stopped.

She was still confused when a leatherclad hand reaches around from behind the seat, closing over her mouth, another braced against the side of her head, and the soft leather of the cowhide covered hand slides off of her mouth, grips her jaw, she has time for a shrill scream, building to the crescendo but never getting there, cut off abruptly with the harsh crackling of her neck being broken. She is left to slump against the chair, head resettled, staring eyes closed.

Not so empty after all.

A Summers Evening and an Autumn Morn.

(Read the post 'On a Summers Day' first. Then this one'll make ALOT more sense.)




The body was Andrew McPhearson, the child, one Julie Andrews, and enither were the same. One, obviously, went to the morgue to be identified by dental records-- that's all they could use -- the other went catatonic, in order to save itself the mind rejected the cruel world around it and created one of its own devising.

Outwardly she was a silent, simple girl, no interest in interaction of any sort, she ate when forced to and broke her mothers heart by refusing to look at her, but through, always through, fixed on some distant point where crimson-black blood pooled, where dark blow flies droned and the sickly sweet scent of decay filled the air, where all the noise in the world couldn't break the shattering silence of an unvoiced scream.

The media behaved as it is wont to do, flocking and fluttering, scavenging and prying, delving sticky fingers into badly healed -- barely begun to heal -- wounds and pulling the ugly, foul, tittilating bits to a harsh and unforgiving spotlight. As expected, the summers day, bright with life, was replayed, repeated, displayed in a thousand different ways until public opinion deemed the entire thing a hoax, just some family's craving to be on television.

Never mind the shattered family of the deceased, never mind the previous happy, healthy child driven to seek her own world. Neve rmind the anguish the fluttering, craving, prying, uncaring fingers -- and eyes -- of the media caused. It was all a hoax, a plot, a conspiracy, a trick.

The medias loss of interest was a blessing that came too late -- too late for Andrew's family to have the required privacy to mourn, too late for little Julie, who having to relive, and then witness it from a dramatised perspective, listen from a thousand different mouths -- why would anyone desire to remain in such a heartless world? So little Julie refused to make even the little progress she had out of her self-imposed prison, retreating in so far that she barely had any desire to eat, each mouthful swallowed was a hard won victory.

Life went on, as its wont to do, two months passed, three, and the media forgot about Julie Andrews and Andrew McPhearson. Summer changed to Autumn, dusky and brown from bright gold.

It was a crisp Autumn morning, the mist was clinging to the ground and every breath fogged in the air. The scent of winter was in the air, it was a taste on the back of the tongue, crisp, icy, chillingly close with the illusionary softness of snow. Rosy-cheeked from the cold, laughter and playing in the piles of fallen leaves, the child, a little boy, six or seven, ran behind a tree, out of his parents' concerned and watchfully indulgent gaze. All was well.

A peircing scream split the air. Followed by two more, then naught but helpless, hopeless sobbing.

Rushing to look, the mother added her screams to the shattered peace, before dropping to her knees to embrace and rock her sobbing son.

Strung out between two trees in a crude X, head lolled back in the limp, absolute relaxation of the dead and unconsious, was another body.

(Warning for those with tender stomaches, it gets graphic)

The skin, rather than removed completely, had been peeled back to expose the muscle and sinew beneath. Strung out, stretched thin by fish-hooks through the nearly transparant flesh, the light shining through, illuminating veins, capillaries, arteries, trails of brilliant red -- fire-engine red -- blood trailed down from the wounds, slowly seeping lower with each painful second.

The internal organs had been painstakingly, lovingly, removed and strung out, netted and woven among the branches of the two trees, the metres of intestine almost braided, intricate, lace, the stomach caught in the dark grey webbing. The lungs were pulled out of the chest cavity, the ribcage pulled open like some glistening, banded, red and white butterfly, the sternum cut clean through. The heart stretched out, the lungs likewise exposed, two pink sacks hanging, stretched in the air. In this mass was the body, the skin a backdrop for the macabre web, where the own internal organs were the bands that trapped the 'fly'.

It was too cold for the flies, so their droning swarm was absent, no moving black tide of hungry bodies swarming, moving, writhing over flesh and skin alike. The blood dripping, slowly seeping down the skin to plop ever so slowly onto the dry leaves was still wet, still fresh, still warm, still flowing. The strung out, web-captured body jerked and a helpless, hopeless whimper of pain sounded, silencing the sobbing into a gasp of horrified shock.

"Oh Dear God, it's still alive!"

On a Summers Day

It was the height of summer, the sky was a brilliant, breathtaking blue, the sort of blue that reaches up and DEMANDS your attention. The distant, merry laughter of children filtered through the air, mingled with the birdsong and the drone of busy bees. The world was bursting, overflowing with warmth, life, happiness.

And then the screams started.

Down a little way from the bees, just around the bend from the children, there was a droning. Not the almost musical buzz of the bees, no, this was the heavy, bloated droning of fat blowflies, their brilliant blue back sparkling in the sunlight like morbid jewels. The black with flashing blue tide crawled, buzzed, and swarmed over the ground and a single tree.

The first scream disturbed a few, not many, but enough for their meal to be seen.

A puddle of thick, black as tar blood on the bright green, rich, vibrant grass. More crimson black smears marred the smoothe wood of the tree, splatters and painted strips. But that wasn't what drew the scream, the second one, not of fright like the first, but of horror, of a deep abiding disgust.

Oddly enough, apart from that single, thick puddle, the grass is clean. And it is only the one tree, smeared, specked and caked with the sludgy, viscous, crimson black blood in the small thatch, the rest are clean, pristine, unmarked.

But the source of the blood, concealed beneath those heavy, hungry, shifting black bodies, the lone figure hanging from the branches, bloated in the heat, almost bursting, like some obscene fruit begging to be plucked, that is what drew the second horrified scream that shattered the shocked silence following the first.

For, it wasn't just hanging, covered with droning flies, bloated, tied by the ankles, no, that would be bad enough. But it -- not a man, not a woman, not a child but a dead, bloated buzzing thing -- had been skinned.

(Warning for those of tender stomaches, it gets graphic.)

The head was featureless, eyes gouged out, or rather, surgically removed from the orbits and yanked free. The nose removed, lips likewise, ears, scalp, then each slender strip of flesh carved from the face, leaving a morbid mockery of a skull, blood caked and writhing with flies. Oddly, morbidly, the tongue and throat were left intact, the skinning starting at the collarbones. The arms stripped of flesh as well as skin, bones visible, connected by gleaming sinew and tendon. The ribcage glittering, gleaming through the flies and the thick, black blood. The stomach retained the muscle, holding the bloating of swollen organs within, but the pelvis glimmered. A dark grey rope slithered out, wrapped painstakingly, almost lovingly, around the bones. The legs were simply skinned, simply used as they retained the meat, the flesh, but linked together with steel rods bent around the bones. Just the merest scrap of skin at the edges of the rods give the hint that maybe, just maybe, the victim wasn't dead when impaled ...or worse.

A third scream, high, wild, piteous came from the child, an innocent who went searching for the ball, the peircing, poignant scream of encroaching madness. Because dangling there, bloated, skinned, mutilated, the dead writhing with a mimicry of life, induced by the walking, crawling, buzzing black tide searching beneath the flesh, it seemed to reach for the child, reach with those skinned, fleshless arms.

A fourth scream came, hard on the heels of the third, ringing louder, higher, madness shattering. And as the child screamed, the body swinging, buzzing, bloated, flies taking their crimson black meal, the corpse screamed too.

Nightmare.

I don't have nightmares often, more often than not they're dreams. I barely even have bad dreams, it just doesn't work. Especially when you tend to take charge and turn the terrifying into the ridiculous. Unfortunately I couldn't do that in this nightmare, I swear I have never been so glad to wake up on a school day.



Here we go, what happened.



Me and this group of scientists researching the paranormal were in this old house, there were numerous reports of screaming heard within when it was empty and the like. It started off pretty low key, I mean, the odd shimmer in the air, a glowing spark by a door, that sort of thing. Little stuff that got us really excited. It's like -yes- finally we'll have proof of the occult! And then things started to go downhill.



It turns out that the family that lived there, were all horrid mean people, you know, the self-righteous arrogant toerags that occasionally crop up? Yeah, the parents were like that. The father was very strict and overbearing and the mother was selfabsorbed, selfish, and bitchy. There was a daughter of about 18 and a son of about six or so. First all we saw was the daughter as she went about her day, cleaning, washing, cooking and so on, it was like we weren't there. And then she started noticing us -- not good as she got rather aggro when she saw us. Screetching and everything, and that woke up the rest of the family. They possessed my partners, and they went mad, thinking that they really -were- the ghosts.



Something happened with my vision when they were possessed, and I got double vision, I saw the ghost possessing them -and- them. It was very weird. We couldn't do anything, but the daughter possessed me and took me through the fateful night when the entire family died, or what was left of it. Since the previous winter the six year old son got locked outside in the snow, the mother saw it standing there, knocking on the front door (there was glass in the door) and pleading to come in, but she only smiled, returned to the letters she was reading before walking away. Person number one dead, as they froze to death in the middle of summer (winter) when the son died.



The father tended to beat both the daughter and his wife, so i was trying to escape a beating and the mother (I was like, possessed remember?) and then the ghost goes insane and kills the mother and the father before I eject her from my body. She screams at me and we fight. I pin her against the wall (really odd, having your hand around a throat you can't see) when she started -laughing- at me! This maniacal laughter that was -really- irritating. I look behind me and there's this shadow of the father bearing down on me, I squeak, release her, duck his attack and go to the front door, it's locked, but I've got my keys, yay! So I unlock the door, get out, expecting to have some cold hand pull me back or something nasty to happen, but I get out, shut the door and start running. About halfway down the driveway I turn and look back and freak, its my fathers house, with the tree's either side and everything, and there -she- is gloating.

She sends this ghost wolf after me -- now don't get me wrong, I love wolves, normally, I always think they're beautiful creatures, even when snarling and everything, they're gorgeous! -- but not this one, it was like, black, midnight black, all teeth and red eyes and snarl and me, being the sane, normal person that I am, I ran from this six foot thing...that's at the shoulder people. You'd have run too.

So I'm belting down the road, the bitchumen hurting my bare feet, getting winded, my legs complaining, and it's just loping along behind me. (In hindsight, I don't think I had to have run...but yeah) I ran about 500m down the road to where there were two driveways either side of each other, saw a heap of cars go into one driveway and then vanish, like, pass through the gate and then poofle. Alarm bells started ringing there, and I was standing in the middle of the road for about five minutes (uneaten) before moving off the road. I looked behind me and the wolf had shrunk down from that monster thing to a more normal size, it flopped down in the path as I backed away, asking it to go and leave me be. It's response? "You are my Mother, I could never hurt you." Before getting up and loping down the road and vanishing.

Then a crippled cousin of mine -- or perhaps she was an elder sister-- who'd broken her knee and was on crutches was going towards the driveway where the cars had vanished into and I went over to her and said "Wait no! you don't want to go in there, come one, we have to go over here..." And so on, getting her out of there and then my grandma and eight year old sister were on the -other- side of the road going to a birthday party. (I don't have any sisters or grandmothers at all) So I dragged my elder sister to the middle of the road and left her dazedly standing there before fetching the other pair of relatives. Then i got a phone call, it was the ghost saying that my father had just called and was wondering if my number was 0407 105 991 or something else but I had no signel so I couldn't call my father and and and....

And then I woke up. I saw the sunlight on my window, breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed. I swear, I have never, ever, been so glad to wake up 10 minutes before my alarm on a school day.

Blind, Bound, Bleeding

Blind, Bound, Bleeding.

Red hot pain
removed my eyes;
I am Blind.

Burning coarse ropes
bind my wrists behind,
bind my ankles together,
hold my flesh unkindly;
I am Bound.

Seeping warmth, seeping life,
ebbing down my arms,
ebbing down my legs,
seeping through the gaps
in my bruised and broken flesh,
pooling my life beneath me.
I am Bleeding.

Blind,
Bound,
Bleeding.

Alone in the silence,
mute in the darkness,
held in the death
that began my life;
I am Blind.

Torn from the truth,
concealed from the lies,
hidden within their hearts,
I am Bound.

Whispering the silence,
Bound in the secrets,
Weeping for mercy;
I am Bleeding.

Blind,
Bound,
Bleeding,

Within you,
Needing you,
but Ignored.

The Raven; love

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

‘Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door;

Only this and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

This it is, and nothing more.’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

‘Sir,’ said I ‘or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you.’ Here I opened wide the door—

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token

And the only sound there spoken was the whispered word,

‘Lenore?’ this I whispered and an echo murmured back the word ‘Lenore!’

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,

‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely, that is something at my window lattice,

Let me see then, what thereat it, and this mystery explore

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

Tis the wind, and nothing more.’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door.

Perched and sat, nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By this grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

‘Thou thy crest be shorn and shaven thou,’ said I, ‘art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what the lordly name is on the Nights Plutonian shore.’

Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning to relevancy bore,

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing a bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such a name as ‘Nevermore’.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘What it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore;

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Never—nevermore.’

I quite like it, don't you? But then, I'm a lass that adores Edgar Allen Poe, probably because I love horror, or thrillers, and all such things stem from Poe. Literally, you can find inspiration for ANY horror movie from something that Poe wrote if you go back far enough. It's fascinating no?

Love...such a bittersweet emotion. A very, very dear friend of mine, the first guy I actually felt comfortable with admitting that I loved him actually, contact me today. I'm torn between joy, as happy as anyone can be, that I can talk to him, catch up with him...and the blackest, darkest pits of despair because I know that this is only a brief interaction, and either I'll have to leave, or he will and our few precious, precious moments in time, will be over all to soon and all I'll have to hold will be the bittersweet memories.

Memories so sweet, so painful, yet all the more treasured.

We have a history you see, me and him. He was harmed, his heart shattered by women, and as a result he didn't trust us. I found him, and mended his heart. He tells me that the part of his heart that I occupy, is the space that will never break. You wonder why I love him so?

But, it's not just him that I adore, there's a friend of his. You'll remember, if you scroll down my blogs, to one of the ones in April, the poem? My friend who suicided, and missed? He, I love as much. So much that it hurts. How can a heart love with equal intensity, two different men? It hurts to love so...yet I wouldn't not want to know them for the world.

My samurai, my knight, my loves. How I miss you...

The murder

Red.

A red stain on the cobblestones.

Red, red spreading over the cobblestones, as red as her red, red lips.

~

She, Tsairenn, was the girl, the young lady, that everyone either wanted, or wanted to be. She had everything, or so the gossips said, looks, money, men begging for her favours. Her circle of friends, those that she trusted, adored her and would do anything that she desired, catered to her slightest whim in the hopes that her popularity, her charm would rub off on them.

Deep green eyes, the rich colour of oak leaves set behind sparkling, captivatingly long lashes. Curiously coloured hair, like all the shades the precious metal could be, gold, rose, white, shimmered together into Tsairenn’s thick coiled locks. A heart shaped face, with high cheek bones and an ever present, warm smile curving those red, red lips. A swan like neck, long, delicate, dainty, from her head to her shoulders and from then on her body is formed. Lithe, curved, soft; perfect.

To her suitors, she is a goddess, to her rivals, a porcelain doll but though they do not care for her, they still cannot fault her beauty. And it is her beauty that is her downfall.

One man she scorned when she shouldn’t have, one proposal she should have politely declined rather than accepted, and then rejected as though his heart, his feelings, were as nothing. Two men, both burned by her, and a lady, who she once thought was Tsairenns friend, a small knot of darkness under the glow of Tsairenn’s life.

Two men set the scene, broke the balustrade, cleared away the plants before vanishing into the night. One lady, beguiled the enchantress, leading her onto the landing. One girl, leaning against an unsteady rail suddenly trips on the hem of her skirt, the fabric torn and left behind, fear in her green eyes as she turns, desperate to reach out to something of safety, only to find that her companion was out of reach.

She wobbles, almost catching her balance before the broken balustrade gives way, cracking and dropping the two stories down onto the cobblestones, a loud, sharp CRACK splits the night air, but no one can hear over the music within. Multiple shades of gold, rose and white spin through the air, losing the pins as she windmills her arms, flailing, trying to keep her balance on uneasy heels.

One lady, leans forward, Tsairenn gets the light of hope in her eyes, only to have them return to a darker fear at the blade that appears in the lady’s hand, cutting a nick in the hem of the skirt, tearing it and dropping the little scrap of fabric on the balcony. A cold smile curves pale lips and a gloved hand gives the beauty a push, not much of one but enough to set her off balance and down.

Down, down, following the broken balustrade, those red, red lips open in a wail of fear and ignorance, “Why?”

The last word Tsairenn speaks before her head cracks on the cobblestones, cracks with much the same sound as the balustrade as it shattered. And there is a red stain on the cobblestones, a spreading red pool.

~

Blood.

Red blood on the cobblestones.

A red, red stain, a spreading pool of blood on the cobblestones.

As red as Tsairenns red, red lips open in the slackness of the wail, the final wondering why.

Take My hand...

You, whoever you are, I extend My hand to you. Will you be brave enough to take it, and walk with Me, walk with Me where I tread? Come, take My hand, take My hand and walk with Me, walk with Me in the Shadows. For if you do, you'll not be harmed, not by the shadows I walk, but only by your own doubts and fancies that you see in the darkness.

Will you take My hand and step off the well light, well trodden path, into the unknown? Or are you afraid that 'unknown' is not so very foreign, and that you like it here? Will you take a chance, or will you walk forever on the road that so many have trodden before you?

When the Clock struck

When the clock struck half-past midnight,
The faintest glow of blood-red grew
Out from under the street light.
It throbbed and pulsed with a sinister life
And oozed up to seep under the front porch light.

Sliding through the keyhole in the doorknob,
The glow hissed and faded into the shadows
Of the blissfully sleeping mind with the heart throb--
And changed the dreams of joy to screaming,
Screams of the blood-red, nightmare blob.

With a silver breeze the nightmares develop,
Deep within the restless mind of the uneasy sleeper.
Angry thoughts flit about while the restless mind tries to cope.
A slender tendril, a crimson stream, extends to touch the dreamer
A tiny gasp as the final sigh drifts away, gone from life.

A ghostly chuckle echoes through the house,
While the sleepers soundlessly scream--
Their happy lives are stolen by a sinister louse.
As the clock strikes one, their lives do end
And the glow leaves not a thing alive, not even a mouse.

Slipping silently out the door, the glow does flee
Back to the nether world from which it spawned.
Filled with sinister and evil glee,
Sated and content with the lives it has stolen
Brand new slaves, for all eternity.



And a poem, not one of my better works, but it'll do.