Punishment

Punishment

He lifted the axe. Hate flowed trough him. Anger. Rage.

A crow was watching.

The violence. It felt good. It alleviated the pain, made it less intense. He needed to make it stop, but he knew there was no way. At least he could make the one responsible feel pain as well. The murderer. He kept hitting him. Cutting flesh. Crushing bones. He wanted him to die, but not too fast. First he needed to see him suffer.

The man lying on the ground was begging for his life. I didn’t do it! He was even denying it. There was no doubt, no other explanation, and he was denying it. A murder with no view for consequences. An assassination he’d already threatened he would commit.

I swear upon my children! No shame. No scruples.

You disgust me! The man with the axe screamed. You are the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen!

He looked into his eyes. The creepy, loathsome eyes he knew from before. The eyes of the man who had been terrorizing him and his loved ones for years. The vicious falsity was replaced with fear and self pity.

He had taken away the most precious he had. He lifted his axe above his face.

Now you die!

A crow was watching.

For a moment he saw himself. He saw himself from below, holding an axe. He was him. He knew. He felt. The fear. Pain. The terror. He knew it was true. He remembered. A horrible act of murder. Murdering an innocent to punish someone else. The sick justifications his mind was making. He remembered a horrible, worthless life, all his disgusting acts, his pathetic ignorance and psychopathy. An unbearable self loathing, a hatred towards himself for everything he was.

Kaaw!

He was holding the axe. Looking down on the repugnant man he had been a moment ago. The hate was still there, the disgust was even stronger. Revulsion. Now there was something more. Something worse. The violence of the moment was nothing compared to living in such a putrid mind.

He dropped him. Kicked him in the face and left. He was already suffering enough. Death would be too easy.

 

Shattered

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A Story Come True

A Story Come True.jpg

Henry finished his story. It was a short little piece, a story about a murder. Dark, even darker than the ones he used to write. He went out to get another drink.

He went into the living room, poured another Jim Beam, bare with no ice, and sat down. He’s quite drunk, as he usually was at this hour.

He heard a loud noise from his office. He was a big guy, and quite a fighter. He brought the bottle in one hand just in case. In the other he brought his glass. He went in to have a look.

The room had changed. It was over grown with vegetation. A tree seemed to have grown it’s way into the room from outside. Huge roots came in from the torn down wall. Green leaves of different kinds. Flowers. Butterflies and other insects flying in the air. On the other side he saw a garden. Green and beautiful. He lived in the centre of the city, all cars and pavement. Until now.

He looked at the glass. Put it down on his desk.

What the fuck…? He said out loud. This was the strangest thing he’d ever seen.

He walked in, looking around at the plants. A squirrel could be seen in the tree tops. The forest was like a wild growing garden, just like the one he had been writing about. He moved further in. He walked for a long time, the trees got bigger, the plants greener, the flowers more and more colourful.

He heard a girl singing. He knew who she was. He walks closer, slowly.

She was sitting on a sling chair in the garden. She was as gorgeous as her voice. Familiar, like an echo from a dreams, or a distant memory. Beauty. He just stood there, perplex. Then he remembered. She’s about to die. Murdered for her perfection.

Thunder. The sky darkened.

He ran towards her. She looked at him, coming out of the bushes. Her expression was surprised, a bit confused. Then it turned into fear.

What do you want? She asked. Who are you?

Come with me! We have to get you out of here!

She stood up, moved away from him. Leave me alone!

Come! He shouted. Come with me! We have to get out of here! The alcohol made his voice loud, his movements hash and sudden. She starts running.

The sky was dark now. The beautiful sunlight coming through the leaves high in the trees was gone. Flashes. Thunder. Rain. She ran into the dark bushes, where her death awaited. It was all his fault. Why did he write this story so dark, so sad, so evil?

What had he done?

He runs after her. She screams for help. No! Stop! He shouts. He hears laughter in the darkness. His own voice. He catches her. She falls. She tries to get away, but he needs to stop her, save her. She breaks free. She falls. Her head hits a rock in the small river.

She was dead. He’d killed her. Again. The monster of his story. It was him. He held the dead body in his arms, his tears mixing with the rain, as the blood from her head.

The darkness took over. She faded in his arms, disappeared.

He was back in his office, sitting on his chair. The big tree invading the room was gone. The garden was gone. He looked at the sheet on the table. The murder. He ripped it to pieces and poured himself another whiskey. He didn’t want to write any more today. He just wanted to get drunk.

https://mythsofthemirror.com/2017/02/02/28104/https://mythsofthemirror.com/2017/02/02/28104/

https://randomsbyarandom.wordpress.com/2017/06/07/writers-quote-charles-bukowski-2/

Liquid Ink

Ceremony Pt 1/2

Ceremony Pt1.jpg

I stood in the middle of the room, watching the horrible symbol in front of me. A little girl had been cut to pieces, hung up on the wall in a sinister figure. What was it? Some satanic summoning? A sect of some kind?

I hadn’t seen this symbol before either. Her head was in the centre, her legs and arms made a circle. Her hands and feet were placed outside the circle, making a square. There had been two other murderers following a similar pattern. First a young man. Second a woman. Now a child. Sick. I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t leave DNA on the scene of the crime. The cops would think it was me.

It wasn’t the first time I had mixed myself up in a crime investigation. The laws were not strict enough. They deserved to suffer and die. I did the sacrifice of being the executer. The torturer.

The first murder I read about in the newspaper. The second I had gotten there before the police. I have my ways. That’s when I had understood the gravity of the situation. The woman had been spread out on the floor in many pieces. Her fingers had been laid out in some ancient letter. I had been studying it for days, trying to find out what it meant, where it came… without luck.

This was worse. The face of the little girl seemed tor have died in horrendous pain and fear. The painstaking cutting of the pieces was… I shivered. This was even worse than I had expected. I got the little bottle out of my pocket, opened it with shaking fingers. I needed to calm down. The whiskey poured down my throat. It felt good, but it wasn’t enough.

Someone had called me at home. It had been a strange phone call. They told me to go here. Why did they want me here? How did they know I was looking for them? Who were these sick bastards?

I took photos. I needed documentation to have something to work on. Experience from my days as a journalist comes in handy when your finding psychos.

Ah, you made it! A voice behind me. I spun around.

A man was standing there. He was about forty years old. He had a white medic coat covered in blood. Literally, I knew it was white only by a small part of the collar. In his right hand he held a knife. The big kind, to cut meat. That wasn’t the scary part.

What really freaked me out was his friendly smile.

To be concluded tomorrow.

https://johndavisfrain.com/2017/06/05/microphone/

https://precinct1313.wordpress.com/2017/05/30/precinct1313s-heroes-from-the-dark-side-rorschach/

Dystopia Pt 1/3

Liquid Ink

liquid ink

After her father died things had gotten worse. Her mother never let her out. Ever. She didn’t go to school. She didn’t have friends. Most of the time she was locked up in her room, like now. Her mother would unlock the door when she needed her.

Her only pleasure was to draw. To paint. The Ink. She wet the paper, as she always did. The contours of a tower took form in the glistening water. She dipped the brush in the ink bottle, took it down on the paper, moving it under the roof and down one wall where the darker areas would be. Then she let the ink flow.

She loved how it moved. It was like it had a life on it’s own, like if she was the spectator. It was magic. The tower came to life.

A girl appeared in the window. She hadn’t even planned for that. A face took form. It was her face. It was her.

Dark shadows floated around her. On the desk. In the air. It stained the walls. The ceiling.

She was sitting by a desk in a room of stone walls. There was nothing else in the room but an old chest. She was gone.

She heard someone crying. A weep of deep, bottomless sorrow, a cry of loss of loved ones and despair. The door was open.

There was a steep, winding stone staircase going down.

It was dark. She walked slowly, following the sound. She saw light coming out from under a door further down. She heard voices. Noises. Someone shouting. She knew that voice. Her mother. She couldn’t tell the words, but knew to whom ever she was shouting at, the words would be hurtful. She passed the door, down the dark staircase.

She kept following the stairs. Another door. This one was open. She saw her father, dead on the bed. Her mother standing besides him with a knife in her hand. Her back towards her. She turned. Looked right at her. She closed the door and ran.

On the bottom of the stairs there was darkness. She heard the crying clearly now. It was her father. She moved slowly, carefully. So much pain. So much sorrow.

Father? She said. Is that you?

Her eyes were adapting. Her father was sitting on the floor. Someone was lying beside him.

Why didn’t you leave, he said. Sadness. Despair.

A light came on. A small flame in an alcohol lamp. She saw herself lying there. She held a rose in her hands. Her throat was cut.

You have to go. Now! His back still towards her.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t move.

He turned. His face was twisted. Tortured.

Run!!! He screamed. She turned. Her mother was there. Floating, like liquid. Changing form. Dark, grey and black forms of evil. Laughing. The forms filled the room.

She ran. She ran down a long hall. The walls were changing. Twisting. She could hear her mother’s evil laughter. Behind her, in front of her. Everywhere. A light. She ran towards it. Another door. It was closing. She threw herself at it.

She fell into the daylight. Turned around, fast, as to defend herself. She saw their house. She was back in the real world, in their yard. The shadows were gone.

Jane? Her mother’s voice from inside the house, upstairs.. She was angry. Jane, where are? I told you to stay in your room! How did you get out, anyway?

She got up and ran without looking back. She never returned.

http://www.kongregate.com/games/TheGameKitchen/the-last-door-chapter-1-the-letter

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ink

Domestic Violence

Tears of Blood

skottfoss

Gundersen was watching his paper factory. It was all going very well these days. They had a lot of profit. He was getting rich. Very rich.

The workers kept complaining, though. Assholes. He had built a great factory they could work in, and all they ever did was whimper. Our children are hungry, they said. We can’t afford medicines. And with the accidents lately everything were getting more complicated.

A little girl died in the paper compressor just a few days ago. He was there. The image was burned into his mind. Half her body crushed. Her face. Swollen, with one of her eyes sticking out in a strange way, blood running down her cheeks like tears. He shivered. He didn’t want to think about it. Not that he really cared, workers could always be replaced. He just didn’t want to see it.

The workers lived on the other side of the factory building. The lower administrators was on the same side as him and the rest of the leadership, but on the other side of a big fence. They couldn’t have these people running around in the important people’s neighbourhood. They belonged with the workers, but still, it was better to keep them separated to keep things in order. He didn’t trust any of them.

Lately a shadow had been seen at night. Sneaking around between the houses. Some said it was a ghost, awaken by the immense misery in the workers quarters. Evil spawned out of suffering. Gundersen didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, either, as long as it stayed on the other side of the valley.

As he stood there on his small balcony watching the factory area he saw someone or something come out from between the factory buildings, running over the bridge crossing the river. It looked human but was limping in a strange way, like it was dragging something. Moving from side to side, wiggling, stopping, moving forward again. Creepy. It was coming towards his side of the valley, and disappeared in the darkness.

He went down to tell his butler to inform the guards. The butler was not there. Martin! He said. No answer. Martin, where are you? Strange, he thought. Where could he be? He picked up the phone. It was dead. Lazy phone operators.

He went over to the front door, opened it. Darkness. Dead silence. Something moved in the shadows. Who’s there? He said. No answer. He closed the door. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like it at all.

He went back upstairs, and looked out of the balcony window. The main factory gate was open.

He heard steps in the stairs behind him. Slowly. Each step was followed by a dragging sound. Moving up towards his floor. He turned around. Hello? he said. Who’s there? No answer. Answer me! He tried to sound dominant and tough, but could hear his voice weak and scared. The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs. He stared. There was no one there.

Silence. Fear. A figure appeared in the darkness. Stood still for a moment. Charged at him with one leg hanging behind like a fell. Screaming a scream of hate and horror. The voice of a little girl. Tonight you die!!! A twisted face. One eye sticking out of it’s socket. Tears of blood running down her cheeks. She was changed. A glow of sinister revenge had replaced the coldness of her dead eyes.

She lifted him up and pushed him backwards. She was strong. The glass door broke. They fell off the balcony. His head hit the ground. He gained consciousness being dragged through the factory gate. Help! He screamed. Somebody help me!!! The girl was laughing. Giggling. Amused of his terror.

In the noise from the paper compressor no one could hear his screams.

http://firstindustrialrevolution.weebly.com/working-and-living-conditions.html

http://www.globalissues.org/article/57/corporations-and-workers-rights

https://fictionspawn.com/2016/08/04/the-witch-doctor/

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The Evil

The Evil One.jpg

The night was dark. Lightning and thunder shook the village. The little family were sitting in the hut, scared as always when the thunder gods attacked the earth. People said they brought someone with them when they left, and maybe it would be their turn this time. The little child cried. He could feel his parents’ fear.

A knock on the door. Another one. Then a third.

Who’s there? Asked Simil. No-one answered. Silence. He got on his feet, picked up his new bronce axe. Moved closer to the door.
Simil, darling. Don’t… Said his young wife. He tried again. Who’s… The door splintered to pieces. His body was ripped open. His young wife screamed. The child didn’t even breath. The shadow creature who entered was no god. It was too dark. Too evil. They both knew they were next.

Hey! It’s great! Said Hans. He stuck his head out of a hole in the tree far up the trunk. Nils looked up at him. He didn’t want to follow.
It’s too high, he said. I’ll wait here.

The tree was huge. The trunk was at least two meters wide, and God knows how tall it could be. It had to be the biggest tree in the forest. Despite Hans’ illusion Nils didn’t feel good about it. Come down, Hans, he said. Let’s go home? It’s getting dark.
Get up here! Said Hans. It’s not dangerous. The whole tree was hollow, and he had climbed up inside of the trunk. Chicken! The word cut Nils in the soul. He didn’t want to be chicken. He swallowed and entered the tree. Climbed up on the inside. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. What if there was rats or something. Or snakes! But he kept going up. The view is amazing, man! He heard Hans further up. He got to the opening and looked out. It was true, the view was amazing. He could see all the way into town. The streetlights were on. Underneath him the ancient cairns looked like small piles of grit. He couldn’t see Hans.

Up here it’s even cooler! He was sitting on a branch further up.
I’m not going up there, man, said Nils. He looked down. It had to be twenty meters. Minimum, probably the double.
Whatever, said Hans. Chicken. This time it didn’t work. A lightning flash came from nowhere, followed by a loud rumble, just over them.  Fuck, man, I’m going down! Rain started pouring. We shouldn’t be up here when it’s lightning. He started climbing downwards.
Yeah yeah, he heard Hans saying further up. You’re probably right. But the tree’s awesome!

A couple of meters down Nils met solid ground. The tree was… Closed? It couldn’t be. Was there another way? But no. There was no other way. Hans, the trunk’s closed! Hans was straight over him now. Closed? Yeah, right! He laughed and jumped down. He looked around the room. You’re right, it’s closed! What the hell..?

Another thunder outside. They looked up. The sky had darkened, they could hardly see. This just doesn’t make any sense, said Hans. He started climbing up again.

The storm had gotten closer. It was straight above them. I think it’s better to stay here, said Nils with a shaking voice. In a lightning flash they saw a being in the opening. A contour of a dark figure. Nils screamed. Hans stared. It was dark again. Dark as in a tomb.

What was that?

Another lightning. A face. Just beside them. A horrible, evil face. A crazy grin. Hans were lifted up from the ground. Nils saw the scene in flashes of lightning. Hans where hanging in the air. Darkness. A clawed hand cut through his belly. Pitch dark again. The sound of Hans’ dead body thrown into the wall.

Screaming Nils climbed up towards the opening above. He heard the creature behind him. Grousing. Laughing. Spitting. Touching his legs. Teasing him. He leaped out of the hole and fell. To the sound of evil laughter he broke his neck and died twenty meters below.

http://www.shortnscarystories.com/

http://www.brainharvestmag.com/2012/02/the-new-phone/

https://fictionspawn.com/2016/07/10/lords-of-the-dead/

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The Apple Grove

The Apple Grove

A boy and a girl are running through the forest. Down a slope, looking back as if someone is after them. She stumbles, he stops and runs back for her. He takes her hand, about to pull her up. Then they burst into laughter.

They had been on a boat trip and disembarked on an island. They had come across a large apple grove by a house in the woods. Bountiful apples, tempting as hell. They jumped over the fence and helped themselves greedily. Then they had heard: Who’s there? An angry voice. They had ran.

Ole got Tina on her feet. They ran down to the boat and cast off. He started the engine and they set off away from the island full speed. They looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

A sudden slam.

Tina was lying in the water. The boat was upside down, dabbing beside her with a big hole in the bow. Ole! Where was Ole? She looked around. He floated lifelessly face down. She swam hastily towards him. Turned him around. She pulled him by his shoulders towards the island. He awoke as they reached the shore, coughing. They saw the boat sink with their bags, their mobile phones. Everything.

That was close! Said Ole after a while. You saved my life!

But what do we do now? They were far from the mainland.

We’ll have to go up to the house and ask for help.

He laughed. Fuck! She laughed too, but it was indeed a shitty situation.

They walked up again and found a gate in the fence. They opened it and went in on a hundred meters long road towards the house. It was a mansion from the early twentieth century built on a small hill. Once it had been beautiful and grand, now dilapidated, with several windows nailed shut with wooden boards. The walls barely had paint. Had it not been for the cushions of the chair outside it would seem completely abandoned. Large apple trees adorned the hill down to the woods.

Hello? Ole said as they approached. No one answered. The door of the house were open. Hello! He said again, a little louder. They went over to the stairs of the entrance. Is anybody home?

Ole, let’s go, said Tina. I don’t like this.

But what shall we do?

Let’s go down to the water, see if there comes a boat or something.

No, let’s wait a little, they probably have a phone. We can call the Coast Guard. He sat down on the steps.

They waited a while. It was getting dark.

A scream came from the forest. A human in trouble. Ole jumped on his feet.

What was that? Exclaimed Tina. Her eyes full of fear.

Ole walked towards the sound. It sounds like someone’s in danger! We must go and see!

They ran down to the edge of the forest, stopped for a moment. Then they heard another scream. Far more heartbreaking. As if someone was getting murdered. And it was close.

Tina grabbed Ole. We should get out of here!

He stood in doubt, stunned. Stared into the woods. Something moved. A figure came walking towards them in the dark forest. He had a big saw in his hands.

Ole backed. E-excuse me, is everything okay? He stuttered. The man rushed towards him.

Tina took a few steps up. Ole, come on!!!

Ole turned and started running. At the same time. He lost balance and fell over. Tina began to run in his direction, but stopped when she saw the man -bearded, dirty- standing over him. The man raised his saw with both hands and hit the rough, rusty tags into Oles head. He flinched. Split it down the middle.

Tina screamed. She screamed like no one had screamed in ages. A terrified, intense scream from hell. She ran. She did not look back. She ran towards the gate. She opened it. Stopped. Froze. The horrible figure stood on the trail. She recoiled. He started to walk towards her. She turned and ran towards the house. She didn’t scream any more. She was too scared.

She slammed the front door, fiddling with the lock. Locked it. Ran to the window. Looked out. No one there. A sound behind her.

She stares into his eyes. The killer. He stands in front of the only exit. She begins to cry. Sinks down on her knees. Begging. Pleading. Don’t hurt me. Please, don’t hurt me!

He walks over to her. His eyes lit up with hatred.

Apple thieves. Intruders.

He lifts the saw. Slices her shoulder near the neck. The saw sinks into her flesh. A strange, choked wail comes out of her. He pulls the saw. Bones cut. She lies on the floor. The blood pumping from her neck. He strikes again. Again. And again.

http://www.horrorstoriesonline.com/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mikhail_Bakunin#Bibliography

Tears of Blood

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