The Greyhound cut through the freeway at night like a silver bullet. Unfortunately for me, this bullet was on four balding tires and shaking like a cat shitting razorblades. I was motion sick, trying my best to sleep, and there was a ghost sitting next to me and trying to talk my ear off.
Writings
Otherworldly Outcast 1.1
There are certain things that can really take you by surprise and pretty well muck up a whole afternoon.
Being shot… well that’s a good start.
Rain, Rain, Go Away
[Excerpt from a journal entry. Discovered August 3, 2020]
Before we knew it, the rain had washed our lives away.
Flooding was rampant. The masses cried for the ‘end of the world’. Support for religions skyrocketed. And through all the madness and chaos, it just kept raining. EVERYWHERE. Climates be damned, it was all just a constant downpour.
People started losing their minds trying to survive.
And just as the micro-apocalypse had started taking hold… it stopped.
The rain ended abruptly on Monday, July 6.
We had weeks to rejoice before the panic returned. The water levels were starting to drop again and people were starting to rebuild.
Then ‘they’ started appearing.
Out of the water came the “Others” as people started calling them. They looked and talked like us, but they were different. Shiny and new. Glistening, as if their skin was freshly painted on.
People didn’t notice at first, but they weren’t just brand new faces. They were us.
When we did notice, it was too late. Reports came flooding in that the “Others” were replacing the original folks they took their likeness from. It was seamless originally, but somewhere they fucked up.
I know… I know you probably want to go find your family members and friends. But just be careful you know damn sure who you’re meeting up with.
The “Others” outnumber us now.
Doors #1
Someone once told me every doorway is a portal to something new.
I doubt they were speaking literally, but the fact of the matter is… they were right.
Now, I’m a skeptical sort of lad. A pretty well ‘non-believer’ when it comes to things of the paranormal variety. Let me tell ya’, though… when you walk outta’ the house in the morning and wind up walking back in? It can kinda’ mess with your worldview.
Hah. I know that look. S’pose it’s storytime then.
Like I said, I was getting ready to leave for work. Kissed the wife g’bye and rushed out after her like I always do – looking down at my phone all the while to check the scores from the night before’s hockey game. The Pens lost, a’course. ONE time I bet on a game…
Anyway.
When I looked up, I was standing back on the other side of the closed back door.
On the inside.
I shook my head and turned to grab the door handle, whiffing only air.
The handle was gone. Scuffed wood stood in its place and I stared at it for a long time, the gears in my brain clicking around like a busted up pocket-watch.
When I got back to my senses, I noticed the handle was on the OTHER side of the door this time. I was tired, sure, but not that tired. I turned slowly to look over my house and realized that EVERYTHING was back-asswards.
“What… what?” I gibbered aloud, my morning-brain tryin’ to rationalize and let me know that I wasn’t crazy.
It wasn’t exactly doin’ a great job.
When a voice rang out from ’round the corner, I damn near lost control of my bowels.
“Honey, you back from work already?” it said, in my wife’s sing-songy alto voice.
“Short day!”
I stammered something and moved around the corner. Sure enough, my wife stood there, clear as a dang bell. She looked at me quizically and tilted her head.
“Feeling alright, babe?”
I went to speak and found my mouth had gone bone dry.
“Uyuh, hon. Just a weird day is all…” I grumbled, looking past her and into my backwards living room. An icy hand gripped my heart but I kept it together, stumbling to the couch and plopping down.
Y’see… my wife and I have been married awhile. Almost 15 years in the fall. I hadn’t heard that much joy from her to see me in awhile. Hell, we’d been goin’ on some hard times for awhile. I think we fought more than we talked. Mostly about trying again for a little one. But now… all that tension was just gone.
I should have been cheerin’, yaknow? But something in my head just kept screaming at me. ‘Get out! DANGER Will Robinson!’
She spoke up again and I fought to listen through the thrumming of my pulse in my head.
“Lisa is gonna’ be home from Rich and Carrie’s house soon,” she called, dishes in the sink clanking around as she washed them absentmindedly. “She said she misses daddy too much.”
She giggled and I felt myself slipping, a cone of blackness pulling my vision away from me as I sunk into the couch with a moan.
– – – –
Notes: This small idea for a story came to me tonight as I was gettin’ home from work. Thought it would be a nifty start to a small series, so here we are. I’m tossing this together in my head as I go along, so lemme know if anything’s out of place.
It’s not much in the way of ‘horror’ just yet, but I’ve got some eerie things planned. Just you wait. 🙂
Without Incident
The chalkboard on the wall read “97 days WITHOUT INCIDENT”.
The words made Eileen visibly shudder as she passed, looking longingly at her fellow employees as they toiled away on the various printing presses.
She wondered which one it would want this time.
Eileen could hear the old press in the corner above all the others, clanging voice calling to her like a siren’s song. Beckoning her in ways she couldn’t resist.
Bile gurgled in her throat and she swallowed hard, eyes drifting shut. It only seemed to make the sounds more deafening.
Something was different. The call for sacrifice had changed.
Hot tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless and walked forwards, arms outstretched in offering.
The thrumming sound of the press got louder and louder, but this time the old voice in the clangs and squeaks soothed her as she climbed up the rickety step-ladder and thrust her arms toward the spinning rollers.
“97 days!” she screeched, voice barely audible over the clanging of machines.
The rollers whined to a crawl noisily at the intrusion and stopped, the alarm of the old machine beginning to gleefully ring.
Confession – Pt. 1
You haven’t walked these corridors in years.
Was her room always on the left, there?
Was this door always here?
You’re sure you were just in the kitchen…
The walls wobble, your vision skews. Good God, you’re drunk. No wonder there’s no-one here.
Your feet are like pendulums, your head like a nut in a vice.
You stop, by the big mirror in the bathroom. For some reason, it is adjoining the living room.
Do you look as bad as you feel?
· · · · ·
Thomas Creed woke himself up screaming, twenty minutes late for work.
Dragging himself out of bed, he scooped up his phone from the nightstand and uttered a flurry of curses as he ran to the washroom to take the quickest shower of his life. Dressing – in some clothes that were clean enough for work – he stepped into the front room and caught something in one corner of his eye.
The front door sat wide open.
“Feckin’ Christ,” he grumbled, a hint of accent breaking through his practiced patterns of speaking.
“Get yer shit under control, Thom.”
Making one last check for the essentials – keys, wallet, mobile, cigarettes, lighter and painkillers – he rushed out the door and made his way downstairs to start his junker.
The car was an old Buick Skylark that needed a new paintjob and, quite possibly, an exorcism.
When it finally coughed to life, Thom did all but fly out of the carport, nearly hissing at the sunlight as it assaulted his bloodshot eyes and blurred his vision.
Half-tearing his phone out of his left jeans pocket, he searched for a name in his phone.
“Eli S.” lit up on the bright screen as it dialed.
When she finally answered Thom went right into an explanation before she could say a word. “I’m on the way, El, I swear to ya. Got a bit locked last night and woke up screaming over my alarm.”
The alarm bit wasn’t exactly true. He assumed in whatever state he’d been the night before, he just hadn’t set one. He scowled, thinking about the door again. No wonder he hadn’t bothered with one.
Hell, leaving the door wide open in his neighborhood? He was lucky to have woke up at all without someone shaking him down or shoving a gun in his face.
“I’ll make it up to ya, if you need me to stay later or something,” he admitted sheepishly before going silent, hoping that her reply wouldn’t be to just straight shit-can him.
He needed this job, but he wasn’t about to start begging.
He wasn’t THAT shook just yet.
· · · · · · · · · ·
Writer’s Note: This isn’t the most exiting introduction around, but I wanted folks to get a good feel for the daily struggle of the life Thom has ‘made’ for himself. (DOHOHO PLOT FORESHADOWING)
The introduction ‘dream sequence’ was written by my friend James, who is a much better writer than I.
You can find his stuff HERE and you can toss him some bones on his Patreon right HERE.
Thanks for reading! More to come… eventually!
[ Free Writing ] Damien 1
“Wake up, Dammy-boy. Time to rise and shine.”
There was a pause as Damien Cross’ eyes fluttered open, then darted around the unfamiliar room. Something was beeping in the corner next to the bed. Everything was white. Glowing. Ethereal almost.
“Well, maybe not shine. Yer’ looking like absolute shit, Damien my man.”
Cross looked around for the source of the sound and found an old friend sitting next to his bedside. Barry Steele. They used to call him Spit. Back when he’d been alive.
“Whutha’ fugg is gon’ on?” sputtered Damien, struggling to sit up as his brain churned, processing the information. He was in a hospital room. Too clean, too quiet and reeking of cleansers. He didn’t remember why he was here. Or couldn’t. Everything was fuzzy and he was almost certain it was due to whatever tubes were draped over him and stuck nicely into his left arm.
Pulling them free left a warm throbbing feeling on his flesh that quickly faded to cold as he looked over at his old roadie.
“Lookin’ like shit? Y-yer…” he started, halting to cough from deep in his chest. Pressure welled up there, feeling like someone had dropped a few hundred pounds of weight on his laying form.
“Take it easy, take it easy, D. And you’re right,” Barry said with a devilish glint in his black eyes. “I’m dead as a fuckin’ doorknob.”
The other rose to his feet, brushing himself off without making a noise at all. “Now, some might say I’ve got you fellers to thank for that, D. Hell, I might’ve said it myself at one point. Probably did.”
Spit laughed, shrill and manic, spraying bloody spittle across his unnaturally clean looking lips. Damien shook, eyes fixed on the crimson droplets, and heaved a muffled cry, flooding his mouth with bitter and acrid vomit. Not wanting to move he swallowed hard, throat clicking three or four times as he fought another bout of retching.
“If yer’… dead, why tha’fuu– Fuck are ya’ here, Spit?” the former guitarist blubbered out, tongue seeming to lose all moisture as he spoke. He watched the wraith carefully. In his mind, he envisioned blinking or turning his head and Barry jumping at him and tearing him apart.
“Well, first off ol’ pal, I’m not here to kill you. So, that said, you can stop shitting the bed. Well, for now.” He laughed again and slapped his knee like it was the funniest thing that’d ever been uttered by another person. Damien swore he could see red tears welling in the corner of his eyes.
“I’m here about a deal, D-man. THE deal, really. Me and you, shit we talked about it for days on the tour in Europe! I’m kinda’ sad to see you forgot, Dammy. Downright disappointed.”
Cross’ mind raced again, adrenaline pounding in his head so hard he worried, almost giddily, that his eyes would burst right out’ve their sockets. “Deal? Fuck’r y’on ’bout, Spit?”
The ghost shook his head and moved over, pointing one finger at the man in the hospital bed and lowering his finger as if it were a gun. “Bang!” he cried gleefully and the other’s eyes rolled back into his head. Images tore through his brain, memories of bad trips and rotten parties. Pictures of old books and symbols.
[Kanda]
[Gat]
[Amantos]
[Estrada]
He shrieked, turning over in the bed and vomiting again, this time onto the floor. He began to sob, despite himself, as sick dribbled down one corner of his greying black beard.
“See? Now you remember. If I didn’t know better, D, I’d think you were a burnout or something.” More laughter, but Damien hardly heard it. The sound of his own screams echoing in the empty room made it impossible.
Barry walked calmly over and in a single move slammed a hand over his mouth and nose. His hand was impossibly cold and his grip was like a vice. Damien’s voice caught and he fell silent in panic. For the first time in his life, he was too afraid to breathe.
“Now, now. Can’t have any of that. This is not the time for theatrics, bud. We made a deal back then, when the band was still the band, and buck-o… I’m here to collect on your share.”
Drawing Down The Moon – Moon Pt. #1
This idea came to me the other day while I was looking through old picture folders and happened upon the above picture. I can’t remember when I’d taken it, but for whatever reason, every time I’ve looked at it, it’s gotten my imagination whirring.
Anyhow, here’s part one of what I’ve been working on the last couple of days, struggling to get back into. PLEASE feel free to leave any comment you desire; be it that the story sucks, needs work, editing suggestions, ANYTHING. Constructive criticism is welcome.
[Involuntary Output] 