Marian Clayton
Bio
Hello!
My main interests are Horror and Fantasy so if you're interested in creepy stories and fantastical worlds check out my stories!
(When I stop procrastinating and write them).
Stories (3/0)
The Broken
The liquid in his glass was the colour of despair and hopelessness - whiskey, the drink for the broken, the lost and most importantly, the ones who see their glasses as half full. These feelings were not uncommon for David, but they were what represented him. He was two people: the existing - the persona that made him walk out the front door to his shitty job every weekday at 6am, without fail, to provide for an ungrateful wife that begrudged him for saying the wrong things, for not making enough money, and working too late.
By Marian Clayton 2 years ago in Horror
Silencing Him
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. The man's hand's shook as he held them over the flame that produced a dingy glow inside the dusty room. He knew of its abandonment from stories of his youth; the years he had spent in other boys rooms as they had told of the murders that had happened in the very spot he now stood. Utter shit, of course. But now that he was here, a grown man with no prospects, no home, and no one to hold him close at night. He couldn't help but feel himself shake more over the feeling that something was inside here with him. Before he had entered he had knocked several times, not really sure why he had done so but only because it seemed courteous if some other human had been desperate enough to seek refuge in the same hovel as he. No one had responded. So he had shouldered open the long water logged wooden door, the swelling in the frame jamming it tightly shut, until he had catapulted himself inside. His starved body had fallen with a shocking thud to the floor, dust had exploded up around him which had given the appearance of fog. He coughed violently, hoping that the noise he was making would scare off any animals that might of been hibernating here already. He heard no scurries when he himself had finished. The cabin was made of two rooms. The room he had fallen into was of a main living space, long since lived in, and a bedroom with an old double metal bedframe left inside. The mattress, too, had been left. But he was wary of even approaching it, fearful of what would be living inside. He had stolen the candle and the matches that were situated in his shabby coat pocket. Any other starving human would have opted for food, but he knew of his journey to this hovel before. And he knew that light would be the only thing he would need. He placed the candle on the wooden shelf adjacent to the glass window, its four panes smothered in gunk so thick he couldn't see the silhouette of the forest beyond. His body was overcome from coughing once more. The rattle from his chest was worrying, and he felt the splatter of blood coating his hand as he pulled it away and wiped it on the back of his tattered jeans. There was no point in worrying now. The damage had been done. He was not a bad man, he knew this, and yet he was no saint either. He had been alone for sometime, on the run from a ghost of the past and unable to rest as it chased him into this corner. His home had been taken from him months before, his love, too. The man he had loved before had taken another, brought him into their shared domain and then cruelly shared himself without thought to the man who stepped through the front door and witnessed the harmful act. They were dead now. Enraged by his lovers act he had walked into the kitchen and grabbed a knife they had used that Sunday for spearing the joint of beef. He had walked purposely into their loving arms and slit the throat of his lover's lover. The blood had gushed everywhere, and the warm spittle of it only enraged him more. How dare this filth touch me? His lover was howling, begging and pleading for forgiveness, but he was not in the mood for forgiving. He gripped him with strong hands and had stifled the life from him, realising that it was true what people said. Taking life with your own hands was the most intimate act. He had never felt this close to his lover before. He left the crime scene, ensuring that he would never end up behind bars, and ended up running for his life. The next night as he lay sleeping under a bridge befitting the myths of a troll he awoke screaming as he felt the ghostly claws of his lovers hand. They caressed his face and whispered evils in his ear. The nights since had been the same. He was being followed by the ghost, he had seen him. He had run to this cabin hearing the wails of pain of the lover he had slain, he could feel it's breath on his neck, and smell the stench of the blood of his lover's lover still ever present on the ghost's skin. His hands quivered over the candles flame not from cold but from fear. His lover was in the other room. The thudding of footsteps on the wooden flooring could be heard.
By Marian Clayton 2 years ago in Horror
