Michael Coffey
Bio
Lover of spooks and metal and writer of wordy things
Stories (17/0)
The Blood Priest
Miami: 1976 The long hours poring over case files was showing the fruits of its labour in Detective Daniel 'Madman' Mavis. His nine o'clock shadow and croissant like posture all showing the marks of a man with no control over his obsessive nature. The sick freak he was hunting had been gifted the name, 'The Blood Priest' dubbed as such because his victims were always found painted from head to toe in crosses of their own blood. Some kind of cult thing, like the Manson family times a thousand maybe. Or maybe it was a single perpetrator, carrying out some twisted religious crusade. Daniel reached into his shirt and pulled out the cross necklace he always wore under his clothes, grasping it tightly. The small, smooth wooden pendant provided a simple comfort, the lord was with him. He hoped it was also with his first partner Tyler Hadish, who was a victim of the Priests spree. Poor Hadish, he was a good man.
By Michael Coffey2 years ago in Fiction
What lies below
My skin burned. It burned like a spit roast pig slowly turning over an open flame. The heat ravenously lapped at me and the way my skin slowly wilted and peeled away was like petals from a flower in winter. My thoughts screamed louder than any other sound in the world, but nothing left my lips. My mind wanted me to move somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter. I couldn’t. 30 minutes passed with my eyes sealed shut, body frozen in place like a corpse. I wondered, as I felt myself grow crisper whether this was hell. Whether I’d died and I’d done something so cruel in my life that it warranted being barbequed alive without even being given the luxury to scream. There was the constant crackle of flames and rushing wind around me, falling as frequent as rain. My eyes finally opened, and I saw darkness directly above me with a weak promise of light towards my feet. I was in a kind of tent, constructed of the fallen roof of the pub next to me, propped up on chunks of brick and concrete. It was enough to cover my whole body with an inch or two of room for my breath to flee. My peripherals teased more of the diabolic artistry that awaited me. Looking to my feet I could see small drops of bright orange hellfire clattering to the pavement in a deadly shower, the claustrophobic shelter under which I found myself being the only protection. I could hear the tiles sizzling and scorching, inches away from my face. A beam of light suddenly broke through and cast onto my left shoulder. Shit. The tiles were giving way. The hole was small, so I foolishly didn’t feel an immediate panic. Moments later: a single drop of flaming rain landed above, stalked down towards the breach, trickled in and landed on my clavicle. The patch of skin hissed and caught fire for a few fleeting agonising moments before cooking like a piece of bacon, the meat quickly turning darker and crunching like autumn leaves. I managed to find my voice then. The way I screamed; my vocal cords threatened to tear. With tear-flooded eyes, I lost my vision again and in a panicked state I started spasming like a trapped animal just trying to move away from the danger.
By Michael Coffey2 years ago in Horror
The Shadow of Avalon
Night drew closer as the sun began its descent to meet the horizon. The clouds cherished the warmth like the embrace of a lover, allowing the deep orange light to illuminate them with a beautiful centre of fire. It was nice to watch from any of the decks that afforded a view but 23968 (or Tu for short) always preferred to watch from the highest point in the city. Sure it was also home to a sprawling network of satellites and antenna but if you knew where to sit, you wouldn't get prodded too much. For someone who felt trapped in a manmade heaven, the open air and the sky was the true Nirvana.
By Michael Coffey2 years ago in Fiction
