Moorehead's Maiden

-this ashen mire is home to many a dead man, litany of littered corpses, forgotten by all in a most willful warning, this land forbidden by any who hold their life dear. Hovering atop blankets of mist, waiting within the soft fog billows, its beating heartbeat pulse, the Maiden. Bone pure from flesh, she waits for you, only you, looses calls with such longing you are compelled to follow in her wake, its blessed procession, led by blanched bone. A holy march of death. To her, the thinnest wisps of lace still cling, this moon summoned wraith a forever bride, dressed in spun webs caught in twilight’s glow, as deadly a trap as ever constructed. Across this wretched land her guttural scream is carried, shrill as if upon bat wing, the call of your name only, and any life it may lay claim to… |

"What the hell am I doing?" Andrew lowers his head onto his sticker laden laptop, barely held together after years of awkward manhandling. It just isn’t working, he knows that, it’s written plain as day in the pixel blink of the cursor, the scores of red underlining, the barely there word count. He dare not lift his heavy head for any substance of confrontation, the solace of a retreat into fiction now ruptured by the falsehood of his purported profession. "You’re supposed to be a writer, you’re supposed to like horror, so why is it so damn hard to string a sentence together..." It’s the early hours of Friday night, and he can hear the drunken spill on the streets below from his 4th story apartment. He often convinces himself the flavor of human he’s surrounded by adds a lively dose of character to his otherwise mundane life, but truth be told it is an annoyance he barely tolerates, and often contemplates a monastic retreat into nurturing spiritualism. If it wasn’t a complete crock and he wasn’t addicted to cheap fast food, his phone and porn. He peaks a look at the over-bright glare of his screen, the only light in his open plan, its artifice his sole focus, its emptiness his consuming torment. Eyes dart to the exact time in summoned bravery. 02:48. Deadline is 9 am, 6 hours from now. And he’s a good twenty thousand behind word count. He smacks his head down in defeat, an attempt to jolt any meaning or substance, make it spill from his clearly smoothed brain, devoid of worth or artistic integrity. This was already an extension, a friendly allowance from an editor he’d known since University, an act of good faith for a dried up author that had shown promise but never quite merit, tacitly or otherwise. The hour of judgment nears and Andrew fears he will be found lacking. He slides back in his chair and lurches the useless weight tethered atop his shoulders, shuffling over to the kitchen. Reliant upon coffee’s simmering brew to summon enviable prose, he paws at the french press. A neutered drip wells into an oversized mug, from which Andrew suckles the icy dregs, an unstated deal of degradation with the devil for the restoration of his talent. It’s a pitiful sight, his sunken eyes, hunched frame barely filling a ratty dressing gown left open, the writer in his natural environment. With a scornful side stare, he scowls at his laptop, mind flooded with the many hours he spent at its mercy, its mercurial shifts as if resultant from some tide-tied mania. He thinks about smashing it and running away, keys scattered like teeth at a crime scene.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Andrew turns slowly to the door, suspicious, cup still raised to his lips.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Normally, he’d be gentle, but the force of that knocking stripped any goodwill from his malnourished physique. “Wrong Apartment! Asshole…” (he made sure to mutter that last part) “This is 241! You want… Literally anyone else…” He slumps at the door, depressed that he didn’t even think the visitor could be for him, that anyone this hour would want the pleasure of his company, that his friends would never be that spontaneous to knock in the first place. He places his eye at the peephole, expecting a drunk neighbor, a confused delivery man, the briefest human distraction from his computer overlord. Instead, in the pitch dark hallway, a skeletal figure waits, blooming from an impossible mist, contorted in a fishbowl portal. Repulsed by the immediacy of knowing exactly who that creature is, Andrew leers backwards, retreating as far as possible to shake free the shock. Braced on the kitchen counter, Andrew heaves short, ugly breaths. Neon spills of smoke curl under his door, an ethereal voice carried with it…

“Andrew Moorehead, you will know fear, the shadows that move in its depths. Andrew Moorehead, you are mine.”

The uncharacteristic chirp of birdsong judders with the coarse light of day, forcing Andrew to squint as he struggles to rise from his chair. A pool of drool sits on the keyboard, qwerty imprinted firmly in his reddened cheek. The Maiden was right, he did indeed know fear, it was written on the page, exactly where he left it, its blinking torment, its heartbeat pulse.