A thick flurry of snow attempted to block the silent man as he walked towards the top of the mountain. He pushed through, finally reaching the summit and knelt down. The violent wind, causing his brown robe to aggressively flap against him, was sharp on the monk's face. Tears began to fall from his vibrant green eyes as he stared out into the blue void that encapsulated him.
Sitting down, the man removed an object from his robe and placed it between his legs. With one hand, he removed a match, and the other hand attempted to clear away the snow. The stick was placed on the cleared away spot, and the man started to open the container. The strong, acrid smell drifted to his nose but seemed to have no impact. He picked up the wooden canister and lifted it over his head. There was a sharp inhale, and he tipped the cup.
The cold liquid elicited no response as it flowed over the man's head and down onto his robes. He was quickly soaked by the pungent smelling liquid. The match slid across the rough earth and ignited. Without needing to bring it closer, the man was quickly engulfed by flames. No sounds escaped his mouth while the flames ate away at the robe, then his skin. He stayed quiet as the deafening sound of flesh burning invaded his ears. His skin turned black, cracked, and peeled off. Soon, the man burned to a crisp, slumped over, dead.
About the Creator
Colt Henderson
I usually write horror.
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Dark Whispers
The day had been long, but finally, the gift was done. Sweat poured out of a man standing in the middle of his forge, located in Central Mexico, as he examined his newest creation. A knife, less than a foot long, with an almost unnatural sharpness. It had started out as scrap from his different jobs, but with the help of a little heat and pressure, he made them into a beautifully crafted piece. A blade two inches at the base and tapered off to a point. The hilt was thick and sleek with a smattering of gold and turquoise covering the entire handle. The reason for the birth of such a knife was as a gift to the blade master's son, Carlos, for his tenth birthday. He absolutely loved his present. Carlos took it everywhere with him and used it to do everything from digging into the ground and trees to cutting his food when he ate. He even showed everyone he knew how beautiful and sharp it was, without being prompted. One day, during a game of tag with neighborhood children, another boy tackled Carlos as he dug in a hollow tree with his blade. He immediately forgot about his knife in the hollow part of the tree and rolled to his feet, and started chasing another kid. When the game eventually ended, Carlos realized he had lost where the tree and his favorite knife had been. He searched till dusk but had to rush home, or he would get in even more trouble for being out past dark. He would be back tomorrow to keep looking. A few days later, Jovil, a voodoo priest, noticed something reflecting his torchlight through the darkness of the moonless night. Intrigued by the odd phenomenon, he investigated the hollow tree. He pulled it from the chest height hole in the tree and examined it with one hand. A few swipes in the air, and Jovil stuck it in one of his bags and continued his journey. He was a well-known bokor, voodoo priest, and had taken his ministry on the road, as they say. He started by chartering a boat from his native Haiti to the nearby port of Riohacha in northern Columbia. Jovil continued his practices all the way through Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, and the rest of the remaining countries until he found himself passing that small village in Mexico. By the time he reached the United States, he had performed well over one hundred rituals. Jovil had no idea the power that flowed through the knife each time he killed an animal for his death rituals. That dark magic started to warp the knife and eventually turned it into a rippled effect with no straight edge. Jovil, blind to the literal corruption of his found knife, was slowly becoming infected Jovil had no idea the power that flowed through the knife each time he killed an animal for his death rituals. That dark magic started to warp the knife and eventually turned it into a rippled effect with no straight edge. Jovil, blind to the literal corruption of his found knife, was slowly becoming infected. The knife started whispering to Jovil. First, it was simple things; cut here, slice there, and was easily satisfied. Then, after a few more years of death rituals, the knife started speaking louder and asking to be fed more often. Jovil obliged the knife and started torturing animals outside of his rituals, but soon, that too wasn't enough. The blade demanded something better, something more precious. Jovil tried to increase the number of rituals he did, but that only seemed to fuel the blade's hunger. As a bokor he knew taking a human life in place of the goat or chicken would increase the potency of the spell and take something from you in trade, but the blade was a dull roar at this point. Jovil just wanted it to stop, but he lost the fight. He decided to take a vitality spell, but instead of burning fresh flesh fileted from an animal's hide, he would make a pyre and burn an unlucky traveler. He laid in wait for someone to come down the road through the forest. Jovil let the first few people pass as they were either in groups or looked like they could overpower him, but after hours of waiting, an older gentleman appeared on the road. He waited in the shadows for the single man to pass by and jumped on him as soon as he was behind him. He strangled the man until his body went limp but still breathing and dragged him to the pyre. After tying the older man to the makeshift wooden platform, he revealed his knife. The unconscious man couldn't care less until the bokor made his first stab to his calves. The man screamed awake as the waving blade carved an imperfect line, ending with a chunk of his muscle sliding off as he finished through the meat. Then he copied the wound on his other calf, despite the man begging him not to. Jovil hesitated when it came to piercing the older man's left bicep and couldn't go through with stabbing the right. Instead, he put the knife in his bag and took out a matchbox. He struck one match on the strip, and a flame popped into life, which he then threw at the base of the pyre. The man's screams and begging increased with the size of the fire. Jovil stood there, a few feet from the blazing and raising fire, with his hand in his bag gripping the knife with all his might. He felt life run into him and watched as his withered hands filled in till they were back to looking like his hands when he was in his 20's. The power of the knife scared Jovil, and he dropped it in the bag just before dropping the bag to the ground. He hurriedly picked it back up but made sure not to touch it. With this stolen life energy, Jovil vowed in that moment to lead a better life. He would never use the knife again. Instead, Jovil settled in New Orleans and changed his teachings to represent the positive side of his faith. He did his best to do as much good as possible. He even recruited others to his faith by living by example, but the knife, kept close for fear of it getting out, always beckoned him. The decades passed, and he succeeded in growing his faith. It wasn't until he was old once again that the knife caused more disorder. Unbeknownst to the bokor, the knife had found a malleable mind within his flock to warp. It wasn't long before the acolyte, Faustin, had risen to the top spot and forged a bond with the bokor. They even traveled and fought off the evil spirits when they found them. The acolyte planned out the next trip, which was just a ploy to get the older man alone in the woods of the neighboring state of Mississippi. A hot breeze rustled the fallen leaves as the pair stood in front of a large river. With no one around, Faustin started to sweat, and Jovil said “It's lying to you.” This fell on deaf ears as the acolyte struck the older man in the face, who surprisingly took the hit with no problem. The following wide swing from the enraged student was easily dodged and countered with a blast of pure energy that knocked the younger man back a few feet. Surprised by the attack, Faustin immediately jumped back at Jovil as soon as possible. He launched himself forward and threw a hard right, which was blocked expertly and countered with another blast of pure energy. The pure white ball jettisoned itself against the acolyte and pushed him back a few more feet. “You can only do that so many times, old man!” Faustin yelled as he jumped at his mentor again. This time, the acolyte got in close enough to pull on the hidden blade, but the bokor was still more experienced and easily countered the quick grab with a punch to Faustin's face. He then checked to make sure the knife he kept hidden for the sake of the world was still on his person. “Stop this now, Faustin!” Jovil yelled as he conjured another, more powerful bolt of energy that not only knocked the young man farther back, but it also singed the exposed skin and caught the clothing on fire. Not panicked by the pain or the fire that started on his clothes, Faustin patted the fire out and lunged at his mentor again. He was able to get inside the reach of the slightly taller man and started grabbing for the knife that was choreographing the acolytes movement. Jovil was dodging, but he was slowly getting tired. Faustin kept getting closer to the knife the more he grabbed for it and he noticed his victim getting slower and breathing harder. He would have that knife. He would replace the old man as the bokor and become even more powerful than Jovil. His hand quickly inched around the knife and pulled it from its hiding place. Jovil knew he had lost, but he made one last effort to stop his student by grabbing his wrist. The two men caught the others' eyes, and Jovil could see the corruption in Faustin, while Faustin would assert he saw weakness in the old man. “You don't have to do this!” Jovil pleaded with his friend. “I want to do this!” Faustin yelled as he took a solid step forward at the last word, forcing the knife into his mentor's stomach. “It will never be satisfied.” Jovil whispered in Faustin's ears as they embraced one last time. “Neither will I.” Faustin replied as he stepped back, letting Jovil fall to his knees, eyes stuck on the blood on the rippled blade. He smiled wide before kicking the crumpled man in the stomach. He then grabbed him by the leg, kicked him in the stomach again, and started dragging him towards a large tree. Once there, the acolyte pulled out a long rope and started to tie up his mentor. He then collected loose wood and leaned them against the base of the tree. The fire wasn't far behind as Faustin silently lit a match and threw it on the thin limbs, which quickly caught. He then admired the knife he had just used to murder before looking back up at the older man and puncturing his calves one at a time. A smile spread over his face as he used the sharp knife to cut away his clothes. He started to make shallow and quick slices all over the tied man's wrinkled flesh. After playing for a few minutes, which resulted in streams of blood to travel down to his feet where it was lost in the growing flames, Faustin stepped back and let the fire take him. Jovil's breathing became quick and labored as he tried not to scream, but that want changed when the flames started licking his naked flesh. It first blistered and bubbled before turning black. The student, knowing the same vitality spell, made the necessary steps and waited for the teacher to succumb to the fire or knife wound for the magic to work. Jovil, however, was still slightly empowered by the spell he did all those years ago and wasn't dying as quickly as he should. The peeling and blackening of his feet quickly grew to his pierced calves, then his thighs and genitals. Jovil's face was stuck in an agonizing scream, but his voice had gone out. He struggled against the binds that held him to the tree that was slowly being consumed by the fire, but his strength was starting to plummet. He pleaded one last time with his emotional eyes, tears filling them, but Faustin started laughing as he saw the light leaving the old man's eyes. It wasn't much longer before Jovil's body went limp and the fire had free range. Having youthful hands already, the vitality removed all scars and left Faustin with a healthy glow. Upon his return, the congregation did not trust him and disbanded. Not discouraged from the exodus, Faustin decided to try and sell his new knowledge for profit, much like Jovil. He started small to get to know the new rituals and sacrificed several goats to the Loa, or god, of Murder, named Baron Criminel. Faustin pledged to be his disciple, and the corruption was complete. The twisted blade quickly grew dissatisfied and demanded something more precious. Not one to disobey his new master, Faustin decided to plan a trip to Lafayette. On his way there, he found a secluded area, blocked on three sides by tree covered hills, and set up his platform. He then went back to the trail and waited. He didn't have to wait long before a man in his forties appeared, all alone. Unsure of how to approach the lone figure in the noon day sun, Faustin waited for him to pass him as he crouched behind a thick bush. After he passed him, Faustin grabbed a small but hefty rock and snuck up behind the man. The rock made a dull thud when it slammed into the clueless man's right temple. He crumpled to the ground and remained motionless. Faustin snatched up the man's feet and started pulling him into the trees. It was exhausting, but Faustin finally made his way back to his platform. It took a few hard minutes for him to strap the man to the pole he had made. Faustin started collecting firewood from the surrounding area until there was a large base lining the perimeter of the platform. As he was putting the finishing touches on the pyre, quick lighting materials between the wall of wood and the pole, the man stirred awake. Faustin ignored the man's pleas until he heard, “You don't have to do this.” “What is with you people thinking I have to do this? I want to do this! Now,” Faustin grabbed a large amount of collected moss and shoved it into the man's mouth, “Shut up!” The man squirmed and screamed into the moss as Faustin unknowingly made the first few shallow cuts like Jovil, but when it came to stabbing the man, he followed through. After slicing off the calves of the tied victim, he impaled the biceps, forearms, and finally, the stomach. The sadistic bokor carved the stomach from one side to the other, which caused the innards to spill out on the wooden platform. The match was quick to light and silently flew through the air and landed on the dry brush and moss. The fire ignited, and it roared to life a second later. Behind Faustin came some rustling, and he turned just in time to watch a line of American soldiers, brought by the firelight, brandishing Model 1803 rifles aimed at him. “Halt!” The line of men wearing identical uniforms yelled. Faustin swore and ran for the river behind the bonfire he had just started. The soldiers fired freely, and a few rounds hit the fleeing bokor. He grabbed onto the hilt of the knife and repeated the words to connect to the magic that was now flowing into him. He felt a round embed itself in his shoulder, then one through his elbow, and one clipping his side and breaking his rib. As he ran and the magic seeped into him, the bullet in his shoulder was slowly pushed out as he ran. His elbow slowly fixed itself, the rib popped back into place, and the scrap healed. Faustin believed he was invincible, but when he hit the water, slowing his momentum, the first reloaded gun fired. It was quickly accompanied by a string of gunshots pointed at his back. Several shots hit him in the upper back, and a few hit his lower, but several more clipped his right hand, forcing him to drop the powered knife. The multiple wounds that were in the middle of healing stopped, and Faustin's momentum took him to the shore. He landed on his hands and knees. He swore again as he heard the clanging and banging of the troops that were clearly on his tail. Faustin looked around the shallow part of the water near him for the knife but found nothing. His attention turned from his weapon, then the sound of over a dozen rifles cocked. He sat down in the water and looked up at the soldiers. He expected no mercy, and when someone yelled “Fire!” he knew he would receive none. The bullets ripped through him as he smiled, thinking he would be welcomed with open arms, but the last thing his riddled brain heard, besides the multitude of gunshots, was a hiss of disappointment and a voice that whispered “Only 2 lives?”. As time went on, that little tributary dried up, and one fateful day, a boy, looking for an adventure, came across a gold and turquoise handle with the rest buried under a rock. When the kid grabbed the hilt, a sharp cold bit him, causing him to recoil from the object. He stared at it with curiosity building and reached out for it again. The handle was still bitingly cold, but the innocent child didn't know to leave it be. Instead he wrapped his small fingers around the cold exposed metal and pulled. Nothing happened. He would have to dig it out. More than an hour passed before the kid could see what he assumed to be the blade. “It's a knife!” He exclaimed as he started to feel the blade. “Ouch!” He whispered as he cut his finger as he caressed the apparent sharp edge. He suddenly had the urge to grasp the handle, and when he did, he heard a small voice barely audible say, “Hello.”
By Colt Henderson3 months ago in Fiction
Hermedities
Hermedities knew a great many things—particularly things related to food and how to not become food. He knew that the sky was often blue, the water clear unless it stormed, his slime-coated skin was brown and the lily pads green—at least until they died; though he may not have called the colours such things, nor named his home this way.
By Obsidian Words3 days ago in Fiction
OF MOTHERHOOD.
Dear mother-to-be, I wanted to let you know how very, very special I think you are. I don't think there can be any job that is more meaningful than the one you are about to begin, that of being a mom. You are the most important person in the world to your precious unborn baby, and you will be for many years.
By Catherine Nyomenda5 days ago in Writers
Comments (3)
So, he's sacrificing himself? Man, that is some cold fiction there. It gave me chills for sure, in the method and the controlled containment of his emotions and pain. Nicely done.
Great foreshadowing 👏🏽Excellent work for a horror micro story 😊
Well done!