Monsters and horror go hand in hand; explore horrific creatures, beasts and hairy scaries like Freddy Krueger, Frankenstein and far beyond.
Week 1 ~ The first night ~ Have you ever had your fingers smashed by a car trunk? Or maybe they got caught in a slammed door when you were a kid. Regardless, none of that compares to the intense pain to which you snapped awake this morning. You couldn't help but shout - or swear, if that's your thing - from the feeling of a pipe wrench squeezing down on the fingers of your hand.
Journals of Josiah Foster. September 5th, 1870 It wasn’t dark out when I spotted the beast. I wish it had been. Maybe then it would have made sense why this shadowy hellspawn was so brazen or perhaps it would have disguised its truest form from my vision in a manner that would have led me to believe it was mostly my imagination. But it was sunny, and not a cloud could I see from the bayou banks.
“Sit over there. he’ll see you soon” said the guard as he thrust her through the door. R began walking through the velvet red hallway, guards in black suits, faces covered by white masks lined on either side, looming over her. She wasn't afraid of them, she saw them as mere pawns. The hall seemed to gradually narrow as she approached the waiting room. Dishevelled raven hair covering most of her face, a gleam of aqua blue eyes, and crooked smirk in vision. She sat across from a disgruntled old man and a young innocent looking boy.
Silence. Normally unwelcome by the average person, pure silence was bliss to her. Not a single sound escaped down the stairs, not even the creaking of a floorboard. She took a moment to listen and be sure there was no stir before taking a deep breath and starting.
The sound of a disrupting shriek wallowed in one of my ears and out the other. Ugh. I sighed. It’s that moronic barn owl once again. Whenever I’m coding or studying for an upcoming test on the Zero Point Field, the owl always seems to know. It shrieks and wails and tries to be as annoying as a plump little bird can be. I shudder with annoyance. Can’t that thing shut its beak for one minute?
Eeringly hooting, silently gazing, & territorially possessing, Malor is waiting in bone penetrating darkness for his prey. His focus and will are without flexibility in this moment. His readiness of action is still and immaculate. Malor has been waiting to devour his prey with joyable ruthlessness. How could Malor feel any mercy for a man that abused his mother, privately molested him, and cowardly got rid of his dog that his mother and father bought him for his fifth birthday?
Do you ever get that feeling like you are being watched? You look around and you don't really see anyone or hear anyone. You still feel like something is there. Is it a ghost? There is a weird feeling building up inside and your imagination is playing tricks on.
“I always have to be the hero.” Faye thought, admonishing herself for her current predicament. This was supposed to be good for her. This was supposed to be different. A fresh start. A new place, a clean slate, a step toward normal. And here she was, in trouble again. Lost. Again.
I could feel the gravel crunching beneath my joggers as I crept towards the old abandoned farmhouse, it was a large two-storey home covered in black streaks as if it had been burnt once before. The wind blew forcefully through the empty window frames as I stared looking in, expecting to see the same pale ghostly little boy I saw looking out yesterday.
Now let me tell you about The People, as they were when I was a vital young man, that you might see. Let me tell you about my brother from the lands to the south, and the demon that tormented him.
Shadows crawled across the walls, the safety of the streetlight mingling with the trees to cast warnings on the floor of what will come to get Johnny in the middle of the night. The claws and teeth of unknown beasts and monsters cast through the window crept along the floor, faded before they slid to the middle of the room. The only other source of light was the narrow sliver cast by the open bedroom door. Johnny tried to focus on the light, his rebellious eyes drawn back, past the scratching claws of the beasts and monsters, into the dark corner of the room.
My neck was stiff from lying too long on the couch. I could not recall when I last had the urge to move a muscle. My face was numb from hugging the sofa fabric and my back was screaming from bowing like a bridge into the cushions. Somehow, it felt as though I had just said goodbye to visitors, and was then wallowing in the sudden absence of interaction and embrace. This did not help motivate me to rouse myself from this self-induced anguish. In my line of sight, a show I had watched through a dozen times played on. The comedy had lost its fervor to me this day, and the drab daylight seemed to turn everything grey. The ache of my skeleton only perpetuated my exhaustion, and I realized if I did not move from this position, the cycle would continue indefinitely.