Wow...
It's been a while, hasn't it?
I'm procrastinating on an essay right now, will you look at that.
Anyway, just read through my old posts, and, oh my goodness, I was.. immature. My entire journal is definitely cringe-worthy.
However, this isn't just an "oh my gosh I feel nostalgic okaybye" post. I do come bearing a short story! :) I'm still dabbling in writing, but I just don't have that much time, and I've come to realise that. This story is based off of my last poem... which was absolutely terrible. So, without further ado, and then They were None. Constructive crit would be welcome ;)
WARNING: Death. And graphic depictions of death (concerning children). Don't read if you're uncomfortable with it, please! I was totally scared writing this and I don't want anyone to be terrified from reading it.
.//and then They were None
“Boo!” Max's cousin Daniel snuck up on him, hoping to frighten the other boy. Obviously it didn’t work, as Max only turned around and stuck his tongue out in reply. He was four years old, going trick-or-treating for the first time in his life, while Dan was six, and had gone trick-or-treating at least three times, which made him the leader of the two. Max was dressed as a dinosaur; Dan was a ghost, of course.
Although, had he been older, Dan’s costume of a starched white bed-sheet with eyeholes cut out might have been construed as a mockery, or a caricature, of a spirit of the Dead. But as they were only four years old, such thoughts never crossed their mind. Naturally.
Oh, if only he had known; if only Daniel had known what a simple mistake that was.
The crunch of leaves under their feet and the adults’ conversations hummed in the background as the two boys ran around, laughing, racing across the unkempt lawn of the haunted house.
“Triple-dog dare ya to go in first!” Max called out, lagging behind his friend and cousin in his dinosaur suit. He didn’t want Dan to think he was scared of the house just because he couldn’t keep up in his costume!
Bitter regret and self-loathing mingles within his tears as they roll down his face. But what else could he have done? What else would he have done? He had only been four years old, what could he have done?
Dan grinned. “’Kay, but don’t start crying just ‘cause I’m not there t’hold your hand!” And with a laugh, he pushed the door open and disappeared inside. All was silent.
“No, no, no,” he whispers to himself in a raspy, wretched voice. No, he is telling himself, do not go into that house, he is screaming in his head. Yet all he can do is to whisper feebly again and again, “No, no, no,” as he watches it happen once more. He is helpless; weak.
Max bounded up the steps eagerly, chasing after his cousin into the house. The adults are left behind, smiling and talking to each other, nodding at Max and unwary - or unaware - of the house’s haunted state.
Inside the house, the doors creaked shut and the lock clicked into place behind Max, but the boy didn’t notice. He looked around, this way and that, for his cousin. Where’s Dan? He wondered to himself.
He did not see the wisp of white smoke behind him or the green mist that encircled his legs. He did not see the icy blue fog that rolled down the stairs towards the entryway. It was dark, and the curtains drawn; the candles put out and the electric lights non-existent. Once more, Max wondered where his cousin was, but Dan was no-where to be found.
And now the man is pleading, on his knees with his back bent over from age, wrinkled hands put together as if in prayer - though he is begging, not praying. “Please,” he manages between gasps, between sobs that wrack his body like cracks of lightning in the sky. “Please,” he asks; he begs, “no more,” and it becomes his mantra, his shield wall against certain madness. But that he needs a shield means he is cracking; that he begs is his resistance becoming futile.
A scream cut through the heavy air, piercing Max to the heart. But bolted down by fear, he could do nothing, could say nothing nor scream anything back. The scream, so high-pitched, was girl-like, he thought. But, as he stood there for moments uncounted, Max noticed a heavy white cloth dumped unceremoniously onto the ground. There was a hole cut into it, big enough for the eye of a child. And then Max screamed.
Two shrieks strike through the night now: one high-pitched like a toddler’s, the other a lower scream of agony from an old man. They are almost harmonious, accompanying each other nearly an exact octave apart.
“What isss thisss?” hissed a voice. The green tendrils of mist vibrated with each syllable expelled into the still air of the house. “Another monssster?”
The old man, exhausted from screaming, collapses into a fetal position and sobs dryly.
A second voice from behind Max spoke, “Nooo, just a boooy…but he trespaaassed…,” and in its melancholy, wailing voice, it scared Max even more.
And now he shakes, quaking with fear that he could not properly feel the first time; the end is nigh and he can feel it, the worst part yet to come.
“L-leave him-m bee. We k-killed the off-fensive one already…let th-this one suf-ff-fer.” A clacking, chattering voice emanated from the blue presence. Max, now silent, was numb with shock. He heard the word “kill” and had stopped screaming, wide-eyed. Then he started crying.
Before long, the doors burst open, the adults swarmed in, alarmed, and asked a million and a half questions the toddler could not answer, and a woman screamed upon entering the kitchen. The dead body of Daniel lay in a pool of crimson blood, his skin slashed to ribbons and his face blue, eyes wide and mouth open in an unheard scream. Parts of his ribs stuck out of his tiny body, and chunks of flesh were missing from his legs, exposing the sinew and bones underneath, as if a wild animal had eaten him alive.
His costume was missing.
And next to him, prostrated on the floor, is the old beaten man. He is silent. Dead.
The colored winds depart, wicked intentions buoying them out the open door and into the dark night. Now both boys are dead.
And then there was nothing.