[Writer's Club OCT] Ghost of the Past [Halloween Story]
Title: Ghost of the Past
Author: rin_no_himitsu (me)
Genre: Horror, Psychological, Supernatural
Rating: T+ (NC-15)
Warnings: Gore.
Summary: "I'm finally coming to collect, Fernades."
A/N: Since it's New Year's Eve, I guess I'll post all the stories I've written in the past few months when I disappeared on you.The Writer's Club at my school holds challenges every now and then, to encourage its members to write different genres. For Halloween, we all had to write horror. I fail at that. :\ But. Please enjoy! Concrit is welcome, as always! :)
Even now, I remember it clear as day. The blinding lights, shining like stars in the sky; the people, crowding around like mosquitoes do to a trash heap; and the blood-oh, that was the worst part-the blood, vivid red, staining his face, his arms, his chest.
“Help me,” he pled. His voice was barely a whisper. “Help me…”
---
Alton Manning was a horrible person.
He was also a great cop.
People called him The Devil. When he caught the culprit-and he always caught the culprit-the man would have no mercy. He would go to hell-and he would bring everyone who deserved it down with him. And if whoever he was after escaped…oh, he would bring hell to them.
This man was the legacy of the New York police force.
And it’s my fault he’s dead.
---
This man-once my partner, now dead-visits me every night in my dreams. Actually, “nightmares” might be a more fitting word. It’s the same thing every night.
I’m blindfolded, cuffed to the chair in the interrogation room. I can hear footsteps around me, pacing back and forth.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Silence for a moment. Clack. Clack. Clack. Silence. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Then it stops, right in front of me.
“So, you’re not going to confess, are you?”
“Confess to what? I haven’t done anything wrong!” The words came out of my mouth without a thought. But they were lies. I’m guilty. I’m guilty. I’m guilty.
“Admit it, Fernandes. That man in the morgue right now is there because of you.”
“Who?” I can’t control the words-no, the lies-that come out of my mouth.
All of a sudden, the blindfold is removed, and I’m staring at Manning’s bloody, mutilated face. And then...
“Me.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, Fernandes. I’m coming to collect.”
---
In the past, I’ve been able to distract myself. Catch the criminal. Immerse myself in my investigations. But lately, it hasn’t been working.
The letter was the last straw.
It was exactly like it was twenty years ago. A note with letters cut out from magazines and newspapers, sent to the lead detective:
Come alone to the old burger shop on President Road Friday, 11PM. I’ll be waiting.
But this time, it had a disturbing addition.
I’m finally coming to collect.
Rushing to the chief’s office, I begged him to give the case to another detective. I got down on my knees and pled for my life, a rabid look in my eyes. But to no avail.
---
I pulled into the driveway. Grabbing my revolver, I slowly got out of the car. A quick movement in the forest behind the building caught my eye. It was eerily reminiscent of the events that occurred twenty years ago. But I resolved to get through this, and to get rid of the ghost that’s been haunting me for the past twenty years.
I was in the forest now-dodging between trees. I heard some rustling behind me, and whipped around, holding my gun to the now-clear figure in front of me. There he was-Alton Manning, just like he was that night twenty years ago.
Uniform in rags, skull cracked open, and brains spilling out-his face was covered in blood, and he was missing one of his eyes. Veins poured out from the socket, and he was missing flesh from various parts of his body. In his one intact hand, he held an old Smith & Weston.
I froze. Seeing this mutilated body once again made me sick. I could do nothing but watch as he slowly raised his hand, an evil smirk forming on his cut lips.
“Hello, Fernandes.”
---
The old, experienced coroner sighed. He stood up, covering the mutilated corpse with a black tarp. Under his breath, he muttered, “I’ve seen this scene too many times.”
Author: rin_no_himitsu (me)
Genre: Horror, Psychological, Supernatural
Rating: T+ (NC-15)
Warnings: Gore.
Summary: "I'm finally coming to collect, Fernades."
A/N: Since it's New Year's Eve, I guess I'll post all the stories I've written in the past few months when I disappeared on you.The Writer's Club at my school holds challenges every now and then, to encourage its members to write different genres. For Halloween, we all had to write horror. I fail at that. :\ But. Please enjoy! Concrit is welcome, as always! :)
Even now, I remember it clear as day. The blinding lights, shining like stars in the sky; the people, crowding around like mosquitoes do to a trash heap; and the blood-oh, that was the worst part-the blood, vivid red, staining his face, his arms, his chest.
“Help me,” he pled. His voice was barely a whisper. “Help me…”
---
Alton Manning was a horrible person.
He was also a great cop.
People called him The Devil. When he caught the culprit-and he always caught the culprit-the man would have no mercy. He would go to hell-and he would bring everyone who deserved it down with him. And if whoever he was after escaped…oh, he would bring hell to them.
This man was the legacy of the New York police force.
And it’s my fault he’s dead.
---
This man-once my partner, now dead-visits me every night in my dreams. Actually, “nightmares” might be a more fitting word. It’s the same thing every night.
I’m blindfolded, cuffed to the chair in the interrogation room. I can hear footsteps around me, pacing back and forth.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Silence for a moment. Clack. Clack. Clack. Silence. Clack. Clack. Clack.
Then it stops, right in front of me.
“So, you’re not going to confess, are you?”
“Confess to what? I haven’t done anything wrong!” The words came out of my mouth without a thought. But they were lies. I’m guilty. I’m guilty. I’m guilty.
“Admit it, Fernandes. That man in the morgue right now is there because of you.”
“Who?” I can’t control the words-no, the lies-that come out of my mouth.
All of a sudden, the blindfold is removed, and I’m staring at Manning’s bloody, mutilated face. And then...
“Me.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, Fernandes. I’m coming to collect.”
---
In the past, I’ve been able to distract myself. Catch the criminal. Immerse myself in my investigations. But lately, it hasn’t been working.
The letter was the last straw.
It was exactly like it was twenty years ago. A note with letters cut out from magazines and newspapers, sent to the lead detective:
Come alone to the old burger shop on President Road Friday, 11PM. I’ll be waiting.
But this time, it had a disturbing addition.
I’m finally coming to collect.
Rushing to the chief’s office, I begged him to give the case to another detective. I got down on my knees and pled for my life, a rabid look in my eyes. But to no avail.
---
I pulled into the driveway. Grabbing my revolver, I slowly got out of the car. A quick movement in the forest behind the building caught my eye. It was eerily reminiscent of the events that occurred twenty years ago. But I resolved to get through this, and to get rid of the ghost that’s been haunting me for the past twenty years.
I was in the forest now-dodging between trees. I heard some rustling behind me, and whipped around, holding my gun to the now-clear figure in front of me. There he was-Alton Manning, just like he was that night twenty years ago.
Uniform in rags, skull cracked open, and brains spilling out-his face was covered in blood, and he was missing one of his eyes. Veins poured out from the socket, and he was missing flesh from various parts of his body. In his one intact hand, he held an old Smith & Weston.
I froze. Seeing this mutilated body once again made me sick. I could do nothing but watch as he slowly raised his hand, an evil smirk forming on his cut lips.
“Hello, Fernandes.”
---
The old, experienced coroner sighed. He stood up, covering the mutilated corpse with a black tarp. Under his breath, he muttered, “I’ve seen this scene too many times.”