Tag: HorrorFiction

Sold My Scars for Free 

He wipes his hand down the steam-drenched mirror and stares into his bloody reflection. He holds his jaw high, scrunching his nose as he looks at the gashes across his throat. He sucks in a heavy breath, runs his tongue across his teeth, coming to a half-stop as he feels a dislodged tooth sticking through his gum. He grimaces and gently plays with it before looking up into his eyes, hate written across them. 

He takes a few deep breaths, screams, and jams a pair of rusty old pliers into his mouth. He grips the tooth, locks eyes with himself again, takes another breath—then rips it free. 

A showering of red follows the tooth as it careers through the air like a comet. It slaps the glass, bounces into the porcelain sink and laps it several times before coming to a rest in the plug hole. 

He snarls, mumbles a handful of obscenities before swallowing several mouthfuls of whisky, straight from the bottle. He hisses and snarls, as he grabs a fistful of hair and yanks it back. He grimaces, his hand now soaked in red. The blades of the electric razor whirl to life as he swishes a mouthful of blood around, then spits it at his reflection. 

He shakes his head and drags the blade across his scalp, tearing clumps of hair free with each pass. Tears run down his cheeks as he laughs maniacally between fits of sobbing, shearing his head to reveal scars long hidden. The blade jams—he yanks it loose, ripping a chunk of flesh tangled with hair from the teeth of the razor. 

He screams and drives his fist into the mirror, sending a cascade of fractured reflections bleeding across the glass. 

His lips curl and he studies his bloody, glass-ridden fist. He puffs out his chest proudly, and stares up into a sea of eyes staring back at him. He grimaces, then, smiles. 

“Skin deep, you said,” he spits as he grips the shard sticking from the fleshy part of his knuckle with trembling fingers. His smile quivers as he stares at his reflection, before he pulls the surprisingly long shard free and, without a moment’s hesitation, slams it deep into his thigh. 

The pain rushes into the back of his skull like a bullet, but instead of screams of agony, he laughs—a twisted, haggard laugh, drawing from the back of his throat like dry kindling to a fire. 

“Y-Y-You want p-pain! T-Then let’s see how deep p-p-pain really goes!” he spits as he tears the fresh wound open, digging into it, carving a shape his mind doesn’t comprehend—but he can feel it. He can feel its age. He can feel its purpose washing over him. Something old. Something waiting. Something bloody. Something free. Blood gushes from the gaping wound, greedily bathing the floor beneath him in a sea of red. 

His eyes flicker, his smile twisting across his face. He laughs as he slowly drags the shard of glass to his chest and begins to trace the symbol into his flesh again—this time with more precise movements, with a defined purpose. His hands quiver. They tremble as his mind erupts in a sea of agony, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. 

He looks up into the mirror—it pulsates like a beating heart, moaning with ecstasy and pain, a veil of black pouring from its cracks. He stares at his many reflections, only to find them staring back, their grins wicked and not his. His heart skips as his reflections tilt their heads and their grins widen, revealing teeth he doesn’t remember losing—now missing from their twisted grin. 

He feels his body tighten and raises his bloody fist in front of him. He looks at his twisted reflections as they nod their heads—and then starts punching himself in the face, splitting his nose across his face. He grimaces, but doesn’t stop until teeth dislodge and tear into flesh. He spits a wad of blood and teeth into the sink and stares up at his twisted reflection. 

“Are you ready for me now, world?” he snarls, before driving the shard of glass through his temple 

On the Backs of Spiders 

The steam rises from the coffee cup, coiling and curling back upon itself—a tiny storm in a cup, forever at war with itself. Her eyes listlessly watch, twisting and folding with the wisps of steam, lost in the rhythm, lost in everything.

Her eyes drift from the cup out through the window, into the brightly lit world that exists beyond her small apartment. She takes a shuddering breath before picking up the cup and blowing gently across its lip.

She lets out a gasp, dropping the cup to the floor as she stares in wonder at the sea of fine white threads running from her flesh and throughout the room, connecting everything to her while branching out further, beyond the walls, beyond her apartment.

The cup and saucer lie before her, and she picks them up, mouth agape, studying both. A small white thread runs from the cup to her—another from the saucer. She gasps again, dropping them once more and forcing herself into the corner of the room, mumbling incoherent thoughts as they cascade through her mind.

Frantically, she grabs the threads in handfuls, pulling at them in a desperate rage, but the pain that shoots up her arm and into the back of her head forces her to drop them. She grips her head in despair as tears stream down her face.

A pair of scissors catches her attention, glistening in the morning light. For several lost seconds, she stares, entranced, trying to recall where they came from and why she would have them out.

Her thoughts cascade into each other, the next piling atop the last—creating its own little storm inside her head, just like the steam had in the cup before.

Her head tilts as she notices strands of thread caught in the scissor blades. She reaches over with shaking fingers and picks up the scissors. A handful of threads fall limply to the floor, and her brow rises as her eyes widen.

She studies the enormous blades, her trembling finger gently tracing a series of undecipherable words etched into the scissors’ surface. Then, without a moment’s thought, she grabs the threads that connect her to the cup and saucer—and severs them with the scissors’ blades.

A euphoric trance washes over her as she stares in confusion at the pieces of crockery—wondering why they are sitting before her and, more importantly, who put them there.

She gasps in shock as their colours suddenly start to fade away, the once-buoyant reds and yellows that adorned their ceramic shells draining like water down a plughole. They turn a pale, soulless white, indistinguishable from the tangled web of threads stretching from her body. She hesitates, then, after several lost moments, her trembling fingers touch the cup.

She gasps again as it crumbles at her touch, but even that is quickly swallowed by the silence pressing in around her. The dust collapses in on itself—until even the memory of it is gone. A shiver ripples through her as the saucer follows moments later—vanishing as if it had never been there at all.

As her bedazzlement lifts, she shifts her gaze to the severed threads that lie on the floor, their ends frayed and curling like dying roots. They lead out of the room, disappearing into the hallway beyond.

She goes to touch them, but something in the back of her skull tells her not to. Instead, she stumbles to her feet and follows the trail the threads leave behind.

Through the door, down the hall, and into the dimly lit kitchenette.

The stench hits her well before she enters the room, but as quickly as she smells it, it is gone. She gasps in horror.

In the centre of the room, a body lies silently before her.

Its flesh is beyond pale—almost translucent—yet, as she stares at it, she realises, like the strange cup from moments before, that it looks as though it has been woven from the very threads that splinter from her flesh. Its vacant eyes stare past her, lifeless, yet still telling her a story of their own.

The man’s hands are in the air, fear written across his face. He was begging, pleading. She does not recognise the face, but as she stares at the enormous scissors in her hands, she understands why she wouldn’t.

Her gaze falls from the scissor blades to her hands, and then to the river of fine white strands running from her flesh, branching in every direction, disappearing into unseen places.

She gasps as fresh threads stretch toward the corpse, worming their way from the backs of tiny spiders—restitching the webs of time she had cut just moments ago.

A river of sweat cascades down her brow as she frantically grabs the flowing sea of threads—gripping them tightly in one hand while the other clutches the scissors, now colder—and far heavier—than before.

Her lips tremble, and her eyes narrow.

She raises the blades—

And begins to cut.

In the Storm’s Eye It Dwells 

The rain strikes the windshield like a million fists, trying to punch their way into the metal beast’s stomach. Derek blinks and squeezes the steering wheel tightly as he peers desperately out into the gray swirling vortex that the world seems to have become beyond the safety of his car. 

He grimaces as he takes the turn late, his tyres crunching, his shocks groaning, and his arse bouncing on the seat. A horn blares, tyres screech, and panicked screams pass him as he pulls her back onto the road. He swallows, shakes his head, and mumbles obscenities and prayers beneath his breath. 

Almost as if someone above hears his cries, the rain dies down, the wind lets up, and he drives out into a calm world. He stares in wonder as the countryside around him seems unreal. 

He pulls over to the side of the road and steps out, looking around in stupefied wonder. His eyes widen, and he wets himself for the umpteenth time as he stares into the vortex that circles him. 

“It’s a thing of beauty,” a girl’s voice suddenly announces from behind him. 

He lets out a cry, a shriek, and a little more urine as he jumps a few feet in the air. 

She laughs. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you,” she says quickly. 

He swallows and laughs softly to himself before turning awkwardly to face her, a smile uncomfortably painted on his face. “D-D-Don’t be silly. Y-you didn’t scare me. S-surprised me, but you didn’t scare me,” he says in his most manly voice. 

She smiles, nods her head, and raises her eyebrows. “Okay, sure. If that’s how you want to play it. But there—” 

“I wasn’t afraid, OKAY!” he snaps quickly. 

“Okay, sure, understood,” she says, holding her hands in the air defensively. “Sorry for even trying,” she adds as she walks off with a shake of her head, readjusting her rucksack as she takes laboured steps toward the oncoming storm. 

His brow furrows, and his face twists slightly. “Hey! You’re going the wrong way! That’s not safe—not in that storm!” he calls out. 

“Look around you! Nowhere’s safe!” she calls back. His eyes widen, and his lips tremble as he looks around and notices the walls of darkness spinning violently around his small pocket of safety. 

“B-B-But,” he stammers as he looks back down at the girl, who is still walking toward the storm. “B-But,” he stammers again, staring at the dry road beneath his feet before jumping in his car. He throws it into reverse and wildly backs toward her, blaring his horn. Eventually, he comes to a skidding stop, leaps from the car, and grabs her by the arms, thrusting her into the side of his car. 

“H-How long?” he screams. 

She looks at him in horror, her face twisting with fear. 

“P-P-Please!” she cries. “P-Please!” 

He grimaces and throws her to the ground before charging to the driver’s side and yanking the lever to release the boot. It springs open, and he storms around to it, pulling out a shotgun and some rope. He pumps the weapon, then turns to the cowering girl, and aims it towards her. 

“Don’t treat me like a fool. The ground’s dry—drier than it should be after a passing storm. My gut tells me you’ve got something to do with it, and my gut’s n—” 

His words catch in his throat as a hand tears its way out of his stomach. A sea of crimson splashes over the road, and a wide smile peels across her lips as he falls into the ever-growing pool of red. 

Her doppelgänger stands all bloody before her, and they both start giggling. 

What a Whale Hides

The water laps against his motionless form, his decaying body swollen and crawling with bugs of varying sizes and types. Dulcet crouches a few feet away, scrunching his nose, furrowing his brow, and narrowing his eyes. He grips a piece of dry cloth in his blue glove-clad fingers, presses it against his face, and shuffles forward, stopping a few feet from the corpse, the stench clawing through his makeshift air filter. His face turns green, and his eyes momentarily roll into the back of his sockets.

“If you’re gonna puke, get out!” Harbour snaps through gritted teeth. “You contaminate my crime scene—you waste my time! You waste my time—you piss me off!”

“I-I-I’m fine, okay? I might be—just give me a second!” Dulcet hisses, jerking his head toward the fifteen dead whales that litter the beach, alongside the dismembered corpse, each in varying stages of decay. “I can’t stand dead fish.”

“That’s probably what he was counting on,” Harbour says, holding up a squirming insect with a pair of tweezers before dropping it into a jar.

“Do you think there’s anything worth our time, or is it just one big fisherman’s basket?” Dulcet quips, a wry smile twitching on his lips.

Harbour rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and shrugs, his expression unreadable. “Not sure yet. He’s been dead about as long as the first whale, and wherever the bodies were stored, it was the same place.”

“All of them? Are you sure?”

Harbour nods, setting the jar aside. “From what I’ve found so far, every body shows the same signs—same bugs, same chemical imbalances in their organs. For all the differences in size and weight, they’ve each been hit in the skull in the same precise way, and each has had the same percentage of brain matter torn from their skull. Most of it from the frontal lobe—though it’s all guesswork without proper tools.”

“Even the whales?”

“That’s what ‘all of them’ generally means,” Harbour says, not hiding his irritation.

“I’m just—” Dulcet checks himself, pressing the cloth firmly against his face. For a few seconds, he inhales shallow, desperate breaths through his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut. He swallows, gasps, and forces his eyes open again. Tears streak his face. “W-W-What—what kind of space would he need to pull this off? A football field?”

“Almost,” Harbour murmurs, chewing the inside of his mouth. “It’d have to be somewhere nearby too. The bodies have been decomposing for eight to twelve days. Frankie here, we know, was last seen on the thirteenth, and the smallest whale over there disappeared from the aquatic park three days ago. But if I was to calculate its length of death based on the results I’ve managed to harvest here, its corpse is older than that. My best guess is, if they were all crammed into some kind of pressure cooker—a sealed, rotting box—it could account for the accelerated decay.”

“And the bugs?” Dulcet’s voice cracks. “How does that fit if they were sealed up?”

“The first few were probably left out to rot,” Harbour replies, his tone clinical. “To attract the insects. By day six or seven, they started piling the fresh ones in, sealing it up tight. The animals suffocated, then the bugs took over.”

“And the missing brain lobe thingy, how does that fit into it all?”

“Not sure yet. The wound isn’t surgical—it’s more animal-like, as if it was torn into with teeth and claws.”

“Why go to such a large-scale display for the murder of one person?”

“Maybe Frankie pissed off the wrong person, maybe they wanted to make a legacy statement, maybe—”

Screams erupt from further down the beach. Both men turn toward the noise, but the hulking whales block most of their view. They exchange a confused glance before a sea of people surges over the sand dune, screaming as they run.

“What the fuck?” Dulcet whispers under his breath.

The whale to their left starts to sway, its bloated mass quivering. It lurches once, then again, before its side bulges grotesquely outward as something forces its way free. The rotting flesh splits open, and a sea of bodies explodes out—hungry, decomposing figures that rush toward them.

Dulcet pulls his revolver free, his breath catching in his throat, but before he can aim, Frankie’s corpse lurches up. His decaying hand grips Dulcet’s arm, his teeth sinking deep into flesh. Dulcet cries out, his finger tightening on the trigger. The gun fires, and the bullet rips through Harbour’s skull. Blood sprays across the sand as Dulcet’s scream is swallowed by the swarm of ravenous, undead bodies, tearing into him with unrelenting ferocity.

Doors Are Sometimes Holes

And with one last stuttered breath, Clint falls silent, his glassy stare fixed on the night sky above, while a river of red flows beneath him, staining the snow with its crimson touch.

He stares down at his still form, tilting his head and twisting his lips into a grimace.

“Did it hurt?” a voice asks.

Clint spins to face a young boy, no older than thirteen. His shoulder-length hair is cut into a semi-bob style, his clothes several decades out of fashion, and the quivering smile on his lips looks painfully forced.

“Who are you? Jesus himself, or the guy from down below?”

The boy blushes. “I can assure you I am neither Samael nor one of his cohorts.”

“Right, so you’re the bastard son of the guy who claims to run the show, while sneaking off to deflower young virgins, then?”

The boy shakes his head, his smile more fake than Clint’s tan lines. “Let me say this,” he says, his smile widening. “I am neither, nor am I either.”

“Ah, a riddle. How quaint.” Clint says with sarcastic smugness, shoving his hands into his pockets and mimicking a forced breath—though there’s no breath to take or give. “So, unless you’re secretly The Riddler, I’ll assume you’ll spend most of this time not answering questions and lying about the rest. Sound about right? Or are you going to disagree just to keep the mystery alive?”

“Not everything needs an answer, Clinton. Not everything hides an ulterior motive. These are all opinions—your opinions—and we both know where your opinions have gotten you in the past,” the boy says, glancing down at Clint’s pale, bloodless corpse.

“Right. Disagree to build the susp—” Clint stops as his gaze falls upon his broken frame. For the first time, he truly looks at his lifeless body. He tilts his head to the side and studies the grotesque way it lays sprawled in the snow, like a marionette with its strings violently severed. His throat, a gaping wound, seems to smile mockingly at him, the blood-soaked snow beneath forming a halo that is anything but holy.

“Not exactly a flattering angle,” Clint mutters, his lips curling into a sneer.

The boy giggles. Clint casts a wayward glance at him, uncomfortable. The boy’s awkward smile broadens. “It’s not the body that matters now, is it?”

“That’s open to discussion. If the body’s not the matter at hand, why are we still here?” Clint steps closer to his corpse, crouching beside it with hesitation. His trembling fingers hover over the mangled red flesh. It almost beckons him, offering a safe, warm place he knows too well. The sensation—the memory of life—momentarily floods over him, and his stomach churns. “I-If it doesn’t matter, i-if I’m dead, w-why do I still feel like puking?”

“Because accepting death is a stubborn thing to do. And you? You’ve always been an above-average stubborn son-of-a-bitch,” the boy replies with a childish laugh, skipping to Clint’s side and grabbing his hand. “Even now, confronted with death in its most complete form, you still cling to the flesh, to the lies. Accept it—let me show you the truth. Let me help you, help me.”

“I think the only lies being told here are yours!” Clint spits, wrenching his hand free and scrambling to his feet.

“Your words cut me deep!” the boy mocks.

“Yeah? Why don’t you get out of your dime-store cosplay, show me who you really are, and tell me what you really want from me!”

“Are you sure this is what you want? We have all the time in the world to continue our game, for here, time is irrelevant. Only out there does it truly matter!” The boy points to the hole in Clint’s corpse’s throat.

Clint’s brow furrows. “W-What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“Opportunity, Clinton. Opportunity. Do you want me to show you? Permit me. Say it. Say you give it to me, and I’ll answer all your questions. I swear on your pathetic soul!” He grins wickedly, his lips drooling with saliva as he holds out a bony, disfigured hand. “Shake! Shake! Shake, and I will show you all and more!”

Clint swallows nervously, looks down at his still form, and then back at the boy. His eyes are drawn again to the warmth of his throat. He chews his bottom lip and scrunches his nose.

“Everything?”

“Everything! Just say you permit me! Say it, and shake my hand, and I will reveal all!” the boy cries, his voice cracking. His body shakes, gaunt and disturbing.

With a nervous breath, Clint reaches out, and the boy quickly grips his hand.

“T-T-The words! S-Say the words!” the boy cries.

“Okay, okay. I give you permission. Show me! Show me—” His words catch in his throat as a writhing sea of black tendrils shoots from the ground. They coil and twist like roots of the tallest tree. The boy stands smiling as Clint tries to scream, the ground beneath him cracking open like an egg.

“H-H-Hel—” Clint stammers desperately, reaching for the boy, who smiles smugly, his decaying lips curling with cruel delight.

“Don’t worry. Don’t despair. I’ll save you!” the boy mocks, playfully reaching for Clint’s outstretched hand before letting it fall limply.

“P-P-Please!” Clint screams as the tendrils drag him into the earth.

“P-Please,” the boy mocks, reaching into the gaping hole in Clint’s throat.

Suddenly, Clint’s eyes snap open, and the blinding lights of the operating theatre blind him momentarily.

“He’s back! He’s back!” voices call out, and figures scramble around him.

A wry smile spreads across Clint’s lips.

A Mirror Reflected from Inside 

The eerie light lingers through the window, casting an almost blue glow across the room, yet the sticky puddle of red beneath Boone’s still form holds its colour steadfast. The blue hue seems to draw even more red out of it than normal light would. Shawn sits exhausted in the corner, his cigarette burning down to the butt, his gaze unfocused and distant. His lip trembles. 

“There’s a time and a place for everything, Shawn, but now isn’t the time for you to lose your shit.” 

Shawn’s lip curls. “I’m not losing my shit. I’m trying to hold it together.” 

“Is that why I’m here—to help you? We both know the only time you call on me is when you’ve got nothing else left to hold onto.” 

He stubs the cigarette out on the floor and thrusts himself to his feet, puffing his chest out proudly. “Is that a crime? Isn’t that what I created you for? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do—to help me?” 

The other smiles wryly. “I never said I wasn’t going to help. It’s all I know how to do. I just find it funny that you can’t do it without forcing me back into existence each time. In reality, it’s always you who does what needs to be done, while me—a fictional, imaginary friend—is nothing but a shadow in your mind, existing just because.” 

He curls his lip and scrunches his nose. “You don’t get to decide what I need and what I don’t. I called you because that’s what you do. You come, you give me the hand I need, and then you go back to your box and cease to exist until I need you again.” He spits the words with fiery venom. 

“That’s why I never liked you,” he hisses, a twisted smile painted across his lips, hiding his hate. “What can’t you do without me? I’m moral support at best, and that—that isn’t something you’re going to get from me today. Boone didn’t deserve that. He was only trying to help. He loved us, and you killed him in cold blood because you’re ashamed of who you really are!” 

Shawn’s eyes widen, and his lips tremble. “I am no one’s, and I will have no one decide who or what I am! I am not ashamed—I am amazing and complete, and I will not be denied. I will not be named, and I will not be judged by those unworthy to judge!” 

A dark grin splits across Shawn’s face as he lunges forward, fingers splayed like claws, and seizes the figure’s throat. The sickening crunch of cartilage gives way under his grip, and a wet, desperate gasp rattles out. Shawn’s eyes gleam as he drives him backward, slamming his head against the wall with a crack that sounds like splitting bone. Blood spatters in a fine mist, painting Shawn’s face in flecks of red, and he bares his teeth, leaning in close, his voice a low, seething whisper. “Maybe I don’t need you at all,” he hisses, fingers tightening, feeling the pulse flutter weakly beneath his hand, life slipping away in his iron grasp. 

“Then do it!” he gasps. “Kill me off like you did the last sucker who did you wrong. Steal me away, ignore all reason, and just let me be done with this facade!” 

“I’ll say when it’s done!” Shawn screams, tightening his grip. They stumble around the room, slipping clumsily in the blood as Shawn’s foot slides out from under him. He clutches desperately, but his hold falters. 

“You always have,” the other mutters as Shawn crashes to the ground, a stray brick meeting the back of his skull. It strikes hard, splintering bone and tearing flesh. A surge of red sprays across the floor, and he gasps, reaching out with trembling fingers. 

“P-Please,” he stammers, but there’s no one there to heed his calls—only the empty silence and the darkness spilling from the back of his skull. 

A Hammer Wrapped in a Mountain

With a curl of his lip, Carter brings the hammer down on Juliana’s skull, shattering it in a decidedly bloody fashion. He draws back and strikes again—and again—until his chest heaves beneath the weight of exhaustion. He drops to his knees, the hammer slipping to his side as he kneels in the growing sea of red beneath her shattered frame. He grimaces, then smiles. 

“That’s what surprises I have in store for you, bitch,” he hisses through clenched teeth, a river of salty sweat cascading down his brow, washing the sin from his trembling body. 

“Surprises are my game, not yours,” a voice purrs in his ear. 

He spins, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his lips trembling as his hand fumbles blindly for the hammer—but it isn’t where he dropped it. In panicked desperation, he scrambles to his feet, fists wound tight and drawn at the ready. 

“Show yourself, witch!” he bellows. 

A soft, rhythmic laugh echoes around him. 

“Listen to you, all full of fight and vinegar! Who would’ve thought the simple farmer’s son could twist himself into such a creature of power.” 

“Y-You made me what I am,” Carter stammers, his voice cracking. “Take solace in that if you dare—but I don’t hide behind lies and shadows like you do. I show myself for what I am—for who I am!” 

He spits. 

“LIAR!” she roars, her voice splitting the air as shadows twist together, forming a monstrous presence. She steps from the darkness, her figure swelling to ten times her size. Her lips curl, her brow furrows, and above her, crows and bats swirl like storm clouds. Below, vermin crawl from the corners of the room, their slick bodies writhing in the gloom. 

“I am who I show myself to be,” she bellows. “I am no mere woman for you to strike down as your father struck your mother! I am omnipotent. I am unstoppable. I am the thing you can never be!” 

The room quakes as her voice crescendos. Carter drops to his knees, clutching his head as blood trickles through his fingers. He screams, but when the sound fades, he is alone once more. Juliana’s cold, empty body still lies at his feet, her blood pooling around him. His hammer is back in his grip, its weight a cruel comfort. 

He scrambles to his feet, spinning in an awkward circle. 

“Stop playing games and face me!” he spits. 

He feels her behind him and spins, but nothing is there. Then she’s behind him again. He turns—still nothing. He screams, thrusting his hammer into the empty air, droplets of red flicking across the room with the motion. 

“I caved your head in once, woman, and I’ll do it again!” he snarls. 

The floor shifts beneath him, and he stumbles left, then right, crashing down as the world tilts like a ship caught in a storm. The ceiling and walls collapse, revealing only darkness, a black void stretching endlessly. He looks up to see her—her immense figure looming over him, holding the fragment of ground he kneels on in her clawed hand. 

“You are but an ant,” she sneers, her words echoing across the cosmos. “I am all of existence! You cannot strike what cannot be struck. I am unstoppable. I am inevitable. Bring your hammer, turn back the annals of time, but you will never take me.” 

Her voice softens into a hiss. 

“Instead, it will be another.” 

The world shifts again, and Carter finds himself on his knees, hammer raised high. He brings it down in a fury—striking her head in a bloody explosion of crimson. But as the hammer falls, he realises too late it is not her beneath him. 

It is Lewiette. 

Her small voice cries out, muffled and weak. “Daddy, stop!” she pleads, but the hammer falls again, and again, until her lifeless form lies limp in his arms. 

Carter screams, the hammer slipping from his hands as he cradles his daughter’s broken body. His tears fall, streaking her blood-stained face. 

From the shadows, her laughter rises—cracked, mocking, and dripping with vengeance fulfilled. 

The Chord Once Played, Now Again

He bites tightly down on the plastic plectrum, winks at the girls in the front row, and rests the banjo on his knee. He lets out a breath, removes his fedora, and places it on the table to his left. A smile wriggles across his lips as he leans towards the microphone, almost touching it.

“I said a very long time ago, if I ever got up on stage again, if I ever picked this little fella back up,” he says, patting the banjo. “I said I’d be doing it for something more than a paycheck. So, here’s hoping whatever little doozy this turns into, turns a little doozy into me!” He grins wryly as he gently starts strumming.

“Fifteen years, twenty-two weeks, three days, thirteen hours, forty minutes, and a handful of seconds,” he sings softly, strumming a melodic tune—one that has no recall, yet recalls every good song any of them have ever heard.

“That’s the time between when I last played this song and today.” He hums along, the room swaying to the rhythm of the tune. A fog descends—not literal, but figurative. They all move in unison, gyrating back and forth, to and fro. He glances around the room and smiles as his fingers coax the notes from the banjo.

“I look around tonight, and I can’t help but smile when I look into all your happy little faces. I can’t help feeling love and to feel loved. It’s nice to know you haven’t forgotten me,” he says softly, his voice carrying a gentle rasp, layers of emotion pouring from his tongue. “Thank you for not forgetting. I was nervous to come here tonight, thinking you might.” He looks skyward, his body swaying, a soft smile curling his lips.

“Do you recall? Do you remember?” he calls out, as his strumming turns sharp and fierce.

“We remember,” they cry.

His grin widens. “I didn’t hear you! I couldn’t, because you were quieter than a mouse!” he sings, striking the banjo with an ear-splitting chord. “I ASKED IF YOU REMEMBERED!”

“WE REMEMBER!” they scream back, the sound shaking the room.

“GOOD! GOOD!” he snarls as the grin grows wider, and his eyes fiercer. “AND DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT I SAID? DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT I ASKED YOU TO DO?”

“WE REMEMBER!” they bellow.

With sudden ferocity, he stands, tearing faster, more savage notes from the banjo, his body vibrating with the force.

“THEN DANCE!” he cries, leaping from the stage as his feet begin a wild, frenetic rhythm. “DANCE WITH ME ONE LAST TIME!”

The crowd begins to move in sync with him, their bodies mimicking his wild, frenzied motions. Fear glimmers in their eyes, betraying the broad grins stretched across their faces. His smile sharpens as he stomps harder, his movements growing more manic.

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT!” he cries gleefully, saliva dripping from his trembling lips. “FEEL THE MUSIC! LET YOURSELF DANCE! LET YOURSELF BE FREE!”

He cackles, pounding the banjo’s strings with a ferocity that makes the music weave and twist through the crowd’s ears like a splinter in their minds. He jumps back onto the stage, strutting back and forth, the crowd following his lead.

Suddenly, his grin falls, replaced by a snarl. The melody shifts—darker, more mournful. His lips tremble. “They didn’t remember you!” he spits, his voice breaking. “YOU DIDN’T REMEMBER HER!”

He strikes the banjo again and again, each note jagged and brutal. The room shakes. Smoke rises as the floor splits, revealing fiery pits below. The music wails on, and the crowd doesn’t stop—because they can’t. He won’t let them.

“She was mine! My child! My blood!” he bellows, tears streaming down his face. “SHE WAS MINE, AND YOU TOOK HER! YOU WATCHED! YOU LAUGHED! YOU LET HER BURN!”

His voice breaks into a guttural cry as he holds the banjo aloft, strumming wildly. One by one, the crowd begins to leap into the fire, their faces twisting into expressions of terror. His smile rots in his mouth, the flesh peeling from his cheeks, his true face—gaunt and shadowed—emerging beneath.

As the last soul plunges into the flames, he sees her. Across the room, his daughter stands, her small face lit by the glow of the fire. She smiles, and he smiles back, tears streaking his filthy cheeks.

“Come, Daddy,” she whispers, barely audible over the fading music.

He smiles, a laugh escaping his cracked lips, and leaps into the pit after them. The room falls silent, empty once more.