I have a few that I wrote since school started, and I have no idea which one I want to turn in, and I can only choose 2. Hmmm.... How 'bout I get some magical votes on which two from my imaginary blog readers?? Sounds good to me! ;)
1)Haunted:
Rowan swore heatedly, the thunder overhead drowning out her frustrated sputters. Rivulets of rain water plastered her hair to her face, lightning serving as both a nuisance and her only source of light here in the middle of nowhere. Each strike both blinded and illuminated the scene of her friend’s car wrapped around the tree and the source of all her troubles—a blown tire.She tried to step towards the front of the car, but her heel got stuck into the thick swamp mud. Rowan managed to save her shoe, pulling her foot free with a sickening sucking plop.
“I’m going to kill Sue,” she vowed grimly, briefly surveying her mud-encrusted foot. Her pant suit was ruined and she could feel her carefully put on make-up running down her face. So much for the estate sale. She knew the tip had been too good to be true. That, and she knew better to trust Sue with directions.
She had looked forward to getting out of the city for the day, and Sue had assured her it would be a very simple, quiet affair. Had she even made it that far anyway. With her own car in the shop, she had been forced to use Sue’s. Nice car, but Sue never bothered with maintenance checks of any kind, driving it hard until it stopped working, and then going out and buying another.
Following Sue’s directions to the auction to the letter, she had left the main freeway about an hour ago, finding herself on a beautiful one-way twisting road through a dense forest. She had been enjoying herself. And then it had started raining. Not just any kind of rain. A downpour. A torrential flood from the sky. Seeing through the windshield had become a problem and she had slowed down in order to not accidentally drive off a cliff. Taking a corner too fast, she had put on the brakes, started to slide across the wet pavement, and then the tire had blown out. Frankly, the car had had enough, so it decided to wrap itself around an innocent tree.
Rowan sighed in exasperation. She was going to have to walk. Hopefully she found a place to call for help since she had no cell service out here. She cursed Sue as she limped down the dark road. She cursed the wealthy reclusive eccentrics who built their mansions out in the middle of nowhere. She cursed the rain, the road, the car, even the poor tree.
Was that a light? Rowan shoved her drenched hair from her eyes and squinted. It was faint, but it was there. Thank God.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, shivering miserably in the freezing rain as she trudged forward, the wind unhelpfully picking up. She left the road, heading straight towards the light. She found roots and hidden dips and holes, but managed to get to the relatively maintained driveway without twisting her ankle in her expensive and totally useless heels.
Another turn and she stuttered to a halt, her eyes widening. The house—no, not a house. A castle? Whatever it was called loomed in the darkness still a ways from her current position. Wrought iron rails ran the entire length of the gigantic veranda. Each window was lined with metal filigree, each pane thick with the kind of glass that warped one’s view. Dark curtains framed each window, but Rowan could still see the circles of colored glass along each edge. She could make out outcroppings that marked the multiple levels of the structure. Were those gargoyles near the roof . . . ? The owner had to be completely nuts.
A single lamp stood watch in one of the hundreds of windows, near the front of the abode. Rowan could see no other lit windows, and took a step closer. She pulled the dregs of her courage close to her as she steeled herself for who she would meet inside. It’s not like she had much of a choice. She was desperate for a phone, though who to call first was still a toss-up. A taxi? Or Sue for a good cussing out session? While that may make her feel better, she just wanted out of here as soon as possible. Screw Sue.
Her muddy heels clipped up the stone steps and across the porch that was, thankfully, covered. She drew close to the door and looked for a door bell, and spotted a chain. Okay . . . . She tentatively closed frozen fingers on the bottom and pulled, the resulting bong echoing through the house easily heard over the thunder. It was dark outside, but it couldn’t be later than four or five in the afternoon so she hoped that whoever lived here wasn’t pissed at her for waking them.
Seconds stretched into minutes, and Rowan had a horrible feeling that no one was home. She turned away from the door, her heart sinking in her chest. She had no idea how close the next house was, and that’s when she heard the snick of a lock turning.
Warm light spilled onto the porch, and with it, a shadow. Rowan whipped around to find a man in the latter half of his life staring inquisitively at her, his neat suit pressed and dark, his shirt beneath the jacket crisp and white. His grey hair was receding from the crown of his head, but his eyes were bright and curious, though his mouth was narrowed in disapproval. He held a single hurricane lamp in his hand.
“Oh, thank goodness!” the sodden woman exclaimed. “I was so afraid that no one was home!”
“How might I be of assistance, madam?” his prim voice inquired calmly.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I am in a bit of a bind.” She smiled at him, unsure. “May I use your phone? I promise to be quick.”
“I’m afraid that would be impossible.”
Rowan blinked at him. “Impossible?”
“Unfortunately, madam, the electricity was knocked out by the storm,” he droned, his expression neutral.
“Oh,” she said, her voice small.
“But you are welcome to come in and dry off,” his face morphing into an unexpected sympathetic expression, though it seemed off somehow . . . .
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you any further,” she said quickly, feeling a sudden need to get back to the car and wait out the storm.
“Nonsense,” he replied stepping towards her, one hand stretched out to her. “You are frozen to the bone. I could not leave you out in this weather in good conscience. Please, madam.”
“Okay,” Rowan stuttered, allowing him to take her arm and pull her inside.
The door closed ominously behind her as soon as she was across the threshold, but her attention was riveted on her surroundings. She stood within the largest room she had ever seen in a private residence, unable to see the ceiling through the gathering gloom. Candles had been lit around the outskirts of the room as guides, and she could see the beginning of a monstrous staircase. Her first apartment could have fit in this chamber with room to spare. Lush, plushy carpet, the color of wine covered the expansive room, flowing up the stairs extravagantly. The antiques that filled the chamber nearly made her gasp out loud. Was that a Chippendale . . . ? Oh my—
“Pardon my manners, madam,” her companion interjected smoothly, “but I did not introduce myself. I am Hemsley. I oversee the property in my master’s absence.”
“Oh.” Rowan was momentarily at a loss. Curiosity overcame her, and she couldn’t help blurting, “You’re the butler then?”
“One of my many duties, yes,” Hemsley replied calmly. “And you are?”
“Sorry! My name is Rowan March,” she informed him hurriedly. “I was on my way to the estate auction at West Gale.”
“You are quite a ways off course, Miss March.”
“I figured as much,” she stated morosely.
“Allow me to conduct you to your chambers, then, while we await the storm’s passage.” He paused and looked at her. “Did you perhaps arrive in a vehicle?”
“Part of the way,” she said helplessly. “The tire blew on one of the turns and I managed to wrap the car around a tree, so I’m rather stuck.”
“I see what you mean by being ‘in a bind,’” he replied equably, turning towards the grand staircase.
“Hemsley?” Rowan stopped him.
He looked at her, his gaze questioning.
Sheepishly, she said, “I am covered with mud and God knows what else. The carpet in here looks very nice and…”
“Worry not, Miss March. The servants have gone far too long with nothing to occupy them.”
How very strange, Rowan thought to herself, following slowly after the very proper butler up the stairs. Her calves ached by the time they reached the top. They were at the same level as the giant chandelier that hung over the huge entryway, but even then, Rowan could still not see the ceiling. Each individual crystal reluctantly caught the deadened light from the flickering candles far below, and Rowan paused briefly at the landing to gaze over the railing to the ground. Slightly dizzy from the height, it took her a moment to realize that Hemsley was patiently waiting for her to follow him down the long hall.
Rowan followed after him hesitantly. The walls seem to close in on her maliciously, her shoulders bowing beneath the weight. Her breath came faster now, the feeling of claustrophobia fluttering around her hunched form. She chanced a glance around her, sudden interest flaring within her for the paintings that liberally littered the walls, serving to momentarily allow her to throw off her sense of foreboding.
The pictures were old, but not a mote of dust marred the surface or frame of each. Their faces were . . . twisted. Due in part to the dim lighting? Or even the amateur artist’s rendering, perhaps, though their eyes appeared to follow her as she tiptoed past, and she managed not to grimace.
One portrait stood out from the others and Rowan paused in front of it. It was a very expertly done portrayal of a young man in a colonial costume. His face was beautiful, which was strange to say about a man. It was marked strongly with the force of his personality and the curve of his lips hinted to Rowan that he could burst into laughter at the slightest provocation. He must have been very tall in life, his broad shoulders nearly bursting through the sleeves of his coat. Thunder slammed overhead bringing lightning to heel, and lighting the face of the unknown man, his azure eyes glittering suddenly with life.
Rowan inhaled sharply.
“Almost there,” Hemsley announced somberly in reassurance.
She turned away from the picture hurriedly. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably and her feet were numb by the time they stopped before a door. Hemsley seemed to pause to let her have a good look at the intricately carved door before opening it and revealing the large chamber within.
Rowan gaped openly. The room—a suite, actually—was brightly lit with candles covering every surface of the room. She tried not to flinch when she watched a trail of wax drip into the crown piece of the room—a 1732 French silver tureen. The furniture within the bed chamber represented a significant fortune. Hell, the damn tureen alone was worth more than she would ever see in her lifetime.
She continued into the room. Heavy velvet curtains were pulled back from the large bay windows on the far side of the room, the fury of the storm beating ineffectually against the thick glass. Shadows raced over the panes of glass onto the window seat cushions, the bare branches of the trees like twisted fingers reaching towards her.
The bed was a work of art in itself. Scenes of nature unfolded across the headboard, flitting carelessly up the four posts of the bed and ending at last beneath the heavy folds of the canopy. Sheer drapes fell in waves down each side and Rowan almost laughed out loud. The sight of the bathroom, however, sobered her up quickly.
The tub was nothing short of a religious experience. Water steamed in the deep clawfoot tub, ready and waiting. A sea of candles had been placed in here as well, the flickering light bringing the pudgy cherubs on the wallpaper to life.
Hemsley nodded. All was apparently in order.
“I will leave you now to clean up, Miss March. I shall have a tray of food sent up to you momentarily.”
“Oh that’s not necess—“ but the butler had already gone, and Rowan was alone in the room once again.
She sighed and began to strip. She wasn’t sure what to do with her ruined clothes and she had no replacements. Rowan shrugged. The bath waiting for her was like a dream come true, and an opportunity she was unwilling to pass up. Her wet clothes fell to the tile next to the sink in a sullen slap, her heels clumped nearby and she enthusiastically got into the hot water.
After her skin fairly sparkled with cleanliness, she exited the tub and grabbed a towel, wrapping it securely around her. She looked in the far corner of the large bathroom, wondering if she should just put on her wet clothes, but they were gone.
Chills raced down her spine at the thought of someone being in here while she had been bathing. She opened the door of the bathroom and continued on into the bedroom and stopped dead in the entryway. The table near the bay windows sported a beautiful silver tray filled to the brim with covered dishes. Suddenly famished, Rowan sat at the table and dug in.
Not a moment after she had finished, a knock sounded at the door. All at once wary of company in her state of undress, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack. There stood Hemsley with a stack of neatly folded clothes in his arms.
“For you, Miss March,” he stated calmly, unfazed by her unwillingness to open the door.
Rowan reached out and hesitated. “Those are my clothes,” she commented inanely.
“They are,” he confirmed. He held them up to her. “Freshly laundered.”
“That was fast.” Her face mirrored her confusion.
“Yes, miss,” he agreed simply. “Do you need anything else?”
She shook her head dumbly and retreated back into her room, the heavy door closing behind her with a click. She stood as still as a statue, slowly considering her situation. This place was a definite creep fest. The house alone was spooky enough with its fake turrets and gargoyle statues littering the roof of this crazy building. Hemsley seemed normal enough. It had to be the owner, some crazed-whacko who had always wanted to live in a horror movie. She shouldn’t worry about it. Hemsley was a nice old guy who was helping her out. He couldn’t help who employed him. And he mentioned his master being gone. Right?
Still freaked over her clothes disappearing from the room she had been naked in for almost a half an hour, she quickly retrieved her underclothing and slipped them on. She grabbed her lacy camisole and put it on over her head. She left the rest of the suit folded neatly on a side table and walked over to the window.
The storm still had yet to lessen, and had in fact, worsened exponentially. Hail flung themselves from the heavens, their small white bodies littering the ground in careless abandon. Thunder rolled grumpily overhead, the unceasing lightning crackling close enough to brighten the room from time to time. She turned a frown at the window and irritably flung the curtains closed.
Not knowing what else to do, Rowan decided that she would just turn in early. She’d had one hell of a day. She took a turn around the room and blew out all the candles in both the bed chamber and bathroom, leaving the single candle by the bed lit until after she had climbed into the monstrous bed. Before slipping between the sheets, she leaned over and blew out the last candle, plunging the room into darkness. The curtains were doing their job and keeping the pesky lightning from flashing her.
Despite the circumstances that brought her here, and not to mention, the spookiness of the place, Rowan was enjoying herself. She felt like she was lying on a cloud and she snuggled deeper into the silky sheets, rubbing her face happily on her pillow. Once she was comfortable, she slipped off to slumberland, too tired to stay awake.
Warm fingers found their way beneath the sheets, smooth forearms brushing her legs. When the hands closed over her thighs, Rowan jolted up with a shriek. She fell out of the bed towards the windows and flung open the curtains, searching for some source of light that could tell her what or who was in her bed. With her back to the window, she stood gasping in fright, unsure of what to make of the empty bed. There was no pervert trying to feel her up, not that she was disappointed. Must have been a dream. A really, really lifelike dream. She shuddered and reckoned that she had been asleep for less than two hours.
A clunk in the corner startled another yelp from her throat, and she fell backwards into a warm lap. Screaming like a banshee, she fought to free herself from the wing chair’s occupant and fell to the carpeted floor with a grunt. Scuttling away like a crab, she was halfway across the distance to the bathroom when lightning filled the room and the empty chair glared at her. No one was there.
“Am I going crazy?” she whispered to herself, completely terrified.
She picked herself up from the floor and stood staring. What in the world was going on? There was no history of mental illness in the March family. She had never been one to believe in ghosts, or anything supernatural, and yet, here she was, one step away from sleeping with a string of garlic bulbs wrapped around her neck.
Speaking of which… Cool air softly blew on the side of her neck just below her ear, and Rowan fought the urge to turn around. Biting back a scream, she whispered almost pleadingly, “It’s just a draft, it’s just a draft...”
She turned around slowly and found herself face to face with the most beautiful man she had ever seen in her life, faintly glowing in the darkened chamber. Shocked that someone was actually in her room, it took her a few seconds to react, and react she did.
Inhaling sharply, she jumped away from him, landing in a tumble of limbs on the bed. Holding a sheet to her chest like a shrinking maiden, she stared in horror as the man just stood there, staring back at her.
“What the hell are you doing in my room?!” she shrieked finally.
He did not answer, cocking his head to the side curiously.
“Who are you?" she whispered furtively.
A low chuckle sounded from the dark figure, and Rowan shrank back into the mattress, her heart beat pounding in her ears. It finally dawned on her reeling brain that the man was the spitting image of the man from the portrait in the hall. A ghost?!
He was suddenly next to the bed and Rowan scrambled and fell off the opposite side of the bed with half of the bed clothes. Wiggling free and back onto her feet within a matter of seconds, Rowan was taken aback to find herself alone in her room once more.
Her head whipped back and forth, searching for the ghost, panicked sobs gathering in her throat when she felt cold presence behind her. She spun around and faced the invader, and came face to face with his piercing blue eyes.
“What do you want?”
“I’ve waited for so long for you to return to me, Clara,” he told her in a sibilant whisper.
She backed away from him slowly, unexpected ire building in her heaving chest. “Don’t tell me this is one of those ‘reincarnation of past loves’ ghost stories,” she said mostly to herself, her mind feeling numb.
He raised his hand towards her face, the longing on his face freezing her in place, and she shut her eyes in blind panic, not knowing what to do. And then she opened them. The ghost was gone.
Barely stopping for her horrified thoughts to catch up with her, she grabbed her purse and clothes, her now clean heels looped around her two fingers; she bolted from the room and dashed down the hall. The hall seemed to stretch, the lightning flashing through the windows at the far end blasting frightening, nightmare inspiring shapes on the wall. Deep, male laughter boomed, echoing through the hall, and Rowan put on a burst of speed.
Reaching the staircase, she plunged headlong down into the darkness, clutching the railing to keep from falling. She frantically felt her way down each step until she felt the cool carpet of the first floor. She rushed across the carpeted expanse, her toes finding tile moments later. Her fingernails ripped across the door knob, trying to fling it open to escape, except it was locked. By a key that was no where to be found.
She lay breathing hard against the door, furiously thinking. She wished that she had had the guts to ask for a tour through the house. She had no idea if there was another way out of this place, and she doubted that she would be able to break out of one of the thick-planed windows.
A thud at the top of the stairs drew her eyes upwards just as a flash of lightning filled the room, effectively lighting the glowing figure at the top of the stairs staring straight at Rowan. The woman felt like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move, until the ghost began to move down the stairs. She jerked away from the heavy front door and ran wildly to the right down the length of the large room. She fell over a stool and another small table, guilt briefly igniting within her at the thought of damaging such precious antiques, but she thrust the thought away as soon as it made its appearance. So not the time!
She found herself at a pair of doors that measured nearly twice her height, and shoved her way through them, inexplicably relieved to find that they were unlocked. Her bare feet slapped a rapid tattoo upon the marble floor as she run, pausing in the middle of the room, gasping for breath. Her breath caught in her chest at the sight of an even larger chamber.
Ceiling to floor length windows framed the southern walls of the huge ballroom, the lightning flashing angrily overhead aiding in her hurried observation. The floor was an elaborate mural done in a myriad of tiles and marble. Under normal circumstances, she would have been stunned at the beauty beneath her sore feet. Instead, her harsh breathing filled the room and she fought to bring herself under control.
In a rush, the monstrous fireplace near the double doors she had entered through roared to life. Pressing a fist against her mouth, she backed up slowly away from the huge mantel. Snaps and popping filled the space above her head and she glanced up in time to see beautifully decked out dancers with partners floating to the floor, endlessly twirling, and their smiles bright upon their faces. Music broke out in the chamber, coming from everywhere at once, the melody hauntingly beautiful.
Rowan stood unseen within the middle of the glorious vision of ghosts from long ago spinning, locked in the embrace of their partners in large circles around her. Other than the initial sounds made by their sudden appearance, the dancers remained silent, their laughter and voices long gone.
Rowan took another step backwards and ran into a solid wall. Whipping around, she found the man from the painting standing there with that same half smile on his face. And that was the last thing she saw before darkness crashed down upon her.
****
The man gazed down at the unconscious woman in his arms and grinned unrepentantly.
“You really should find another hobby, sir,” a voice sounded at his elbow.
Alastair looked to the side and laughed at Hemsley’s expression. “Come now, Hemsley. She’ll be fine.”
“I doubt her mood will be,” he replied morosely. “You can’t play with people in this manner, sir. One of these times, you’ll come to regret it. She has had a horrible day already.”
“Which aided in the illusion, Hemsley!” His face was lit with excitement. “This has definitely been one of my best.”
Hemsley winced, noting her state of undress. “She could charge you with assault, sir.”
“I never touched her,” he replied over his shoulder, leading the way out of the ballroom. “My new invention worked perfectly, blowing the right temperature of air under her blankets, and then she was the one who sat in my lap. And then of course, I couldn’t let her just fall to the floor in a dead faint, now could I?”
“The perfect gentleman?” The butler’s tone was faintly mocking.
“Always,” Alastair remarked, his voice lowering.
His manservant exhaled irritably. “I’m not performing the clean up this time, sir.”
“Don’t worry,” the young man told him, glancing happily at the pretty woman in his arms. “I’ll take care of her.”
****
The morning sun glistened through the windows waking Rowan. She jerked into a sitting position and looked down at herself and then around the room. Everything was as she left it. She didn’t remember coming back to her room.
Her brow furrowed. Had she ever left it? It had all been a dream. Her laugh broke from her in a rush. She thought she had been losing it! Chuckling, she pulled the sheets to rights and swung her bare feet over the edge.
She pushed at the heavy brocade that had kept her warm all night and stood up by the bed, stretching. She bent and quickly put on her suit jacket over her camisole and fastened her pants around her waist before she grabbed her shoes and purse, and headed towards the door. She reached for the doorknob just as a knock sounded.
Opening it, she started, “Oh Hemsley, you wouldn’t believe the dream—”
She cut off with a stammer. The man from her nightmare, the one from the painting . . . . He was standing there with her breakfast tray!
Without hesitation, she whapped him on the head with her purse as hard as she could, and the man fell to the floor in a clatter of dishes and a rain of food.
Hearing an amused snort, she saw Hemsley standing to the side gazing down at his employer, his normally calm face on the verge of breaking into a smirk.
Meeting her outraged eyes, he bowed slightly at the waist.
“Phones are working, Miss March.”
Demons:
(***This gets a little graphic so don't read it if you have a sensitive tummy!!**)
The demon gazed lazily over the freeway, the cop’s eyes unnaturally sharp. It had spent hours finding different places to hide, and their panic at the sight of the patrol car had amused it at first, but now it was growing bored with the early afternoon drivers. Rush hour had ended hours ago and there was a definite lack of motorists on the U.S. 60. It eased the patrol car into traffic, swiftly gaining speed. The green exit signs turned to a blur as it turned his attention elsewhere. Cars were quick to get out of its way, the demon absently noting their sighs of relief as it sped by them. It was pleased to note that the day was passing quickly into the second rush hour of the day and more cars were beginning to file onto the freeway.
The searing white-blue sky was giving the demon a headache. It was a chilly 117 degrees in Phoenix, Arizona and the demon was downright miserable. It had been sent on ahead to scout out this tiny blue planet, and it was not enjoying the frigid temperatures of this city where it had been stationed some months before.
The arid climate of the Sonoran Desert allowed the demon to shed human shells more frequently and move around on its own for brief snatches of time, but it took a lot out of it. It shivered dejectedly inside the cop’s clammy ninety-eight degree body, and reached over to turn the heater on higher. It needed to find better sustenance if it was to survive until the First Wave. It gritted the cop’s teeth. It also needed to find another flesh suit. This one was beginning to break down beneath the scalding heat of the demon’s presence.
The demon swerved across three lanes of traffic, barely missing the North 101 Loop exit. It put on a burst of speed, weaving manically around the other drivers within, and the large loop appeared in the distance. The demon grinned in anticipation. The cop whimpered deep within the corner of his mind and the demon snarled at him.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. It wasn’t worried that its actions would tip off the humans prematurely. This city thrived on tragedy.
Taking the turn at ninety-five miles per hour, it suddenly swerved more sharply than the turn required, tagging the car next to it, and sending it spinning behind the patrol car. It jerked the wheel back and flung it headlong into three more cars. It jumped suit seconds before the fourth car entered the fray, almost dizzy with glee when it heard the cop come back to himself, screaming in blind panic before the car in the process of flipping end over end and taking out five more cars, took off his head.
The demon breathed in their pain and terror, delighting in the taste of death and carnage, filling its essence to the brim with the overwhelming emotions far below, its own headache and foul mood ebbing away as it fed.
Sated to the point of being bloated, it hung for a moment in the clear sapphire skies of the East Valley, invisible to the lower life forms below. A chime sounded within his ear, and the demon’s grin grew further.
It was time.
****
Charlotte clenched her teeth in frustration as she weaved into heavy traffic, barely stopping herself from flipping off the jerk that cut her off. She’d had a crappy day at work, and driving home always made it that much more pleasant. Her boss had been on her ass about month end again, even though she was ahead, but Jeffrey never made the effort to actually get his own head out of his boss Colleen’s butt to know what was going on in the office.
The path in front of her red truck cleared suddenly and she shoved the gear shift into third, her engine roaring as she accelerated towards the oncoming overpass. A brief flash of color caught her eye, and she hunched over the wheel and glanced up at the large green sign posted on the Stapley Road overpass. Seeing nothing, she jerked her attention back to the road moments before the shadow fell across the front of her truck.
Charlotte glimpsed a face and flapping limbs a second before chaos erupted into shattered glass. The woman flung her wheel to the right, her sudden reflex fueled with her shock. The truck roared up the side of the embankment, rolling to a stop amidst a cloud of falling gravel.
The body that lay melded halfway up her windshield spasmodically twitched, held in thrall by subsequent death throes. Her fists were pressed against her mouth, as if attempting to stop the screams that threatened to tear from her throat. She was vaguely aware of other drivers pulling in behind her, and their concerned calls to her from outside, but she ignored them, her attention riveted on the bloody mess in front of her, unable to move.
All at once, the sound of broken bones grating against flesh and loose bone fragments pervaded the cab. Bile rose in her throat as Charlotte watched, ensnared by the horrific vision of the corpse’s head turning on a shattered spinal column until burning eyes met hers. The blood-filled mouth was open in a gut-wrenching expression of glee, blood and broken teeth spilling down its chin, eyes flashing white.
“We’re coming,” it grated, as if through a mouthful of marbles.
Charlotte screamed.
****
“I don’t care if the guy said he was just trying to make a point,” Detective Jon Blake interjected, his fingers pressing against his forehead to relieve the pressure there. “He still shot his mother in the arm. Book him.”
He didn’t slam the receiver on the cradle. The crack of plastic meeting more noisy plastic would have sent his headache into the open arms of the waiting migraine hiding behind his eyes. It had been a long day, and it was far from over. Having just gotten back from investigating the apparent suicide of a fellow police officer—and what a mess that had been—he had arrived at the station in time to be buried beneath the influx of incoming cases.
He planted his elbows on his desk, cradling his aching head in his hands when a strident voice lifted over the cacophony, bringing him back with a jolt. He shoved away from his desk, belatedly straightening his collar as he went in search of the trouble.
“Why don’t you believe me?” the feminine voice wailed, the source of which was sitting by Sergeant Packard’s desk.
The middle-aged man leaned forward in his chair, concern etched on his usually calm face, and Jon watched him hand the trembling girl a tissue.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Miss Riley,” Richard replied carefully, “But you have suffered a severe shock, and it would be better if you found a ride and went home. We’ll contact you when we know more.”
“Can I speak with you, Rick?” Jon asked, interrupting her protest smoothly.
The woman glared at the detective who ignored her and walked a ways from the desk with Packard.
“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.
“Some crazy jumped off an overpass and landed on her truck,” Rick replied. “She’s fine, just scared out of her mind.” He shook his head. “She’s making some pretty wild claims.”
“Like what?”
Rick grimaced. “You should probably hear it from her.”
The sergeant quickly vacated the area, and Jon sighed. He rubbed a hand through his hair before walking over to perch on the corner of the desk, his gaze finally falling on the girl.
Her light brown hair was falling out of her carefully constructed bun, and her flower printed summer dress glittered with glass fragments. And blood. His look sharpened.
“What happened, Lottie?” he asked carefully.
“It’s Charlotte,” she snapped, her voice sounding gravelly. From crying.
“Rick said that you were telling him a pretty wild story.”
She huffed impatiently. “Not a story,” she replied, her tone coming back to its normal range, before it broke again. “I’m not crazy!”
“I know that, Lottie. Tell me what happened.”
He was trying to piss her off on purpose, she decided. Ignoring his use of her old nickname, she told him. Everything. Right down to the blood. So much blood . . . .
His face said it all. “You don’t believe me either,” she stated angrily, her spine straightening.
“Lottie—”
“It’s Charlotte, Jon!” she yelled. Her face fell, her eyes on her clenched fingers. Calming herself visibly, she continued without looking at him. “I know what I saw. I’ve been listening to the news all day. Don’t lie to me.” Her head came up. “You know something is going on.”
“Crime isn’t constant, Lottie,” he replied at last with a sigh. “It always comes in spurts like this.”
She stood to her feet abruptly, the detective following her action more slowly. “This is a waste of time.”
“Lottie—”
“No,” she interrupted him again, her hand slashing down between them. “I thought you would help me, but it’s obvious that I’m still just a joke to you. I thought that if anyone could help me,” her voice choked off, and she looked away. Clearing her throat, “If anyone could help me, it would be my big brother’s best friend, but you can’t just leave what’s passed in the past.”
“You’re blowing things out of proportion,” Jon replied, his gaze hardening. “As usual.”
Her voice dropped to a furtive whisper. “Oh, really? You were the first boy that ever kissed me. You knew I had a crush on you and you thought it would be fun to mess with me. Well, guess what? ‘Little Lottie’ grew up and I’m tired of your games.”
She pushed away from him, nearly dropping her purse in the process. His hand came out to steady her, and she hissed at him, “Don’t touch me!”
He ignored her admonition and took a firm grip on her elbow and navigated her to the exit, her enraged cries gaining him the attention of the entire station.
“Gentlemen,” Detective Blake said to the room at large, his face composed in a pleasant smile of farewell. He was gratified when everyone went back to their own business as he pushed out of the building.
He jerked open the car door, practically throwing the struggling girl into the front seat of the cruiser. Slamming it, he walked calmly around the front of his car, half expecting her to leap out, but pleased to see her not only stay in the vehicle, but reach over to put on her shoulder strap.
His headache was gone and he found that his mood was vastly improved dealing with Lottie. Little Lottie . . . . Not so little anymore.
His seat belt clicked into place just as the engine roared to life, and he backed carefully out of his reserved spot, and headed out of the parking lot, all without saying a word. Charlotte too remained silent.
“Still at Mesa Drive and the 60?” he asked congenially.
“No,” she replied grudgingly. “I have my own apartment farther east near my parents’ house now.”
“Ditched the boy toy, huh?”
“Stow it, Blake,” she snarled back. “I know I was out of line back there, but my love life is none of your concern. Danny should never have said anything about it to you.”
“Fair enough,” he replied equably. “But I find myself frequently concerned about you. Like now, for instance.” He passed her a quick glance. “Are you sure you want to be alone?”
She shivered, unaware of the heat beaming through her window. “I didn’t mean to snap at you, Jonny.” Jon felt himself surprisingly warmed by her reverting to her childhood name for him. “I’m just pretty freaked.”
“I can understand that.” The car drifted to at stop at the light and he turned to her. “Look, Lottie, I know I haven’t been the best guy in the world lately, but at the very least, you’re Danny’s little sister. I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt.”
“Then level with me, Jon.”
He took a deep breath. “You were right. Things are out of control right now, but I just can’t believe your story.”
“Why?”
“I checked the file, Lottie! The poor bastard broke almost every bone in his body when he hit your car. The internal damage alone…. If he was still alive by the time you came to a stop, there’s no way he was even conscious, much less able to speak. His jaw bone was shattered as badly as your windshield and—”
Jon cursed loudly suddenly and swerved to the left. Charlotte gave a small squeak of fear, but fell silent when they came to a stop, untouched.
“Wha—”
“Stay in the car, Charlotte!” Jon barked at her before scrambling out of his cruiser. Charlotte followed after him, more slowly, of course, because she couldn’t run very well in her sandals.
Three cars were strewn across the intersection, metal twisted, and one of the cars was smoking. Charlotte ran passed other drivers, who had gotten out of their cars and were staring at the accident. Some were moving with intent towards the scene of the collision. She reached Jon’s side just as he was radioing for an ambulance.
“This is Detective Blake. I am at the scene of a severe collision involving three cars, one of the drivers is unconscious. There are minors in the minivan, and the mother isn’t alert. I haven’t seen the third driver just yet. We need an ambulance here ASAP.”
He gave the intersection before he clicked off his radio and his eyes narrowed when he noticed Charlotte.
“I thought I told you to stay in the—”
The scream warned them and the detective jumped into action, knocking Charlotte to the ground, protecting her with his body as the car sailed over their heads. It crashed to the pavement, sliding into the light pole with a screech of metal versus gravel.
Jon’s head whipped up to the source of the car’s flight, and gaped. There stood the two children that had been involved in the accident, grinning malevolently at the stunned detective. The little girl spotted Charlotte and tipped her head, her eyes glittering white.
“There you are,” she cooed. The voice was dark and full of malice, definitely not matching the little pig-tailed girl by any stretch of the imagination.
“Crap,” breathed Jon, and he heard Charlotte muffle a choked sob beneath him.
“I suppose you believe me now?” she whispered inanely.
“Time to go,” Jon grunted, pulling her to her feet. He pushed her behind him, drawing his gun. “Get back!” he yelled to the remaining witnesses around him. That’s when he saw the driver of the minivan. Her throat had been ripped out.
His eyes tore back to the little boy and girl who continued to stare at Charlotte with unabashed delight. The boy was covered in blood, around the boy’s mouth, down his powder blue shirt, and he was licking his fingers.
“Charlotte . . . .”
“Don’t say it,” she spat. “I’m not leaving you with them.”
“I’m the one with the gun, remember?” he hissed back, slowly moving them both away from the children.
A snarl tore from their throats and they charged the adults, the little girl breaking away from her brother to snatch a bystander. She dragged him to the ground before biting out his throat in a feeding frenzy. Her brother meanwhile leapt to the roof of the totaled suburban and crouched there, his mad gaze fixated on Charlotte.
It had all happened in a manner of seconds, and in his shock, Jon had not even thought to use his gun. Surfacing from his shock, he lifted the gun and fired at the girl was still occupied with her first victim. The first bullet took her in the arm, throwing her backwards with a high-pitched growl. The next one took the boy between the eyes and he disappeared behind the large SUV.
Jon scrambled to his feet, pulling Charlotte up with him. He shoved her in front of him, ordering her to, “Run!” and glanced over his shoulder. The bullets had slowed the two, but had not stopped them. He began screaming at those that had stayed to get inside, get in their cars, get some place that wasn’t here.
He ran towards his cruiser where Charlotte was already seat belted into the front seat, and his breath left him in a whoosh. A large demonic creature had torn the passenger side door off the cruiser, and Charlotte was yelling at the top of her lungs for Jon, while in the midst of methodically beating the ever-livin’ snot out of the monster from hell with his steering wheel club.
If the situation wasn’t so dire, he might have laughed at her Amazon-like attempt to fend off a thing that inspired nightmares, while remaining strapped to her seat. Instead panic filled his chest and he took aim at the creature’s horned head when he felt small, but strong hands grab onto his leg and pull him to the ground.
Reacting purely on instinct, he swung his pistol blind and managed to connect with the flailing demonic child on top of him. He rolled to the side just as the child launched itself at him, a flash of bloody unnaturally sharp teeth.
He unloaded the rest of the clip into the girl’s body, and though it still attempted to move towards him, he stepped around it, reloading his gun with his spare magazine. It was the only one left so hopefully help arrived soon. Sighting down the length of the pistol at the creature still trying to peel Charlotte from the cruiser, Jon squeezed the trigger. It disappeared.
Charlotte stared bemusedly at the empty space in front of her, her chest rising and falling in a hurried cadence.
“Are you okay?” Jon asked worriedly, bending over her to undo her seat belt.
“Yeah,” she replied, sounding surprised. She let out a giggle and fell against him. “That whole ‘Battle Royale’ thing kinda got me pumped up.”
“You scared the hell outta me, Lottie,” Jon confessed into her hair.
“I’ll try to do better next time,” she replied snidely, pulling away from his hasty embrace. “Jon—”
The detective was suddenly dragged from her arms into the sky, the horizon dipping drunkenly in his peripheral. The man glanced up into a face full of spikes and burning scales and began to struggle. He attempted to grab onto a taloned foot that was embedded in his shoulder trying to rip free, but jerked back with a hiss. His skin blistered where he had made contact with the creature, but before he could think of what to do next, the flying hell-spawn let go.
A shout slipped from his mouth moments before he crashed back first onto his car. He lay there gasping for his lost air, adrenalin slamming through his veins full-force. The creature dived towards him with talons extended and he rolled off the car, the screech of claws against metal telling him he was just in time.
Charlotte was suddenly there, gripping his hand and pulling him along behind her. They ran in a mad dash towards a neighborhood, the cries of the dying filling their ears, inhuman shrieks playing a dark descant. Tears were pouring down Charlotte’s face as she struggled to stay up with the detective, her bare feet slapping unrelentingly against the rough gravel of the roadway and then across the rocky landscaping of the first house they reached.
Jon jerked her to the right, leading her around the side of the house towards the side gate, barreling through the thin gate moments later. Charlotte was breathing heavily and Jon knew she wasn’t going to last much longer, and he wouldn’t be able to carry her with the injuries he had sustained.
Charlotte concentrated on continuing her forward momentum, the blur of multiple backyards and broken gate falling around her, her world narrowing to Jon’s back, her hand in his.
“Here,” he mumbled jaggedly, dragging her only a few yards further and the gasping woman found herself in a musty wooden shed, muted lighting filtering through the uneven slats. She had her hands on her knees while she panted heavily, blearily hearing Jon drag something heavy in front of the closed door. Moments later, she felt his arms wrap around her waist and lead her towards the back of the small building.
He sat down heavily, taking her down with him into his lap. He let his head fall back onto the rough wooden wall as he breathed. It was quiet in here, and one could almost believe that the horror unfolding outside was only a dream. Almost.
He hissed when Charlotte shifted, bumping into his arm.
“What?” she whispered, her concerned eyes on his face.
“That thing gashed my arm,” he replied, his face drawn with pain.
“Lemme see,” she ordered, taking his arm with gentle fingers. Her blonde head filled his vision.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his arm was burning and her closeness was making it hard to think straight.
“For what?” she asked in confusion. “You didn’t maim yourself.”
“No, for the other thing.”
She snorted softly, taking off her thin cardigan and pressing it against his arm. “That’s it?”
“No,” he puffed, jerking at the sudden pressure on his upper arm. “I’m going to make it up to you. For everything. If we manage to get out of this—”
“Don’t,” she ordered sharply.
“What?”
“Don’t feel like you need to make one of those, ‘we might die so I better spout mushy love crap’ to me. I don’t want it. I’m over it.”
He laughed, his low chuckle startling her. “Liar.”
She hesitated and sat back on her heels and stared at him. “What do you want from me?”
He took hold of her hand with his good arm and pulled her closer. “Everything.”
An unexpected crack sounded on their left, and the two froze. Charlotte clung to Jon barely able to breathe. After a moment, nothing happened, and Jon let out a relieved sigh.
“I think we’re go—”
Without warning, the plank dissolved in a waterfall of fire and hot ash, a flash of white appearing in the now vacant space.
“There you are!”
THE END
3)In A Name:
*FUN Note: A drabble is a story in exactly 100 words and this short story is written in 16 drabbles. It's a background on one of my characters from my bigger project, Shattered Planet. See?? FUN! ;)
No! Abigail closed her eyes against the judgment. Not my daughter! Harsh sobs broke from her ravaged throat. She had already lost four of her six children. Now she was to lose another.Her tortured gaze found her daughter’s huddled form at the front of the meeting hall, her own shock at the ruling mirrored clearly on her upraised face.
“No, Harris!” Abigail screamed at her husband, tearing at his restraining arms, desperately fighting to reach her daughter. Her howl of fury rose above the cacophony of sound within the hall as the mob’s frenzy grew.
Her daughter. A witch.
***
Reverend Thomas Clearly dispassionately watched the mob sweep the frightened girl from the courtroom, their yells of “Burn her!” echoing throughout the hall. Even the anguished cry from her mother did not move him. The girl was possessed and it was his heavenly duty to save her. To sear the demon from her very soul so that she may be at rest within the Lord’s merciful arms.
The reverend did not find pleasure in this, no matter what others believed. He had dedicated his life to serving the Lord. This is what He asked of his servants.
Burn the witch.
***
Her son was to have married the witch. The righteous Widow Kael walked with her head held high behind the mob composed of her neighbors and fellow townspeople as they dragged Faith towards the town square.
Here, she was pleased to see that a platform had been built, the stake rising like a vengeful god in the middle, chains laid reverently at its feet.
She had never liked the Barrows, but her son had insisted on the match. She knew that he had been beguiled by the girl’s cascading golden curls and innocent blue eyes.
The Devil had many guises.
***
Harris Barrow did not see his daughter. He only saw a condemned woman being shackled to the stake, her cries for mercy falling on deaf ears.
He had raised his two surviving daughters to fear the Lord, but the Devil had seen fit to take yet another of his children from him. To sway him from his faith. He had underestimated Harris Barrow.
His wife, he noticed numbly, was beating his chest with clenched fists, but to no avail. He might not have saved his daughter from the Devil, but he refused to let Abigail fall too.
Burn the witch.
***
“Today, we are a town in mourning,” Judge Harmount announced to the teeming crowd, his hands upraised in benediction, playing to the crowd. “Faith Barrow has refused to recant and to return to those who love her.”
He turned and thrust a meaty finger at the cowering girl. “May God have mercy on your soul!” he cried.
He left the platform amidst the cheers from the mob. A twisted smile found his duplicitous mouth. This would break the Barrows. He would finally get the land he had coveted for so long. He took his place and nodded.
Burn the witch.
***
Charles Lane held the cheerily crackling torch to the kindling at the witch’s feet, his heart leaping into his throat at the exultant roar from the mob as the fire spread.
His face reddened with pride as his fellows approvingly pounded him on his back. They fell back to admire the beautiful ruby glow, their eyes trained on the pitiful figure cloaked within the gathering smoke.
He heard her coughing, her pleas growing diminished. Guilt visited briefly. He had used to admire the pretty Barrow girl. But he was never one to go against the crowd.
Then the shadow fell.
***
Zitkala was drawn to the noise. Many had gathered far below, and gatherings brought hope of crumbs. Fire. She scented the smoke on the wind. Much food for children.
An updraft sent the small one spinning helplessly through the air. Before she could find her lost flight, sudden heat brushed passed the tip of her feathered wing. Zitkala chirped sharply in fear as a large scaled beast flew past, his passage disrupting the air further.
Tiny heart hammering, the bird plummeted and managed to right herself. She found safety within a near tree, hiding her head beneath her bruised wing.
***
Chaos broke out across the crowd. One moment more, and the smoking hem of the girl’s plain linen shift would have burst into flame, but the Devil had returned for His own.
The mob fought for control, but was losing, trampling people beneath its collective feet, the shadow of wings falling upon upturned faces. Claws and bronze wings and vengeful eyes filled their vision. Unholy.
As one, the mob rose up against the Beast, against their fear, crying out with the strength of their faith and fury. The platform collapsed beneath His weight, fiery ashes thrown into the gathering night.
***
Cool fresh air rushed over her face, bringing Faith back to the world. She was flying; the broken chains on her wrists trailing behind her like a glorious cape. The ugly faces of the mob were gone.
The spring. Where they had first met. She turned to meet the Beast’s gaze, his fierce eyes ablaze with his fury. His wings rustled restlessly as he transformed. And there he was. Her bronze-haired lover.
She fell into his open arms, her mouth finding his. Bliss melted away her fear, his warmth spreading to include her cold body.
Pain exploded in her chest.
***
He had loved her from the moment he saw her. Her golden curls. Her brilliantly blue eyes.
He was the one who had turned her in. Told others her dark secret. If only he hadn’t caught her with another. He would never have betrayed her then. His sweet love.
He had followed after the Beast when he had stolen Faith from her grave. He found them again together. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.
Kael met his murderer’s flaming eyes in shock; the knife that had killed Faith was jutting from his own stomach.
He gurgled and fell.
***
Kaleb followed the scent of Master’s pup. A sharpness clung to her, which made the nose wrinkle in distaste, and setting off a growl.
Nose to the ground, Kaleb tracked her into the woods and found her lying quietly on the ground. He laid his ears down. Something was wrong.
He saw her murderer, her blood on his hands, and his hackles rose, but within a blink of an eye, the human who was not drove the knife into the enemy.
Kaleb turned at the crack of a twig and saw Master. His tail wagged feebly.
Master would fix everything.
***
The earsplitting roar encompassed the clearing, the trees shuddering in fear. His Faith was gone. Taken by those who had lured him to the surface.
He and his kind were of the Earth, protected within from the humans. His kind had withdrawn from the world of man many centuries before. They had warned him. He had not listened.
His agony ran rampant within him, and in his anger, he licked the blood of the first man he had ever killed from his hands. His eyes pieced Harris’s broken soul.
“They come.”
He left her father kneeling by her killer’s body.
***
Herne’s nostrils widened and he tossed his head in fear as the scent of blood reached him, but then his Master was there. He was attaching straps to Herne’s harness. He wanted Herne to bear the added burden of the wagon.
Herne huffed impatiently, his nerves still on edge. Master’s woman was crying and shouting at Master which made Herne skitter sideways, earning him a blow from Master.
Herne could hear the clutter of things being thrown into the wagon. Master was frightened. Herne was frightened. He could hear many voices thundering beyond the trees.
They came for Master’s witch.
***
He heard Widow Kael cry out in horror when she found her son’s body. He blindly bade the enraged mob to burn down the empty Barrow house, the not yet harvested fields, and salt the earth.
Harris had disappeared with his accursed family, William found to his chagrin. His grieving soul yearned for vengeance, but revenge lay in the merciful hands of the Lord.
William gathered the weeping mother of his nephew into his arms, her bitter tears running hotly down his shirt.
There was blood on the ground that was not Kael’s. His spirit lifted.
The witch was dead.
***
Father had returned with blood on his shirt, but Faith was not with him. Joy Barrow crouched pathetically in the back of the racing wagon, her blonde braids beating a steady staccato on her young face. Mother was screaming at him to go back, but he merely pushed the horse to go faster. As if they were racing the Devil himself.
Angry men had taken Faith from the shed, where Father himself had locked her in the night before. Then Mother had left Joy alone.
Faith was dead.
Had Father killed her? Joy’s cold gaze bore into his hunched back.
***
“Oh, my son,” her voice crooned above him.
Her errant son did not raise his bowed head from the freshly dug grave. “I cannot remove the stain of blood from my hands,” he said in reply.
“Nor shall you.” Her voice hardened. “From now until your death, you shall bear the name of the man whose life you stole with your own ignorance.”
His shoulders braced themselves against her judgment.
“Never again forget the danger of bonding with a human. Swear it!”
“Never again,” she heard him whisper hoarsely.
He stood, his burning eyes on hers.
“My name is Kael.”
THE ENDNow........ VOTE! :)
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