Sunday, 18 November 2012

Story 19 - Black Spots

I’m in a room with four walls of pure blinding white. All of them covered with jet black spots, which for some reason are absolutely terrifying to me. LARGE BLACK SPOTS PULSATING WITH LIFE. I’m naked on the floor in the middle of the room. The black spots are protruding from the walls, seeping outwards, crawling towards me. I’m crouched down screaming with horror. My moans echo against the walls and back to the inside of my head. Black spots are now covering the pure white floor. They’re under me, over me. I need to get away, get out but there’s nowhere to go. I want to run but I’m too busy screaming. They’re here, touching me. Now they’re seeping into my body. I can feel them under my skin, crawling against the roof of my skull. They’re in front of my brain, pushing against my eye-balls.

The black spots on the walls are suddenly reflecting an image of me writhing around in the centre of the room shrieking for help. I’m surrounded by a hundred reflections of myself: each one staring madly at me. Shouting, then laughing; shouting again at an increasingly high pitch and volume. The figures distort as I scratch against my own face. Chunks of skin are under my fingernails; blood is dripping and flowing to the floor forming a dark puddle with yet more reflections.

I’m twisting in agony. I need to get out. I have to escape this room; from the black spots. I look about in a haze. Images are moving and shifting violently in front of my eyes. I’m still screaming uncontrollably but slowly am able to concentrate my vision, scanning for an exit and from nowhere I spot a door in one of the walls. A white door covered with black spots which are screeching my name; warning me not to approach. But they can’t stop me. The black spots think they’re winning, think they can keep me here: but they don’t seem to realise that however terrified I am of approaching the door it doesn’t compare with the horror of staying inside this room any longer.

As I scramble towards the door the screeches get louder. The closer I get the worse the pain inside my head becomes. But I use it to my advantage, telling myself it will all stop once I’m out. This is the motivation I use to escape.

My shoulder crashes through the exit. Black spots attach themselves like leeches to my skin as I make contact with the door but I brush them off as I’m running, running as fast as I can down what appears to be an empty white corridor.

There is no time for any sense of relief however because the black spots are following. I can’t see because I daren’t turn around but I know they are behind me. I picture them sliding along the white walls and floor of the corridor in pursuit.

My shouting and screaming has come to an end now and instead I’m moaning such words as no, no, no, stop, please stop, please, no, please stop, stop, go away, go away, stop, leave me alone, go away… as I run. The corridor twists and turns endlessly in front of me. I begin to wonder why I’m not tired and unfortunately as soon as this thought enters my mind I feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue. I’m unable to run anymore.

At once I can no longer feel my legs. There’s no power in my body. My blood feels thin and weak. I collapse to the ground. I can see the black spots approaching but there’s nothing I can do. I resign myself to defeat, closing my eyes and burying my head in my hands. For the first time I’m quiet.

The black spots surround me, screeching my name with a terrifying anger. They are hungry, hungry for my soul. But there’s something I’m doing, something that they don’t like: something preventing them from finishing me off.

I start to breath more slowly, more calmly because I no longer care about saving myself. For the second time I seem to have fooled the black spots. If I no longer care then why should I be frightened and if I’m not frightened then what is there to care about?

The black spots surround me, mocking me. They tease me with false advances but I can feel a growing strength inside. I have lost the fear and I’m beginning to realise that this is what they were feeding on. I concentrate on telling myself they are only black spots and what is so frightening about a bunch of stupid black spots. In an unexpected turn of events I find I’m laughing hysterically.

Stupid black spots I say. What the hell are you gonna do, turn me into a fucking leopard? Who the hell gives a shit about a bunch of black spots? Fuck off you stupid black spots I say. Go fuck yourselves!

Now I’m really angry. Angry about what I’ve just been put through. Angry with myself for allowing it to happen.

My anger turns to hatred. Hatred of these pathetic black entities. I move towards the horde of black spots shouting insults. They jut around cackling but do not retreat. I’m waving my arms furiously while they remain just out of reach.

I want to kill them; kill them all. Every single one of them. The black spots which are crawling towards me. I’m screaming with terror.

Monday, 5 November 2012

guest story - Unseen by Ray Tullett

For the boy it had been a great Sunday afternoon, the first time he had ridden his bicycle without stabilizers. He could still feel the exitement as he thought back to the moment he realised his dad was no longer holding the back of his seat but better still was the look of pride in his dad’s face. Once he was off there was no stopping him and he spent hours riding around the park until he was exhausted. That was why he had put up no fight when told it was bed time. Now lying under the covers he looked up at the picture on the ceiling of an elephant spraying water over its back from the trunk, he wished he could go on a safari.

He rolled over to reach for his teddy bear but found nothing there. Confusion took him for a moment before he remembered putting it on the shelf. He felt a little guilty but now his stabilizers were off he was grown up and should not have a teddy bear in bed any more.

Watching the boy flick the switch on the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom; this did not take long as his night vision was very strong. He looked across the now dark room at the mound in the bed: anger did not come close to how he was feeling. He wanted to cause pain and suffering and could feel the urge building as the rage intensified, he had tried very hard to repress the urges he felt each day.

Waiting now was difficult but his past experience had taught him patience and if he was going to have his fun he would have to wait. The room was quiet; not even the ticking of a clock disturbed the peace. The only sound was the sound of the boy breathing, although it was not yet the slow steady breath of deep sleep.

The day had seen the boy riding solo for the first time and the boy had talked of nothing else since. He had already been in the bedroom and listened to the talk of the day, at one point the boy had come unexpectedly to the room and only some fast reflexes had kept him from being discovered. Thinking about the shock now only added to the anticipation of what was going happen later, he was not fully sure of how this was going to play out but feeling a fresh surge of rage that he barely managed to suppress, he knew it was going to be messy.

Daydreaming those pleasant thoughts made him miss the change in breathing but now he was focussed, the little snores coming from the small bed told him all he needed to know. Soon he would make his move and the fun could begin… but patience was still required as the parents were awake and downstairs watching T.V. He wanted to take his time with this one and make him pay in pain.

Time drifted on and in moments there seemed to be no hope of them ever going to bed. There had been a false alarm earlier when the dad had got up to put the kettle on. Listening to the kettle ping in the kitchen had been a real nightmare as he knew that there was probably going to be another hour of waiting. Passing the time by counting the boy’s breaths he waited and waited until finally there was movement downstairs and the T.V. was turned off.

The parents took their cups to the kitchen, rinsed them out and then came upstairs. This was it, finally the waiting was over and the rage was to be unleashed in a violence this house would never see again. He heard the mum go into the bedroom and the toilet flush in the bathroom as the father finished his business.

Footsteps on the landing and a soft light bathing the boy on the bed as the father opens the door to check on his precious boy. Holding his breath he waits for the door to close so he can make his move but he hears the father chuckle and sees him step into the room.

The father starts towards him and he holds himself dead still, he feels the father’s hands as they pick him up and carry him to the bed. He is tucked under the boy’s arm in his usual place, the footsteps retreat and the door closes and night once more enfolds the room…