2015 October Vignette

[Christoph]

It's time for the yearly Halloween themed vignette!


Write a story from a frightened NPC's perspective where your character is the stalker/slasher/monster/etc. Horror stylistic elements and themes are encouraged.

Deadline is 11:59 PM EST on October 31st. Good luck!

[Storm Veritas]

Friday, 25 October

Tonight looks like a lot of firsts for me, but I can’t help but worry about the “last” coming my way.

Harrison had every right to be worried. It was a routine game of poker at his boss Archibauld’s place; he was the first man in Radasanth to have a cellar that a man could stand in. Moreover, it was a mighty place; a wine cellar with oaken barrels and loads of space. It stretched underground far larger than the house’s surface footprint, wrapping wide from the front door into a long, blind corridor of barrels. It was extravagant, warm, lit, and wonderfully secluded. They enjoyed the quiet; it was musty and the air was filled with a sweet blend of rum and smoke. Things started slowly, the band of bookmakers joking with their boss. He was a good man; very social. It was when he got up to piss that all hell broke loose.

Their leader went out the front door to “water the grass”, and all seemed fine. It was when Archibauld returned that the merriment was broken with a crash. It was unsure what else might be happening, but when the portly forty-something got up to investigate, it wasn’t simply the noise of an over-served lightweight. When the fat crewman turned the corner, he saw what would later be known simply as “the weatherman”.

Storm Veritas stood behind the slumped politico; a long wire led from left hand to right with a detour around the throat of their boss. Their “boss” was simply a body now; his neck was red-ringed and eyes lifeless. Clearly his body had twisted on the way down; the sinister sneer on the assassin’s face indicated that clearly he had not planned on getting caught.

Seeing the boss down, Harrison had a few choices. He could attack the killer, or get out. Given that there were six other men in the cellar, it was an easy decision.

“Freeze!” Harrison glanced around, picking up the only nearby weapon – a fireplace poker. His bridge partner ran ahead, and was blasted with the impossible – a twisting spray of white-blue light, that sizzle-popped like lightning.

Oh lord, he’s one of THEM. The special ones. Lord, get me out.

The poker clanged to the floor with a raucous clang as he ran. For a few moments, it was bedlam. A few moved forward, but bloodcurdling shrieks and terrible sizzle-pops and gurgles reported the mistake in this decision. Harrison ran through the corridor, making his way for the wrought iron bulkhead that served as the back door. He went to grab the handle, and was thrust back with an impossible pain.

What!? No…

The whale’s oil lantern illuminated the impossible; the door had somehow been welded shut. When had this happened? How?

There was no time to stop and think of what had happened. He had seen a dead body (a first). He had heard at least two or three more die behind him (firsts). He had seen a man weld shut his exit with magic (yet another). Now, the man scrambled, picking the first logical place he could reason to hide.

He wasn’t more than one hundred feet from the front part of the cellar, where the terrible man had been seen. He pulled the lid off a large oaken barrel, using the background noises of crashing and fighting to hide the sound. The barrel was mercifully half-empty, and he clumsily worked himself in. He was able to get in with minimal splashing, but couldn’t help but splash some wine about the perimeter of the barrel. He pulled the lid over his head.

Please Lord, make him go away. Make him leave.

The waiting was merciless, and one minute aged as a dog’s year. The incoming killer did not leave, and a horrible silence fell over the massive cellar. Running, crashing, smashing and shrieking was replaced with a rhythmic click-clack of dress shoes on the mortared stone floor. It grew closer, closer, closer, the last steps splashing in the pool of wine outside his barrel. Harrison quaked inside his tiny quarters, as the rich red wine level settled at his chest. Mercifully, the immersion disguised his otherwise embarrassing urination.

“Good try, fat-boy. You picked the wrong sonofabitch to work for. Come on out and I’ll make it quick.” The voice of the intruder was deep, level, and unstrained. He had killed them ALL; Harrison was sure of it.

Quiet quiet quiet quiet…

It was a noble, but wasted effort. The pooled wine and tiny vibrations about his barrel had given him away.

“Suit yourself. Remember, this was YOUR choice, chubs.”

Suddenly there was a slow sizzling, and the barrel grew quite warm. Harrison looked up as the rim of the barrel – a thick iron ring – transitioned from dead black to a fiery orange color. He tried to press the lid up but the intruder was pressing back; he watched helplessly as the liquefied metal poured through the slats of wood.

It would be a minute or two before he realized that the ring had been sealed around the barrel of wine – his liquid tomb. It would only be a few minutes more when the air he breathed lacked precious oxygen.

His last drink of wine was a deep one.

[Fez_The_Kid]

Jorund scurried through the door, slamming it with a bang as he looked about wide-eyed. He reached for a tallboy, barricading the door and saving him requisite time. Foul air filled his lungs as his breathing resonated throughout the room; his shoulders sagged as he let his heart subside, regarding the door with a dread sensation that had since continued to grow. The pursuit had seemed like it spanned a number of hours, yet it was only a minute that he had spent barreling through the town’s swampy backstreets.

The thief turned, the parquet flooring creaking ominously under his soles. Moonlight broke through the windows, luminous shafts almost revealing the grimy chamber. Plodding into the darkness, he detected a pungent smell and paused; he noted a faint smudge on the floor, then crouched, rubbed his fingers over the substance and snuffed it. Hmm... Alcohol…? Ale. The thief straightened and lit a taper, its orange light unveiling a forsaken tavern, its buffet stretching beside him till it met the walls at the other end. There was a staircase off to the side, taking a turn-off into the first floor.

Other than the few rotting tables and chairs, the chamber was almost vacant. Cabinets were lined, their glass walls revealing chalices of the same material occupying the space inside like featureless figurines, staring deep into his being. Jorund stepped close towards the bar, pausing as he heard glass grind. He lifted a foot, the remainings of a shattered carafe bestrewing the spot underneath him... a quarrel was here... What's this? Along were four, parallel lines incised; fresh claw marks of a feline. He approached the buffet, glanced behind it.

"What in Haide happened here?"

Under the faint, yet stable candlelight, gore coated the parquet in untold amounts, smudges stretching for as long as the bar’s extent. The thief gave a grimace as he examined the dried lifeblood. Fight took place about a week ago… and from the smear's spot, seems to have involved the bartender. Place must have shut down and got abandoned after the carnage.

Jorund jerked back as a small figure slipped by him, its steps clicking over the flooring before disappearing on its way upstairs. The thief cursed and wiped sweat from his brow, straightening as he dusted grime from his leather leggings. Damned cats, he thought. Better look for something useful up--

There was a bang.

The thief’s eyes spread as he glanced at the door, jumping as the tallboy shook under another, louder blow. "No, no, no, you bastard…" he muttered, his heart beating thick at his chest. Jorund watched his barricade slowly erode, the impact shaking trinkets off the bureau and smashing them over the floor. The thief vaulted across the bar, skipping up two stories using the stairs. He halted as the cat found him again, which turned, bolted across the hallway, then leapt through a window to its death. Without further thought, he approached the window and looked down.

The cat was gone, but the monstrosity that wanted in was not. Even from the distance of two stories, it stood prodigious, its dark physique blending with the moonlit cobblestone walkways - a beast of prey that blended well against a backdrop of a desolate, grim town such as this one.

It opted for another blow against the barricaded entrance, then another, but stopped just before the third as Jorund outed a gasp.

The head then followed the walls up--up--up--up until it was holding gazes with him. Two ruthless eyes inspired by the bloodlust of a mindless beast and the wrath of a bloke barely past his teens, were now fully aware of the whereabouts of its prey, one that had been foolish enough to stand out from hiding as death came rapping the front door.

Jorund retired from the window with a shudder, tingles pirouetting up his very spine. The look on its face, it conveyed one message: "You." The thief reached for the closest room and locked the door behind him. Empty. A spare room. No chairs, no tables, no-thing. It was him, his pistol, and the lycanthrope.

The door collapsed. Jorund held his breath, his ear searching for that distinct sound. There was a long pause.
Then sounded the hefty steps that echoed his own with inhuman might, steadily growing as the fountainhead was up the stairs in seconds. Much to his horror, it was so close that its breathing thrust into his ears in full detail.

Sway save me... The thief took a step back, the wall stopping his effort to stand far away from the macabre terror that lurked behind the door. There was another pause. He heard it pick at the door’s knob.

Jorund’s eyes widened as the knob twitched and fell out of place.

The door creaked and slowly swung open.

It stood there, the same two eyes unwavering from his own, albeit this time much bigger than he’d suspected.

"Wait! Anubis… we can sort things out!"

The lips rolled back to uncover keen teeth that sought his throat. Bold red eyes narrowed on him - the culprit, the source of its displeasure. Its jaw unfurled, outing an ear-splitting cry that struck his nerves like a death sentence. The candle guttered, then was put out.

Under the veil of the gloom, it stepped inside. Jorund cocked his gun, pointing it at the man-wolf in defiance. "One step closer, a-and I’ll shoot! I will slay you, you Sway-damned animal!" His eyes watered. The werewolf grunted at the sound of liquid that gave way underneath him, then grunted a second time.

He heard it step close.

Jorund pulled the trigger, then there was nothing more.

[Elite Optic]

I just stood there. I admit it, I stood there and watched that coward run away, the echoing footsteps of his retreat were so quick and heavy that they continued to repeat in my mind long after he had gone. Escaping like a convict from his prison cell of many years; yet I never treated him badly.

I felt so angry as I stared down the stone path, the paved floor that I once cherished, once loved that I could call my own construction. I could walk down here any time, any day and following the long winding path until it took me deep into the courtyard and under the large Beech tree's that stood overshadowing our benches.

It was my safe place, my pride and joy that I only held pleasant memories for, and he was ruining it. I scowled at the thought of him ruining my happiness, that pig. These workers, these loyal guards and friends of mine had all cowered away, all ran for their lives because of a creature. The thought of which once frightened me, but not anymore, I won't let it scare me.

I made a pack with death; well I can't say that death himself exists, who really can? I made a stupid pack with a man, a man who claimed I could sign into wealth, sign into a better life, as long as I followed all the rules. Yes I remember him, his dirty cloth like clothes, his old boots that were littered with holes; I could see his toes.

I shouldn't be so bitter, I was once like him...But no! I'm better than him now, and it had absolutely nothing to do with that contract I signed. I hope not.

I glanced up at the evening sky, the clouds were dark but made it seem darker than it actually was. I adjusted my fur coat, pulling it tight over my shoulders and ensuring the cold wind would not disturb me anymore. Telling myself again and again, it was just the wind, it a cold day and getting late. There's nothing abnormal about it.

Walking back up my path I stepped back inside the back door. Pushing with some effort the large and thick wooden beast that was my back door. IT closed with a deep throaty thud, echoing into the barn like back room. Shutting out that infernal draft as I locked it, knocking the oversized bolt into place; nothing was getting through this door.

The huge fireplace crackled with its fresh wood I had fed to it moments earlier, and the warmth the room held reflected it's benefit. Oh how I love fires, especially big ones. It was the center piece of this room, prominently taking up the majority of the rear wall.

Staring at the flames I had to wonder, why was I shaking? I was warm, so much so I dropped my cloak on the rug by the fire. The thick red rug kept the cold stone from my feet and the heat generated from the fire was enough to make we sweat from this distance. Yet as I held out my hands they were shaking, trembling at the very thought that something was coming for me.

This is a lie. I earned this place, I earned my beautiful wife, I earned my magnificent home, my hundred horses, fifty men, 30 servants and many animals.

"I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!"

My teeth gritted against themselves as my dry mouth began to tense. I wanted to shout again, it felt good to let it out, but I couldn't. Just in case.

I decided to leave this room, I should grab a knife, no, a sword to protect myself. The stone stairway quickly rose me up a level, my library awaited me. Along with my small embellished table and chair. I had sat and read so much in this place, but not tonight.

Sprinting across the room I placed my hand on the door knob, the cold handle turned as I released the latch and that's when I heard it. The thudding of large footsteps, slow but gradually getting louder as they approached my position. My heart began to race and I rubbed my shaven chin nervously, it was a bad habit of mine, but now felt like the time for it.

I stroked my eyebrow instinctively, but why? I did it again, I was sweating nervously because I was lying to myself. I knew he was coming, I knew why everyone had left me to die.

How can you stop something that it already dead?

I'd heard those words before, when I signed that contract all those years ago. It was a warning to me, and I only really feared those words now; he was coming for me.

I stepped back from the large door, the over sized doorway a visual representation to how wealthy I really was. Now though, I feared what was going to come through it.

That same iron handle began to rotate, it felt so slow as I watched it reach its peak to unlatch the library door.

Click.

"STAY AWAY!" I shouted as loud as my lungs would let me.

My legs, shaking at the very imagery that plagued my mind, could hardly carry me anymore. If this were a man, I could fight back, I could send my men to dispatch of him, but this was no man.

I scrambled across the carpet, almost tripped as I stepped onto my woolly rug. Knocking the chair aside carelessly it crashed to the floor. No time to care about that now. I grabbed the desk draw, pulled it out desperately and pulled out the only weapon I could find. A letter opener, blunt and small but I wrapped my hand around it tightly and turned to watch the door open.

The door swung open, not a creak evident. The silent swing only broken by the thud as it struck the wall at maximum reach. The door shuddered like a frightened child, though if I was honest, I was doing the same.

Then there he was, stepping out into the open for the first time for me to see. My mouth gawped involuntarily, my legs gave way and I sat leaning back against the table top. The large man was nothing more than a pile of living bone. A skeleton of unimaginable size for a man, his bones all stained brown and yellow, like old rotting teeth they lacked any white they once held.

Cracks and scars marked every inch of his structure, legs, arms and ribs alike, and yet nothing appeared weak. The solid thick bone was larger and thicker than my own arms, I was nothing in this moment.

How could this be? How could this be?

My eyes strained as I stared up at its face, there were no human eyes to look at and yet it could see me. Staring back through some flames within its skull that appeared to see my trembling body as I still leaned against my favourite table.

I held out the letter opener, thrusting it towards the skeleton. Pointless as it was, I couldn't just let myself die without a fight. It stepped forward, lugging behind itself the most gigantic sword I had ever seen, rusty and bloody at the same time, it was marked the remains of what I could only imagine were my most loyal men.

It took another step towards me and I felt like I lost the vision in one of my eyes. I had strained so hard it felt blurry as my sight failed me. I dropped the letter opener, allowing it to clatter on the ground as I held my face. This predator had caught it's elusive prey.

Then the large bony hand reached out for me, it didn't need its weapon, it didn't require one to take my life. Remorselessly it's fingers wrapped around my throat, and it squeezed me like I was a lemon.

Digging into my skin I felt the fingers cut into my neck, yet they continued to choke me, I grasped desperately at the arm that held me. Punching, kicking and struggling and yet I couldn't loosen its grip, I could not breath. My chest felt tight, my strength began to leave my body and my forceful punches soon became a weak flailing swing that fell limp against it.

Feeling my throat close, not even my tongue able to gargle, my vision left me, my strength gone and then I could hear nothing.

"It was a pleasure to deal with you."

[Hawl]

OOC: As Canon as the reader wants it to be.

“Hello!”

Christian awoke with a start and a heavy gasp at the voice. His movements were stopped, dusty black ropes as thick as an axe’s hilt wrapped around his wrists and ankles. The middle aged man acted without thought, muscles bunching and flexing, fighting the rough, heavy rope to no avail. His skin burned, already rubbed raw with from while he was still asleep, and began to bleed Even with the additional slickness, it wasn’t enough to loosen the tight bonds. It even began to tickle him as the ruby liquid trickled down his forearms. Wide, dilated eyes saw how they were tied around and through the thick, oaken headboard of the bed. The ones around his ankles were bound the to to the footboard respectively. Somehow, the sheets and mattress were gone from under him, the uncomfortable hardwood of the bed exacerbated by his bound state.

“What in the name of the Thayne are you doing?” He almost roared it, eyes twitching and constantly refocusing on the small girl just beyond the edge of the bed. His voice was close to breaking, the frantic adrenaline keeping the fear at bay. He saw her at the foot of the bed, her small body only half visible over the footboard. He saw he earlier in the inn. She was woking the tables and struggling to carry the pitchers of cheap ale.

“Sorry mister Chrstian,” The girl sat on a small stool. The same stool that was in the common area of the bar downstairs. Crow Inn was famous for its convenience in the port of Alerar, and not too much else. Watered down beer, awkward lighting and a penchant for housing particularly unsavory characters did little to help its awkward location on the third street from the port. For many travelers without much coin, it was their only choice and they left as soon as the dawn broke. “But my Aunt said I had to make sure you stay there.”

“W-who is Aunt?” Christian pulled at the thick ropes again, their creak as inconsequential as the wind through a tree. The little girl had stood now, bending over at the footboard as she hummed pleasantly. When her head popped up, she still had the beaming grin she greeted him with.

“She’s my Aunt! Aunt Jane! An’ she said I had to make sure you don’t do anything, and gave me this stuff!” She held up her prize so he could see over his hyperventilating chest. It was a small pint glass, a wooden handle sticking out the top of it. She kept smiling, an expression that could have been mistaken for curiosity interrupting her bright smile. She pulled at the wooden handle, revealing the bristles at the end half as long as the girl’s fingers. A viscous, opaque goop slowly dropped from the “Oh, an’ this is a brush! Aunt Jane said you were a bad guy, so…”

“I didn’t do nothing!”

“That’s what Aunt Jane said!” The little girl clapped, flashing bright, white teeth at the man. Her big eyes practically glowed in the scarce light, almost flashing as she rocked back and forth on the stool. The moon was low in the sky outside, big and bright as the sun. The small girl’s thin poncho would have barely kept out the cold of the late autumn, and she had to keep running a hair through her near white shook of hair to keep it contained. “But she also said you were going to do some bad stuff, and Aunt Jane’s never wrong!”

“Let me go! I-I have a family I need to see! I have to-“ The man’s voice cracked finally as the small girl touched his upper arm with the goopy end of the brush. The liquid was cold and haphazardly applied. It trailed down his arm, and began to harden quickly. Christian’s neck was craned, tendons in his neck bunched and twisted as he watched. He pulled again, trying to free himself, and his skin pinched painfully.

“I really can’t, mister Christian. Aunt Jane made me promise you wouldn’t do anything,” she sounded almost sad as the brush trailed along the underside of the man’s arm. When it touched the hardwood bed, it was stuck fast. Christian gasped, then hissed in pain as he tried to free himself. The girl gave a small meep as he pulled it free, leaving behind a patch of skin as wide an an orange! She made a face, brushing more of the opaque liquid to the exposed flesh, then gently pressing it down to the bed. “Please be careful! I don’t have that much, mister Christian! I really can’t waste any of thi-“

A loud pop as he dislocated his undamaged arm, and his knee bent suddenly, spilling the goopy liquid over Christian’s legs and and thighs. Both he and the small girl screamed,in pain and surprise. He kept twisting his hands, trying to free them as she backed up and untouched by the sticky liquid. It slowly hardened on the man, slowly and eventually stopping his movements. Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes, whether from pain or fear only he could tell. The little girl huffed, annoyed as she watched her prey slow. She stomped around the bed to where the brush fell. She gave it a little kick, the tool stuck fast to the floor. Her shoulders slumped, and she went back around the bed, pulling out a matching glass to the one she had before. She advanced a warily, biting her lip to make sure Christian wouldn’t struggle again.

She didn’t speak, entirely focused on the man as he he lay on the bed whimpering. She gently tipped the glass onto his face, a few drops making their way into his mouth before he reflexively closed it. It hardened quickly, and Christian’s screamed was muffled by the seal around his mouth. The little girl cocked her head, then nodded. She aimed it a little higher, spilling two or three drops into one of the man’s eyes, then accidentally a larger glob into the other. She pulled back smoothly, carefully pouring more of the thick adhesive along his arms.

“Aunt Jane’ll be up soon, mister Christian, and she’ll take care of the rest.”

[redford]

A noise woke Flint Band from his slumber.

Who the hell wants me at this time of night, he thought as the sound repeated itself as a loud banging on his door, followed by the frantic voice of the captain of his personal guard.

“My lord! My lord!” the door swung open, revealing Samuel Bertrand, clad in full battle gear. His frame filled the doorway, lit by a torch whose light reflected off his drawn sword. There was fear in his eyes, which is something Flint had never seen before. This was bad. Flint kept a straight face as he addressed his captain, knowing that morale was his responsibility. All this he noticed in the half-second it took for Samuel to breathe and begin speaking again.

“John Cromwell survived the attack, my lord, and he’s here! We must get you to safety!”

Flint’s eyes narrowed. He had considered this eventuality, and now that John broke with his family traditions to seek revenge, he could make a play for a large portion of their already meager land.

“No, Samuel. If we do not stand against this aggressor, then he will undo us,” Flint said, swinging his legs over the bed, quickly grabbing his shirt and pants, and donning a chain shirt.

“Where is he?”

Samuel was as good a captain as they come, and he snapped into that particular mindset common to officers. Gone was the man woken in the middle of the night. In an instant he was a soldier once more.

“As I left he was breaking down the front gate, lord.”

Flint Band prided himself on being a tactician, and not without good reason. He spoke without hesitation. Hesitation was a sign of weakness in a commander.

“I want archers on the second level of the main hall, and bring ten spearmen at the bottom. We’ll give him an arena to die in, if he wants it that badly.”

“Sir!” he barked, disappearing through the doorway. Flint continued to prepare, donning leather pants and boots, and grabbing his longsword before leaving the room as well. Cromwell may be good, but I’m better, he thought, walking down a long corridor toward the main hall. The men were just assembling as Flint entered the balcony, following a handful of archers. He heard a yell from behind the large door below him, and the door blew off it’s hinges, followed closely by an armored body, which skidded with the door to a halt.

Flint then saw a massive leg pass through the doorway, followed by the giant, John Cromwell. He felt a tiny pang of fear simply because of his size, but he dismissed it, and instead focused on a strategy to finish him.

John stood in full plate armor and helmet, giant shield in one hand, and an equally large mace in another. The armor was likely thick, and the archers would be more of an annoyance than anything, but the spearmen were the true danger to John, as his armor slowed the movements. John’s armored head pointed his direction, and he yelled up.

“Flint Band! Face me you coward!”

Flint glanced at samuel, who cast him an unsure look. He gestured across his neck with a few fingers, and Samuel took the hint, barking at the archers, who loosed their arrows as the spearmen lunged forward.

John yelled as the arrows bounced harmlessly off of his armor, and smashed a spear with his mace. It shattered, and John ran forward into the space it left open, swinging his mace into the chest of the soldier he’d knocked the spear from, sending him to the ground. Now too close for their spears to be of effective use, John began to kill them as they grasped at their swords, surprised that he moved so quickly. Two arrows sprouted from John’s giant form, one at his shoulder, and a second at his hip, and he still fought on. Flint took a half step back, glancing at the doorway. He could still escape, but he had faith in his commander.

It was true, Flint Band feared John Cromwell, if nothing else than for his size and skill in battle. But he had the numbers and the high ground, as well as the skills of Samuel.

Blood rushed to his face anyways, and his heart beat heavy as John killed his soldiers.

Samuel had rallied the four men left and surrounded John. Every once in awhile an arrow would bounce off of his armor as one of the archers loosed the arrow. Samuel spoke, his greatsword in both hands.

“John, see reason! You cannot win this battle,”

“See reason?! Flint Band killed my wife, and I will have his life as payment, as well as anyone else’s who raises their sword in his defense!”

He yelled again, swinging his mace at Samuel, lunging out of range of the other soldiers. Samuel sidestepped his blow and made a stab at John’s torso, knowing that any slashes would be useless.

John attempted to raise his shield, but Samuel was fast and practiced, and his strike pierced his armor, sending a few inches of greatsword into his shoulder.

John roared in pain and anger, swinging his shielded arm up, which caught the tip of the greatsword and broke it, leaving six inches of blade protruding from his armored shoulder. He swung upward with the mace, and Samuel barely dodged aside, rolling up and drawing his other sword quickly. Another arrow buried itself in John’s leg, that made four arrows and half of a sword sticking out of him.

Flint screamed at his soldiers.

“What are you waiting for!? Charge him!”

Flint’s remaining soldiers, mustering up the courage that he’d bestowed on him, rushed at John’s back. John turned his heel, bringing his mace around to the first swordsman’s head, cleaving it from his body, splashing bits of skull and brain on the other four soldiers. One collapsed, scrambling away as John screamed again, meeting the second with his shield, breaking something in the man and sending him to the ground. He swung the mace again viciously, and the third man to rush him tried to dodge, but was too slow. One of the spikes on his mace caught the soldier in the arm, and tore it off from the elbow down, blood caking the mace again. The soldier collapsed, clutching what remained of his sword arm.

Flint winced a little, taking a step back. John was proving more troublesome by the second.

Samuel looked up, wide-eyed at John, and steeled himself once again.

“You will not hurt my lord!” he yelled weakly.

“I will do as I please, Samuel!” John yelled over him, dropping both shield and mace. Samuel swung quickly at John’s neck, but John stepped forward inside the strike, striking him in the face with a closed gauntlet. Samuel’s Jaw broke and he dropped his sword. John stepped forward, grabbing his head in a lock in his elbow, pulling with his other hand at his shoulder. He locked eyes with Flint on the balcony and began to pull.

Samuel struggled weakly and screamed despite his broken jaw. John felt the neck pull taut, and a snapping sound cut off Samuel’s flailing. John’s rage burned hot against Flint, and Samuel, and the soldiers, and the mercenaries, and everyone. He simply raged, yelling incomprehensibly at Flint. He continued to pull, and felt the flesh of his neck begin to tear, splattering him with blood. The head came loose, and John hurled it at Flint, who ducked behind it, now staring at John wide-eyed.

“You’re next, Flint!” John yelled, snatching his mace up and running toward a side door that led to a flight of stairs, ducking his shoulder into it and splintering the door. A serving girl was on the other side, and she fell beneath John’s feet. He didn’t even glance back.

Flint ran down the hall toward his bedroom, breathing heavily. He was muttering to himself as he closed the door, bringing a heavy wooden beam down across it. He knew it wouldn’t hold, knew that John would scour the castle until he found him.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he said, pacing with frantic speed. His hand found its way to his sword, but before he could draw it, there was a crash against the door.

“Flint! Face me, coward!” John yelled from behind the door. It cracked after a second blow.

“No, no no no this can’t be happening to me!” he yelled as the bar across the door finally gave way. John stood there, his head and shoulders ducking below to get through the doorway. It was only now that Flint realized just how massive he was. His head nearly touched the eight foot ceiling, and his mace was the size of a large bucket. It was caked and dripping with the blood of his soldiers, and his armor was dripping with the blood of his captain. Flint backed up, trying to find the words that were so sure a few moments ago.

“Listen, John, I can make you-”

John threw the mace at him, and it tore a chunk of flesh from Flint’s shoulder, knocking him on his bed. Flint scrambled backward as John leapt on him, planting a spiked knee on one arm and pinning the other with his left hand. His right clamped on Flint’s throat.

“Please, John I can help you!”

John’s hand twisted and clenched, and Flint screamed with pain and desperation as he felt his arm break.

“Promise me money, Flint! Give me power!”

“Yes! Yes, anything, just please don’t kill me!” Flint squealed, tears welling in his eyes. John’s face twisted into an angry scowl as he spoke with finality.

“No.”

Flint lost air as John leaned on his knee, snapping his other arm, leaving him defenseless. Desperation and pain filled his mind like water, drowning him in fear. With his last thought he regretted ever loving Katherine.

[BlackAndBlueEyes]

He didn't remember everything in the moments after his leg was caught in the snare. He recalled a sharp pain in the back of his head as the trap dragged him to the cold earth of the forest floor, and then nothing. He remembered waking up intermittently inside a moving cart, his limbs bound with rope, a cloth muzzle keeping him from making any noise other than pained whimpers. The ride was long and rough, but was otherwise uneventful.

He finally regained his senses inside the confines of a well-lit chamber. Glowing stones embedded into the concrete walls cast their bright light in every possible direction, eliminating the shadows that would normally dance around with each fiery flicker of a candle. Slowly but surely, he rose to his full height, head swimming with a hazy agony from his skull cracking against a rock or a root when he was trapped. He took a tentative step, found his footing, nearly stumbled when he attempted another one, and steadied himself. And then, another step. And another. And another.

Where the hell was he?

It didn't take long to notice the thick metal bars of his cage. A quick press up against the imposing rods taught him that there would be no escape. Beyond the walls of his prison, there sat several tables with papers scattered about their polished wooden tops, along with various instruments and glass objects that he could not discern the purpose of. They were filled with various liquids, powders, sludge, gasses, and other things. He was unaware of their purpose, but that didn't stop the hair on the back of his neck from standing on end.

He knew this place was dangerous, but he could not escape. The cage door that led to his freedom would not open.

He circled around in his cage for minutes that dragged on like hours. He noticed that the neighboring cells held his brothers. Each of them looked just as terrified as the next. Each of them knew that this would not end well for them.

They did not say a word to one another. They simple stood there in silence, the overwhelming sense of dread thick in the air.

There was a click, a soft creak, and footsteps. All eyes in the room fell on the intruder. A youngish woman with sharp, bird-like features and jet black hair that was parted in the middle and fell down to her shoulders walked into the room. She wore a long, white coat that was buttoned up to cover herself. In her spidery hands, she held a notebook and several syringes. She spoke several unintelligible words, her cheery voice like the shriek of a raptor to his ears.

His uneasy feeling only grew in intensity. Nothing good could come from this woman.

The woman went over to the various tables, picking up bottles one by one and sucking out viscous liquid from each in turn with her array of needles. She kept muttering to herself in that wretched sing-song voice of hers. Words that he could not decipher for the life of him; yet, they were words that held no goodwill. But, she kept working, filling each syringe within a minute or two.

He and his brothers could do nothing but look at each other as they awaited their fate.

The woman turned towards their iron-wrought cages and stepped closer. The brothers in turn backed themselves into the corners of their cells. The air was thick with fear. Some whimpered. Others bared their teeth.

The woman simply smiled as vines grew out of the sleeves of her white coat.

He could only watch on in horror as the vines wrapped themselves around the legs of his brother in the next cage. He felt utterly helpless, unable to come to his brother's rescue while the wretched woman pulled him towards the front of the cage. His brother cried out, startling the rest of the imprisoned family, as she jammed one of the needles into the soft flesh of his neck. The vines let go of him, and slithered back inside the arms of her coat.

He rushed to the side of the cage, pressing his face against the cold metal bars while his brother laid still at its floor. He stared at his brother, desperately wiling him to rise to his feet.

And he did. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, but it didn't last long. No sooner had the woman opened her notebook to a fresh page and produced a pen did his brother begin to throw up.

The stench was unbearable. At first, there were bits of the dinner that the family shared together what seemed like forever ago. But after the first few heaves came the blood and the smoke. He could only watch as his brother melted from the inside out, his liquefied organs pouring out of his mouth as he collapsed back onto the metal floor of the cage. His limbs twitched, his back arched, his face twisted in indescribable pain, the squishy hacking noises that came from his mouth as he continued to throw up blood and pink globs of smoking matter.

The woman simply clicked her tongue and scribbled in her notebook.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. A long, sorrowful howl echoed against the stone walls of the chamber.

[Philomel]

There are those moments in life when -

All you know is -

What you can see and -

What you can hear and -

What you feel inside -

I mean deep inside, not the -

The -

Not the slippery floor beneath your feet that when you take a single step onto it causes you to slide backwards, right onto your arse and tailbone so hard that it sends a sharp juddering pain right into your skull, and then your head explodes with excruitating agony and all you can do is scream so loud that ...

That you can no longer hear the rasping breathing that has been shadowing you all this time. Always over your shoulder, ever present, ever there, and ever invisible.

But it is not the breath of a man. Nor that of any associated humanoid creature, neither dwarf nor elf or even drow. Nay, it is something more than a being, it is a terribly monstrous beast that grated, scratched the air and excoriated the inside of your ear, to such an extent that you couldn't ever forget the sound, no matter how far you ran. Because it was so awful, so full of fiendish barbarity that it spoke nothing of rationality at all, nothing of morals and goodness. All it was, was evil, pure disguting evil.

The devil itself.

When I fell over I shrieked. And for a moment the breath was gone. But when no one responded to my cry for help, and my voice faded away to nothingness, becoming one with the thick dark was was all around, so tangible it felt like you could touch it, the monstronsity returned. Shallow, then heavy breathing, whispering cold things of wordlessness but awful meaning, clinging to my sweat-drenched hair.

I remained on the floor, falling back slightly to brace myself against something hard. It was flat and firm, and I took it to be a wall. As I let my weight fall against it slightly, the breathing ... slowed. It's tempo fell and so did the actual pitch, the loudness. It seemed to be fading, and then it did fade, for the first time since I had come to this hell hole of a basement that had turned out to be a barrow it turned into a murmur, then a whisper, and then all at once -

It went. It went to nothing. No more sound. No more ... following.

I kept my nerves about me, hands still shaking, head still aching. Just waiting for it to come back.

Seconds ticked by. The darkness began to clear. It revealed more of the room as the microcosms of time slipped on by. I counted each one in my head.

One. I saw my legs. They were sprawled at awkward angles, but not broken. A blessing.

Two. As my eyes glanced to my left I began to make out the hazy outline of a pillar.

Three. Four. The pillar was tall, it held up a high ceiling. I could not see the ceiling itself.

Seven. Eight. Nine Floorboards were beneath me, stone was behind me. I could tell it by the cool touch I felt on the back of my neck.

Twelve. Thirteen ... Sixteen. My heart rate began to drop as the sound did not come back. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Thirty. I was in a sort of homely cavern - a cavern made into a home. What I had slipped on apparently was just water. Ah, water, and I thought it had been some sort of blood of a previous victim.

Sixty ... Seventy ... Ninety ... I stopped counting, realising it was stupid. All of this was in my head, after all. Obviously. I had just fallen down a hole and ended up in some old smugglers den. I found myself smiling as I pulled myself to my feet. No longer did my head hurt and it was definitely stone that I had leant upon. In fact the pillar I now saw as clear as day was a stalgamite. Just a naturally forming icon.

My legs held me insteady, and I could see better now. Obivously when I had first come in something had gotten into my eyes, and maybe my ears, or I had hit my head, causing me to reel off the rails a little. The reasoning was infaliable in my head, and I completely agreed with it.

You see - there had never been any breath, never been anything following me. It had all been my brain the entire time.

Staggering, and using the stalgamite for support I began to search the low-lit area for a way out. There had to be one, after all I had fallen in. And the floorboards suggested someone had lived here, so they had to have some way of gaining access and exit. Indeed, I think I even saw a trunk or two out of the blurry corners of my eye, clear signs of habitat.

I gained strength. I stumbled slightly towards what seemed to be a beam of light. It came from the ceiling, crosshatched though in bars that seemed to speak 'ladder' in my mind. Great, I thought, grinning. A way out. All was easy now. I just had to walk.

One, two, three. Easy as pie.

Four, five -

Stop.

A flash out of the corner of my eye. I froze, eyes working wildly, heart beating frantically. Could it be - was it - can it -

No sound. No breath.

Just a loose cobweb caught in a breeze.

I shook my head, laughing at myself, realising just how ridiculous I was. I took another step forwards, my gaze swinging back around to the shaft of light, the ladder and -

And -

There, downlit from the heaven-like beam was a monster. The devil. Standing well over seven foot it had massive, black, gnarled horns curled demon-like from its brow, spiralling away into infinity. The body was one that should belong to a giant, rippling with muscles, but ones that were more deathly threatening than handsome. It had hands the size of dinner plates with crooked and broken talons, aching to claw at my flesh, but that was not the worst of it. The worst were the eyes, the narrow-set terrible eyes, brimming with a cold red light, flashing in the dark, staring into my soul. They glittered with a pulse, a steady horrifying pulse that echoed in my ears. An echo that became a rough breath. The same breath as before. A one-two, one-two, one-two,of daunting, irreversible, abrasive dread.

That filled my ears, filled my head and filled my eyes. My sight grew hazy, it grew dim. I breathed, but then I not breathe, because - because the beast's breath was overwhelming mine. It slammed into my chest like a steel knife, and stole who I was. Everything went black.

Black.

[Lye]

Closed for judging.

[Christoph]

Storm Veritas

Story: Your opening line was interesting, if a bit too wordy (more on that in Prose). It established the theme of "firsts", which I was pleased to see you continue continue later in the story. I might have preferred the theme spread out more and used more subtly, but it still worked. You moved the plot along at a good clip, not wasting too much time, story-wise (prose is another matter – see below). All in all, you wrote a straightforward plot about an assassin showing up and murdering everyone. I liked your use of various setting elements to tell the story, from the fire poker to the wine barrel. It brought the scene to life, making it feel like a real place rather than a backdrop.

Character: You didn't show a lot, but you did well with what you gave. You took Harrison, who could have been a one-dimensional victim, and had him make actual decisions and react to the outcome. His first reaction was to attack, but he quickly changed his tune once he realized what he was up against. I would have liked to see a little more after that, something to make me care a little more about the outcome. Storm was portrayed as your typical implacable killer, which was the point of the prompt, so that works. Dialogue did the job and felt natural enough.

Prose: You writing meandered around the point too much, which makes it difficult to build tension or keep readers engaged. For instance, in the second full paragraph, you waste precious time with phrases like, "It was unsure what else might be happening". If the portly forty-something is getting up to investigate, obviously it's because the situation isn't readily apparent. You also use weak verbs a lot. In your first paragraph alone, you use was or had as your primary verb in the first four clauses, and Four out of the seven clauses after that. This made your prose less precise, less vibrant, and more passive. Also, whether the symptom or the cause, it correlated with telling too much and showing too little. You also sprinkled some unneeded viewpoint intrusion in there as well, such as: "When the fat crewman turned the corner, he saw what would later be known simply as “the weatherman”." Feel free to message me for more examples of all of the above points, which I must omit for space.

Okay, so the bad out of the way, let's touch on the good. Clarity was fine in the broad sense – your prose rendered some sentences a little vague, but I always understood what was going on decently enough. You used some nice rhetorical devices. I especially enjoyed the "detour around the throat" bit – gets the point across without overdoing it. Of course, you had some misses, like when you used a simile to describe lightning as basically behaving and sounding "like lightning", ha!

Wildcard: Fantastic job sticking to the prompt. Your character probably sees himself as, if not a good guy, at least a neutral guy, but you showed how somebody on the wrong side of his wrath could see him as an absolute terror. You elevated it above "the guy is trying to get me", portraying Storm as a supernatural stalker. Granted, your high power level gives you an advantage.



Fez_the_Kid

Story: Pacing-wise, I took issue with your first few paragraphs. You started with a sense of urgency, with Jorund rushing through a door and baricading it. After that, you meandered for a few full paragraphs without explaining why he ran inside in the first place, making it feel like he wasn't in actual danger. For how much time you spent describing the setting, I would have liked to see you use it even more. That said, you did make solid use of it, so I was just nitpicking. The story itself was straightforward. I would have liked a few twists and turns to make it interesting. Perhaps more moving about the abandoned inn, trying to barricade more entrances as his hunter tries to find a way in.

Character: Not much to say here. You didn't provide a lot of characterization. Dialogue was bare-bones and basic. While I liked that you used setting elements in the dialogue, most of felt like throwaway lines. As for Jorund himself, I got that he was afraid. Kind of. To your credit, you did more to show his fear than simply telling the reader he was afraid. I just didn't get any depth to him, even taking the story's length into account.

Prose: You used some phrases and made some word choices that didn't quite work, such as "as his breathing resonated throughout the room". I've never associated breathing with resonating, unless the room had some kind of harmonic quality, I guess. A little later, you describe chalices in the cabinets as "staring deep into his being", which feels very overdone. Save the dramatic descriptions for suitably dramatic moments.

Indecisive best describes your prose, whether using too many words to describe something or simply using indecisive language, such as "luminous shafts almost revealing the grimy chamber." In that example, these luminous shafts must have revealed the chamber enough to show its griminess. No need for the almost. Be decisive with your writing.

Wildcard: You stuck faithfully to the prompt with a classic approach. I would have liked to see your character's unique aspects play into the horror themes more, to elevate it above a simple "scary something trying to get me". Decent effort overall, though.




Elite Optic

Story: Your story took a while to build up any real tension or suspense. You began with something actually happening (“that coward” running off), which is good. If you had continued to build on that and drive the story with actual things happening, you would have done much better. Maybe squeezing far less backstory in would have helped. The story itself was pretty classic and straightforward. Character makes a deal with something evil, evil thing comes to collect. It’s been done a million times, but you went about it in a believable and authentic manner. I just wish you had come up with a twist on the trope to make it more interesting. Setting was a stronger point, shaky descriptions notwithstanding (more in Prose). You interacted with it and described it with sufficient but not overwhelming detail.

Character: Your narrator was pretty standard, much like the story. And much like the story, you played out the trope properly. You showed some depth to the character, some personality. Some of his pride and anger, rather than only fear.

Prose: Your first-person voice was pretty convincing. It felt conversational but just formal enough to read smoothly. You tend to tell rather than show, a common trap, especially with first-person. “I felt so angry” – help the reader experience what it felt like to be so angry. You also tend to meander around the point quite a bit, like in your first paragraph – you used a lot of words to say, well, not that much. Sometimes you use odd descriptions that don’t quite work, or do work but use too many words. Also, it’s “pact”, not “pack”.

Wildcard: Like I said in Story, you used a very classic deal-with-the-devil theme and played it out gruesomely but otherwise to the letter. That said, it worked well with the prompt and you hit all the important points to make that theme work. I was just disappointed by the lack of any twist or subversion to make things less predictable.



Hawl

Story: Interesting concept – a man gets captured and punished (implied, anyway) for some crime he hasn’t committed but supposedly will. Kind of like the Scary Girl Horror version of Minority Report. I would have enjoyed seeing the concept play out on the page.

Character: Dialogue was pretty good and helped make the girl sound more like a child. The whole glue element made me cringe, so nicely done on the action front. The characters themselves lacked much depth, though. I think playing out your story’s concept more on the page would have developed the characters more.

Prose: Customary opening line nitpick: simply using “Christian awoke with a gasp” would have worked much better. A start AND a gasp overdoes it and gets redundant, and you started with someone saying Hello, so naturally if he’s waking up, startled, it’s because of the voice. You had more mechanical errors than anyone else, but not so many as to make it difficult to read. You use figurative language to describe details that don’t need the extra emphasis and include many unnecessary details. Also, I noticed some odd PoV issues, such as: “Tears were beginning to well up in his eyes, whether from pain or fear only he could tell.” If it’s from his point of view, he and thus the reader would be able to know.

Wildcard: I enjoyed the more confined, single-room captivity take on the prompt. Like I said in Story, more exploration of your concept would have been nice. Also, more horror elements and general creepiness!



Redford

Story: Your story could have been half its length. The plot, when you lay it out, was very straightforward – John shows up and kills everyone. If you’re going for a simple story path, at least make the plot move at a punchy pace. The setting was there, but when you referenced various parts of it, I would have liked a little extra detail here and there to paint a more vivid picture.

Character: You make a good effort at establishing the relationship between Flint and John, but I feel like you relied on it too much. You used the familiarity in ways that made the situation feel less tense. You tell the reader that Flint is afraid of John, but I didn’t feel it until maybe the very end. The action felt pretty generic as John tanked his way through a bunch of extras. Dialogue got the job done. Though it was mostly average, the last few lines were pretty slick. I would have preferred you make that finale interaction more menacing, though. I’ll also be mean and take a jab at the “he’d never seen fear in his eyes before” cliché from early in the story. :p

Prose: Not much to say here. Your prose was plain, but in some ways that worked in your favor, as compared to some other entries that used literary techniques in unnecessary ways. Still, a little extra flair would have been nice. Mechanics was your strongest point. You used good verbs consistently and your sentences structure and overall cadence served you well. You get a bit too wordy here and there, use a bit of viewpoint intrusion when you don’t need to, and have a couple awkward phrases and overly long sentences, but there issues were few and far between. Your writing is the cleanest out of any entry.

Wildcard: You technically stuck to the prompt, but it felt more like a revenge-centered combat scene than a stalker/horror piece.



BlackandBlueEyes

Story: For a short story, it’s usually a bad move to spent a full paragraph telling what a character remembered happening (or didn’t remember). Better to show things as they unfold or otherwise focus on what’s currently happening, especially for your opening. You used the setting rather effectively to build a sense of dread, so props there. Also, prose issues notwithstanding (see Prose), you didn’t meander too much through the story. The main weak point was the story’s actual progression. There was no conflict, nor even an illusion of conflict, only grim inevitability. Grim inevitability is fine, but it works much better if you allow a glimmer of hope first, so you can mercilessly snuff it out.

Character: Dialogue felt weak, mostly because there wasn’t any. You somewhat developed and internal monologue for your character, but much of it would have worked better either spoken aloud, or at least shown as actual thoughts. You also dropped an opportunity by having the character’s brothers there, but not having them speak. For action, you too fell into the telling rather than showing trap, [especially in the first half]. “A quick press up against the imposing rods taught him that there would be no escape.” – you would have done better to actually describe him struggling against the bars.

Prose: You loaded up your sentences with a lot of unnecessary fluff, and also had a tendency to drop multiple overly long sentences in a row. That combined with instances of viewpoint intrusion (“It didn't take long to notice the thick metal bars of his cage. ”), made the writing a bit tough to slog through. That aside, everything was grammatically clean and clarity was good – perhaps a positive consequence to your overabundance of details (that doesn’t make it okay, mind you – it’s always best to include the crucial details as efficiently as possible). On a literary level, you went for the less is more approach, which worked fine, but obviously didn’t blow my mind.

Wildcard: I give you a slight edge here, because your approach the prompt was a really cool idea, even though the execution could have been better. I liked how Madison probably viewed the entire ordeal as another day at the office, compared to the horror of her test subjects.



Philomel

Story: You started strong, but around the third proper paragraph, you lost your storytelling tempo. When you followed up with “The devil itself”, I feel like you didn’t need half the description building up to it. The “devil” carries strong enough connotations on its own. The main flaw is how long you spent without much actually happening. Sadly, your plot was a pretty standard line and you took too long to traverse it.

Character: Not much going on here. You had your narrator, and I appreciated your inclusion of his counting strategy to handle distress. Beyond that, there wasn’t much interaction, just the narrator assessing his situation for most of the story. I did enjoy the weird use of powers from your player-character, to help establish the horror factor.

Prose: Your intro was almost great, though perhaps drawn out a bit too much. I liked that it felt both figurative and literal at the same time. You included other cool bits of literary technique. You lost me mostly on brevity. I had a hard time reading through the story because your descriptions were so wordy and inefficient that it felt like I had to work twice as hard to experience the narrative. Too much fluff, not enough substance.

Wildcard: Good use of your player-character as the monster archetype, and good overall approach to the prompt. My only gripe is that didn’t give any hint of how your PC might have viewed the situation differently than the narrator, but that’s pretty minor.


*


Thanks to everyone who entered!

First Place: Storm Veritas

Tied for Second Place: Hawl and BlackandBlueEyes

(Rewards figured out by the professionals.)

[Rayleigh]

Rewards:

Storm receives 1200 EXP and 200 GP
Fez receives 100 EXP
Elite receives 150 EXP
Hawl receives 160 EXP and 150 GP
Red receives 300 EXP
BABE receives 960 EXP and 150 GP
Philomel receives 400 EXP

All EXP and GP have been added!