Fortnightly Writing Competition: Haunted House. RESULTS

Started by Baron, Sat 12/10/2013 19:18:50

Previous topic - Next topic

Baron

There it is, on the hill, the only house for miles:



Maybe your car is broken down.  Maybe you're seeking buried treasure.  Maybe you are a part of a small band of expendable companions.  What's important is that you're here, in front of the abandoned house, and that you decide to set better sense aside and enter.  This is your story now: the door creaks open and....

All entries need to be submitted by midnight Hawaii time, October 26, so that we can all enjoy the spooky stories in the lead up to Hallowe'en.  Submissions will be judged on the following criteria: character (depth/uniqueness), plot (interest), atmosphere (feeling), background world (setting/texture/context), word choice (written style) and scariness ( 8-0 ).  More on voting at the deadline, but extra weight will be given to the final criterion!   

Good luck to all participants.  I look forward to reading your submissions!

LostTrainDude

Hmm, interesting setting... Maybe it's because it's that time of the year! 8-0

A question, anyway!
Can the house be somehow related to the protagonist(s), as long as it's abandoned?
"We do not stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing."

Adeel

I've a story in my mind. Therefore, I'm in. I will try to complete it within the deadline. Interesting theme, btw. :)

Stupot

I've tried a few times to write a ghost story based on a real-life abandoned old house my friends and I used to break into as kids (and scare ourselves shitless). Maybe I'll try again here. WooooOoooOOOoo!

Baron

Quote from: LostTrainDude on Thu 17/10/2013 15:38:50
Can the house be somehow related to the protagonist(s), as long as it's abandoned?

Yeah, sure.  As long as it's creepy and the structure is in poor repair, I'd say it counts.

Quote from: Stupot+ on Thu 17/10/2013 23:25:45
I've tried a few times to write a ghost story based on a real-life abandoned old house my friends and I used to break into as kids (and scare ourselves shitless).

Yeah, I still pee the bed when I dream about this old abandoned farmhouse we used to climb through.  This one time one of my buddies fell through the floor....  Good times, good times.... :=

Ponch

Quote from: Baron on Fri 18/10/2013 02:55:48
Yeah, I still pee the bed
Ah ha! I've long suspected that monocle and pickelhaube were clear indicators that you were overcompensating for something. And now the truth comes out at last! :=

Also, count me in for the contest. I'm hashing out an idea already. :smiley:

Sinitrena

The Messenger

Bringing reliable news to the people of Vineta (1) since 1889.
Sunday, 13. Nov. 1921 (2)

[We print the following text exactly as it was found in the hands of our late reporter Elisabeth Markus, as requested in the text itself. We will refrain from excessive use of notes and limit them to cases where we deem them absolutely necessary, due to the strange circumstances of Miss Markus' death and to honour her memory. To the best of our knowledge, Miss Markus wrote the following report until the night of the 10. November 1921, the night she so tragically passed away. -ed.]

The house still stood. That was the strangest thing about it. Everything else had fallen to decay a long time ago â€" or so it seemed: The shed lay in ruins, overgrown with weeds, the barn's door hung askew in the entrance, the wood of the walls, the hay in the stalls was mouldy, the garden had turned into a jungle, climbers and vines everywhere â€" but even though they had grown everywhere, they were dead and wilted nonetheless as if they had grown and died in a single day. The gravel walk that led from the wrought-iron gate to the entrance of the manor looked like it had been blasted open in the war. (3) [To the best of our knowledge, no damage was done to the Rubinstein mansion during the war. -ed.] However, the walls of the estate shone white and bright from the outside even more so than would have been normal if anybody still lived there and cared for the house. In front of the mansion stood a car, or what was left of it: a Mercedes Simplex (4) from 1908, that didn't have a proper roof and would normally have been parked in the barn or shed â€" another indication that whatever had happened here had happened fast.

The only remarkable aspect about the house â€" other than the fact that it had survived surrounded by all this decay, and the sheer size and wealth of it â€" was that the grounds right around it, a strip of about one metre wide, was completely burned and devoid of any life. The house itself was not effected, the house itself seemed perfectly normal â€" and inhabited. There were curtains in the windows and candle light shone through them. Although they had electricity installed some time ago, it didn't seem scary at all. It seemed normal. That was the scariest part.

There was... laughter. Was this the laughter of young children? Was this the chatter of maids and cooks? It couldn't be. I knew it couldn't be. No-one lived there, no-one dared, no-one could, no-one there, no-one here, so loud, so silent, so hot, so cold, please stop, please leave, you're not real. Gone, all gone. Stay â€" go away, stay. Burning, fire, cold, hot. Gone â€" stay.

Burning buildings, falling snow...

The voices fade away after a few minutes. My head stops hurting so bad, but I know they are still there, they are here forever and always. But when I try to remember exactly, it all gets muddled. I try to describe things that are beyond description. I know some of it seems nonsensical, I know I will not stay in control of the words I write or the things I remember. I hereby make the conscious decision to leave everything as I write it down, although I doubt it will make sense to anybody else. This is the only way. I can't properly remember. I try and I fail but I do hope my subconscious is able to provide some explanations, something that will be useful in the future. It's strange, it's confusing. I'm a reporter: I know how to properly write a report, but this is not a normal situation. Please, whoever reads this, please understand that I don't have any other choice. I hope it will be useful in the end, somehow.

It's so confusing. I remember the house and a fire. I remember the newspaper articles that described how the mansion burned down and the other stories that it still stands. Hyperinflation (5), depression, nobody likes to read about this any more but the Rubinstein that burned down and loomed anew the next day some two years ago? A symbol for a new beginning, hope and glory and fear as well. It was worth looking into, it could make my career, could be even more than just an article in The Messenger, a novel maybe, or at least a short story in a magazine. My mind is drifting. I realise this. I need to concentrate, need to write it all down before it is too late. It already is, for me, I know it, but there is more, a truth, a warning, but I can't quiet remember. I try to describe how everything happened and maybe in all my rambling there will be the warning, the prophecy, the threat I heard and can't remember.

Structure. It's important. It helps you remember. Chronology. It makes sure you don't forget any details. Who? When? Where? What? Easy questions, should be answered in every report. I learned this. I know this. I will try.

I stood in front of the house one evening about a week ago. The sun was about to set behind the left wing of the building. The ocean roared somewhere further back and I was about to enter an eerily quiet house, although, looking back, I wouldn't even say it was quiet. There was the ocean and some birds, there was laughter I didn't quite hear and maybe imagined. I wasn't afraid. The house had burned down and showed no outward sign of destruction, but the atmosphere seemed friendly enough. I contemplated setting up my camera that I carried under my arms, but I figured most people people were familiar with its look. It stood slightly higher than the surrounding land and was even visible from behind the walls of the estate â€" which is probably why it was such a well known fact that a burned down building still stood.

I walked up the few steps to the main entrance and to the mahogany doors. They opened without a squeak. I wasn't sure whether I expected one. What do you expect from a house that stood empty for two years? Actually, I think you don't expect any sort of destruction, just a bit of dust. But then again, the house was certainly not normal.

The hall was panelled in dark wood. A table and some comfortable chairs stood there. A round carpet lay on the ground, muffling my footsteps. I expected a butler to storm into the room and to ask me what I thought I was doing. There was none, there couldn't be. They were all dead, they had all died in the flames. I remember how the heat slithered into my lungs, how the little hairs on my arm stood up, anticipating the burning pain they would soon witness on my skin. I remember how I ran to the doors and they weren't there, I remember not remembering anything at all. I burned two years ago and a torch stood in the entrance hall and then it was gone. I know it is not real, it can't be, but for a moment I remembered.

And then I saw. On the green carpet in front of me, right there as if no police had ever come to the house â€" had they? [Our research did not turn up any police records. According to the local police department, they were most likely destroyed in the flood shortly after the first incident of the Rubinstein mansion. -ed.] - lay a burned corpse. And more important then seeing it: I smelled it as well.

Smells like ashes, tastes like you.

I think I heard theses words then. I might have imagined it: “Burning buildings, falling snow, smells like ashes, tastes like you.” A strange singsong that came from somewhere else in the house. But I didn't go to investigate just yet, I was mesmerised by the body on the ground, the charred body of a man, still fresh, still new, still smelling of death and decay, and breathing and laughing at me, standing up, looking at me, screaming in pain, screaming at me to run. I didn't, I couldn't. I just stared at him and watched how flames seized him and suffocated him and I suffocated as well.

I know this isn't real. I know there is no way I could possibly remember something like that. I read through the words I have just written and I am tempted to cross them out but I promised to keep every word I wrote. It's the only way, the only hope. But I know it can't be true because I am still alive and didn't run right then and there either.

Falling towers, all is true.

I doubt it, but these words come back to me over and over again. All is true. Everything I saw, everything I thought I saw is true. But I have to keep on writing and hope there is some actual truth in my story.

I think I dropped my camera sometime during this nightmare or vision or whatever it was. At least I don't remember having it with me while exploring the house. There was nothing unusual there except for all the usual stuff. There was furniture, tables, bookcases, carpets, a gramophone in the living room, a fire in the fireplace. But there were no people. Who kept the fire going, who put a new record on the gramophone every now and then? I heard the music, I heard the music change from time to time, I heard people talking and laughing but didn't understand a single word and didn't see a single person. Of course I saw nobody. There was nobody supposed to live here and according to the state of the garden there really was nobody responsible for it. Vagabonds don't keep the houses in which they prowl so clean, so neat. It was spooky. The normalcy was spooky. I expected someone to tell me to leave, I expected something to happen but everything stayed quiet â€" well, except for the things I heard that weren't really there. I imagined them, I am sure. I was just bewildered by the good condition of the house and my mind played tricks on me.

And the music kept on playing while the darkness ate the ship.

I have no explanation why I wrote this last sentence. There is nothing that should connect an empty house with the famous sinking of the Titanic this thought probably referred to. (6)

I reached the library as one of the last rooms of the mansion. There, at last, I found the dust that was so strangely missing from the rest of the house. There I found traces of a fire: A table that was slightly blackened, a few books that had fallen out of their shelves and that had burned pages, ashes that seemed to for the outline of a body or of some bones at least. This gave me the creeps. I shuddered. And for once I was absolutely sure it was real. It seemed real, far less surreal than the rest of the house. And now the voices I had heard before became much more pronounced, like the clear cadence of children singing in a church. But the song was nothing like a hymn. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't pure. It was sinister and eerie and scary. I wanted to run, I wanted to turn around and run, run as fast and as far as I could.

Burning buildings, falling snow,
smells like ashes, tastes like you.
Burning iron, what a row,
falling towers, all is true. (7)

It hurt. It hurt so much. It was so loud now, so painful. I knew what he was talking about. I saw it, I felt it, burning buildings and falling debris and ash that looked like snow before you realised what it really was; falling snow â€" tastes like you; tastes like me, tastes like fire, tastes like blood.

Burning water, boiling blood.
Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

I wake up again and read what I have written. I remember nothing of this. I don't remember writing it, I don't remember hearing any song like this in the library, but I remember being there, I remember how it felt and smelled like death in there, more like a house that had burned down, more like a place that housed a tragedy.

In the middle of the library stood a small cocktail table and on this table lay a book. I was drawn to it. I don't know why. Maybe because it was displayed so prominently, maybe because it looked newer than the rest of the room, not burned and charred. I walked through the room as if I were in a trance. I realised that the appeal this book had on me was unnatural but then again I was investigating a house that was deemed haunted, so following strange feelings was kind of par for the course. It's just what you do in a haunted house, isn't it?

The book was bound in black leather and had a golden edge. The letters forming the title were also made of gold: The knowledge of water and fire. It didn't mean anything to me, but I opened it nonetheless on a random page. Although I could read the title without a problem, the text in the book itself was in a script I had never seen before. I flipped through the pages. On some of them there were notes on the margins. They probably discussed and commented the text. They told of a ritual and they asked me a question: If you knew the truth, if you knew everything, would it change your mind? And I knew whoever had written this, had not changed his mind. He had gone through with the ritual, he had called them, Michael Rubinstein had called to the knowledge of water and fire and they had answered him.

And they stood behind me and they sang. The torch and the fountain stood behind me and sizzled and splashed and they laughed like children and like devils out of hell.

“Drowning people, sinking boat,
music plays through every night.
Drowning children, see me gloat,
dancing still, my smile is bright.”

“That was a good one.”, the torch answered in the same singsong I had heard before. “I liked the iceberg. (6) But you know what will be even better?”

“Tell me! What will you do to outmatch me?”

“Burning papers, lovely show,
read the words, I'll find you too.
Burning bodies, burning slow,
breaking glass, I'll eat the Jew.” (8)

“Oh, that sounds great! When will it begin?”

“I already started the preparations. It'll be fantastic! And little Lissy will not remember.”

“And little Lissy will die soon.”

“Little Lissy thinks she's strong.”

“Little Lissy, listen now...”

They were acknowledging me. They were ignoring me at the same time. Talking to me, but actually talking about me, like I was an unimportant but interesting interruption in their busy schedule.

That's when I ran. That's when I finally ran. And their laughter echoed in my ears and the screams of thousands, of millions dead people followed me through the house. They were all dead. They were still alive but they were all already dead. It had already started. I saw them. I saw them walking to their deaths. I saw them burn, everything burned. Like the house burned, like the Rubinsteins. They were just the first. Fire and water â€" and now it was fire's turn. And the laughter followed me and I ran. I ran and couldn't reach the entrance doors, couldn't find the hall.

Burning buildings, falling snow...

I saw it, I saw it all. There was no hope, no glory, no future. Just fire and water, pain and blood.

Drowning fire, freezing blood.
Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

Again I wake up and again I don't exactly remember these things. I do remember fear and panic and me running away, but I guess I was just losing my nerve in this empty, eerie house. There certainly was nothing supernatural there. It was just an empty house in a surprisingly good condition and I imagined everything else. This is the only viable explanation. It has to be.

Although, thinking back, there are some things that could count as supernatural and that I do remember clearly. I stopped running in front of the house and turned around. It looked like flames were shooting up behind the building but it was obviously just the red of the sunset. I do remember the sun setting before I entered the mansion which would mean I stayed just a few minutes in the house but I might be mistaken and it was earlier than I thought when I arrived at the estate.

But there is one thing I don't have an explanation for: When I looked at the house I think I heard church bells ringing even though the church is too far away and I think I saw a reflection of the mansion right above it. (1) The fear was gone. The panic was gone. But I didn't feel particularly inclined to enter the house again. There are other stories, after all. So I left. I went home and I thought everything was fine.

But three days ago the Rubinstein mansion was destroyed in a flood. It came fast and it disappeared just as fast. It didn't reach the city. It should have. The house stood higher than the harbour, higher than the market place. But the water found a path to the house and destroyed it and nothing else... [Please see our edition of the 8. November for details. -ed.]

That's when I realised that there might have been more to it than me panicking. Especially considering that some people reported to have heard laughter near the mansion. I knew then there was something there in my mind, something I couldn't quite remember. But I knew I had to write it down. I knew that the flood destroyed evidence, evidence of I don't know what.

Laughter - There is laughter in my apartment now. I can hear it. I can feel it. They are here.

Burning water, boiling blood.
Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!

I can't think, I can't breath. It's hot, it's cold, I can't

[As the esteemed reader is aware, Miss Markus' body was found in her apartment two days ago. According to the coroner, she drowned. There were no signs of forced entry. Some of her furniture was burned, but the fire did not seem to have caught on to the rest of her apartment. The police remains mystified. The esteemed reader may decide for himself, whether he finds an explanation in Miss Markus' last testament. -ed.]


-------------------------------------------

Ok, some authers notes, for the fun of it:

(1) Vineta: sometimes aka The Atlantis of the north. The english wiki page is not very detailed, so some additional information: According to a version of the myth, people saw houses, walls, towers, etc above the ocean and knew the town would drown in a flood. But the people didn't heed the warning and died.
(2) 13. Nov 1921 really was a sunday.
(3) The war referred to is of course the First World War
(4) Mercedes Simplex A car that was build between 1902 and 1909.
(5) Hyperinflation This one is not exactly accurate as the hyperinflation was just at it's beginning in 1921.
(6) Titanic The Titanic sank on the 14/15 April 1912. According to reports, the ships band kept on playing while the ship sank.
(7) These verses are supposed to refer to 9/11. But I guess it could mean any catastrophe involving a fire in which tall buildings were destroyed.
(8) Reichskristallnacht and Holocaust The opinions of the demons in my story do not represent my own opinions.

Thank you for reading.

Edit: Forgot some notes, added them.

WHAM

23rd December 2012
The door will not open

25th of December 2012
The door will not open. Merry Christmas. I miss everyone.

26th of December 2012
The door will not open

27th of December 2012
The door will not open

29th of December 2012
The door will not open, it's colder today. Had to burn a few pages to get a fire going.

30th of December 2012
The door will not open

1st of January 2013
The door will not open, burned a few pages.

3rd of January 2013
The door will not open

5th of January 2013
The door will not open

6th of January 2013
The door will not open, found a mouse.

8th of January 2013
The door will not open, ate the mouse.

9th of January 2013
The door will not open

11th of January 2013
The door will not open

12th of January 2013
The door will not open, heard a noise outside. Possibly just wind.

15th of January 2013
The door will not open

17th of January 2013
The door will not open

18th of January 2013
The door will not open

22nd of January 2013
My name is Jarmo. I am a 25 year old electrical engineer from Sastamala, Finland. A few days ago my car broke down in the snow and I stumbled into this seemingly abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. No-one responded to my knocking and as the door was unlocked I entered uninvited. I am not sure what happened then, but judging by the bruises and cuts it seems I fell down some stairs. When I awoke the door leading outside was open and the cold was getting in, so I shut the door to protect myself from the wind.

I have not been able to open the door since.

All of the windows are boarded up tight and it seems that at least some of them have been bricked up underneath the wooden planks that hold them. There is no running water or electricity, and it seems much of the furniture has been burned in a small fire pit in the living room. There is no food here. I found this book, a journal by the look of it, but many of the older pages are missing and the later ones only contain dates and variation on the phrase “The door will not open” in tiny scrawl.

Indeed, the door will not open and it seems I cannot get out. My guess is that the lock froze up after I closed the door and in the couple of days since the snow must have packed up against the door to seal me within.

23rd of January 2013
I removed the boards of two windows, but found only bricks and mortar underneath. I burned the boards to keep the cold at bay. The house is eerily quiet, as all I can hear is the wind outside. The battery on my phone is dead. Small matter, though, there was no reception to begin with.

24th of January 2013
I've begun melting ice crystals scraped off the brickwork for drinking water. Not sure what I could eat, though. I think I read somewhere that cutting off your leg and eating it might save your life, but I'm, not quite there yet. Will keep working on the windows.

25th of January 2013
All windows are sealed. The door will not open.

26th of January 2013
Managed to knock myself out while searching the cupboards in the kitchen. The door still does not open.

28th of January 2013
The cut on my arm might be infected. The door will not open.

29th of January 2013
The door will not open

30th of january 2013
I feel weak and hungry and alone. The door will not open.
1st of february 2013
Cut on my arm seems a little better. There is less pain. The door will not open.

2nd of february 2013
The door will not open.

4th of february 2013
The door will not open.

5th of february 2013
The door will not open.

9th of february 2013
The door will not open.

10th of february 2013
I will die here. The door will not open.

11th of february 2013
The door will not open.
Wrongthinker and anticitizen one. Pending removal to memory hole. | WHAMGAMES proudly presents: The Night Falls, a community roleplaying game

Adeel

Count me out for this one. I can't seem to find inspiration for this theme other than the most washed depictions. :-[

Nice Stories, btw. :)

Ponch

Buried Bones
by Ponch T. Cow, esquire


    There was something odd about the food dish. If he could have read, he would have noticed how freshly painted the word "Biscuit" was, as though another name had been there before and had recently been removed. But Douglas was not the sort of dog who did much reading. He wasn't one of those superstar dogs you see on TV who found bombs or solved crimes or rescued lost hikers. No, Douglas was your run of the mill mutt.

    "Biscuit, you're going to love it here with us."

    The little human threw both her arms around his neck awkwardly and squeezed. Darkness began to fuzz the edges of his vision as she loved the life slowly from him.

    "Honey! Not so hard. Okay?" It was the larger human who spoke. Her hands gently pulled the smaller arms away from his throat, allowing blood to rush back into his brain.

    "Thank you, tall human with too much perfume," he wagged woozily. "Your little human continues to strangle me periodically and it displeases me, making me fear for my life. Also, my name is Douglas, not Biscuit. There appears to be some confusion on that matter."

    "But Biscuit loves hugging, Mom!"

    "No, he doesn't," he replied. "And it's Douglas, if you please, small human."

    "Biscuit's still getting to know us, Sweetie."

    "Douglas," he yawned. "I've been Douglas all my life. It is unreasonable for you to ask me to assume a new identity. I'm not a fugitive from the law, you know. That incident with Animal Control was a misunderstanding, I assure you."

    He hopped down from the Toyota 4Runner (which, if could have read and had also been an English major, would have caused him to cringe). The larger human slipped a leash onto his cheap, plastic collar. He missed his old leather one. It smelled of many a great adventure.

    "Now take Biscuit into the backyard and show him his new house."

    "But can't he sleep with me? Just for tonight?" The whining tone was harsh on his sensitive ears.

    "No, Sweetie. We already talked about this. Remember?"

    "But Mooooommmmmmmmm!!"

    Douglas flattened his ears. "Oh dear Holy Bone! Control your pup, human!"

    The large one lead her wailing little one through a gate and into a lush backyard. Guarded on three sides by a fence and capped by a house with an exciting sliding glass door, the yard was watched over by a large oak tree.

    "Ah, my large friend. I am going to pee on you many times, I assure you." He nodded for emphasis.

    "Show him his new house, Sweetie."

    "Kay." And she pulled hard on the leash.

    "Point and I would be happy to go! No need to get rough!" he gasped with boggling eyes.

    "See? This is your new home, Biscuit." She patted her small hands against the roof of the little doghouse.

    "Say!" thought Douglas, "This isn't bad! Not bad at all."

    He poked his nose inside and sniffed things out. A blanket, a couch cushion, a ball, an old shoe. He had hit the jackpot. He would live like a king here. His tail wagged in delight.

    "He likes it, Mom! He likes it!"

    Douglas nibbled experimentally on the shoe. It was just old enough to be chew worthy, but still new enough to be good and stinky. Delightful!

    Behind him, the little one was trying to pat his rump. He farted on her to discourage this, but she only giggled. The larger one set down the food dish and filled it with a small avalanche of savory smelling pellets. With a explosion of energy, Douglas circled around and zipped past the little one, racing to bury his muzzle in a pile of food. With eager hands, she reached for him again.

    "You touch this food and I swear by all that's holy, I will chew those stubby little nubs off! Let the Eternal Leash have my soul! I don't care!" he growled at her, eyes fixed, still chewing.

    "B-biscuit?" her voice was small and scared.

    "Honey, you know better than to pet a dog while he's eating."

    "But I thought he might need a hug." She sounded on the verge of tears. "I do."

    Douglas sighed and paused in his eating. He trotted over to her and licked her face, leaving a generous amount of crumbs for her to snack on later.

    "Thank you for the meal," he slobbered. "Maybe these last few weeks in the city pound put me on edge. Hard time changes a fellow. But I don't want you to think I'm the ungrateful sort."

    He trotted back to his bowl and resumed eating. The little girl sat there for a moment, her eyes wide, her face glistening with half-chewed dog food.

    "Yuck," she finally said.

    "Shows what you know," he munched happily. "You think you can get dessicated horse meat kibble like this on the streets? Not a chance, little one."

    "Come on, Honey. Let's get you inside and get you cleaned up. It's almost dinner time," the larger human was trying not to laugh as she scooped the smaller one up. And with that, the two humans went inside their much larger house.

    It must be packed with blankets and shoes in there, Douglas scratched to himself, his hind leg finding a particularly nice spot behind his ear. I'll bet they have squeaky toys too. Squeaky toys they're not sharing with me, the selfish curs.

    Still, he shouldn't complain. The food was nice. And the little house looked warm. Just a few months on the street had taught him to cherish what he had. The big, nice yard he'd grown up in was only a memory now. It and the big house had been lost to something called a "mortgage" and he'd accidentally been left behind when his family had moved. He missed his family and he hoped that by the grace of the Blessed Bone those people had somehow managed to get along without him.

    Douglas considered his new little home for a moment and wondered if the "mortgage" would send a "bank" after this one too. Best not to worry about it, he decided. All he could do was pee all around the yard and keep an eye out for any banks that might come nosing around. For the moment, the sun was setting and it got cold early this time of year. What was the point of having a house and blanket if you weren't going to use them? He trotted inside, circled twice, and lay down. The day's warmth was still lingering in here, making the place nice and cozy. He sighed in contentment.

    "I suppose if they keep feeding me and letting me keep this blanket, I might learn to start over as 'Biscuit.' It's miles and miles better than the cold metal cage downtown," he thought with half-closed eyes. "But what about the dog that had lived here before? I can smell him faintly on the walls and in this blanket. Well, sucks to be him, I suppose. That's what he gets for wandering off and leaving an opening for me to move in. Got what he deserved, if you ask me."

    I didn't move out, you fool. I was murdered.

    The voice came from behind him. Douglas leaped up (as much as was possible in such a small space) to find a ghost dog sniffing at his hindquarters! It wasn't the first ghost Douglas had seen, of course. With their sharp senses, dogs saw ghosts all the time. It was a small trade-off for not being able to see the color blue.

    "Get out of my house, buddy!" growled Douglas.

    Milkshake, not Buddy. And it was my house first, Biscuit.

    "Douglas!"

    We don't have time to argue, Biscuit. I've come down from the Kennel In The Sky to warn you: Beware the Sticky One!

    "Sticky One?"

    The little one! She of the uncountable hugs! She of the sticky, stubby fingers! It was she who killed me! She'll be the death of you too!

    "Oh, Blessed Bone! She hugged you to death!" Douglas whimpered.

    Worse! She sneaked me treats from the kitchen table!

    "Awesome! I've misjudged her!"

    No! Not awesome! She's young! She has no idea what sort of food makes for an appropriate treat! the ghost dog warned, attempting to chew the old shoe with spectral teeth and failing. She was always bringing me food while her mother washed the dishes. And it was great! ... Right up until the night she brought me fish.

    "Fish? What's fish?" Douglas cocked his head at the ghost.

    It's sort of like chicken... but more fishy. And it's filled with bones!

    "Hey! I love bones!" Douglas licked his snout in anticipation of fish. "How do I go about getting some of this fish stuff?"

    Not these bones! They're tiny! They go down smooth. But the next thing you know... he gestured at the oak tree outside. You'll find yourself buried in a "toaster oven" box in the shade of that tree.

    "Hmmm. Maybe I don't want fish," Douglas woofed softly.

    "Biscuit! Here, boy!" The Sticky One whispered from just outside the dog house.

    She was barefoot and wearing light cotton clothes covered with cartoon bunnies. Her face was clean and Douglas hoped she enjoyed the kibble as much as he had. She held a warm little bundle, wrapped in a paper napkin. She held it out for him. He raced outside to sniff it.

    "Is it fish? Gosh, I hope it's fish!" he laughed, barely able to contain his excitement. Whatever it was, it smelled fantastic.

    Biscuit! No! the ghost dog warned from just beyond the range of the little girl's senses.

    "See? It's meatloaf," she said, unwrapping it for him and sparing him the indignity of chewing his way into the bundle.

    "Meatloaf? My stars! it's amazing! Chewy! Meaty! Not cold and dry at all. I've never had anything so intoxicating!" he gushed, chewing it happily, and circling her with boundless energy.

    You fool. You must be more careful next time. Or else you're sure to suffer my fate!

    Douglas wasn't listening. He licked her fingers and made plans to dig around the oak tree tomorrow. There were bones buried down there somewhere, and he was determined to find them.

THE END

Atelier


Ponch

Quote from: Atelier on Wed 23/10/2013 10:44:26
I miss having time to write :(
There's always time to write. I do most of my writing on my lunch break or just before bed. Ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there. It adds up. And you've got a couple of days before the deadline. There's still time to write a spooky morsel of a story. :)

Baron

Nice entries so far, even if some of them were composed with a toothbrush in mouth and a blue towel in hand.  :=

I'm just here to give you your three day warning: get those spooooooky stories in, pronto!  Seventy-two hours only have so many coffee breaks and wind-down moments, so use them wisely!


kconan

  ”I assume you've heard the stories,” said my girlfriend Sheila.  I grinned and replied, ”Which story?  This place has many super-cliché backstories.”  We walked away from my “broken” AMC Eagle SX/4 towards the spookiest house in all of Pennsylvania.  The rumor is that this place makes an October night at the Amityville estate look like a relaxing day at the spa, and I had inside knowledge that this was true.  Since I pretended as if my ride threw a rod, the other option for Sheila to consider would be walking thirty miles on a hilly gravel road back to town in a light rain.  Not being superstitious types, my girlfriend (AKA the birthday girl) and I boldly marched up to Apollyon Abbey.  The abbey enjoyed a brief stint as “Maxwell's Manor”, until Mr. Maxwell met an untimely end by somehow falling into a running wood chipper while attempting to mulch in the backyard.  Sheila shook her head slowly while reciting the history of Apollyon Abbey, ”So an orphanage was built on a Native American burial ground, and then after the orphanage burned down it was turned into a mental hospital.  The next owner decided to make the place into an Abbey.”  I added, ”…and don't forget the crazy mom who killed her only daughter in the backyard, and was later tortured and burned as a witch.”  Sheila gripped the old cast iron gargoyle door knocker, lifted it up, and brought it down which resulted in a noise that sounded like a roar.  The front door creaked open, and myself and Sheila stepped inside...

  …and I yelled ”SURPRISE!”  Sheila gasped.  My head slowly swiveled from side to side to admire the carnage.  The room smelled of death and the floor was covered in gore, viscera, and blood splattered party favors.  Jeff was swinging from a chandelier by his neck, a gaping wound in his stomach that was leaking blood and entrails.  He was a cosmetic artist, and could have done this himself as part of a cool special effect.  But Jeff was not breathing, and more importantly, the large intestines spilling out of him were too lifelike to be anything but real.  There was a large statue of a knight holding a giant claymore sword, and this was where Mindy had been impaled while wearing a party hat that proclaimed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” and clutching a fluorescent kazoo in her right hand.  A giant cake sat in the middle of the room, and a dead male stripper with a cake knife embedded in his forehead was slumped half-in and half-out of it.  Mr. Jackson, who was Sheila's favorite college professor, was near the fireplace laying face-up on top of a giant wooden globe wearing a shirt that read “Shelia = Best Student Ever”; his cause of death must be related to the fireplace poker which had been shoved into his mouth.  Tom was in several places, though his upper half still clutched a large pink piñata.  Sheila's sister April was bright and cheery in life, but in death she was splayed out like a snow angel having been strangled with multi-colored streamers.  Jason's body was surrounded by a sea of balloons with no visible cause of death.  Ari's torso and arms were in a chair; his hands were propped up with kebab sticks to help hold a banner that read “Surprise Sheila!”  Parts of what were once Sheila's brothers had been stacked in a corner and sprinkled with glitter. 

  My girlfriend vomited, started shaking, and then turned to me with bloodshot eyes and screamed, ”You sick bastard!“ Sheila then ran like hell for the tree line of the woods behind the house.  I watched her run, and as the light rain had just let up, I could clearly hear the sound of a bear trap closing followed by a scream.  While strolling from the front to the backyard, I could see Sheila crawling towards the wine cellar door.  Just as I made it to her, she had the door half open and asked, ”Why?”  I replied, ”How DARE you!  YOU think I did this?”  She said, ”Why are you so calm?  Why are you acting weird?”  I chuckled and said, ”Oh, well that's because I did this.  Now don't be late for the party sweetie.”  Sheila slammed the cellar door in my face.  I sighed, and took out the old key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.  I walked down the isle of wine racks, swatting cobwebs out of my face.  Glancing at the wine I decided that later I would celebrate both Sheila's birthday and Halloween with a bottle of the best this collection had to offer.  There was some blood on the floor, presumably from Sheila's bear trap injury, and so I began to track her progress through the cellar.  I came upon a large closed door which I knew lead upstairs into the house, and carefully opened it.  Sheila was rifling through a cabinet, and just as I got to her I saw a large barrel pointed at my chest.  This, I had recognized, was the business end of an antique 8-gauge Colt side-by-side shotgun.  Sheila pulled the front trigger…

  …which clicked on nothing as the gun was empty.  I grabbed Sheila and said, ”Ok I'm sorry…You said not to get you anything, but you know no one ever really means that.  It's like a figure of speech.”  My girlfriend swung a sharp elbow towards my face, which I ducked, and then said, "What?!  Did you want a clown?  You know you are too old for that.".  We struggled, and then I managed to get behind her and lock in a full nelson.  I whispered, "Ok, it should have been more romantic.  Maybe less "family and friends genocide" and more "you and me time".  But hey, you used to tell me that Jeff was always hanging around too much anyway.  At least that is no longer a problem.  Well, ok technically he is still hanging around."  Sheila tried a reverse head-butt, but I simply pushed my interlocked hands forward.  Then she tried stomping my foot with her uninjured leg, and as I was about to break the hold...

  …a bright light flashed in front of us and we both went flying to the floor in different directions.  It was her!  Enough blood had been spilled to awaken the Cherokee princess who was an orphan, then mental patient, and then later murdered by her witch mother.  The only bright side of course was that at the end, at least she wasn't an orphan.

  My girlfriend appeared to be unconscious.  The ethereal form of a Cherokee princess, complete with feathered headband and sparkling jeweled necklaces, picked up the shotgun and aimed it at my head.  Trying to move away from her target line was proving slow and difficult, as it now felt like life was going in slow motion.  I said, ”I brought you a sacrifice.”  It tilted its head to the side, and I advised, ”That gun isn't loaded…” and then the ghost pulled the rear trigger on the 8-gauge shotgun causing Bob Coachman's head to explode like a hot blood sausage.

  Sheila shot up, and tried to limp away from her now ex-boyfriend and the bloodthirsty apparition he summoned.  The ghost moved towards her, and Sheila pleaded, ”Please, you just saved my life…Don't hurt me!  I'll do whatever you want!  You want me to tell stories of your plight?  Somehow avenge your death?  Give the remains of your physical body a proper burial?  Anything!”  The ghost rocked her head from side-to-side while humming.  Sheila recognized the tune.  It was the Happy Birthday song.

Baron

Something like 30 hours remaining.  Happy frantic typing!

LostTrainDude

It's 5:30 AM here and I'm challenging myself to write on time!
Now, where's my blue cup of coffee?
"We do not stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing."

LostTrainDude

A DISH BEST SERVED EMPTY

That day I left early at work. I had to drive all the way to my old house and back. I've spent my childhood and teenage years there and I can quite remember that the day I left I was happy as never before, even if I can't recall why anymore.

I had to go back there because my wife really wanted to see my old family lbums, which apparently none of my parents everywhere seemed to have. Anyway I was happy to leave early. There were some days in which I couldn't really stand my daily job as a computer technician. People always treated me like I was some sort of shaman: they all wanted the job done as quickly as possible and they thought that everything I was going to do came from some sort of innate skills, let's say the ones that you usually don't get paid for.

Anyway it was a lovely warm mid-spring day and I remember I was really enjoying the car trip to the countryside where my house used to be. The tires of my Spunky Ferry, as i called it, were smoothly trailing me over the asphalt and the random playlist of my MP3 player couldn't be more great.

I took time slowing down to look the vegetation at my side while I was driving the high road.

After a while, I drove by the sign which suggested that I was going in the right direction. I wasn't very far at that moment and I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Most of me didn't want to check my old shack, but, hey, my love Doreen asked so nicely, how could I say no? After all, it let me leave early at work. So, music was on and that was it.

It wasn't sunset yet, but the sky was slowly becoming peachy. When I parked the car outside the old house I felt that the breeze was beginning to get a bit colder. I closed the car door and stared at the building. It still piled up pretty well, yet some mold here and there was inevitable. How long it was? 20, 25 years? Sure was that I grew up a lot out of that place.

The squeaky wooden gate that gave access to the patio leading to the house was nothing new. I used it to scare the hell out of my little sister when I was thirteen or fourteen. Poor Mellie, she would always began to cry whenever I told her that our yard was once inhabited by evil ghosts that would have come at dusk to kidnap the kids who played after sunset. I began wondering if I ever apologized for that, so I took up my smartphone and got a picture of the gate and the patio and sent it to her via message, curious if she did at least remember that.

Then I went for the door, which was stuck, so after I unlocked it I had to shove it with my shoulder.

When I went inside, the stuffy smell instantly got me. I've always had a slight allergy to dust, so my nose got stuffed quickly.

Everything seemed pretty orderly. Some light was ducking in through the closed and partially termite-eaten shutters so that I could barely see the forniture covered by large cloths covered with dust. The sunlight was fading out pretty quickly so I had to use my smartphone flashlight.

Since I was there, I went upstairs to check my old bedroom. The dust on the handrail sticked all over my hand while I hoped that the rotten old wooden stairs would not fall under my feet. When I entered, I felt a teenager again. All of my rock bands' posters seemed to be there in mint condition and even my framed pictures collages where perfect. I took a couple of minutes checking all those portraits of old friends and family members, traveling time backwards in my memories.

Yet, there was one picture I didn't remember at all.

It featured me as a baby, swingin' on a swing, being pulled by a young man very well dressed in a white shirt and black pants outfit. He showed a very peaceful smile. I tried to remember but really couldn't. Maybe it was some friend of my cousin Luke that was hangin' with my family on some occasion. Anyway, couldn't remember.

I went to my parents' bedroom, then, to get the family albums I was looking for. Even Ma and Pa's room was just as I remembered it. It gave me a little chill to see their bed and the old century furniture. It was so much time. The dust got my throat as I began coughing. The albums were easy to find, well stored in lowest big screechy drawer of the dresser. I then sat at the end of my parents' bed and with the help of my torchlight I started browsing through the pictures.

As I was browsing throughout all my childhood, I couldn't help but notice that in many, different pictures there was the same young man I saw in the picture from my room. "What the hell?", I thought. Family reunions, barbeques, seaside trips, special events... He seemed to be everywhere and I couldn't even remember his face. In each picture he showed the same peaceful smile and wore the same outfit. That was beginning to creep me out.

I was going to try and call my sister to ask her who that man was but, as I was about to dial her number, a voice hit me like a punch to the stomach.

- Tom! Dinner's ready!

I jumped up on my feet and, trembling, I tried to walk out of that room. I was holding the album tight and, as I went out the room I got striked again. There were candles lit up all over the floor showing all of the rot and mold that the walls, ceiling and floor grew up throghout all these years. I felt my heart in my throat and couldn't breathe.

I had to reach the stairs and climb them down. I could now hear the clanging of dinnerware and couldn't help but think that my brain was gone for good. I thought I was living some kind of unresolved trauma which I couldn't even figure out. Step by step, then, I slowly reached the ground floor. All the clothes that covered the furniture were gone, yet dust, mold and rot was everywhere. The door to the kitchen was half closed. I was frightened, yet unable to stop from reaching the door and open it.

- Tom! Get inside! Dinner's ready and you're gonna catch a cold! - My mother was there at the window, shouting at "me" outside, late for dinner as always. The kitchen was decaying as was the dinnerware that was already on the table. I couldn't really believe what I was experiencing. My mother was right there in front of me and she looked as time never passed. Yet time passed, and she... Well, she wasn't with us anymore...

I felt like dying: confusion and fear were making a killer cocktail, mixed with the stuffed nose and sore throat. I was trembling yet I wanted to say something, do something! But any efforts I could ever make where broken by a sound of footsteps coming from the other room. I freezed and felt like my very soul was dripping away from my body in cold sweat. As the steps where getting nearer, I hid myself behind the door in a darker spot that was almost untouched by the candles' light in the room.

Someone entered. A tall figure. My mother turned at him and went to hug him and had him to bend over a bit, just to give him a kiss on his cheek. I gasped, at the very moment I recognized the white shirt and black pants, barely lit up by the dim light. My grip on the album got loose and it fell on the ground with a dull sound. I panicked, I couldn't figure what was going to happen then, yet I couldn't move and didn't.

But nothing happened and the tall figure went to the table and sat on a chair. It was my chair, actually, the one I used to sit on at dinner time. As he sat down he sniffed the empty plate before him.

- Smells great, Ma - he said

What?! What did exactly smell great?! The plate?! I was overwhelmed, afraid that I could lose it and faint right there on the rotting floor of my old kitchen.

- Don't be a comedian, Tommy! - my mother told him, giggling while approaching him with an empty tray - Here, see? Pork sausages and bacon rashers. Just what you love!

It was just what I loved indeed, but there were no sausages nor rashers nor anything else in the tray. She "served" him and he started dining, gently as I never did. The cutlery did almost zero noise as he began to cut invisible sausages, eating them. He then turned his head to me and gave me that peaceful smile. So peaceful that it creeped me out completely.

I lost it and jumped at the door, leaving the album on the floor. As I ran outside to the other room, I stumbled and fell on the ground when I saw that the same man was sitting on the couch browsing another family album. I fainted and everything went black.

When I woke up again, I was in the dark and there were no sign of candles nor men in white shirt and black pants. I was laying down on the dust covered floor next to the family albums I came for. I began coughing and took my smartphone again to lit up its torchlight. I began to browse again, quickly, through the pictures. There was no sign of that strange man. Had I dreamed it all?

I got up and while I was trying to shake down the dust from my clothes the flashlight showed me that I wasn't wearing the same clothes as before. I was wearing a white shirt and a pair of black pants. I gave a scream and holding the smartphone as tight as possible I went for the entrance door which now featured a tall mirror in which my whole figure reflected in. I jumped again, scared of my own image dressed that way. My hands couldn't stand still while the trembling light of the smartphone lit up some verses that were carved in the mirror glass: "And yet they come back"

I tried and opened the door to escape that nightmare and, as I fled to the front yard I stumbled again and fell on the dirt as blinding white lights lit up from nowhere all over me.

- PLEASE! - I begged - PLEASE, LEAVE ME ALONE!

It was a cold night and I was on my knees. Few seconds of silence came before a round of applause.

I covered my eyes from the light, to try and see what was happening. Someone was approaching. It was my little sister Mellie.

As she reached me, she started laughing out loud, while the lights were turned down a bit. I was now able to see some sort of movie set built in the yard.

- Now THAT'S sweet revenge, Tommy! - she said laughing and reaching me for a hug. I was still confused.
- What... What's happening? - I asked, still panting.
- I set it all up and had you going aaaaaaaall the way, big brother!

Two people approached us, then. Geez, they were twins, here's why they were in two different rooms. What an idiot!

- But... The pictures... How? - I was actually unable to say anything that could make sense.
- When you called me and asked if I had some family albums I couldn't help but think to repay you of all the spooky jokes you let me through when we were little. So I called everybody out to tell them to not give you any of those albums if they had any.
- You little...
- Then I put my colleagues here from the studio up for some overtime work and they sure did a wonderful job!
- W-What about mom? W-Who...
- Dinner's ready, Tommy! - she impersonated her voice right away, just as I remembered it was. It was spooky by itself even without the costume.
- Geez, Melly... How could you?!
- Hey buddy don't even go there! Mom had a great sense of humour! She would have loved this, and you know it. So, don't try to turn the tables on me!

Well, she was right. That was totally Mom's... And I totally deserved it. Never scare your little sister, you may never know when she'll get her revenge.

EDIT: Typo (where -> were)
"We do not stop playing because we grow old, we grow old because we stop playing."

Baron

It's going to be close!  LostTrainDude is sprinting for all his life!  Will he make it?  It's too close to call!  He's..... SAFE! :=

Excellent writing everybody.  And by everybody I mean:

Sinitrena: The Messenger
WHAM: The Door Will Not Open
Ponch T. Cow, esquire: Buried Bones
kconan: That's Just Sick, Man :=
LostTrainDude A Dish Best Served Empty

Wow, we've got a lot of heavy hitters out this time around, so this should be good.  Here's the voting procedure: as per previous competitions (and as explained in the original post) you can name up to three writers who you considered to have excelled in each of the following categories:

Character: You find one or several characters exceptionally believable/captivating/magnetic/unique, etc.
Plot: The story arc was very well-organized, coherent, and well-executed with appropriate pacing
Atmosphere: This is all about feeling: did the story evoke strong feelings due to excitement/humour/intrigue/wonder/emotional intensity?
Background World: The best setting or milieu for a story; a place brought to life.
Word Choice/Style: The technical art of combining words in clever or gripping ways
Scariness: The scariest piece(s) for you personally (double points for each vote in this cateogry!)

You have until midnight Oct 30 to vote.  I will announce winners and distribute candy trophies on All Hallow's Eve itself!  Good luck everybody, and happy reading. 8-0

kconan

Character: Ponch (Douglas/Biscuit)
Plot: Sinitrena (Really good, thorough storytelling as usual)
Atmosphere: Sinitrena (Old school horror atmosphere) AND WHAM (So good, but argghhh so short)
Background World: LostTrainDude (Rifling through old photos at your old house is a perfect backdrop for horror)
Word Choice/Style: WHAM (Great delivery and premise, though I wanted more)
Scariness: Sinitrena

Ponch

Character: LostTrainDude
Plot: Kconan
Atmosphere: WHAM
Background World: LostTrainDude
Word Choice/Style: WHAM
Scariness: Sinitrena

SMF spam blocked by CleanTalk