Fortnightly Writing Competition - Spooky! ***WINNER***

[Ponch]

That's right! It's time for another writing competition. And since it's October, the theme is
Halloween! Write a story / poem / whatever with a suitably spooky theme and have it posted by
October 26. Any kind of scary story will do. Murder mysteries, witchy tales, unspeakable
Lovecraftian horror, unsettling happenings in a small town in Maine -- anything goes!*

Once the deadline is here, we'll vote and I'll officially announce the winner on Halloween.

I'll have trophies and candy corn ready to pass out before then. Good luck everyone! 

[embed=425,349]http://youtu.be/AxcM3nCsglA[/embed]

(* Even leprechauns in space!)

[Baron]

Nice graphic!  Who's working the sock puppet behind WHAM?  Or is that just some sort of weird neck growth?

[Ponch]

Nice graphic!  Who's working the sock puppet behind WHAM?  Or is that just some sort of weird neck growth?

Thanks! I spent almost twenty minutes drawing it on my lunch break today! 

And for the record, that's not WHAM. It's only a kid dressed as WHAM for Halloween (we AGSers are incredibly popular with kids, don't you know). The sock puppet is a young girl who is going trick or treating as Cat's avatar. You can see her arm and part of her hair behind not-WHAM's helmet. I can only assume her legs line up perfectly behind his, explaining why you don't see them (it's certainly not because I was in a hurry trying eat my spicy chicken sandwich at Jack in the Box and made an obvious mistake while drawing -- no sir! And I resent that you would even suggest such a thing. How dare you!)

The trick or treater costumes are (from left to right): Ryan Timothy (old avatar), Cat, WHAM, Darth Mandarb, Baron, ProgZmax, Frito Master, Tzachs, and SSH. I was hoping that the Ponch Ghost-Cow costume would be a big hit with the kids this year, but I guess I just couldn't compete with "Tireless Ron Paul Supporter." The tweens just love that dreamy Ron Paul! (Curse you, Ron! Let a cow share a little of the spotlight too!)

[Ryan Timothy B]

That's a great graphic, Ponch. I may even enter this competition.. I may have to dust off my writing skills.
I always knew I was hip enough for people to wear my face (and he's black).

[Ponch]

That's a great graphic, Ponch. I may even enter this competition.. I may have to dust off my writing skills.
I always knew I was hip enough for people to wear my face (and he's black).

Thanks! I put almost no time into it, but it seems to have done the trick. I hope it inspires lots of people to enter the contest. And I have it on good authority that the "Ryan Timothy" mask is the most popular one in the AGS Avatar line among inner city youth, ages 8-12. Canadians have lots of "street cred" with the urban market -- but you knew that already, I'm sure. 

[kconan]

That "Ghosts...Arson" tagline is hilarious   Hmmm...have a semi-spooky tale rolling around in my head.

[Ponch]

That "Ghosts...Arson" tagline is hilarious   Hmmm...have a semi-spooky tale rolling around in my head.

Thanks! If you look carefully, the trick or treaters are carrying shaving cream, toilet paper, a plastic bag of rotten veggies, and a carton of eggs. Ryan Timothy is also carrying some chinese takeout, but that may just be for snackin' if he gets hungry later.

I look forward to reading your story, Kconan. 

[tzachs]

Great pic!! Gonna frame it and hang above my bed!

Though I have never seen Halloween except in movies and TV shows, I feel compelled to join this competition!

I hereby declare that I'm doing this out of my free will with no outside pressure what-so-ever.

Spoiler

HELP!!

[close]

[Ponch]

You've never experienced Halloween first hand? Oh Tzachs! You missed out on all that is best in life... Halloween is second only to Christmas morning in terms of childhood awesomeness! Oh well, at least you still have Santa Claus.

Oh wait... You're Jewish...

Oh Tzachs! You're missing out on everything that made childhood magical!

Well, at least you can still start your day off right with a nice plate of bacon and eggs. It's the simple things in life that matter the most.

Oh wait... 

I look forward to reading your spooky story that I am in no way blackmailing you to write. 




----------------
p.s. And if you want to frame it, here's the full size version 
http://www.barnrunner.com/pics/misc/AGS_Kidz_Large.png
The SSH mask is even creepier at this size! 

[SSH]

No-one dressed up as a ghostly cow?

[Ponch]

No-one dressed up as a ghostly cow?

I know! It's an injustice! I guess Scottish Hooligan and Friendly Canadian were the more popular choices this year! 

Also, where's your spooky story, SSH? This thread has lots of room for it.    Oh! I know! You could write a chilling tale about a blog that rarely gets updated! 

[SSH]

President Mitt Romney


What could be scarier!

[Ponch]

President Mitt Romney


What could be scarier!

President Cow! 

Vote for me and everyone gets a free gun! And all the women get free breast implants! And free spankings! And I promise to invade Canada and use its stronger economy, moose-covered oil fields, and large natural reserves of politeness to carve out another 50 states of God blessed awesomeness!! (The bagged milk we'll give to starving kids in Australia or something. Can't have that sort of abomination in my New America^TM!)

VOTE COW 2012!

Hmmm... I think I'm going to have a new avatar in November. Until then, get to work, SSH! Stories of haunted blogs aren't going to write themselves! 

[OG]

Here is my entry, in the form of a poem. Before anyone asks, indeed, twas' influenced by the writings of the great Friedrich Schiller.

There once was this nice wee pumpkin
he heard a wee bit thumpin
it came from the kitchen
the thunder and lightenin' was bitchin

A knife from the drawer
a mother and her daughter
murdered the poor wee pumpkin
Or something.

If my poem doesn't win, but can inspire atleast one person, job done.

[Ponch]

\/ Hooray! An entry! Thanks, Onker. 

I hope the rest of you can take inspiration from Onker's fine example and compose your own entries.

[Ponch]

Five days left. I hope we get a few more stories! 

[Baron]

I thought I saw something resembling a ghost story appear in the Afrika Korps thread... but I can't be sure if I just imagined the whole thing.

[Ponch]

Oh wow! That is strange! A ghostly appearance, right here on our very own forums! Gosh! Someone should write a story about that! Perhaps right here in this very thread. 

[Sinitrena]

Alice

„... a week later the mother went to buy flowers again. She noticed that the shopkeeper now had a stump instead of her left hand...”***

The fire cracked ominously and the five young people shuddered appropriately.

“Who’s next?”

Alice shook her head. “You know nothing about ghosts...”

“I am.”, a boy said. “And I know just the right story. You see this house over there?” He tried to deepen his voice and give it a spooky cadence while he showed them the old and burned-down house on a hill not far from their bonfire. “That’s the MacAllister house. Fifty years ago, to the day, the son of the old MacAllister killed their only daughter.”

“It wasn’t the brother.”, Alice said.

“You see, he raped her a few times and the girl got pregnant and â€" even worse â€" the son was training to become a priest.”

The kids gasped in fake shock.

“There was no pregnancy and no rape. It was an ordinary burglary gone wrong.”, Alice said.

“Anyway, when the father came home that night he found the poor girl dead at the foot of the stairs. There was blood everywhere: on the ground and the walls, between the cracks of the hardwood floor, even on the ceiling...”

“There was a lot blood, that much is true, but I doubt it splattered to the ceiling...”

“The boy â€" his name was Frank, by the way â€" had stabbed her over a hundred times, ripped her unborn child out of her body and smeared blood everywhere, especially on himself.”

“The murderer was long gone when father came home.”

“The old MacAllister was devastated...”

“That much is true.”

“... and being a sorcerer and devil worshipper he called on his evil master to bring back his beautiful Alice. And evil as he was the devil agreed as long as the father sacrificed his son in a dark ritual of blood magic and death.”

“There was no dark ritual, no devil, no sacrifice, just a lot of tears.”

“And the girl came back. But the devil, being the devil, lied to the father and the girl came back changed: On the day of her funeral a decaying hand opened the coffin that was laid out in her fathers house and the young girl crawled out of it. She looked at the guests and especially at her father and then she slowly advanced on them all... Nobody knows what happened next, not exactly, but no guest survived that night and the house burned down. She’s still in this house. She can’t leave but you should not go near the ruin. Nobody who goes there survives. The lucky ones go mad and kill themselves, but most...”

Alice didn’t listen to the rest of the story. She walked slowly away to the house of her childhood. On the fragile steps to the front door sat an old man in a priest’s robe.

“Why do you still try to correct them? They can’t see you, they can’t hear you. And even if they could, they wouldn’t understand.”

Alice sat down next to the old priest and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“You are getting old.”, she said with a sad smile.

“True. So?”

“Frank, you will die one day. Whom should I talk to then?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps, when I am dead you can leave this world as well or at least our house and find an other ghost.”

“57 years. It’s been 57 years since I died. We found no explanation why I stayed behind, no explanation why you can see me and nobody else. We tried every ritual, every exorcism and I am still here. The only myth, the only theory left is that people need to stop believing in the MacAllister ghost but that won’t happen. It’s not very likely anyway.”

“No, not likely, unfortunately.”

“It gets more elaborate every year. A tragic murder, a fire during a funeral and the fact that the brother of the killed girl thought he saw her some days later...”

“Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, Alice.”

“Don’t scold me, Frank. You’re not my older brother anymore.”

“I am not?”

They both laughed a sad, companionable laugh like so many other over the years while a group of four sneaked through the old house. It was the last time they talked.

There’s this story about a girl called Alice MacAllister who was killed during a robbery and her brother Frank who died in a mental ward because he became delusional in his old age and believed to talk to his dead sister. And there’s this haunted house that burned down because someone knocked over a candle during a funeral. Some people think they hear a whisper when the wind touches the old walls. Some people even think they see a priest and a young girl sitting on the steps of the veranda laughing and talking and just living. They never approach those two because it is clear to everybody who sees them that they only need each other.


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

*** That is basically the end of the only horror story ever that gave me nightmares for some rason. I tried to google an english version of the whole story but couldn't find one quickly. For everyone interessted (and able to read it) here is the german version.

Happy spooky (early) halloween, everybody!

[Ponch]

Another entry!
\/ \/ \/

It's becoming quite the spooktacular event in here. 

[selmiak]

some morbid creativity hit me muhahaharg
and hell yeah, I finished it!

WARNING, EXPLICIT (and still great) HORROR AHEAD!


"Is there anything to fear this time of the year?"
she asked innocently and he answered gently:
"Carolina my dear, there is one thing to fear.
Fear to be alive", said the lunatic with the knive in his hand to his wife.
"Nature is turning to grey over brown, the leaves all die and fall down.
The living are hating, the dead are celebrating.
On my mood it's restrictive, but the decay is addictive.
Although i wonder how it is to be in down under.
But nevertheless I have to confess
I feel something try to show all must to die!"

As he saw the fear in her eye glimpse like a silent cry
he knew she understood and thought to himself: "hmmm, goooood,
I will set your poor soul free" while he was rubbing his hands in glee.
So he raised his knive to threaten the life of his wife.

Knowing this is no fun or a bad pun
she turned around and started to run, looking for his gun.
Heading for the gunshelf she frightendly ask herself:
"is this all an error?" and in pure terror
her feet got stuck and she tripped over the rug.
As she violently hit the carpet she heard something crack in her head.
Feeling like wading through a cloud she noticed her world fading out,
failing reality check her thoughts turned to black.

As the black slowly started to clear she was greeted with even more fear.
She saw only white and red and she sure wasn't on her bed.
It was cold on her back and she couldn't move her leg.
And she felt lousy and a bit drousy,
not blind anymore but still out of her mind
she felt like someone tortured her legs with a prong
so she didn't wait long and looked down to check out what's wrong.
The rest of her blood turned into ice as she couldn't belive her own eyes:
he took her legs very deft and only two stumps are left
drowning in red, so that's why she's so light in the head.
A scream won't come easing her pain as she is freezing
and her throat is rough like sandpaper. And she can't move her hands either.
He tied his bride up tight and put her aside later that night
and left her there reckless as she was still away in gruesome blackness.

Then he came back to her looking even scarier,
as twisted as this is he was as naked as she is,
bringing a bigger knive and no toy shit, and you could see how much he enjoys it.
The wicked grin on his face showed no discgrace
as he used his blade cold as ice for one single but precise
cut along her cheek which painfully made her screak.
The next cut was tripple while he was making her more of a cripple by carefully removing her scared nipple.
She screamed in agony as he was cutting around on her anatomy.
Hereby he moved the knive up in front of her eye of which she only had two in supply.
She tried to move away before he could slay
her eye but despite all she tried she was tied too tight,
there was no escape, she could see the knife's shape as he spiked in her eye like in a fresh grape.
The pain made her unable to scream, it all seemed like a bad dream of which she will never redeem.

He took one deep breath which smelled to her like death
and said straight to her one eyed head that bled in deep red:
"So, Carolina, people will hear you scream in china when I now torture your Vagina!"
He bent down over the bathtub, which is easier to scrub
than his beloved bedroom carpet which he bought on a flea market.
Right when he was about to stab he could only think 'Crap!'
as he lost his ballance, regaining it was too much of a challenge,
so worst came to worst, he crashed head first
onto the bathtub and the big knive, which immediately took his wasted life
as it went in his mouth and out of his head so she could be sure he is dead.
Blood and pieces of brain spilled out insane like acid rain
all over the bathroom wall and dripping down again at a crawl
filling the air as well with a disgusting smell.
This came as a surprise, and Carolina could watch the life fade from her guy's eyes.

Night became day became night and in spite it felt quite right.
But it was not in her might with no legs and hands tied
to escape the bloodbath and unleash her wrath
on his shoddy and oddly dotty dead body
like he would have earned. Oh, how long she for this yearned.
In the end she had to concur to his dead eyes still watching her
as she died full of grief right on all hallows' eve.

[Ponch]

Awesome! I now have enough entries for the trophies I'm sure to start on at any moment. But that's no reason that the rest of you can't get your stories in and get some candy.

Two days left, AGSers. Let's have a few more entries, thank you. 

[Baron]

The Wages of Pasture
   The inside of the house echoed with a dozen voices raised at once, each competing to be the loudest.  Of all the people in the house at that moment, only one was silent.  His name was Simon, and he sat at the kitchen table with his hands clasped over his ears.  He removed them for a moment to hear the garbled cascade of churning words once more, then just as quickly clasped them tightly again.  Too much!  He thought.
   Simon turned to look down the hall towards the birthday party in the living room.  A swarm of his evil little brother's friends were dancing around and screaming at the top of their lungs.  And there was his brother, the little devil, taking time out of his busy party to shake his fist at Simon.  Little shit.  He was probably the one who had smeared mud all over mom's carpet, but it was Simon who always took the flack.  His brother turned back to his chanting friends and shook his ass in Simon's direction.
   The kids were being worked into a state of tribal ferocity by a giant cow mascot.  Somewhere beneath its dopey head and black-spotted plushness lurked his Uncle Scottie, who was romping around like he had BSE in order to entertain the little brats.  At times it looked as if he were doing yoga, and at others he seemed to be wrestling some invisible demon.  Now he was doing some sort of ballet routine with a sparkly ribbon-baton spinning in his left hoof.  The kids shouted with wicked glee at his grotesque antics.  Simon shook his head.  Crazy old Uncle Scottie, he thought.  From that French end of the family....
   Simon turned back towards the kitchen.  Across from him at the table sat his step-father, leaning forward like he was trying to knock down a door with his shoulder.  His face was a contortion of frustration, bright red with two prominent veins pulsing across his forehead.  Though Simon could not hear the fury in his words, he could still feel the spray of his venom.  He was probably going on about one of the old tropes: marks, friends, chores.... it didn't matter, really.  The basic message was always the same: You're a good-for-nothing, Simon.  Try harder. 
   Simon sighed and turned further.  Beyond his step-father's shoulder his mom was frantically scraping her charred attempt at a birthday cake out of a pan, shouting at the cupboards about some emotional distress that he had caused her.  Occasionally she would fling a utensil in his direction, but otherwise ignored him.  Even the dog, a diminutive three-legged chow named Isosceles, was yipping at his ankles beneath the table.  Simon pushed his hands closer over his ears.  They all hate me, he thought.  This family is like a wolf-pack, and I'm the epsilon male that everyone vents on.  They could care less if I were dead.
   His step-father reached over and pulled one of Simon's hands off his ear.  The flood of human verbiage returned.  The kids were still screaming at full bore and his mother was shouting at Uncle Scottie to take them outside.  “Pay the hell attention, damn you!” his step-father spat.  “This is exactly what your teacher was telling us about.  Details, boy!  They're like fuses.  If you don't pay attention to the little details in life, they'll light a bomb right under your-”
   Simon pried his hand free and stuck it back over his ear, restoring a serene silence to his mind.  He closed his eyes and imagined himself somewhere peaceful, away from all the hate.  Whatever, man.  Whatever.  He could think just fine, if he had a little peace.  He let them all fall away from his mind: his evil little brother, his bullying step-father, his unhinged mother, even crazy old Uncle Scottie.  They didn't care about him, and he didn't care about them.  He wished he could just get away.  Far away.
   Simon opened his eyes, and was surprised to see the kitchen was empty.  He took his hands off his ears, and could hear only the muffled sounds of distant voices.  They're probably all in the backyard, he thought.  His uncle walked into the kitchen, still inside the ridiculous cow costume and tracking mud across the floor as he sauntered.  Simon shook his head, and crazy old Uncle Scottie did his emotionally distraught mime routine before going over to the sink to get a drink.  What a geek, Simon thought.
   There was a buzzing in his pocket.  Simon pulled his phone out and held it to his ear.  “Yeah,” he said tersely.
   â€œHey Simon, is your mom there?  I'm down at Famous Dave's and I want to know what kind of-”
   â€œUncle Scottie?” Simon asked, a little confused.  “If you're at Famous Dave's then....”  He trailed off as the costumed-cow in front of him turned around with a large kitchen knife in its left hoof.  “Holy shit....” Simon gasped.  “Step Dad was right about details.  Crazy old Uncle Scottie is right handed.”  Then the cow attacked.
         "....So does she want Rich & Sassy, or Texas Pit flavoured wings?  Personally I'd go with the Rich & Sassy because it makes me think about this busty woman in this video game I used to play, but I can see how with the kids she'd probably want to play it straight up.  You know, there's also the option of Apricot Bourbon.  Sure it leaves wicked smear marks in your underpants, but it's reeeeeeal smooth going down.  Well, I guess you could say it's real smooth going both ways, couldn't ya?  Anyway -say, are you writing these options down?  I used to have this room mate that swore by Pinneapple Rage, but he had this weird genetic disorder that gave him this freakishly enlarged gallbladder.  To make a long story short....."
        Simon lay in the middle of a swelling pool of blood, his outstretched hand grasping for the hangup button just out of reach.  Nooooooooooooooo!

[Ponch]

How am I supposed to go to sleep tonight after so many spooky tales? 

More entries! MOAR!!!1!

[Anian]

Short and sweet (like candy!). Not really on the level with other entries, but I like Halloween to much too miss out on spreading some creepiness. 

The night has fallen.
Shadows come to play.
Some Moon will chase to nothing,
some of them will stay.

Birds stop to sing
and crickets pause in doubt.
Will they come tomorrow?
You will never find out.

In your cartoon sheets
or reading through a story,
in your lover's hug
or watching something gory

Your eyes are giving way,
struggle as you might,
something fills the air,
but there's no sense to fight.

It might be your room,
it might be your town.
You'll never know he's coming,
nightmares make no sound.

[Ponch]

MOAR! 

[Frodo]

After some bullying   encouragement    from Ponch, here's my entry.  My first time in the Writing Competition.   


On a dark and stormy night
I did,perchance, come across a cow.
A big white cow, with black spots.
I stared at the cow.  The cow stared back.
Then she opened her mouth.  But instead of the 'Moo' I was expecting to hear.
She spoke!

'I'm so cold', she said, 'And it's so dark.  The dark frightens me.'
'Where might I find a lamp, to light my way?'
She asked. 

A cow!  A talking cow!  Never had I seen such a creature before.
I screamed.
I ran.

The end. 

[tzachs]

Two spoons of terror

They sat at the dinner table.
They ate in silence.
Jenny started to say something about her day in school, about how the chemistry teacher fell and broke his nose.
She instantly regretted it.
"No talking while eating, it'll make you fat!", her father would say.
"Like she isn't fat already", Tommy would answer and laugh.
She put another piece of lemon bread in her mouth.
Tommy is not really there, anymore, now, is he?

Nope.
It was just her parents and her little brother, Ben.
Ben was just 4 years old, but already beginning to grow some spare tires.
Something moved across the window, Jenny ignored it.
Her father used to yell at poor Ben for his weight while his mother fed him.
It's the same story all over again, she thought.
It moved again, this time making a little shrieking noise, making her mother move uneasily on her chair.

How was it that Tommy wasn't fat at all?
He was as skinny as a skeleton, and a thin one at that.
He somehow managed to get out of this circle of terror.
She knew why.
He just took it out on her, making her take two spoons of terror.
She wouldn't do that to Ben.
No, she wouldn't lose two brothers.

"Did you hear that?", her father said.
"I think it was the doorbell", her mother replied.
"I'll go check", her father went to the door.
Jenny could have sworn she didn't hear a doorbell.
Suddenly, her mother came close to her.
She whispered to her daughter's ears:
"Jenny, take Ben and run the hell away from here. Do it now!"
She never looked so frightened.
She never looked so human.

"Mom, what are you talking about?"
"No time. Run, now!"
Jenny stood up and took Ben in her arms.
She just started running when she felt something slice through her left hand.
She fell on the floor and poor Ben fell with her, hitting his back on the legs of the table.
He started to cry.
"Nobody is going anywhere", her father said. His voice wasn't his usual voice.
Her mom started to scream.

He slapped her hard on her face.
"You're always like that. Always losing proportions!"
His eyes, there was something different in his eyes.
"No, please, no!", she begged him.
He ignored her: "Jenny, pull up a chair and sit across me."
Jenny hesitated.
"Do as I say!", he snapped.
Jenny stood up, just barely, her hand still dripping with blood from the thing that cut her.
She sat.

"Jenny, there's a time to grow up and that time is now."
He didn't seem to care at all for her hand, or for his weeping son.
"I'm offering you a choice. You have 3 minutes to decide."
"Decide what?", she muttered, barely audible.
"You know what", he said, looking at Ben.
Her mother begged again, "Please, don't!"
He slapped her again. "Ok, that's it, I'm done with her!"
He was talking to someone who wasn't there.
He took a knife that was lying down on the floor.
She saw the blood on the knife and realized it was her blood.
He jammed the knife in her mother's stomach, joining her blood with her mother's.

She looked at her mother as she took her last breaths, and shrieked.
He turned back to her.
"Ok, no more playing around, choose!"
"But why, dad, why?", she honestly wanted to understand.
He sighed.
"Frankly, Jenny, we're just too tired living this double life anymore."
She now saw him, for the first time, as who he truly was.

"Take me, dad. Take me."
He looked at her and smiled.
It wasn't a fatherly smile but it reassured her all the same.
He would keep his word.
"You're just like your brother, Tommy."
She looked at him in horror.
"Goodbye, Jenny."
Ben was still crying.

[Crimson Wizard]

Ponch, is it possible to move the deadline by couple of days?
For the first time I started writing something for this competition, and got too busy on this week to finish it.

[Ponch]

Ponch, is it possible to move the deadline by couple of days?
For the first time I started writing something for this competition, and got too busy on this week to finish it.

Very well. Deadline (ooh! scary!) has been extended two more days. Everyone has until Sunday to get their ghost stories in. And I'm only doing this because I don't want to have any leftover candy.



Tzachs: Thanks for the entry!

Frodo: It's not bullying if I don't actually use the cattle prod. 

[Frodo]

Frodo: It's not bullying if I don't actually use the cattle prod. 

Hehe.  Was just teasing   

[kconan]

Agent Jones walked around the garage-turned-lab, put on his nitrile gloves, and then picked up two small journals off of one of the workstations.  He shook both to remove the broken test tube glass that covered them.  His partner Agent Jeffries, a rookie, shook his head while he once again took in the torn remains that littered the floor.  Jones asked, "So you just talked to a few of the neighbors?" to which Jeffries replied, "Yes, they said our guy had a "quiet dignity" about him.  I also know that his last employer was GeneTech Industries, and as you are probably aware they eventually went out of business after the big class action lawsuit.   Jones skimmed the journal titled "PROCEDURAL LOG" and quickly realized that the technical jargon was above his head.  He was about to open the other journal titled "OBSERVATIONAL LOG" when his radio squawked to life.  Jones, knowing what was about to come next, barked orders into the handheld CB radio, "Keep the crime scene guys out for now.  Only Jeffries and I are on this until I say otherwise."  Jeffries walked over to the corner being sure to strategically place his steps to avoid the worst of the bloody carnage, pointed at the large cages, and said, "If those are any indication, his test subjects must have been some kind of large ape or...human?"  Jones replied, "Well, I don't see any apes among the bodies," as he carefully stepped around a headless corpse and looked at a high-powered microscope covered in entrails.  Jones opened the observational log to a random page near the end of the book and read while Jeffries slowly moved around the large room taking in every detail of the destruction.

September 1st, 2012
Subject continues to transform, and is doing so much more profoundly and rapidly than previous specimens.  Aggression levels are skyrocketing.  Hopefully the soundproofing will be enough to contain the roars and growling.
September 8th, 2012
Subject tried to grab Johnson as he took a blood sample.  It was a calculated maneuver.  Johnson believes that the creature has become self-aware and to use his words, “cunning”.

Jones flipped a few pages further and continued reading…

October 1st, 2012
Subject’s calcifications on the cranium are growing, hardening, and becoming horn-like.  The pronounced canine teeth are now fully protruding from the mouth, and nail growth continues.
October 6th, 2012
Subject’s nails are now full claws, and razor sharp as Johnson discovered when he â€" or it rather â€" took a swipe at him.  The skin has hardened to a point where we can no longer easily take blood or tissue samples.  Despite the changes, the subject can still be considered “humanoid-like”.
October 11th, 2012
Subject is nearly fully “mature”, if that is the right terminology for the end result of the metamorphosis.  This one will not be destroyed, and should be ready for deployment on October 31st.

Jeffries interrupted Jones’s studying by exclaiming, “Boss!  Check out the bloody hoof prints.”  Jones sighed and said, “It is fitting that we had to discover this craziness on Halloween,” and picked back up where he left off.

October 17th, 2012
Subject managed to kill Johnson.  I had warned my loyal assistant and business partner to exercise caution when administering gene modifications and taking samples...The test subject will not need to be fed for the next few days.  I will use this extra time to prepare the safe room in the bunker.
October 30th, 2012
Subject has bent the cage bars.  It is noticeably more perceptive to my every move.  During a phone call to a potential buyer, the subject’s pointed ears perked up at specific times during the conversation and it’s red eyes never once wavered from following me as I moved around the lab.  Deployment has been re-scheduled for this evening, as I now have the DNA fully sequenced and made the necessary observations/notes to create an army for the highest bidder.  I look forward to this creature (also known as Beelze-10A) making a sales pitch for me in the form of wanton destruction.

Jones paused after looking at the last entry, and then said, “Jeffries, can you…” and was interrupted by an inhuman roar from somewhere within the house.  Jones and Jeffries both quick drew their Heckler and Koch .45 caliber handguns.  Jones said quietly, “I thought they checked and secured the area?”  Jeffries, with a worried look on his face, replied, “They did, but since the main house is also a crime scene there wasn’t a thorough sweep.”  Jones heard his fellow agents outside moving in and commanded into the CB radio, “Team one guard all exit points, and wait for my signal.  Station Agent Weber with his Mossberg near the front door. ”

Both Jones and Jeffries made their way to the door leading from the lab to the main house.  Jones slowly turned the doorknob, and then opened the door.  They had entered the living room, which was anything but “living” as various body parts and viscera littered the floor and couches.

…and then it pounced on Jeffries.  Jones could tell that this was the test subject referred to in the log, and ran to the other side of the room to wait for a clear shot.  He was afraid to hit his partner, though now that Jeffries was headless and the thing that had jumped on him was ravenously devouring his friend’s face a stray shot shouldn’t be an issue.  While the monster was occupied with his meal, Jones fired his .45 aiming at what he guessed was vital points in the body and face of the abomination, and heard what sounded like ricochets after each report of his gun.  What Jones was now sure was some sort of devil, began swatting the air with clawed hands as if it had been attacked by flies rather than large caliber bullets.  The devil tossed aside his half-finished meal and charged his attacker, who had just finished slapping a new clip of ammo home before diving out of the way at the last second.  The devil turned and looked up, as a SWAT team member began raining bullets down on its head from an opened skylight.   Agent Weber came crashing through front door of the house, while Jones took a quick glance around the room and grabbed a giant nodachi samurai sword that had been on the display mantle above the fireplace.  The devil roared while swatting the incoming bullets, and ran back towards the garage door well out of the rooftop shooter’s line-of-sight.  Jones yelled to his fellow officers, “This thing’s skin is bulletproof!”   The devil then threw the headless body of Jeffries at Weber, who was sent sprawling like a ragdoll from the force of the impact.  Jones tested the edge of the sword, holstered his .45, and ordered, “Weber, hang back and be ready with that shotgun!”  The devil and Agent Jones exchanged stares of hatred, and slowly walked toward each other.

The creature stood roughly eight feet tall, not counting the horns, and looked at Jones with blood red eyes that never blinked as it moved towards him.  Jones, while an imposing figure by human standards, was physically outmatched.  Regardless, he now stood nose-to-chest with the devil.  Weber watched from a crouched position transfixed by the stand-off, and advised slowly, “Sir…move…away…from…that thing and let me blast it back to…wherever it came from.”  The devil made the first move by lunging for Jones, who ducked and then followed up with a low roundhouse kick in attempt to cave in it’s knee.  This proved futile as it felt like he had just booted a fire hydrant, and Jones retreated a few steps while bringing up the sword between himself and his horned assailant.  Weber nervously spoke into his helmet microphone, “All units, converge on my twenty.  And someone bring riot shields.”

Jones watched confused as his opponent reared it’s big ugly head back…and then violently forward.  Listening to battle-tested instincts, he side-stepped the devil’s attempt to spit some kind of liquid on him; most of which ended up landing on Weber’s tactical vest.   Weber hurriedly removed his now melting chest protection as it began hissing and smoking.  After tossing it aside, he yelled, “Boss, that thing spits acid!”

Sword hilt in both hands, Jones stood with his right foot forward and squared up his body with the monstrous enemy while holding the giant sword at an upward angle level with the devil’s big red eyes.   He thrusted and the devil dodged its big head, and then Jones swung the sword downward.  The edge on the devil’s armored skin reacted as if it had been scraped along steel, with sparks flying.  The devil then tackled Jones, held him in a bear hug, and opened its huge mouth gaping wide to take a big bite…and then Weber stuffed the business end of the Mossberg 500A 12-gauge tactical shotgun in the devil’s mouth and fired.

The slug, which is basically the equivalent of a .75 caliber round, punched a fist sized hole in the back of the devil’s head and the beast immediately slumped over like a marionette puppet that had its strings abruptly cut.  Weber snarled, “That is for Jeffries you freak,” and looked over at Jones, who appeared disoriented (but in one piece) both from the crushing bear hug and the shotgun that had roared just above his head.

As backup agents came into the room with weapons drawn at the low-ready position, Weber looked down at the remains of what he believed was some kind of evil mythological creature and muttered, “Boss, how in the hell do we write this up in an after-action report?”  Jones grinned and replied, “Just remember, the devil is in the details.”

[Ponch]

             
[blink!]more![/blink!!]
             

[Crimson Wizard]

Awwwww.
Writing is haste is not a good thing to do. I also felt like loosing inspiration a bit, so while I like some parts, others does not seem quite good. Oh, and being a non-native english speaker, etc, etc, so may contain mistakes.
Anyway, it was fun to write this .


The Tale of Curs'd Gold

***

Those were times, that pass'd quite long ago,
This is a story quite forgotten long before.
The people's memory is twist'd by time without mercy,
Distinct the true from false they cannot anymore.

***

There was a man, who, as ones say, was brave,
Or, as the others mention, was a fool.
Named he was Marcus. Without knowing so
Condemn'd by Destiny to bear fate most grave.

He wasn't rich, yet skilled in many pursuits,
That aren't much acknowledged by the law.
Above all else a haunting dream he cherished
That made his life not worth a single straw.

One day he had been told by drunken former skipper
Of island faraway, and secret cave that holds
The treasure of the greatest king, dead long ago.
He sworn he had been passing by on his trustworthy clipper.

And so much was Marcus's lust for treasure,
He did not want to live, each day became travail.
So once he sold right all of his possessions,
Did buy a ship, hir'd crew and hastly set the sail.

Three times they crossed the sea and sought
For isle of wonder; and lastly saw the shore;
There gray-beard'd hermit stood on guard,
Who, as a warning, raised his sword.

Two blades did clash, two men did bravely fight,
Yet soon did Marcus put the oldman to his death.
And just before he shuffled off this mortal coil
The hermit croaked with his remaining breath:

"The gold is curs'd! Beware, fool, beware!"
But Marcus laughed at him and walked
Into the luring op'ness of the cave,
Of horror he awakens unaware.

Descended he, and with his every step
His heart beat stronger. Then - he gasp'd and reel'd:
Beyond the final turn the flickering torchlight
The treasure of his cherish'd dreams revealed.

It took a week to board everything, at best,
But when they set the sails again they had
The bags of gold that number'd fourty four,
And large precious-gems-full chest.

To home town Marcus did return as hero.
He built himself a mansion at the river's brim,
Surrounded himself by flattering admirers,
Who promptly satisfied his each and every whim.

Yet, although Marcus reached his paramount goal,
Fullfilled his boldest dreams, victorious and happy,
He still could not forget the dying hermit's words.
They'd left a nagging scar somewhere in his soul.

One year had passed. That was a windy night,
And Marcus couldn't sleep, his thoughts did halt.
He heard a distant noise. Inquietude did make him
To rise from bed and walk to mansion's vault.

He open'd heavy door, - it moved with low rasp,
And peer'd inside. His hair stood on end.
The treasury was swarmed by morbid shadows.
They quickly turned, alarmed by Marcus's gasp.

The man could not believe in what he sees.
The bags of gold were moving like the living creatures.
Four ugly arms were scaled by yellow met'l
And did protrude from linen tissue breaches.

They lacked the eyes, yet their senses would
Detect the man, so they did slowly move,
Displaying sharpest teeth in their mouths,
To where in confusion Marcus stood.

In horror, Marcus ran. And, following his steps,
The living bags of gold rushed forward, their claws
Were leaving scratches deep all over the place,
And air trembled with their loud roars.

Few times he was too close to the certain death,
The monsters split, him trying to surround.
They howled, and barked, and scraped the floor,
And Marcus almost faint'd from their putrid breath.

He left the house and almost made escape,
When from the upper balcony, with utmost zest
Like hunting tiger on its prey did leap
The large precious-gems-full chest.

The pile of bags had fastly hid beneath
The writhing body of the man, and gnaw'd
On flesh, and Marcus cried in pain,
Tormented by the golden claws and teeth.

***

Those were times, that pass'd quite long ago,
Yet people say, and that is rightly so:
The townsfolk had never heard a yell such grim
Like poor dying Marcus's horrid dying scream.

***

[Ponch]

CW, you made it! 

Okay, I'm going to bed in six hours, and I'm tucking the deadline in with me. If anyone else wants some candy, get your story in quickly.

[Ponch]

Okay, the deadline has arrived (again) and this time I mean it. The 2012 Spooktacular Writing Contest is over and it's time to vote.

Our contestants are:

Onker
Senitrena
Selmiak
Baron
Anian
Frodo
Tzachs
Kconan
Crimson Wizard

So cast your votes, AGS Community, and determine who gets chocolate candy and who gets pennies. 

[kconan]

Selmiak

[tzachs]

I'd go with kconan.
All stories were fun to read. Frodo cracked me up and selmiak made my insides turn in disgust, but kconan's story had a very good vibe to it, and got me hooked till the very end.

[miguel]

Baron - The Wages of Pasture

[Baron]

Tzachs - two spoons of terror.

There was some really good writing, and some excellent story craft, but my vote goes for the one that struck me as the spookiest.

[Crimson Wizard]

I think I have similar feelings as Baron and I vote for tzachs.
All those stories have certain difference in genre and theme, but I find tzach's text more chilling, while not being as outrageous as selmiak's .

[selmiak]

I like Sinitrena's story, but somehow I'm not sure if it was selfwritten or a rewrite because of the text at the end. If it is an original story my vote goes to Sinitrena, if not I vote for kconan.

[Sinitrena]

I like Sinitrena's story, but somehow I'm not sure if it was selfwritten or a rewrite because of the text at the end. If it is an original story my vote goes to Sinitrena, if not I vote for kconan.

Sorry if this wasn't clear. It's not a rewrite. Just the first sentence of my story is taken from an existing urban legend (more or less the last sentence of this story, slightly rephrased) It is marked with *** at the end of the quoted part and again at the beginning of my comment at the end. I apologiese for any confusion, I thought I made it clear.

That said, I vote for tzachs

[Ponch]

Thanks for all the entries, gang. Ironically, we had more stories than votes, so I had to flip a coin to break up the big four-way tie for second place. But enough about that. You kids are here for candy, not to listen to me prattle on like this.

In first place is Tzachs! He wins the gold candy corn!

In second place* is Senitrena! She wins the silver candy corn!

In third place* is Selmiak! He wins the bronze candy corn!

Everyone else gets some regular candy corn! Thanks for entering!

I want to thank all of you for making this writing contest a big success. Have fun trick or treating tonight and don't eat all your candy in one sitting.

Take it away, Tzachs! 


* Determined by coin toss.

[Frodo]

Congratulations Tzachs, Senitrena, and Selmiak   

[Baron]

Congrats to winners!  And to all participants: good reads all around.

[tzachs]

Thanks guys!
Next competition is coming up shortly, please stay tuned...