As I became older my imagination became more vivid; a little twisted. I am a cynical person and have a tendency to see the darker side of every situation.
So this is where Tales from Disturbia was born: in that dark part of my mind.
It started as the occasional snippet of morbid thought; fragments left over from half remembered nightmares. And from there it grew.
I began to write short horror stories that were a manifestation of the grim thoughts and feelings inside me at the time. These stories were never meant to be enjoyed. This is horror after all - and not the kind of horror to send your skin crawling, or to set your pulse to race. They are intended to disturb your subconscious.
I had thought, many years back, when I wrote these horror shorts, that I would publish a collection one day. But I have not written this kind of horror for six years. My writing has changed. I have changed. And that's probably a good thing.
So, instead, I will post them here, free for all to read.
~
Eternity
The
old man’s grip tightened and he held his son’s gaze with grey watery eyes.
‘I regret such loss of time, my son. So much
I have not seen…not done…so many places... Years have run by and been lost like
rain into the sea… So many words unspoken.’ His eyes were pained; they drifted.
‘I have lived too brief a time…to experience life.’
Then he died.
The son shed tears.
I must not look back on an empty life as my father has. Not feel his
pain. I must experience the world for him. Experience all there is…for
him. But my life is ebbing. There is not
time…I would give everything to live an eternity. I would give the world.
They
had fallen sick around him. Only a few at first - too few to cause concern. Until
they began to die.
The first fell with fever and respiration
problems – then there was vomiting, bleeding and death.
He prepared, consumed with hollowing grief,
to bury his wife and children. But the bodies were taken away, robbing him even
of that small closure.
So he waited for his turn.
People tried to flee in panic and desperation.
The military set up a quarantine zone to stop them. Then the soldiers died. And
the doctors died. And, finally, within their white containment suits, the CDC workers
began to die.
And still he waited.
When
he ventured from his home, not knowing how long he had sat, numbed, nothing
remained alive in town. Even the animals were dead. Birds had fallen from the skies.
Small bloated insects lay crisping in the baking sun.
The
air was thick with decay. Hot to the tongue.
He began to walk.
Time and miles went by as in a dream; his red
rimmed eyes unfocused. When had he last slept? Eaten? His tongue was swollen and
dry, yet he felt no thirst. He was aware of the ache in his body yet he was not
weary.
Vehicles flamed beside the road where they
had crashed. Bodies lay strewn. He did not see them. The road stretched away
before him, shimmering black, leading him toward the city he had never visited.
What remained was a shell: foul smelling. The
dead lay everywhere.
His mind began to clear. Why am I alive?
He slowly became aware of time. He had walked
for days, remembering the rising and setting of the fierce sun. The air was
enough to burn his lungs yet still he could breathe.
And still he walked.
The soles of his shoes wore through. His
feet blistered and bled. He stopped and considered the trail of blood on the
hot road behind him.
It was his blood.
He removed the tattered shoes, and raised
his face to the intense orb that was the winter sun. It was February. The sky
was white and blinding. His lips were split and dry; skin the colour of charred
meat.
His heart hammered.
Why am
I alive?
He ran on bare ruined feet, passing towns
and cities.
Everywhere he turned rotten eyes stared at
him from bloated faces. The silence was crushing. It roared in his ears.
His feet carried him into the desert. Trees
burned under the cloudless sky. Behind him smoke rose from the city; beneath,
the ground was dust and rock, cracked and black.
Beyond the horizon the ocean evaporated into
the sky; floating corpses burst with flame and became dust to blow on a searing
wind.
He stood
on a cliff top and stared into the great dry basin that had been a sea.
Distantly an electric storm raged across the sky.
‘WHY AM I ALIVE?’ he finally screamed. His voice was
inhuman; a pained sound that ripped its way from a dry bleeding throat; from
dust filled lungs.
You
asked for this.
He turned sharply and faced himself: the
image of the man he had once been.
You offered everything so as to live an
eternity, and everything was taken. You offered the world.
The vacuum of horror dragged at his insides.
You
asked to experience all…for him, for father. And so you have: life, death,
sorrow and anger; pain, hunger and thirst. And now, finally, you will feel
guilt and regret. All this is yours. Your life is no longer empty, for you have
experienced it as no other human ever could. You have seen the world and the
world is yours. You have everything…and nothing…
He screamed, long, loud, the sound tearing into the
sky, carrying across the empty ocean bowl. He fell to his knees on the
scorching rocks, pounding his fists into them till blood flew from tattered
skin.
He felt no pain.
His fingers clawed at the ground till the
nails split away and he saw the white of his own bone in the ruins of his
flesh.
And then he was still. The rapid thumping of
his heart pulsed in his ears. His lungs feebly drew in ragged breath.
How long he remained on the rock he did not
know; how long he heard only his own heart, as lightning shattered the cliff
top and sent fragments dashing against his body; as the last of the trees
crackled to charcoal and the air filled with sulphur.
Then he stood and once again he walked.
He
saw his wife’s face and the smiles of his children, heard their laughter and
could remember the smell of their hair…as he stepped into flaming magma. His
legs began to burn. He sank slowly into that fiery river as his flesh and bones
dissolved in the heat, as his hair flamed and his skin ran from his skull. And
in that moment he saw everything about him: the burning sky, the end of the
world, and he savoured them, those last moments of existence…before –
Death?
But
death did not take him.
He
became the magma and flowed across the remains of the earth.
And could not even
scream…
~
Hunger
Hunger
She had armour-plated the truck as best she could.
It was hit and miss with the welder at first, gradually getting the hang of it, with scorched hair and burnt fingers along the way.
There was already the convenience of tinted glass.
That would help.
Avoiding them wasn’t going to be a problem. They hunted mostly by sight; their hearing poor, senses dull, like them, slow and stupid. And luckily they were easy to outwit. When in groups they were more dangerous. Bolder. And some could be fierce; the largest and strongest launching frenzied assaults.
Little was done by instinct, next to nothing by wit.
Thinking wasn’t their strong point…
This made the future look brighter. Such a species couldn’t survive long.
When the vent between worlds first opened and the demon army poured onto the earth, the battle that followed had been devastating.
Both sides faced extinction.
Survivors joined against their enemy in a battle that was long and hard: whole continents laid to waste, land scorched by fire.
Food was in short supply. Even the creatures began to eat each other. It was no longer safe to remain with others, never quite certain when or from where the next attack would come.
The wise travelled alone.
So, alone she went out into the world, simply to survive, and to wait. Enemy numbers were dwindling. This battle for earth would end soon; though the world would be greatly changed when it did.
She took the truck through the city at twilight. A black hunk of irregular metal, engine ticking over quietly, no lights. Even at night the huge gaping rent in the sky dripped red light onto the earth. She didn’t need to see what lay around. There were only bodies, blackening blood and charred ruins.
Nothing lived here anymore. The city was a tomb.
The truck picked up speed as the roadway curved through tall pine trees.
Something flashed to the right: an indistinct shape glimpsed in the corner of an eye. She put pressure on the accelerator.
The engine growled as the huge wheels turned faster, ready to mow down anything that appeared in its path. Then she hit the brake.
The shapes in the road ahead were deceiving. Tall trees shed bands of impenetrable shadow across the road, so she could see only stripes of red and black where tarnished light filtered from above. Low dense scrub clustered at the base of the trees. She flicked on the headlights.
The sound that came with that sudden burst of light cut through her senses. A baby was wailing.
A child’s carry cot was in the middle of the road, a body strewn beside it, female with the chest ripped open. A dead creature lay decapitated nearby.
Her heart hammered.
She killed the engine. It was a trap, certainly. They had been known to use their own dead as decoys, and the child - if it hadn’t been left as bait - would have been dead already. She opened the door of the truck and stepped onto the road, a large blade gripped firmly in her right hand. She could smell them nearby - probably crouched in the scrub waiting for her - but how many she couldn’t tell. Their stench was almost overpowering. Her breath came fast and shallow. She shouldn’t be here - the risk was too great after surviving so much. But the cry of the baby cut through her senses, wrenched at some deep instinct within her.
She had to do this.
She lowered her head and ran.
They came at her from both sides, screaming, lips curled back, hurling their emaciated bodies toward her.
She rolled and slashed, came to her feet as one went down almost cut in two. A back kick and lunge drove the blade through another’s throat, spraying blood. A sinewy neck snapped and the last creature choked, its blood splattering her face as it slide from the blade.
The baby was still screaming.
All else was quiet.
She stood for a moment breathing hard, the blade held loose, dark viscous liquid dripping from her hands, then she walked to the cot. She slid the blade into a strap at her leg and lifted the baby. It was warm and squirmed against her body. She cast a satisfied glance at the dead humans at her feet then raised her face to the sky.
Red light reflected in elliptical pupils, and turned her skin to the colour of raw meat. A black tongue licked fresh blood from her lips. She looked at the child with a voracious smile.
She would not go hungry tonight.
~
Destined To Burn
They would scream as they burned and he would smile, knowing he had served his god well.
It was raining the day she walked into the village, soaked to the skin and mud splattered, yet she did not react to the cold. She simply asked for food - and from that moment she was destined to burn.
Springtime had been warm and full of promise. Primroses quivered in the hedgerows; crops swayed tall and green in the gentle caress of a breeze. Pigs grew fat.
Now mud ran in thick torrents along the countryside, sucking at feet and bogging down wagons. The flowers were gone: battered into the dirt by relentlessly rain, saplings torn to shreds by the wind. And livestock fell sick.
Destined to burn.
They watched her from the damp protection of their homes, for the village was little more than a scattering of hovels. None would take her in, and she had known they would shun her. Their welcome was as warm as the bitter wind; expressions as ugly as the rain clouds.
To the east the church loomed into the sky: a tall superior master looking down on the poverty of its parish; graves spread around like pox.
Mud sucked at her feet as she slowly pressed against the wind. Lashing rain stung her upturned face. She would not hang her head. Her eyes were cast to the grey stone of the church, where mud ran in rivers between crooked crosses. And there she waited, in the grave yard, a grey sky overhead, grey-brown mud beneath. The air smelt of sewage; of fetid decay.
The graves were flooding.
She cast her eyes to a place beyond a rough cobbled wall, not marked by crosses; a place where no stones had been set to speak the names of the countless girls buried beneath: charred bones shovelled into a pit; skulls smashed beneath boot heels. There had been no blessings or prayers – grave diggers had spat and pissed on the remains. That was their service.
She heard the screams of young girls, some little more than children, felt the weight of foul river water press into her lungs; tasted blood and vomit and excrement. The reek filled her nostrils. Hot iron scolded her skin as flesh was flayed from her body.
They approached her warily: men in crude dull armour and mail, pointing chipped blades.
The holy man had not come.
Rough hands gripped her arms and shackled her, pulled her so she fell to her face in the mud. Boots kicked at her back. She was numb from the rain and cold. She felt no pain.
There would be no trial for her. Others before her had admitted their sins, repented their evils and begged for forgiveness before going to the fires.
They had been young, weak servants of Satan, this one was strong, so the holy man had told them. This one had demon in her.
They had been young, weak servants of Satan, this one was strong, so the holy man had told them. This one had demon in her.
Burn, burn, burn burn! The chant was spat from mouths contorted with anger and hatred.
Rocks and mud skimmed across the bars of the cage as horses pulled the wagon to the pyre.
She stood, as best she could, gripping the bars, unflinching against their hatred. Her face was covered with mud, fingers bleeding where stones struck them; knuckles bruised by boot heels. She stunk of them; her ragged clothes stained with blood and filth and urine.
The abuse of the crowd was deafening in her ears and it filled her till she could feel their hatred. It seeped into her head like the cold; sluiced against her body as the rain had. The rain had ceased but the sky remained an ugly stain, black on the horizon.
Strong hands pulled her roughly from the cage. She lost her footing and fell, pelted with small stones and rotten food. She had not eaten in a week. Children spat at her, kicked at the mud so it flew up into her eyes. They knew only hatred; had forgotten all else.
She was dragged to the pyre. They clamped her hands into shackles; chained her to the thick charred stake where countless women had been chained before. She could hear their tears above the clamour of voices, felt them, scolding against her cheeks; felt the anguish flow from the ground at her feet. The ash of their flesh lay sodden beneath her.
Wood was piled on. Her nostrils filled with the smell of oil.
Then he stepped before her and the crowd was instantly silent.
‘You are found guilty of the crime of witchcraft.’ His face was pink and well fed; lips running with spittle. ‘You have brought sickness and disease upon our holy soil, and for your crimes your body shall be burned slowly in the purifying fires, till your soul sinks back to the hell from whence it came.’
Her eyes fell upon him. They were grey as the sky, and they churned like a storm.
‘I will not burn,’ she said simply. Her words were barely above a breath, yet every soul in the village heard her.
The priest’s eyes widened. ‘I have burned a hundred witches before you,’ he shouted, saliva flying, ‘and I shall burn one hundred more!’
The crowd roared. The horses harnessed to the wagon, reared suddenly and charged away, terrified by the sudden upsurge of noise.
‘A witch cannot be burned.’ It was a whisper, lost in the wind, but the holy man heard her words and doubt flickered behind his eyes. ‘Today you will see that you have never before brought a witch to this pyre.’
Behind him the villagers were frenzied, yelling for the fire to be lit.
She raised her eyes to the sky and rested her head against the stake, waiting. ‘You are all going to die.’
When the flames rose about her legs the priest cried out in pain and looked down, confused. In the crowd a woman screamed as her skirts ignited and she ran, trailing fire behind her. A chunk of flaming wood exploded from the pyre and crashed against a guard’s armour. He fell to the ground with a startled yell then thrashed wildly in the mud as his body inside the armour began to burn. The other guards backed away. People screamed; their cries of hatred now turned to terror. They tried to run, tendrils of fire slithering from the pyre to chase them, igniting their legs.
The priest could not run: as though chained to a stake himself, he stood with a rigid back while his clothes smoked and his skin slowly blackened.
In his ears rang the screams of every girl he had burned.
He felt the weight of foul river water press into his lungs; tasted blood and vomit and excrement. The reek filled his nostrils. Hot iron scolded his skin.
He opened his mouth but the inhuman sound that burst from him was the pained scream of a hundred young women.
Water spat from his charred lips as his body pitched face first into the mud.
Above the church the sky turned black and lightning skewered its steeple, shattering it. The mud spat and popped like boiling water, sinking slowly away beneath the foundations, sucking down graves.
The heat of the pyre was intense. It raged like a sun, whips of flame lashing around it till the very air burned.
The witch was an aura of light in the pyre. The chains melted in the heat and dripped away from her, shackles falling into the ashes.
The fire parted and she stepped into the mud.
Her eyes were no longer grey. They were black as the storm cloud; like glass, reflecting the fire so she seemed to burn inside. She did not wait to watch the remains of the church sink into the ground; she did not glance even at the body of the holy man.
Without expression she walked away, while the village and its people burned.
~
