- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Slice-of-Life, Gothic, Horror, Fantasy
Greetings ghouls to Iwaku's Horror Contest!
I am thrilled to be hosting Iwaku's first annual horror writing contest and even more thrilled to show you all our excellent submissions this year. To remind you, this year's themes were:
- Uncanny Valley
- Isolation
- Obsession
As horror is a genre that often places a focus on traumatizing concepts and events, please be mindful of any trigger warnings attached to each piece. We want you to enjoy your fellow members' creativity, but not at the expense of your mental well-being. I put the warnings in spoilers so that those who wish to avoid story spoilers can, but take a look if you think you'll need them. Be kind to yourself, folks, and enjoy your horror responsibly! I will make sure to reiterate any trigger warnings before they are read aloud, as well.
We would love to have you join us in the Iwaku Discord Server on October 28th at 7 PM CST to hear some of these pieces read aloud by @MaryGold and discuss them. Please keep any critiques for the authors constructive, and remember that all opinions are subjective, so refrain from giving any sort of letter grade or rating. When discussing the pieces, here are some questions you can consider:
- What do you enjoy most about the piece?
- Does it fit well with the selected themes?
- Is it spooky?
Using the poll above, you can vote for which piece you believe to be the best. The voting here will not determine the winners alone, but member votes will play a role in our judges' decision. As a reminder, our judges this year are the wonderful @Reina and @Sorrelfur. This year, the prizes are a free commission from @Dusk, a $50 CAD steam card from @Manna Beast, and a $25 Etsy card. First winner will get first pick from these prizes, second will get second pick, and third will get what is remaining. We will (hopefully) be announcing the winners sometime on October 31st.
Now, without further ado, please enjoy this year's submissions!
The boy in my dreams
By: @Apocalypse_Enjoyer
Word Count: 1096
Chosen Theme(s): Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Feels like I haven't gotten a wink of sleep in years. Impossible. Nobody believes me when I say that. I function well enough, kept my job, my family doesn't notice the bags under my eyes. It feels like I'm going insane. Paid a therapist, went to sessions only to not even get an insomnia diagnosis, she says it's the stress and gave me breathing exercises. Went to the doctor and insisted on the MRI, it says I am healthy, then why do I feel empty? Bought melatonin supplements, helps me fall asleep but not get rest. All of this started when I met that boy, in my dreams. I met him, a long time ago. I don't know when, it's all blurry, but ever since then I meet him every night. He changes from dream to dream, but I know it's him by the way I feel, I just know it's him.
He doesn't speak, but he's always there, in the periphery of my vision, or in plain sight. The scenes range from decrepit castles, ruined villages, abandoned ghost towns, run down fishing settlements… the only constant is that boy. I don't understand. There are other people in my dreams, always are. Friends from school, strangers I saw on the street, coworkers, family…. And that boy ranging from seven to ten years of age. The others evoke emotions and participate in nonsensical scenes, but the sensation of having the boy present is like having electrodes strapped on the lobes of my skull blasting on medium power. It gives me no peace, only uncertainty and frustration. I write down the dreams to see a pattern, and the only thing certain is him. What does he mean? Somebody I slighted in the past? A kid that never came to be because of my past failed romantic relationships? A forgotten childhood memory? When I try to converse with him, he just stares with those brown almond shaped eyes. The eyes stay the same, you see, but his hair and physical appearance do not. It's in the eyes. I feel like he's looking for answers in me, yet I ask questions. I have no answers, only questions, why can't I rest? Why do I feel tired all the time? What does he represent? Why is he always present? He does not answer, never does. Restlessly I write in my journals to decipher some sort of meaning, rhyme or reason. I talk to specialists, therapists and trusted friends about this, and I never get close to an answer. I tried the breathing techniques, to limit my screen usage, to cut down on pastries, to journal. Nothing works.
Coffee helps, in functioning. Drink five a day. When the coffee crashes I involuntarily dream once more. Every fucking night. Once, I approached the boy and started asking questions again, he stared as usual, little bastard. Socked the fucker in the face. Fell on the ground with a bleeding nose and stared at me, this time crying. Like it's my fault I snapped, like it's my fault I feel tired all the time. It's his fault, all of this, it's his fault. I asked if he will speak now, he continued crying, wailing. Filled my ears with a high pitched scream that felt like needles piercing my brain. Kicked him in the stomach to make him stop, he did, wheezing for breath, but resumed shortly after. So I did what worked the first time and kicked him again, and again. I didn't even aim, just kicked until the screaming stopped. Until he was quiet. Laying motionless on the ground in the pool of his own blood, battered and broken. The buzzing in my ears stopped and I finally heard… silence. Only then did I realize the electricity was from him. But I woke up tired, again. It didn't fix anything. I dreaded that night to go back to sleep in fear of retaliation, but that night the electricity resumed… and the boy was there… like nothing changed. In a futile effort to change things I killed him over and over again. Strangulation, savage beatings, caving his head in with blunt objects, stabbing, throwing him off a high place. I killed him so many times in the effort to change anything…. It didn't change a thing. The exhaustion didn't get worse but it didn't get better either. The buzzing in my brain resumed every night. I do not derive pleasure from the things I have done, but I am running out of options.
Coworkers started to gossip about me, they say I seem "out of it", that I am suffering from burnout. Some even say I am suffering from drug withdrawal. Don't have the strength to argue. I use all my energy to figure out why, why this is happening to me. Days upon months upon years have yielded no more answers than the first day I met the boy. I've conceived all these theories of who he might be, introspecting about my past, present and future. Brings me nothing but more questions. What have I done to deserve this? I am not a good man, but surely I'm not the worst, right? I am not evil, nor a sociopath or psychopath. Not a narcissist. I've dabbled in drugs yes, in college, weed and MDMA once. I drink, but only socially. I have been formally diagnosed with OCD, but that doesn't have anything to do with anything? Maybe it does? God I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore.
Today, I bought a dose of horse tranquilizers and a bottle of top shelf whiskey from the money I reserved for bills. Tonight, I don't plan on waking up, nor dreaming. I am going to bludgeon my consciousness into oblivion until I cannot see, hear nor think about that boy.
Mom, tell that drunk bastard I call my father I am not sorry for missing his birthday, and to stop trying to reach me. This message is for you only. I don't feel like myself anymore, like I am a husk of what I once was. I am not the son you raised and once knew. But know that if there is a semblance of that son in me, that he loves you very much. Wherever I am going, it's going to be better than the hell I was forced to endure. I am sorry for giving up. But there is nothing else left for me to do.
I love you mom. If there is a God, I will put in a good word for you.
By: @Apocalypse_Enjoyer
Word Count: 1096
Chosen Theme(s): Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Suicide, Violence Against a Child(?)
Feels like I haven't gotten a wink of sleep in years. Impossible. Nobody believes me when I say that. I function well enough, kept my job, my family doesn't notice the bags under my eyes. It feels like I'm going insane. Paid a therapist, went to sessions only to not even get an insomnia diagnosis, she says it's the stress and gave me breathing exercises. Went to the doctor and insisted on the MRI, it says I am healthy, then why do I feel empty? Bought melatonin supplements, helps me fall asleep but not get rest. All of this started when I met that boy, in my dreams. I met him, a long time ago. I don't know when, it's all blurry, but ever since then I meet him every night. He changes from dream to dream, but I know it's him by the way I feel, I just know it's him.
He doesn't speak, but he's always there, in the periphery of my vision, or in plain sight. The scenes range from decrepit castles, ruined villages, abandoned ghost towns, run down fishing settlements… the only constant is that boy. I don't understand. There are other people in my dreams, always are. Friends from school, strangers I saw on the street, coworkers, family…. And that boy ranging from seven to ten years of age. The others evoke emotions and participate in nonsensical scenes, but the sensation of having the boy present is like having electrodes strapped on the lobes of my skull blasting on medium power. It gives me no peace, only uncertainty and frustration. I write down the dreams to see a pattern, and the only thing certain is him. What does he mean? Somebody I slighted in the past? A kid that never came to be because of my past failed romantic relationships? A forgotten childhood memory? When I try to converse with him, he just stares with those brown almond shaped eyes. The eyes stay the same, you see, but his hair and physical appearance do not. It's in the eyes. I feel like he's looking for answers in me, yet I ask questions. I have no answers, only questions, why can't I rest? Why do I feel tired all the time? What does he represent? Why is he always present? He does not answer, never does. Restlessly I write in my journals to decipher some sort of meaning, rhyme or reason. I talk to specialists, therapists and trusted friends about this, and I never get close to an answer. I tried the breathing techniques, to limit my screen usage, to cut down on pastries, to journal. Nothing works.
Coffee helps, in functioning. Drink five a day. When the coffee crashes I involuntarily dream once more. Every fucking night. Once, I approached the boy and started asking questions again, he stared as usual, little bastard. Socked the fucker in the face. Fell on the ground with a bleeding nose and stared at me, this time crying. Like it's my fault I snapped, like it's my fault I feel tired all the time. It's his fault, all of this, it's his fault. I asked if he will speak now, he continued crying, wailing. Filled my ears with a high pitched scream that felt like needles piercing my brain. Kicked him in the stomach to make him stop, he did, wheezing for breath, but resumed shortly after. So I did what worked the first time and kicked him again, and again. I didn't even aim, just kicked until the screaming stopped. Until he was quiet. Laying motionless on the ground in the pool of his own blood, battered and broken. The buzzing in my ears stopped and I finally heard… silence. Only then did I realize the electricity was from him. But I woke up tired, again. It didn't fix anything. I dreaded that night to go back to sleep in fear of retaliation, but that night the electricity resumed… and the boy was there… like nothing changed. In a futile effort to change things I killed him over and over again. Strangulation, savage beatings, caving his head in with blunt objects, stabbing, throwing him off a high place. I killed him so many times in the effort to change anything…. It didn't change a thing. The exhaustion didn't get worse but it didn't get better either. The buzzing in my brain resumed every night. I do not derive pleasure from the things I have done, but I am running out of options.
Coworkers started to gossip about me, they say I seem "out of it", that I am suffering from burnout. Some even say I am suffering from drug withdrawal. Don't have the strength to argue. I use all my energy to figure out why, why this is happening to me. Days upon months upon years have yielded no more answers than the first day I met the boy. I've conceived all these theories of who he might be, introspecting about my past, present and future. Brings me nothing but more questions. What have I done to deserve this? I am not a good man, but surely I'm not the worst, right? I am not evil, nor a sociopath or psychopath. Not a narcissist. I've dabbled in drugs yes, in college, weed and MDMA once. I drink, but only socially. I have been formally diagnosed with OCD, but that doesn't have anything to do with anything? Maybe it does? God I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore.
Today, I bought a dose of horse tranquilizers and a bottle of top shelf whiskey from the money I reserved for bills. Tonight, I don't plan on waking up, nor dreaming. I am going to bludgeon my consciousness into oblivion until I cannot see, hear nor think about that boy.
Mom, tell that drunk bastard I call my father I am not sorry for missing his birthday, and to stop trying to reach me. This message is for you only. I don't feel like myself anymore, like I am a husk of what I once was. I am not the son you raised and once knew. But know that if there is a semblance of that son in me, that he loves you very much. Wherever I am going, it's going to be better than the hell I was forced to endure. I am sorry for giving up. But there is nothing else left for me to do.
I love you mom. If there is a God, I will put in a good word for you.
The Familiar
By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: 242
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Verse
There is a kind of person who always eats
four eggs a day, who makes coffee for two
and sets aside half of the drink
for all those mornings when he or she
could not be bothered to carefully weigh
his or her beans and water. This person always sleeps
at nine, stirs at six, and goes to work
three hours after waking up. Their job?
Stretched out on a table is a leather
canvas turning paler and paler
as the hours come in. The chat begins
with that day's weather, then the crossword,
what comics are repeated,
before they move on to the major reports --
what movies are hits, which stars to court --
as jars, then cabinets, are filled.
At twelve o'clock, it's time for lunch,
at one it's time for tea. Always they heat
twelve ounces of water for their pot
of two teaspoons' worth of leaves rolled up
by some poor chap from China
and, without fail, they come to need
the toilet for right when they've done
with their strawberry jam and scones.
For evening leisure, sometimes they read
Beckett, but more often Pound.
"More often now do I reflect
on the little garden kept
by two dear friends of ours, too often dusted
during our visits with tar and ash
like a plate of Cafe du Monde's"
is how they hear the answer to
a simple "What's the time?"
"You know, the Jew
By: @RiverNotch
Word Count: 242
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Verse
There is a kind of person who always eats
four eggs a day, who makes coffee for two
and sets aside half of the drink
for all those mornings when he or she
could not be bothered to carefully weigh
his or her beans and water. This person always sleeps
at nine, stirs at six, and goes to work
three hours after waking up. Their job?
Stretched out on a table is a leather
canvas turning paler and paler
as the hours come in. The chat begins
with that day's weather, then the crossword,
what comics are repeated,
before they move on to the major reports --
what movies are hits, which stars to court --
as jars, then cabinets, are filled.
At twelve o'clock, it's time for lunch,
at one it's time for tea. Always they heat
twelve ounces of water for their pot
of two teaspoons' worth of leaves rolled up
by some poor chap from China
and, without fail, they come to need
the toilet for right when they've done
with their strawberry jam and scones.
For evening leisure, sometimes they read
Beckett, but more often Pound.
"More often now do I reflect
on the little garden kept
by two dear friends of ours, too often dusted
during our visits with tar and ash
like a plate of Cafe du Monde's"
is how they hear the answer to
a simple "What's the time?"
"You know, the Jew
Burgers
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 759
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Worn out spines revealed the niche interest Ilya had. Books about the science of burgers. Books about the wonders of minced meat. Books that discussed the direction a knife should go, and books that discussed how long she should leave her cuts to rest before slicing it. It was a proud collection. One that Ilya loved to admire. A collection to challenge herself. Adding layers of difficulties by taking on bigger projects. Today being her biggest challenge yet. Fingers tracing past her collection Ilya chose a book about butchery, flipping it open to a written a note for herself:
1. When working with fresh hunt; remember to first drain the blood.
She stroked the note with a fond smile. As if greeting a good friend. It was a proud note. Of the kind in which Ilya took glee in, feeling herself to be smarter than the author that had written it. Like a student that believed themselves to have surpassed their teacher. A reminder of her first time. When she created the note. When she found the teacher to be lacking.
Hard learnt lessons were hard to forget and the stains harder to get rid of.
Following the directions of her first note Ilya set out to work. Her hands deft at making the incisions needed to make the blood flow. Her aim experienced like a surgeon as the bowls filled itself with that warm liquid of life. Red, bright red and still warm. Careful not to spill that precious liquid. She thought of all the blood sausages and sauces to be.
The next note came with another fond memory of her own inexperience;
2. Empty the bowels, to prevent the process of rotting.
Ilya remembered the days she scrunched her nose up at the idea of intestines. The smell off-putting, and the idea of being so close to what was once food but now closer to waste even more. Provided she followed the second note. Written before the first, when Ilya was still learning for functional purposes. The note first created to teach her how to clean. To make the corpse last longer. Teaching herself to get rid of the bacteria and enzymes, to slow the rotting. Then as Ilya dared herself she learned to enjoy. To appreciate. What was functional now became a delicacy.
A mental note followed at the notice of blots of red. Red staining her fine wooden kitchen and drops that had soaked into the cuffs of her sleeves. 'Bleach' was the thought. As Ilya dropped everything in the sink for a thorough rinse, bathe and a clean. The stains faded but the smell stayed.
The day was already halfway done and Ilya knew she didn't have much longer to finish the job. Notes four, five and six following. She had to work quickly.
Pouches of meat, cut and flattened in packs to stack. Boxes with bones for stocks. Containers of blood ready to set. Ilya had her destination for all the parts. She divided the portions meant to become sausages. Set aside the portions meant to be stock, and made some space for burgers. Notes and recipes one could find littered around in the many books Ilya owned. Notes Ilya had read so often that the words had faded from the oil on her fingers tracing. Pages of recipes she could now recite by heart.
The front door opened sounding the first arrival after a long day. The stock is stewing. A gentle steam filling the kitchen. The burgers are grilling as Ilya decorates her window. Hanging out fresh sausages to cure.
"What's for dinner, mom?" the question comes. The bright young face of her son came into view. Curious face, with lips and a nose a little wrong but the eyes all hers and the freckles on his cheeks. As proud as Ilya is of her collection, so proud she is of her creation.
Wiping hands of the last evidence, Ilya reaches to her boy to pinch his ear. With satisfaction her hand tucks at the base of his neck, finding that her boy is growing well. Even if he complains about the smell of his dinners. Even if he leaves his lunch untouched. He is growing well and Ilya wonders if he is ready.
"Dad," Ilya answers. Eyes finding wandering specks of coarse dark hair on the kitchen island that matches his.
"I can see the burgers!" her son exclaims. Ilya wipes the counter with her hand. A knowing smile on her lips before sending her son out to play.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 759
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Cannibalism
Worn out spines revealed the niche interest Ilya had. Books about the science of burgers. Books about the wonders of minced meat. Books that discussed the direction a knife should go, and books that discussed how long she should leave her cuts to rest before slicing it. It was a proud collection. One that Ilya loved to admire. A collection to challenge herself. Adding layers of difficulties by taking on bigger projects. Today being her biggest challenge yet. Fingers tracing past her collection Ilya chose a book about butchery, flipping it open to a written a note for herself:
1. When working with fresh hunt; remember to first drain the blood.
She stroked the note with a fond smile. As if greeting a good friend. It was a proud note. Of the kind in which Ilya took glee in, feeling herself to be smarter than the author that had written it. Like a student that believed themselves to have surpassed their teacher. A reminder of her first time. When she created the note. When she found the teacher to be lacking.
Hard learnt lessons were hard to forget and the stains harder to get rid of.
Following the directions of her first note Ilya set out to work. Her hands deft at making the incisions needed to make the blood flow. Her aim experienced like a surgeon as the bowls filled itself with that warm liquid of life. Red, bright red and still warm. Careful not to spill that precious liquid. She thought of all the blood sausages and sauces to be.
The next note came with another fond memory of her own inexperience;
2. Empty the bowels, to prevent the process of rotting.
Ilya remembered the days she scrunched her nose up at the idea of intestines. The smell off-putting, and the idea of being so close to what was once food but now closer to waste even more. Provided she followed the second note. Written before the first, when Ilya was still learning for functional purposes. The note first created to teach her how to clean. To make the corpse last longer. Teaching herself to get rid of the bacteria and enzymes, to slow the rotting. Then as Ilya dared herself she learned to enjoy. To appreciate. What was functional now became a delicacy.
A mental note followed at the notice of blots of red. Red staining her fine wooden kitchen and drops that had soaked into the cuffs of her sleeves. 'Bleach' was the thought. As Ilya dropped everything in the sink for a thorough rinse, bathe and a clean. The stains faded but the smell stayed.
The day was already halfway done and Ilya knew she didn't have much longer to finish the job. Notes four, five and six following. She had to work quickly.
Pouches of meat, cut and flattened in packs to stack. Boxes with bones for stocks. Containers of blood ready to set. Ilya had her destination for all the parts. She divided the portions meant to become sausages. Set aside the portions meant to be stock, and made some space for burgers. Notes and recipes one could find littered around in the many books Ilya owned. Notes Ilya had read so often that the words had faded from the oil on her fingers tracing. Pages of recipes she could now recite by heart.
The front door opened sounding the first arrival after a long day. The stock is stewing. A gentle steam filling the kitchen. The burgers are grilling as Ilya decorates her window. Hanging out fresh sausages to cure.
"What's for dinner, mom?" the question comes. The bright young face of her son came into view. Curious face, with lips and a nose a little wrong but the eyes all hers and the freckles on his cheeks. As proud as Ilya is of her collection, so proud she is of her creation.
Wiping hands of the last evidence, Ilya reaches to her boy to pinch his ear. With satisfaction her hand tucks at the base of his neck, finding that her boy is growing well. Even if he complains about the smell of his dinners. Even if he leaves his lunch untouched. He is growing well and Ilya wonders if he is ready.
"Dad," Ilya answers. Eyes finding wandering specks of coarse dark hair on the kitchen island that matches his.
"I can see the burgers!" her son exclaims. Ilya wipes the counter with her hand. A knowing smile on her lips before sending her son out to play.
Radio Frequencies
By: @OKSaiph
Word Count: 1559
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
The world started to end the week after my grandfather died.
I didn't know at first. It was hard to see anything past the casket and his cold, unmoving face. He didn't look like he was sleeping, like they said he would. My grandfather looked like he had started to rot, that his face would slog off if anyone dared to touch it. The stench of formaldehyde made me nauseous.
I barely remembered getting home. I'd walked in the blistering Southern heat instead, fingering the heavy, silver cross that swung from my neck. By the time I reached the mailbox, my body and suit were slicked in sweat and salt. I stood and stared for a moment as I caught my breath.
The once-blue two-story house had been slowly losing its hue until it became soft, almost melancholic. As I trudged through the door into the laundry room, the scent of aged wood and dust hit my nose. And... traces of things I didn't want to think about. Instead, I wandered into my Grandfather's study.
The shelves overflowed with different books; mostly radio manuals, different Bible editions, and sermons and writings from his favorite religious figureheads. In-between the shelves stood a meticulously crafted altar, only just large enough to fit the family bible, its pages delicate and worn from generations of use. A rosary sat between the pages like a bookmark. Hanging above it like an arrow, a silver cross gleamed in the soft, golden light of dusk streaming in through the window above the desk.
I stood in front of the desk, one hand resting on the back of an old office chair. My eyes swept over it, looking at the radio parts strewn haphazardly across its surface. It sat in stark contrast to the rest of the room. Most of the clutter was old rubbish, but a half-built model caught my attention. Its wooden cabinet, a rich mahogany, bore carvings reminiscent of Gothic cathedrals. The radio's front grille held a delicate lattice of polished wood, resembling stained glass windows. Its knobs, though slightly tarnished with age, were sturdy and familiar as I fiddled with them.
I didn't stop to think. Throwing my suit coat over the back of the chair, I neatly rolled up my shirtsleeves. My grandfather's voice echoed in my head. A clean and proper body makes for a clean and proper mind. A clean and proper body makes for a clean and proper mind. I'd… shower later.
We had worked on many radios together over the years. I relaxed as those memories flowed into my mind unabated, settling in to begin the work set out in front of me. I trembled slightly as I picked up the radio, as if my grandfather's soul had been hidden inside.
I don't know how much time passed while I restored the radio. Clean, wire, test, repeat. My grandfather struggled with re-wiring the most towards the end. I found it fitting that this would be my last task for him. I wondered what his hands felt like. Did they ache like mine do? What had it been like-
No. I can't go there. I refocused on the radio. It was beautiful, oiled and shined to perfection. Each touch of its polished surface like a communion, my fingers tracing the carvings as if I were seeking solace from within. I found myself whispering prayers as I plugged it in. I wanted it to work. I needed it to work.
A phone rang somewhere in the house. I ignored it. The radio spluttered to life, the receiver casting light akin to motif candles, flickering softly. It caressed my skin, chasing away the darkness that had started to settle over me, filling me with light and warmth as I twisted the knobs with numb fingers.
"Samuel?"
I gasped, nearly jumping out of my seat. Impossible. This was impossible. "Grandpa?" I whispered to the radio. It had always been just the two of us. In prayer, in song, in laughter, in sorrow and love. I found myself holding my breath as I strained to hear his voice return, folded within the static.
"Sammy." It was him. It was him. It was him. I could barely contain my joy. His voice slipped away again and I chased it through the different frequencies.
"Save... Everyone. Devils... Here." His voice sounded garbled. My heart raced. "What must I do?!" I cried. My hands clasped in prayer, bowing my head as tears streaked freely down my face. He had reached through the heavens to save me. To save the Earth from eternal damnation.
"Sulfur... Brimstone.... Take.... Cross..." Gone again. No. I needed him. I couldn't do this without him. Please. Just one more time. My vision darkened as I reached out to the radio. I felt so dizzy, so far away. "Please," I begged. Nothing. Something must be interfering with us, with Heaven's reach.
The cross. I whipped my head around, my eyes refocusing on the silver cross on the wall behind me. I reached for it, gently removing it from its spot on the wall. The bottom of the cross tapered into a point and I hefted it, considering its weight.
"Woe to the Earth and the Sea, because the Devil has gone down to you."
I knew what I had to do. Brimming with energy and purpose, I gathered supplies from around the house. I stopped for a moment while I anointed myself in oil to gaze at myself in the mirror. Tall, with fine brown hair starting to fall below brown eyes and a strong, proud nose. My grandfather's nose.
"He is filled with fury because he knows that his time is short."
A knock on the door echoed up the stairs. I adjusted my grip on the cross as I slowly crept downstairs and peeked through the blinds. A man stood on my doorstep, his hands clasped behind his back in patience. The way he held himself felt familiar. I frowned and opened the door.
He was older, but not ancient; crow's feet feathered out from the corners of his eyes, with wisps of salt-and-pepper hair sticking to his face in the heat. He smiled even as I stared intently at him, and offered his hand. "I'm Pastor Brown. I just wanted to stop by, see how you were doing..." He trailed off as I continued to stare at him, saying nothing. Something felt... wrong with the man in front of me. His eyes were cold. Unfeeling. I gripped my cross behind my back.
Pastor Brown stepped forward, stopping less than an arm's length away. He looked me over. His eyes darted over my shoulder, searching for something. "May I come in?" He asked softly. A pungent, almost rotting odor escaped from his mouth, and it took everything I had within me to stop myself from reeling back. From granting him entry. A second passed, then another.
He's stalling me. My nostrils flared as my mind raced. He's not human. The closer I looked, the more it became apparent; the waxy sheen over his face, the vacant, hard eyes, the smile that seemed to stretch wider and wider as we stood together in silence. The hair on the back of my neck stiffened.
"Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves."
The Devil tried to look unsettled, but the face he wore wouldn't move for him. Could it be that he had the real pastor's soul locked away, deep inside? "Samu-" I swung the cross into his face, into his mouth, where he could not trick me with honeyed words. Bloody shards of enamel flew outwards as the demon gagged, clawed hands reaching for me as I pulled back, bringing the cross with me. He slid off of it, collapsing to kneel at his feet.
"Lord, even the demons submit to us in Your name."
He was still moving, choking on the blood and broken teeth that filled his mouth as he tried to crawl backwards, away from me. Away from the Holy Symbol and from Retribution. I could see the real Pastor Brown behind those cold eyes, begging to be saved. For me to save him. I swung the cross again, down into the back of his leg. He screamed, an inhuman, wicked sound.
"I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."
His body twitched uncontrollably, his eyes rolling around like a spooked horse to gaze up at me. His sulfur-drenched breath came in pants. Almost. Almost. Almost. I raised the cross again. The Devil whimpered, and I smiled triumphantly as I drove the cross's point down into his face.
It caved in, skin and muscle tearing away from bone as I shoved it down deeper. Blood, holy blood, blood of the priest flowed over old wood and iron. I lifted the cross and brought it down on his chest. I needed to be sure that the Devil could not use this body again.
His body shuddered one last time before it stilled. I stroked his blooded hair gently. My mind registered the sound of someone screaming, but I didn't look up.
"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain..."
By: @OKSaiph
Word Count: 1559
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
Violence, Religious Trauma, Grief
The world started to end the week after my grandfather died.
I didn't know at first. It was hard to see anything past the casket and his cold, unmoving face. He didn't look like he was sleeping, like they said he would. My grandfather looked like he had started to rot, that his face would slog off if anyone dared to touch it. The stench of formaldehyde made me nauseous.
I barely remembered getting home. I'd walked in the blistering Southern heat instead, fingering the heavy, silver cross that swung from my neck. By the time I reached the mailbox, my body and suit were slicked in sweat and salt. I stood and stared for a moment as I caught my breath.
The once-blue two-story house had been slowly losing its hue until it became soft, almost melancholic. As I trudged through the door into the laundry room, the scent of aged wood and dust hit my nose. And... traces of things I didn't want to think about. Instead, I wandered into my Grandfather's study.
The shelves overflowed with different books; mostly radio manuals, different Bible editions, and sermons and writings from his favorite religious figureheads. In-between the shelves stood a meticulously crafted altar, only just large enough to fit the family bible, its pages delicate and worn from generations of use. A rosary sat between the pages like a bookmark. Hanging above it like an arrow, a silver cross gleamed in the soft, golden light of dusk streaming in through the window above the desk.
I stood in front of the desk, one hand resting on the back of an old office chair. My eyes swept over it, looking at the radio parts strewn haphazardly across its surface. It sat in stark contrast to the rest of the room. Most of the clutter was old rubbish, but a half-built model caught my attention. Its wooden cabinet, a rich mahogany, bore carvings reminiscent of Gothic cathedrals. The radio's front grille held a delicate lattice of polished wood, resembling stained glass windows. Its knobs, though slightly tarnished with age, were sturdy and familiar as I fiddled with them.
I didn't stop to think. Throwing my suit coat over the back of the chair, I neatly rolled up my shirtsleeves. My grandfather's voice echoed in my head. A clean and proper body makes for a clean and proper mind. A clean and proper body makes for a clean and proper mind. I'd… shower later.
We had worked on many radios together over the years. I relaxed as those memories flowed into my mind unabated, settling in to begin the work set out in front of me. I trembled slightly as I picked up the radio, as if my grandfather's soul had been hidden inside.
I don't know how much time passed while I restored the radio. Clean, wire, test, repeat. My grandfather struggled with re-wiring the most towards the end. I found it fitting that this would be my last task for him. I wondered what his hands felt like. Did they ache like mine do? What had it been like-
No. I can't go there. I refocused on the radio. It was beautiful, oiled and shined to perfection. Each touch of its polished surface like a communion, my fingers tracing the carvings as if I were seeking solace from within. I found myself whispering prayers as I plugged it in. I wanted it to work. I needed it to work.
A phone rang somewhere in the house. I ignored it. The radio spluttered to life, the receiver casting light akin to motif candles, flickering softly. It caressed my skin, chasing away the darkness that had started to settle over me, filling me with light and warmth as I twisted the knobs with numb fingers.
"Samuel?"
I gasped, nearly jumping out of my seat. Impossible. This was impossible. "Grandpa?" I whispered to the radio. It had always been just the two of us. In prayer, in song, in laughter, in sorrow and love. I found myself holding my breath as I strained to hear his voice return, folded within the static.
"Sammy." It was him. It was him. It was him. I could barely contain my joy. His voice slipped away again and I chased it through the different frequencies.
"Save... Everyone. Devils... Here." His voice sounded garbled. My heart raced. "What must I do?!" I cried. My hands clasped in prayer, bowing my head as tears streaked freely down my face. He had reached through the heavens to save me. To save the Earth from eternal damnation.
"Sulfur... Brimstone.... Take.... Cross..." Gone again. No. I needed him. I couldn't do this without him. Please. Just one more time. My vision darkened as I reached out to the radio. I felt so dizzy, so far away. "Please," I begged. Nothing. Something must be interfering with us, with Heaven's reach.
The cross. I whipped my head around, my eyes refocusing on the silver cross on the wall behind me. I reached for it, gently removing it from its spot on the wall. The bottom of the cross tapered into a point and I hefted it, considering its weight.
"Woe to the Earth and the Sea, because the Devil has gone down to you."
I knew what I had to do. Brimming with energy and purpose, I gathered supplies from around the house. I stopped for a moment while I anointed myself in oil to gaze at myself in the mirror. Tall, with fine brown hair starting to fall below brown eyes and a strong, proud nose. My grandfather's nose.
"He is filled with fury because he knows that his time is short."
A knock on the door echoed up the stairs. I adjusted my grip on the cross as I slowly crept downstairs and peeked through the blinds. A man stood on my doorstep, his hands clasped behind his back in patience. The way he held himself felt familiar. I frowned and opened the door.
He was older, but not ancient; crow's feet feathered out from the corners of his eyes, with wisps of salt-and-pepper hair sticking to his face in the heat. He smiled even as I stared intently at him, and offered his hand. "I'm Pastor Brown. I just wanted to stop by, see how you were doing..." He trailed off as I continued to stare at him, saying nothing. Something felt... wrong with the man in front of me. His eyes were cold. Unfeeling. I gripped my cross behind my back.
Pastor Brown stepped forward, stopping less than an arm's length away. He looked me over. His eyes darted over my shoulder, searching for something. "May I come in?" He asked softly. A pungent, almost rotting odor escaped from his mouth, and it took everything I had within me to stop myself from reeling back. From granting him entry. A second passed, then another.
He's stalling me. My nostrils flared as my mind raced. He's not human. The closer I looked, the more it became apparent; the waxy sheen over his face, the vacant, hard eyes, the smile that seemed to stretch wider and wider as we stood together in silence. The hair on the back of my neck stiffened.
"Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves."
The Devil tried to look unsettled, but the face he wore wouldn't move for him. Could it be that he had the real pastor's soul locked away, deep inside? "Samu-" I swung the cross into his face, into his mouth, where he could not trick me with honeyed words. Bloody shards of enamel flew outwards as the demon gagged, clawed hands reaching for me as I pulled back, bringing the cross with me. He slid off of it, collapsing to kneel at his feet.
"Lord, even the demons submit to us in Your name."
He was still moving, choking on the blood and broken teeth that filled his mouth as he tried to crawl backwards, away from me. Away from the Holy Symbol and from Retribution. I could see the real Pastor Brown behind those cold eyes, begging to be saved. For me to save him. I swung the cross again, down into the back of his leg. He screamed, an inhuman, wicked sound.
"I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."
His body twitched uncontrollably, his eyes rolling around like a spooked horse to gaze up at me. His sulfur-drenched breath came in pants. Almost. Almost. Almost. I raised the cross again. The Devil whimpered, and I smiled triumphantly as I drove the cross's point down into his face.
It caved in, skin and muscle tearing away from bone as I shoved it down deeper. Blood, holy blood, blood of the priest flowed over old wood and iron. I lifted the cross and brought it down on his chest. I needed to be sure that the Devil could not use this body again.
His body shuddered one last time before it stilled. I stroked his blooded hair gently. My mind registered the sound of someone screaming, but I didn't look up.
"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain..."
The Honeymoon Phase
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1063
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
It has been 364 days since the world ended.
I look different in the mirror. Uglier. I squint and preen, blinking my eyes repeatedly, wondering if the next time I open my eyes, I'll like what I see better. I don't. The bags under my eyes make me look older and my entire face seems to sag with them, lips fused into a near permanent frown. I wonder what Ysabelle sees in me, in my pallid skin and flaky scalp. We ran out of shampoo and soap ages ago. Even when I do manage to paw at my body with shaky hands and a wet rag, I never feel like the grime actually disappears. It feels like I'm pressing it deeper into me, until it's absorbed into my bloodstream.
Until there's something wrong with me. Until I grow unloveable.
Ysa appears behind me in the doorway. She's something out of a watercolour painting, something too soft and washed-out about the way that she appears in the yellowed light. Her blonde hair is frizzy, a smattering of masterfully crafted freckles splattered across her cheeks. I stop looking at her reflection and turn around. The mirror could never compare.
"It's our anniversary tomorrow." she says with a cool smile, translucent eyelashes fluttering low for a moment, as though she's feeling bashful about the statement, but I know that she never gets embarrassed. I try to smile back, but even without looking in the mirror, I can tell that there is visible hunger lurking in my gaze.
"Yes." My mouth is dry. She pulls me close and presses our lips together. My breath stutters when I take her scent in, almost too desperate for her touch. She smells divine. She tastes divine. I want nothing more than to take shelter between her bones, like some sort of vagrant trespassing within a holy temple.
I squeeze her shoulders so hard between my fingertips that I feel the pressure of her muscles spasming in pain. She pulls away. Her eyes don't even widen anymore in surprise like they used to. I know that her skin will bruise soon. The idea makes me so ravenous that, for once, I let go of her first.
She told me that she loved me the day we first entered the shelter, us three. We'd lost our families. Our friend, Liam, had gone out there to try and find others, but never came back. We'd lost everyone except each other. I hadn't been able to go out and scavenge, because a tumble in our escape had led to me breaking my leg. Ysa nursed me back to health. Ever since then, I savour every breath we share between our lungs, cycled through her system, purified and perfect, straight into mine.
The seconds tick by and eventually, she steps aside so that I can get around her. I limp out into the main area of the bunker. My leg never fully healed. I am so useless that Ysa cannot help but kiss my wounds and breathe oxygen into my mouth for me. The thought of breaking my leg again makes me giddy. Gingerly, I set myself down on the ratty couch and scratch at my arms until they turn bright red. Ysa remains in the bathroom.
I can't stop thinking about her. I want her so badly that nothing else ever seems to matter. If she were to explode into viscera today, I would wholeheartedly lap at the pile of her until I couldn't taste anything except concrete on the walls and floor. I scratch at my arms harder. The pain doesn't even register in my brain. My mouth fills with saliva. I am a dog that wants nothing more than to gnaw on the precious bones of its beloved master.
When Ysa finally drapes herself on the couch next to me, centuries have passed. She doesn't even comment on the state of my arms. There's no point. There is no one left to love besides me. She can blind herself to my faults as long as there is a warm body to share the bed with at the end of the day.
"Do you ever miss Liam?" Ysa's voice is so tender, so masterfully frightful, that I almost feel bad about whipping towards her and cracking the back of my hand against her jaw. She recoils, hand immediately flying up towards her injured face. I wonder if she will bleed this time. She never learns her lesson. I contemplate the idea of making frenzied, passionate love to her until she is disfigured– uglier than I am.
She laughs a little, but it's humourless and nervous as she wipes at her mouth, sucking down her blood selfishly instead of letting it dribble down her lower lip. I mimic the sound, but I too, like the mirror, am nothing but a mockery of what people like Ysabelle are. I would give anything to become her shadow.
We sit there in silence. Her fingers drum anxiously against her thighs. I see her stretch marks, her scars from my teeth.
We do not sleep in the bedroom that night. She shudders in my arms when I hold her.
A sharp thudding sound against the door wakes both of us up.
"Shhh…" Ysa coos to beckon me into consciousness. She pushes me gently towards the bedroom, her hands finding her crowbar. My spine prickles with anticipation and adrenaline, seeing it gleam even when I know I am not its current target. She always handles the shambling interlopers, keeping their rotten corpses out of the bunker. I obediently limp into the bedroom, but sneak a peek down the hallway at the door.
It's a teenager with a snapback and eyes so wide they bulge out of his head. His face is sun-kissed and clean, his clothes freshly laundered and bright compared to the cool grey of the bunker. "Oh, fuck, it was just a dare-"
He becomes nothing more. Ysa slams his head into the side of the vault door with the crowbar. Blood spatters against the metal. She diligently disappears through the doorway with the body. I wonder if I am imagining the slight smile I catch on her lips when she turns my way, pretending not to see me.
It has been 365 days since the outside world ended for us. We like it better this way.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 1063
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Abuse, Violence
It has been 364 days since the world ended.
I look different in the mirror. Uglier. I squint and preen, blinking my eyes repeatedly, wondering if the next time I open my eyes, I'll like what I see better. I don't. The bags under my eyes make me look older and my entire face seems to sag with them, lips fused into a near permanent frown. I wonder what Ysabelle sees in me, in my pallid skin and flaky scalp. We ran out of shampoo and soap ages ago. Even when I do manage to paw at my body with shaky hands and a wet rag, I never feel like the grime actually disappears. It feels like I'm pressing it deeper into me, until it's absorbed into my bloodstream.
Until there's something wrong with me. Until I grow unloveable.
Ysa appears behind me in the doorway. She's something out of a watercolour painting, something too soft and washed-out about the way that she appears in the yellowed light. Her blonde hair is frizzy, a smattering of masterfully crafted freckles splattered across her cheeks. I stop looking at her reflection and turn around. The mirror could never compare.
"It's our anniversary tomorrow." she says with a cool smile, translucent eyelashes fluttering low for a moment, as though she's feeling bashful about the statement, but I know that she never gets embarrassed. I try to smile back, but even without looking in the mirror, I can tell that there is visible hunger lurking in my gaze.
"Yes." My mouth is dry. She pulls me close and presses our lips together. My breath stutters when I take her scent in, almost too desperate for her touch. She smells divine. She tastes divine. I want nothing more than to take shelter between her bones, like some sort of vagrant trespassing within a holy temple.
I squeeze her shoulders so hard between my fingertips that I feel the pressure of her muscles spasming in pain. She pulls away. Her eyes don't even widen anymore in surprise like they used to. I know that her skin will bruise soon. The idea makes me so ravenous that, for once, I let go of her first.
She told me that she loved me the day we first entered the shelter, us three. We'd lost our families. Our friend, Liam, had gone out there to try and find others, but never came back. We'd lost everyone except each other. I hadn't been able to go out and scavenge, because a tumble in our escape had led to me breaking my leg. Ysa nursed me back to health. Ever since then, I savour every breath we share between our lungs, cycled through her system, purified and perfect, straight into mine.
The seconds tick by and eventually, she steps aside so that I can get around her. I limp out into the main area of the bunker. My leg never fully healed. I am so useless that Ysa cannot help but kiss my wounds and breathe oxygen into my mouth for me. The thought of breaking my leg again makes me giddy. Gingerly, I set myself down on the ratty couch and scratch at my arms until they turn bright red. Ysa remains in the bathroom.
I can't stop thinking about her. I want her so badly that nothing else ever seems to matter. If she were to explode into viscera today, I would wholeheartedly lap at the pile of her until I couldn't taste anything except concrete on the walls and floor. I scratch at my arms harder. The pain doesn't even register in my brain. My mouth fills with saliva. I am a dog that wants nothing more than to gnaw on the precious bones of its beloved master.
When Ysa finally drapes herself on the couch next to me, centuries have passed. She doesn't even comment on the state of my arms. There's no point. There is no one left to love besides me. She can blind herself to my faults as long as there is a warm body to share the bed with at the end of the day.
"Do you ever miss Liam?" Ysa's voice is so tender, so masterfully frightful, that I almost feel bad about whipping towards her and cracking the back of my hand against her jaw. She recoils, hand immediately flying up towards her injured face. I wonder if she will bleed this time. She never learns her lesson. I contemplate the idea of making frenzied, passionate love to her until she is disfigured– uglier than I am.
She laughs a little, but it's humourless and nervous as she wipes at her mouth, sucking down her blood selfishly instead of letting it dribble down her lower lip. I mimic the sound, but I too, like the mirror, am nothing but a mockery of what people like Ysabelle are. I would give anything to become her shadow.
We sit there in silence. Her fingers drum anxiously against her thighs. I see her stretch marks, her scars from my teeth.
We do not sleep in the bedroom that night. She shudders in my arms when I hold her.
A sharp thudding sound against the door wakes both of us up.
"Shhh…" Ysa coos to beckon me into consciousness. She pushes me gently towards the bedroom, her hands finding her crowbar. My spine prickles with anticipation and adrenaline, seeing it gleam even when I know I am not its current target. She always handles the shambling interlopers, keeping their rotten corpses out of the bunker. I obediently limp into the bedroom, but sneak a peek down the hallway at the door.
It's a teenager with a snapback and eyes so wide they bulge out of his head. His face is sun-kissed and clean, his clothes freshly laundered and bright compared to the cool grey of the bunker. "Oh, fuck, it was just a dare-"
He becomes nothing more. Ysa slams his head into the side of the vault door with the crowbar. Blood spatters against the metal. She diligently disappears through the doorway with the body. I wonder if I am imagining the slight smile I catch on her lips when she turns my way, pretending not to see me.
It has been 365 days since the outside world ended for us. We like it better this way.
The Aftermath
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 433
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
I can feel movement inside my body. Something twisting sickly inside me. It claws at my insides, tearing at my flesh.
I think I was unconscious when it happened. My mind swims when I try to think back, but I can still taste the stench of that putrid place. Feel the icy grasp of fear breaking over me. The paralysis. I don't know if it was the emotions, or if it did something to me, but I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could only freeze.
I think I'm dying.
Perhaps that's a good thing, after everything that's happened. Perhaps this way, this thing inside of me will die, too.
I just wish someone was here to hold my hand.
I never told my father I love him. I never apologised to my mother for last night. I can't remember if I kissed my cat this morning. Who will feed him if I die?
God, it's twisting me again. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much. I want my mother…
Does everyone want their mother when they die? Even old men and women whose parents are long dead?
The world's started spinning again…
…
Where am I?
People are around me. Whispering. Dull screaming. Someone's crying. I can't feel my lower body well. My throat hurts. I can't speak.
Something's lying on me. Warm and damp. There's something fleshy and… strange… connecting it to me.
It's moving.
God, what is it?!
What does she mean, what do I want to call it? Why would I name it? Get it off me! Don't let it touch me! It's not mine! It can't be mine!
It can't be mine…
I don't want it. I don't want it. I don't want it! Take it away!
It's evil. Spawned of evil. I can't.
…
They keep bringing it back to me. Saying I should give it a name.
It needs to go away.
I'm going to make it go away. I can pretend long enough to have a moment alone.
…
They've stopped bringing it back to me. I tried to drop it out the window, but someone came in. Told them it was evil, but they didn't listen. They don't understand. They think I'm still sick. That I'll change my mind if I wait.
I won't change my mind. I can't.
…
It was taken away today.
I feel relief. But I also feel pain. Why is there pain when I have rid myself of an evil? Of a reminder of something I can't remember?
It was evil. It nearly killed me.
It's for the best.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 433
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
Pregnancy/Birthing Trauma, Implied Rape?
I can feel movement inside my body. Something twisting sickly inside me. It claws at my insides, tearing at my flesh.
I think I was unconscious when it happened. My mind swims when I try to think back, but I can still taste the stench of that putrid place. Feel the icy grasp of fear breaking over me. The paralysis. I don't know if it was the emotions, or if it did something to me, but I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could only freeze.
I think I'm dying.
Perhaps that's a good thing, after everything that's happened. Perhaps this way, this thing inside of me will die, too.
I just wish someone was here to hold my hand.
I never told my father I love him. I never apologised to my mother for last night. I can't remember if I kissed my cat this morning. Who will feed him if I die?
God, it's twisting me again. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so much. I want my mother…
Does everyone want their mother when they die? Even old men and women whose parents are long dead?
The world's started spinning again…
…
Where am I?
People are around me. Whispering. Dull screaming. Someone's crying. I can't feel my lower body well. My throat hurts. I can't speak.
Something's lying on me. Warm and damp. There's something fleshy and… strange… connecting it to me.
It's moving.
God, what is it?!
What does she mean, what do I want to call it? Why would I name it? Get it off me! Don't let it touch me! It's not mine! It can't be mine!
It can't be mine…
I don't want it. I don't want it. I don't want it! Take it away!
It's evil. Spawned of evil. I can't.
…
They keep bringing it back to me. Saying I should give it a name.
It needs to go away.
I'm going to make it go away. I can pretend long enough to have a moment alone.
…
They've stopped bringing it back to me. I tried to drop it out the window, but someone came in. Told them it was evil, but they didn't listen. They don't understand. They think I'm still sick. That I'll change my mind if I wait.
I won't change my mind. I can't.
…
It was taken away today.
I feel relief. But I also feel pain. Why is there pain when I have rid myself of an evil? Of a reminder of something I can't remember?
It was evil. It nearly killed me.
It's for the best.
Dead Core
By: @strangeatlas
Word Count: 906
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
Alright Jerry you're there, take it slow, and tell us what you see. Your feed is noisy.
Ahh, yeah, this is the place alright. Suit check?
Yeah, Jerry, your suit's holding up fine, just like it was a minute ago.
It's only been a minute? Ha-ha.
Fifty-seven seconds, to be precise, fifty-eight.
Ok, I am entering.
Ah, God, it's worse than I was expecting in here.
Keep it together and tell us what you see. We need to log everything.
Well, it's the reactor room. It's small, maybe one hundred cubic meters max. Reactor is below.
I see the main terminal, and the remains of the terminal operator, and about a hundred connections are bare, ripped out of the walls.
My feet are sticking to the floor as I walk, from some kind of mucus.
I can see down into the reactor now. It's on. It's glowing.
Jerry, we need to hear about the foreign organism.
Was getting to that, Nancy. Yeah it's big, it's worked its way into the terminal, the reactor…
…God, even the terminal operator, poor fella.
Can you confirm it is inside the reactor?
Goddamn looks like it from here.
Jerry, you need to go down, check and be sure.
…
Management is just going to send you back here if you don't, and then how big will it be?
Alright, alright I'll get into the reactor isolation tank. Suit check?
Suit is fine, Jerry, get moving.
Ok, entering the tank now.
Water's fine, a little cloudy with sediment, but visibility is alright. Suit seems watertight, so that's good.
I'm at the bottom, I can see control rods. The organism appears to be wrapped around them, gripping them, I suppose.
Flesh is soft, and tan, covered in fine hairs. Goddamn just like human skin. If I touch it, I see goosebumps. It's warm, even through the gloves.
Nice work, Jerry. What about the reactor core?
There's a goddamn eye, Nancy. It's embedded in the skin.
Its…not really focused on anything. The pupil appears dilated, it's moving…but slowly and randomly.
Jerry…
Alright, I'll get to the reactor core now. It's so embedded, I have to cut some away to get to the access panel.
Go ahead, Jerry, go ahead.
God, it bleeds just like a person.
The isolation tank water is getting red, visibility reduced.
I wish someone was here with me.
Only two suits, Jerry. We can't risk losing both.
Yeah, yeah…
We're with you, Jerry, keep talking.
Some kind of structure underneath, tough to cut. There. Ok, access panel—what?
What is it, Jerry? What do you see?
Didn't see anything, I just thought I felt something on my leg. Can't see in here. Water is too bloody. Suit check?
Jerry, get in that access panel, we're not done until we've seen the state of the reactor core.
Fuck you, Nancy, I'm not—somethings in the tank, something moving near my feet. I can't see it!
Jerry, you must access—
My feet are wet, something's in the suit! Something's in the suit, I…God…I'm stuck Nancy, I can't move.
Hold on, Jerry, we have an extraction drone charged, and it's on its way. Keep talking, what do you see?
It's on me, Nancy. Oh God, no, it's in me! God, Nancy, it's inside me somehow.
Jerry, keep talking. Keep your data transmit going. It's your lifeline.
Ok, Ok, Ok, what is ETA on extraction? Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Jerry listen—
Oh God, oh god—
Pay attention, Jerry. Your family, I can make sure they're taken care of…
Oh God—
…but they'll have an easier time with the claim if you can get into that access panel. Can you do it?
Jenny, Henry, Francis, I just want to see them again.
Jerry, can you move the camera into the reactor core?
Just wish I could see them. Ah God…
Just want to see them one more time.
It would mean a lot to them, to get a nice claim from the company.
Ok, I can do that, I can—
Jerry…
Jerry…
Jerry…can you hear me.
Mmm…
Jerry, are you alright?
Can you see the reactor, Jerry?
Grown out.
Is it growing out of the reactor core, Jerry?
Grown out of it. They said…
Jerry, can you be more clear? Who said it?
…said I'd grown out of it. But I didn't.
Jerry, let's stay focused—
I've grown around it. It is embedded within me now.
But…hidden.
Jerry, is this about the reactor? What is embedded?
It has gnawed out my intestines to make space. My body is a cavity.
Like a shiny red apple with a rotten, dead core.
I'm sorry to hear that, Jerry, but maybe now isn't the best time to—
My pulse has long gone, but my skin is still warm.
My brain has melted to fluid, but my fingers still twitch.
Your voice, Jerry…is that you? Or is it…
It powers me, my dead core. It drives me forth like a machine.
What are you? What do you want?
Years. It's been years…
Years….
Years. It's been years…
Years…
What do you want from the reactor? Why have you come here?
…it's been years.
Years…
For years…
It's been years..
Years…
Years and years…
Ok, I think we've got enough. Helm, take us out of orbit.
Years and years and years…
So many years.
Years and years…
Cut the transmission. Shut that thing up.
…since I knew.
By: @strangeatlas
Word Count: 906
Chosen Theme(s): Isolation, Obsession, Uncanny Valley
Chosen Format: Short Story
Body Snatching/Possession
Alright Jerry you're there, take it slow, and tell us what you see. Your feed is noisy.
Ahh, yeah, this is the place alright. Suit check?
Yeah, Jerry, your suit's holding up fine, just like it was a minute ago.
It's only been a minute? Ha-ha.
Fifty-seven seconds, to be precise, fifty-eight.
Ok, I am entering.
Ah, God, it's worse than I was expecting in here.
Keep it together and tell us what you see. We need to log everything.
Well, it's the reactor room. It's small, maybe one hundred cubic meters max. Reactor is below.
I see the main terminal, and the remains of the terminal operator, and about a hundred connections are bare, ripped out of the walls.
My feet are sticking to the floor as I walk, from some kind of mucus.
I can see down into the reactor now. It's on. It's glowing.
Jerry, we need to hear about the foreign organism.
Was getting to that, Nancy. Yeah it's big, it's worked its way into the terminal, the reactor…
…God, even the terminal operator, poor fella.
Can you confirm it is inside the reactor?
Goddamn looks like it from here.
Jerry, you need to go down, check and be sure.
…
Management is just going to send you back here if you don't, and then how big will it be?
Alright, alright I'll get into the reactor isolation tank. Suit check?
Suit is fine, Jerry, get moving.
Ok, entering the tank now.
Water's fine, a little cloudy with sediment, but visibility is alright. Suit seems watertight, so that's good.
I'm at the bottom, I can see control rods. The organism appears to be wrapped around them, gripping them, I suppose.
Flesh is soft, and tan, covered in fine hairs. Goddamn just like human skin. If I touch it, I see goosebumps. It's warm, even through the gloves.
Nice work, Jerry. What about the reactor core?
There's a goddamn eye, Nancy. It's embedded in the skin.
Its…not really focused on anything. The pupil appears dilated, it's moving…but slowly and randomly.
Jerry…
Alright, I'll get to the reactor core now. It's so embedded, I have to cut some away to get to the access panel.
Go ahead, Jerry, go ahead.
God, it bleeds just like a person.
The isolation tank water is getting red, visibility reduced.
I wish someone was here with me.
Only two suits, Jerry. We can't risk losing both.
Yeah, yeah…
We're with you, Jerry, keep talking.
Some kind of structure underneath, tough to cut. There. Ok, access panel—what?
What is it, Jerry? What do you see?
Didn't see anything, I just thought I felt something on my leg. Can't see in here. Water is too bloody. Suit check?
Jerry, get in that access panel, we're not done until we've seen the state of the reactor core.
Fuck you, Nancy, I'm not—somethings in the tank, something moving near my feet. I can't see it!
Jerry, you must access—
My feet are wet, something's in the suit! Something's in the suit, I…God…I'm stuck Nancy, I can't move.
Hold on, Jerry, we have an extraction drone charged, and it's on its way. Keep talking, what do you see?
It's on me, Nancy. Oh God, no, it's in me! God, Nancy, it's inside me somehow.
Jerry, keep talking. Keep your data transmit going. It's your lifeline.
Ok, Ok, Ok, what is ETA on extraction? Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Jerry listen—
Oh God, oh god—
Pay attention, Jerry. Your family, I can make sure they're taken care of…
Oh God—
…but they'll have an easier time with the claim if you can get into that access panel. Can you do it?
Jenny, Henry, Francis, I just want to see them again.
Jerry, can you move the camera into the reactor core?
Just wish I could see them. Ah God…
Just want to see them one more time.
It would mean a lot to them, to get a nice claim from the company.
Ok, I can do that, I can—
Jerry…
Jerry…
Jerry…can you hear me.
Mmm…
Jerry, are you alright?
Can you see the reactor, Jerry?
Grown out.
Is it growing out of the reactor core, Jerry?
Grown out of it. They said…
Jerry, can you be more clear? Who said it?
…said I'd grown out of it. But I didn't.
Jerry, let's stay focused—
I've grown around it. It is embedded within me now.
But…hidden.
Jerry, is this about the reactor? What is embedded?
It has gnawed out my intestines to make space. My body is a cavity.
Like a shiny red apple with a rotten, dead core.
I'm sorry to hear that, Jerry, but maybe now isn't the best time to—
My pulse has long gone, but my skin is still warm.
My brain has melted to fluid, but my fingers still twitch.
Your voice, Jerry…is that you? Or is it…
It powers me, my dead core. It drives me forth like a machine.
What are you? What do you want?
Years. It's been years…
Years….
Years. It's been years…
Years…
What do you want from the reactor? Why have you come here?
…it's been years.
Years…
For years…
It's been years..
Years…
Years and years…
Ok, I think we've got enough. Helm, take us out of orbit.
Years and years and years…
So many years.
Years and years…
Cut the transmission. Shut that thing up.
…since I knew.
Caviar
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 949
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley, Isolation, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
The following is a journal that was discovered aboard the fishing vessel WSK5627. Previously assumed lost and/or adrift, it was found off the coast of Nordland with no crew, though several bodies in various states of decay were recovered.
Oct 15
I awoke having slept badly. We just passed through a rough storm, and every joint in the ship was creaking. At one point I was tossed from the bed, and the captain was shouting to check the hold to see if the catch was okay. Many were split and roe was everywhere. The smell was awful.
Oct 17
We haven't caught anything since we tossed the bad ones from the storm overboard. Today our nets came up with fragments of crab, shellfish, and pieces of fish. Our captain ordered the chef to make it into a stew. I did not eat, owing to lingering sea sickness.
Oct 18
There is a strange mood on the ship. Many of us keep staring overboard at night, when there is nothing to see. We are all in a bad mood and frequently get into arguments. Someone tried to jump overboard, and we had to lock them in their room. People keep drinking seawater and splashing themselves with it, even though they can't hold it down. I have fallen ill as well. There is no porthole in my room, but all I can think about is the ocean outside. The waves on the hull are deafening.
Oct 20
I appear to have slept for two days. I am thirsty. The ship is deserted. The bunks look unmade, the radio was still active, and the engine was at half throttle. I raised PAN-PAN and shut down the engines. Later today, I heard a banging from the rooms. It was the crewmember who had tried to jump overboard. There was a wet flopping coming from inside, and I dared not open the door.
Oct 22
I awoke to the foulest stench. The fish are spoiled, and I had to throw them overboard with the crane. The jaws mashed up the carcasses, and I threw up several times. The back of my throat burns, partly from this unquenchable thirst. The ocean is still, and it won't carry the mess away.
The noise from my companion's room has stopped, and I feel responsible for his impending death. I did not have the courage to give him any food and water, but I will try to do so tomorrow.
Oct 23
I checked on the crewmate and found him unresponsive on the floor. His skin was covered in shingles, and his mouth gulped the air like a fish. I left him some water. I raised mayday.
[From this point onward, the entries are undated.]
I forgot to close his door! A restlessness had me prowling the ship at night. I saw him crawling out of the room, leaving behind a trail of slime. I followed him to the railing as he slipped overboard. In the water he turned to look at me. He had a round mouth with teeth that led all the way down.
I thought I saw the captain in the water; his face was stretched out, and his eyes were black pits. He noticed me and swam back to the deeps. I took a sip of seawater. It was delicious. I stopped myself from drinking anymore. It is the path to madness.
They keep swimming around the ship, but they know when I appear at the railing and duck away. I saw the pilot today. His body looked like it was butterflied, and he was spread out like a flounder. Both of his eyes were on the same side of his head.
I drank more seawater. There was some fish left in the hold, although too degraded to eat, so I tried to bait a long line. The first day I sat next to it with the harpoon gun, waiting for something to crawl up, but nothing. The second day the line felt heavy. It was the captain, tangled in the line. His body was bloated into a sausage, his arms and legs were long and thin, and his face was stretched out over one end. I could not look at him and cut him free. I raised mayday again.
I awoke to noises in the hold. The captain and pilot had climbed the long line and came inside, flopping along the floor and sucking at the remnants of the catch. The crewmember was attached to the pilot like a lamprey or barnacle. The pilot seemed content sliding along the floor, his flat mouth reaching for the goo of decaying roe. We made eye contact, but they ignored me.
I am drifting in and out of a stupor, perhaps from all the seawater. A strange mood seized me, and I took the harpoon gun and knife to the hold. There had been a struggle and a victor, the captain feasting on the roe that spilled out of the other two. I put a bolt into the captain's head.
I should not have eaten. My feet are wrong. I have no balance, and it feels like I could spill in any direction at any moment. Seawater tastes so good. I gave in and drank until my stomach bulged.
My upper arms have fused to my sides, and I can only move my forearms. This may be my last entry. The ocean calls to me. I gulp the air but I cannot breathe. My skin burns, my eyes burn. So dry. Everything is dry. I need water. I raised mayday this morning, but the radio was dead. The water. I need the water. The ocean.
By: Anonymous
Word Count: 949
Chosen Theme(s): Uncanny Valley, Isolation, Obsession
Chosen Format: Short Story
Body Horror
The following is a journal that was discovered aboard the fishing vessel WSK5627. Previously assumed lost and/or adrift, it was found off the coast of Nordland with no crew, though several bodies in various states of decay were recovered.
Oct 15
I awoke having slept badly. We just passed through a rough storm, and every joint in the ship was creaking. At one point I was tossed from the bed, and the captain was shouting to check the hold to see if the catch was okay. Many were split and roe was everywhere. The smell was awful.
Oct 17
We haven't caught anything since we tossed the bad ones from the storm overboard. Today our nets came up with fragments of crab, shellfish, and pieces of fish. Our captain ordered the chef to make it into a stew. I did not eat, owing to lingering sea sickness.
Oct 18
There is a strange mood on the ship. Many of us keep staring overboard at night, when there is nothing to see. We are all in a bad mood and frequently get into arguments. Someone tried to jump overboard, and we had to lock them in their room. People keep drinking seawater and splashing themselves with it, even though they can't hold it down. I have fallen ill as well. There is no porthole in my room, but all I can think about is the ocean outside. The waves on the hull are deafening.
Oct 20
I appear to have slept for two days. I am thirsty. The ship is deserted. The bunks look unmade, the radio was still active, and the engine was at half throttle. I raised PAN-PAN and shut down the engines. Later today, I heard a banging from the rooms. It was the crewmember who had tried to jump overboard. There was a wet flopping coming from inside, and I dared not open the door.
Oct 22
I awoke to the foulest stench. The fish are spoiled, and I had to throw them overboard with the crane. The jaws mashed up the carcasses, and I threw up several times. The back of my throat burns, partly from this unquenchable thirst. The ocean is still, and it won't carry the mess away.
The noise from my companion's room has stopped, and I feel responsible for his impending death. I did not have the courage to give him any food and water, but I will try to do so tomorrow.
Oct 23
I checked on the crewmate and found him unresponsive on the floor. His skin was covered in shingles, and his mouth gulped the air like a fish. I left him some water. I raised mayday.
[From this point onward, the entries are undated.]
I forgot to close his door! A restlessness had me prowling the ship at night. I saw him crawling out of the room, leaving behind a trail of slime. I followed him to the railing as he slipped overboard. In the water he turned to look at me. He had a round mouth with teeth that led all the way down.
I thought I saw the captain in the water; his face was stretched out, and his eyes were black pits. He noticed me and swam back to the deeps. I took a sip of seawater. It was delicious. I stopped myself from drinking anymore. It is the path to madness.
They keep swimming around the ship, but they know when I appear at the railing and duck away. I saw the pilot today. His body looked like it was butterflied, and he was spread out like a flounder. Both of his eyes were on the same side of his head.
I drank more seawater. There was some fish left in the hold, although too degraded to eat, so I tried to bait a long line. The first day I sat next to it with the harpoon gun, waiting for something to crawl up, but nothing. The second day the line felt heavy. It was the captain, tangled in the line. His body was bloated into a sausage, his arms and legs were long and thin, and his face was stretched out over one end. I could not look at him and cut him free. I raised mayday again.
I awoke to noises in the hold. The captain and pilot had climbed the long line and came inside, flopping along the floor and sucking at the remnants of the catch. The crewmember was attached to the pilot like a lamprey or barnacle. The pilot seemed content sliding along the floor, his flat mouth reaching for the goo of decaying roe. We made eye contact, but they ignored me.
I am drifting in and out of a stupor, perhaps from all the seawater. A strange mood seized me, and I took the harpoon gun and knife to the hold. There had been a struggle and a victor, the captain feasting on the roe that spilled out of the other two. I put a bolt into the captain's head.
I should not have eaten. My feet are wrong. I have no balance, and it feels like I could spill in any direction at any moment. Seawater tastes so good. I gave in and drank until my stomach bulged.
My upper arms have fused to my sides, and I can only move my forearms. This may be my last entry. The ocean calls to me. I gulp the air but I cannot breathe. My skin burns, my eyes burn. So dry. Everything is dry. I need water. I raised mayday this morning, but the radio was dead. The water. I need the water. The ocean.
