Friday, October 30, 2015

13 Posts Of Halloween 2015 #12: A Creepy Scene

 13 Posts Of Halloween will be taking place all month here at The Story Goes... with 13 Halloween related posts!

Today's post is writing related! I love writing scary stuff, not sure it's actually scary, but it's fun. Anyways, so I wrote what I'm calling A Creepy Scene, to share with you guys. Hope you enjoy!

WARNING. Mature audiences only, because of langue, and some bloody content.

A Creepy Scene
by Shayla Emory

You stand in front of the mirror in an empty, abandoned house. It is Halloween night. The souls of the underworld roam freely through your town. You can hear the howling throughout the abandoned house, not the wind -- well, not only the wind.

The screams. Of laughter? Pain? Who can tell the difference?

You are tall -- or short, I have no preference. Female, male? What does It really matter. No, all I care is you do It and do It right. The ceremony has three requirements; most people only get two. Oh, I get so angry. so close and then you fuck up. Don’t fuck up.

The house is the first part. Not many know why this house. Most think It a joke, a legend, that I am a legend. I assure you that I am not, I am as real as you. You, who knows the truth. You who wants to play games, summoning me like this.

Oh, how disappointed you will be when you realize there is no game here. All that is in this house, in this mirror where I watch you but you can’t yet see me, is death. Oh, and pain. Can’t forget the pain, can we?

Where was I?

Oh, right. The house. I was killed here of course. Don’t feel bad for me, I deserved it. I took girls -- and boys -- just like you. Preferably young ones, pretty, ugly? It didn’t matter. I slaughtered them all. I slashed their arms.

Their legs.

Their pretty little throats.

Then I bathed in their blood.

Why should they get to be so young, so fresh, while every day I aged more and more? I couldn’t stand to see myself in the mirror. How ironic.

It’s nice though. Blood baths. Good for the soul. Not that I would know.

So, yes. I was killed here. Right in the very bathroom in which you stand. Back then everything gleamed, if one speck of dirt touched my precious house I killed the housekeeper. Oh, how father hated that. Now my whole home is falling down. Falling apart. Filled with dirt and horrifying creatures…

Oh wait, that’s me. I’m the horrifying creature. At least the scariest. There are others, mind you. Places like this tend to attract them.

Ghosts. Demons. Souls. Call them what you will, if I hadn’t claimed you, one of them would.

But this isn’t just about me! It’s about you too. What has brought you here, to this old, dust covered and mold filled house, young one? Is it the pain of living? The pain of heartbreak? It’s always some kind of pain. Or maybe you are trying to win a bet. Did they think you were too scared to summon little old me? You’ll prove them wrong…

With your blood.

Yes. Part one is the house. Part two is the you.

You, who stands there, waiting for the right moment. Your eyes flickering back and forth, revealing your terror. You stare at the little clock on your phone, waiting. If you don’t believe, why are you so scared?

Outside, your friend’s drunken laughter gets higher and you flinch.

Any. Minute. Now.

My thirst grows stronger by the second. It’s been so many years since I’ve fed. It changed, when I was slaughtered, cut down in this bathroom, staring at my reflection in the mirror. That is how I was trapped, by the way.

Before, I didn’t crave the blood, I loved It. I loved the hot, silky feeling against my skin, refreshing me. Rebirthing me. I loved the copper smell. The horrified looks I got, when they all realized why my pale skin glowed so brightly. Loved the way It stained my light hair.

You have light hair, don’t you? It will stain you too, when It comes pouring out of your veins. I was younger than you when I started. Eight years old when I took my first blood bath. What can I say? I hadn’t met Peter Pan and I never wanted to grow up. Is that a crime?

Ha-ha. Well that is not. The killing… It is debatable.

Father didn’t care. Not until my secret came out and the town turned. Oh, how they screamed for my blood, for my head on a stake. I’d killed their children, they’d kill me. It’s not my fault the children just kept coming. The house had a curse, even way back then.

Oh, it angers me so. They think I am someone I’m not. They give her all the credit. How I want to drain them all. Bathe in their blood, drink It, swim in It.

Oh. I need It so BAD.

Oh dear, we’re getting close, aren't we? You’ve stopped looking at your watch every other second. Your eyes are wider than ever. Don’t fear. It will be painless…well actually, it will hurt like a bitch. But, then you’ll be dead, so what do you care?

A bottle smashes against the window and you jump. I can hear your heartbeat. So fast. You can’t catch your breath. Poor baby.

Oh, yes, the third part.

That would be the day and the time, of course. Many mistake this part. You see, it has to be Halloween. It’s the day the veil between worlds is thinnest and all that hoo ha.

Time would be 11:13, exactly. Closest to midnight as possible, and can’t forget my favorite number. Why is the number 13 feared? All the good stuff happens with that number.

That’s why you actually say my name 13 times. You spin with each word. You light 13 candles. That is it. All you have to do.

Then I get to have fun.

I watch your hands shake as you pull the candles out -- really? Big white ones? Cliché, my poor, nearly dead, dear. It takes you three tries to light the match.

Hurry now, less than a minute until it’s time.

My eyes grow wide with hunger; I glance at myself -- it’s so hard to see when you’re locked in a mirror. I need to be creepy enough. Can’t have you not fearing for your life the moment you see me; it would ruin all the fun. I want the fear to change the color of your hair. Your scream to echo out to your little friends sending them running home. Too afraid to actually save you. I want to look into your eyes that you try to close as you tell yourself I’m not real and I cut you with my sharp as bloody, rusty knives nails. I want you to go pale as your blood spills and be horrified in that last moment, when you see me licking your blood off my finger and you’re in so much pain you wish to die… and then you do. Blink.

Gone forever.

Woo. Got a little carried away, pardon me.

I am sad it had to be you. I’d much prefer one of the little bitches outside, but… what can you do?

So, yes. My night dress is still covered in my blood. My eyes are blank and black. My skin too pale to be real and my nails just sharp enough to rip your pretty little skin open. I think everything is in order…

Are you ready?

The candles are lit you are counting down the seconds.





Spin. Spin. Spin. Do not forget the chanting. Every syllable correct. If you mess my name up once you will ruin everything and I will be oh. So. MAD.

Your voice is low and it grows more sure as you go.

Seven times. Eight.

You aren’t even afraid anymore. You’ve convinced yourself it is a joke and now, In the middle of the ritual, you actually believe it. A smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, teasing me.

Poor, sweet mortal.

I can feel the power. Feel the power loosening its hold on me.

Eleven times. You’ve said it.

I can smell your blood and oh. I so want to taste It.


Yes, dear. Come on. One last spin.

I see the words forming on your lips. Perfect timing. The minute hand is about to move. I’m lunging forward and you’re stopping spinning.

There it is. The fear as I come flying out of the mirror, hands extended like claws ready to rip into your pretty little face.

The scream.

The hot scent of blood.

The running of your friends.

I’m blinded by the need to feel your blood all over me. And then…

I drink….

Oh, dear. Would you stay still? The gasping, heaving for breaths. The twitching and clawing, trying to get away. It’s quite running the moment my nails rip into your skin – the screams! My dear, hush.

The liquid rushing down my throat – that’s the stuff.

You’re still screaming. Oh, choking on your blood? I hadn’t realized your face could go so pale. Don’t look at the blood. Stare into my eyes.

Any minute now…oh. There you go. Bye, bye. Time to die. In this last moment, as your eyes go cold, you whisper a question and I laugh.

Who am I?

Oh yes, never did introduce myself, did I? Why, I am the ghost, the demon, known as Bloody Mary. How do you do?

© 2015 Shayla Emory. All rights reserved.