| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted September 1, 2017 |
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Contest entry
Dark Fate
by frogbook
The dark enveloped him like a velvet shroud, heavy, thick, palpable. It seemed to weigh him down and keep his chest from rising, causing him a panicked need for air.
Where was he? He fought to remember where he had been before waking up in this black space. His mind was fuzzy and his head hurt. He ran his hand over his scalp. When he reached the occipital region, he drew it back sharply as he felt an exquisite pain, and a lump that seemed as large as the ones the Roadrunner inflicted on the skull of Wiley Coyote.
Pieces of the day slowly seeped back then. His now, ex girlfriend, Emily, and some older guy, arguing; punches thrown. He reached for his cell phone, but his pockets were empty. Empty! God, his wallet. He had just received a cash payment for his first painting sold at the gallery. An acidic taste formed in his mouth. That was money he had already spent. Where would he get the funds now?
He slid down a damp wall landing in a fetid pool of liquid. Tears sprang to his eyes. Now, how would he pay for the down payment on the remodeling of his loft? Dammit! He had been lured over to that bitch's house with one of her sob stories about having no one else to help her. Crap, he should have never assumed he could just talk to her about how well he was doing, as a friend.
The woman was Satan in disguise.
He thought back on all the hurt she had inflicted and verbally punished himself for his stupidity. The evil little shrew got to him every time. Her malicious schemes were endless. She had a line of boyfriends that would stretch halfway across the state, but she just couldn't stand that he broke up with her. He wondered where the rest of her exes were; why didn't she ever call them for help?
He shivered as he lifted himself from the cold water...he hoped it was water anyway. That weak slide into the stuff had been a stupid move. He needed to buck up and get out of this mess. He felt his way a few feet along the wall. He had never been somewhere with such a complete absence of light. Even after all the time he had been here, he could not see his hand in front of his face. He had a frightening moment, when he believed he was blind.
Another foul odor assaulted his nostrils. A skittering of eight hairy legs across his face, caused him to stifle a scream. He walked with his hand on the wall for a guide for a few more steps before sliding on a putrid quagmire. This time he cursed, loudly in the silent space. The gelatinous mass under his feet and the noxious odor, produced a wave of nausea, and he vomited down the front of his shirt. He leaned against the wall and the violent twisting in his gut subsided. Now he reeked along with whatever was in this place.
A bitter laugh escaped him, as he remembered how proud he had been yesterday. Finally, after years of mundane jobs, he felt the art he loved was going to make him successful. Now he wondered if he would even live through the day.
He shook himself and decided he was dramatizing the situation. He hadn't even made a decent attempt at escape. He ramped up his feeling along the walls. The pervasive smell remained, even as he tried to deny it for what it was...decay, rot, the smell of death.
Suddenly he noticed in a far corner, the tiniest spot of light. It was a small flashlight that was shoved against the wall. The bulb was that dim color that signals a fading battery. It went out and he shook it, causing it to come on again. There was a paper attached to the flashlight. He opened it and read;
You should have never broken up with me. Daddy always helps me with your kind.
You must be punished.
Emily
What? What did this mean? Her Dad helps her with him and others too? Suddenly, the nausea returned with a vengeance. Now, he remembered what her Dad's job was. He was a mortician. He lifted the dim light slowly and looked toward the place he had slipped. It was a pile of decaying flesh, the skull at its side, dripping flesh. There were other remains in various states of decomposition.
He screamed into his tomb...but no one could hear.
The Dark writing prompt entry
The dark enveloped him like a velvet shroud, heavy, thick, palpable. It seemed to weigh him down and keep his chest from rising, causing him a panicked need for air.
Where was he? He fought to remember where he had been before waking up in this black space. His mind was fuzzy and his head hurt. He ran his hand over his scalp. When he reached the occipital region, he drew it back sharply as he felt an exquisite pain, and a lump that seemed as large as the ones the Roadrunner inflicted on the skull of Wiley Coyote.
Pieces of the day slowly seeped back then. His now, ex girlfriend, Emily, and some older guy, arguing; punches thrown. He reached for his cell phone, but his pockets were empty. Empty! God, his wallet. He had just received a cash payment for his first painting sold at the gallery. An acidic taste formed in his mouth. That was money he had already spent. Where would he get the funds now?
He slid down a damp wall landing in a fetid pool of liquid. Tears sprang to his eyes. Now, how would he pay for the down payment on the remodeling of his loft? Dammit! He had been lured over to that bitch's house with one of her sob stories about having no one else to help her. Crap, he should have never assumed he could just talk to her about how well he was doing, as a friend.
The woman was Satan in disguise.
He thought back on all the hurt she had inflicted and verbally punished himself for his stupidity. The evil little shrew got to him every time. Her malicious schemes were endless. She had a line of boyfriends that would stretch halfway across the state, but she just couldn't stand that he broke up with her. He wondered where the rest of her exes were; why didn't she ever call them for help?
He shivered as he lifted himself from the cold water...he hoped it was water anyway. That weak slide into the stuff had been a stupid move. He needed to buck up and get out of this mess. He felt his way a few feet along the wall. He had never been somewhere with such a complete absence of light. Even after all the time he had been here, he could not see his hand in front of his face. He had a frightening moment, when he believed he was blind.
Another foul odor assaulted his nostrils. A skittering of eight hairy legs across his face, caused him to stifle a scream. He walked with his hand on the wall for a guide for a few more steps before sliding on a putrid quagmire. This time he cursed, loudly in the silent space. The gelatinous mass under his feet and the noxious odor, produced a wave of nausea, and he vomited down the front of his shirt. He leaned against the wall and the violent twisting in his gut subsided. Now he reeked along with whatever was in this place.
A bitter laugh escaped him, as he remembered how proud he had been yesterday. Finally, after years of mundane jobs, he felt the art he loved was going to make him successful. Now he wondered if he would even live through the day.
He shook himself and decided he was dramatizing the situation. He hadn't even made a decent attempt at escape. He ramped up his feeling along the walls. The pervasive smell remained, even as he tried to deny it for what it was...decay, rot, the smell of death.
Suddenly he noticed in a far corner, the tiniest spot of light. It was a small flashlight that was shoved against the wall. The bulb was that dim color that signals a fading battery. It went out and he shook it, causing it to come on again. There was a paper attached to the flashlight. He opened it and read;
You should have never broken up with me. Daddy always helps me with your kind.
You must be punished.
Emily
What? What did this mean? Her Dad helps her with him and others too? Suddenly, the nausea returned with a vengeance. Now, he remembered what her Dad's job was. He was a mortician. He lifted the dim light slowly and looked toward the place he had slipped. It was a pile of decaying flesh, the skull at its side, dripping flesh. There were other remains in various states of decomposition.
He screamed into his tomb...but no one could hear.
Where was he? He fought to remember where he had been before waking up in this black space. His mind was fuzzy and his head hurt. He ran his hand over his scalp. When he reached the occipital region, he drew it back sharply as he felt an exquisite pain, and a lump that seemed as large as the ones the Roadrunner inflicted on the skull of Wiley Coyote.
Pieces of the day slowly seeped back then. His now, ex girlfriend, Emily, and some older guy, arguing; punches thrown. He reached for his cell phone, but his pockets were empty. Empty! God, his wallet. He had just received a cash payment for his first painting sold at the gallery. An acidic taste formed in his mouth. That was money he had already spent. Where would he get the funds now?
He slid down a damp wall landing in a fetid pool of liquid. Tears sprang to his eyes. Now, how would he pay for the down payment on the remodeling of his loft? Dammit! He had been lured over to that bitch's house with one of her sob stories about having no one else to help her. Crap, he should have never assumed he could just talk to her about how well he was doing, as a friend.
The woman was Satan in disguise.
He thought back on all the hurt she had inflicted and verbally punished himself for his stupidity. The evil little shrew got to him every time. Her malicious schemes were endless. She had a line of boyfriends that would stretch halfway across the state, but she just couldn't stand that he broke up with her. He wondered where the rest of her exes were; why didn't she ever call them for help?
He shivered as he lifted himself from the cold water...he hoped it was water anyway. That weak slide into the stuff had been a stupid move. He needed to buck up and get out of this mess. He felt his way a few feet along the wall. He had never been somewhere with such a complete absence of light. Even after all the time he had been here, he could not see his hand in front of his face. He had a frightening moment, when he believed he was blind.
Another foul odor assaulted his nostrils. A skittering of eight hairy legs across his face, caused him to stifle a scream. He walked with his hand on the wall for a guide for a few more steps before sliding on a putrid quagmire. This time he cursed, loudly in the silent space. The gelatinous mass under his feet and the noxious odor, produced a wave of nausea, and he vomited down the front of his shirt. He leaned against the wall and the violent twisting in his gut subsided. Now he reeked along with whatever was in this place.
A bitter laugh escaped him, as he remembered how proud he had been yesterday. Finally, after years of mundane jobs, he felt the art he loved was going to make him successful. Now he wondered if he would even live through the day.
He shook himself and decided he was dramatizing the situation. He hadn't even made a decent attempt at escape. He ramped up his feeling along the walls. The pervasive smell remained, even as he tried to deny it for what it was...decay, rot, the smell of death.
Suddenly he noticed in a far corner, the tiniest spot of light. It was a small flashlight that was shoved against the wall. The bulb was that dim color that signals a fading battery. It went out and he shook it, causing it to come on again. There was a paper attached to the flashlight. He opened it and read;
You should have never broken up with me. Daddy always helps me with your kind.
You must be punished.
Emily
What? What did this mean? Her Dad helps her with him and others too? Suddenly, the nausea returned with a vengeance. Now, he remembered what her Dad's job was. He was a mortician. He lifted the dim light slowly and looked toward the place he had slipped. It was a pile of decaying flesh, the skull at its side, dripping flesh. There were other remains in various states of decomposition.
He screamed into his tomb...but no one could hear.
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Writing Prompt Write a story where your character is stuck in complete darkness. |
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