A Summer Of Stephen King

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.

That candle burned to reveal 7 names written in the now still wax. 7 strangers whose paths would cross in the cosmic silk of the universe. leading some to their fate and others their destiny…

Every 10 years, the king of horror, Stephen King hunts for the next wave of horror writers. He picks 7 strangers to come out to the North Woods in Maine to act as his proteges for a week. It is said that the people who attend this retreat never come out the same. Some leave becoming better writers, and others leave traumatized by the horror. The purpose of the retreat is for Mr. king to share his gifts of the art of writing by giving sacred and valuable advice to advance their writing careers to a higher potential. He chooses writers of horror but different genres of horror. By the end of the week, he picks someone to co-write with him on his next book. Quite a big honor and opportunity for smaller writers.

This year’s guests consist of,

Danielle torrent, the youngest of our strangers. 18, Hails from the rolling plains of Oklahoma. Spent her time writing ghost stories so terrifying and hair-raising enough to scare the cows to tip themselves over. She is known all across the midwest for her compelling portrayal of the paranormal. Priding herself on her ability to speak her stories from the paranormal themselves.

Hannes Wilkens, a Scandinavian lad, whose specialty in horror writing consists of slashers. He has been writing for nearly 40 years, progressing and perfecting his craft. Although not very known in America, his stories have scared his no-crime village and neighboring villages into locking their doors at night now. A custom brought on by fear of Mr. Wilkens’s creepy and convincing home invasion slashers. His most famous work is “cold snow” a tale of a killer who haunts a village with fear as each night of the 12-day blizzard he comes into an unsuspecting family’s house. Creeping on them. Stalking them methodically Until dragging each of them out into the Cold unforgiving snow to slaughter them like a butcher.”

Penelope Winston, a young mother from Peru, is fascinated with the end of the days and has also never been out of her house for fear of such. Writing macabre short stories depicting our world’s different apocalypses we could be subject to fall under. Lab experiments going horribly wrong, creating a virus much more sinister and demonic than anything Resident Evil T Virus could throw at you, or are world leaders conspiring the end of humanity through mushroom clouds and poison gas making a mother’s child unrecognizable from the radiation. deforming her sweet bairn into an unrecognizable monster, or her gripping depiction of a woman who watches as a planet-killing comet comes to destroy not just her, but the entirety of humanity.

Terry christy, an old man from the mountains of Prescott Arizona, writes about his personal horror stories about the extraterrestrial. He writes his accounts of being kidnapped while on his travels across the continental united states. Gripping the reader with immaculate detail on the creatures made of leather skin and jagged bones, that played with his frail mind. Entrapping him in a labyrinth that he could hardly escape. He claims he has been abducted many times, and each time it happens he writes another bone-chilling novel to his saga. Some would call him a bit of a schitzsoprinic.

Charles Beverly, a high-class artist from Soho new york, is also the most grotesque of our writers. His works have been banned all across the globe for his depiction of torture. Spanning from medieval-style torture dungeons to the modern-day tales of online red rooms. Beverly is said to be one of the most sadistic writers of our day. Writing such hideous depictions of all kinds of torture. Some have questioned how he is able to be so detailed in his writing and descriptions. Some believe he has some secrets and not just who his editor is.

Joseph turnkey, a true-crime writer, and podcaster from Estes Park Colorado is possibly the most tech-savvy of writers. Turnkey appeals to the internet and their algorithm for what hot true crime is popular and selling. Although his writing and storytelling are very compelling. Some question his devotion to good storytelling and more so making a profit.

And then our final stranger in our timeline.

Me.

I grew up in a small town in Seattle, Roslyn. Everyone in that town is quite the introvert, but not as quiet as me. I lived in a very quaint cottage on the outskirts of the city with my aunt. I don’t know much about my parents. They could have been werewolves or vampires for all I know. Well, being half-vampire would actually be pretty cool, but I’ve lived this quaint lifestyle with my aunt for as long as I can feasibly remember.

My aunt was always on the more odd side of the spectrum. I guess that’s where I got my love for the darker side of things. She would take me dancing naked in the moonlit sky when it was the summer solstice. We would put herbs together to fight off our colds. Have talks of higher powers and our place inside it, but aunt had a darker side. One that I don’t even think she knew I know about.

She had an Attic. An attic I was forbidden to enter. She would rave about a portal being up there. Her legend said the room was covered in mirrors and those mirrors would show you the future. It was strictly forbidden for me to venture up to that part of the house. I never did go in that attic. Just the way she described it to me was ultimately terrifying and enough to keep me out and away. I still don’t go into that attic. Even after her passing…..

She died of a stroke. The doctors said they never could figure out the root cause. Just that her heart exploded as she slept. I had to be the in to find her… her death always seemed a mystery to me. Just like my whole existence has seemed like a huge mystery with holes and unanswered questions.

I write psychological horror stories. I get to answer my own questions that haunt me. It gives me a type of contentedness that I’m okay with…

I held the ivory invitation close to my body as the other guests took their places around the log.

All strangers fiddling with their pen and paper. Hoping whatever shine Mr king rubs off will fall onto their laps. Lots of them really seeking that spot to co-write his next book.

We all sat next to the fire. Patiently awaiting Mr. King's arrival. The air was silent and still as Monet water lilies. The only sound is the crackling of the fire and subtle bursts of the embers shooting up and hitting the ground below. I stared into the fire. Making stories out of the dancing fire. Joseph was becoming increasingly more agitated with the waiting and tried to pull out his phone but was picking up no service.

“ Shit I’m not going to make my posting deadline. People are going to think I ought to have died” Joseph snarkily commented

A rustling entered our ears as we looked to the north to see a man stride towards us holding a black lantern where a candle lit his way. He came up and dusted off the log and proceeded to sit down. He brought the lantern to his face and opened the tiny door to blow the candle out. He sat quietly with his eyes locked in the fire. He said nothing as the air grew even more silent.

“As you can imagine, each of you is here because I have found great enjoyment in each of your stories. I would like to tell each of you a story if it’s not too much of a bother.” Mr. King said.

Everyone became more attentive. Tilting their bodies in the direction of Mr King so they could hear every syllable that would come out of that man’s mouth.

He began

“ The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window, the candle burned to show 7 names of 7 people who would not make it out of the woods without learning something valuable about themselves”

Still as an army before launching an attack. The dense dark woods grew even quieter. The sounds were the clicking of Danielle's pen as she rapidly tried to get ink out and onto the paper. As soon as he spoke she was writing.

Joseph rustled through his pocket and pulled out his voice recorder

Stephen looked at him blankly. Cold as stone.

“ The first of these strangers to fall to the fate of the woods. Would be you Mr. Turnkey”

Joseph’s found this to be humorous. He awkwardly chuckled. At the same time conveniently his voice recorder stopped working

That stopped his humor

“Joseph Turnkey was an appealing writer.. to his audience his podcast consisted of true crime stories. Bone-chilling narration to scare anyone into throwing their phone into their wall or drowning it to never hear such evil again, but what has terrified me the most about Mr turnkey is in fact, his audience. The peak age for his viewers is 13-year-old boys. Now in our story. Mr. Turnkey sits in his desolate office waiting for his afternoon check to come from his busty assistant Fran. Signing off to his viewers in his perky facade of a voice “ See you next Friday, this is Joe the only show to leave you scared to be alone”

He does his usual routine. Turns off the lights. Feeds the office fish. He notices at around 11:30 Fran has not returned back. Increasingly eager to finish, he decides that perhaps it’s time to start the weekend early. He slumps back down at his desk and checks his chatroom messages. He slides his puny pig hands over from the mouse down to the upper area of his pants. He begins to fondle himself.

Joseph breaks the science. And lunges himself forward in Mr kings direction

“Is that some type of fucking joke? I don’t touch myself to my viewers.”

A phone beeps

Mr king stares back at him with a blank smile. Joseph looks down to see hundreds of notifications on his phone. His face… as if he had seen someone die.

“ What Mr. Turnkey did not know, was that his camera never turned off. Neither did his microphone. As the chat filled with comments like “kid diddler” “ pervert” “pig” Mr turnkey did the only thing acceptable to do in his condition.”

Joseph with tears on his face. Walked toward the fire. Firmly placed his hands on either side of his neck and snapped it in a single thrust motion.

I gasped as well did Danielle and Penelope.

His body hit the ground as his head clonked on the side of the log Mr king sat next to.

Mr. Beverly shot up as fast as Mr turnkeys body fell and vomited beside himself

“ What in the bloody hell. For god's sake man I’m going to get help” he made haste towards the forest.

“Mr. Beverly I would have taken you to have had a lot more of a stronger of the stomach for someone of your vocabulary. Or was that just for the woman in your story?

He halted

“ Upon the small town of Soho new york. A young woman lay trapped 100 feet deep in a rusted copper and stone torture chamber. Eyes were plucked from her head with rusty tongs used to extract meatballs but instead to extract our poor victim’s eyes. Nothing but a red and yellow pus mess that lays where her bright amber eyes once saw the world. Her screams are muffled as all of her teeth were removed by hand by our main character of this story. Her tongue was carefully extracted and replaced with a cow’s tongue. All screams shoot out blood and spit. Her hair had been scalped and staple gunned with human feces. Most of her major limbs were replaced with various animal bits. Making the once hometown sweetheart an unrecognizable monster.”

I stood incredibly still as the leaves crunched From behind me and Penelope, who I sat next to on the log. It was silent again. An ear-screeching scream vibrated the entire woods. We looked in the direction of Penelope who was releasing such a scream. Neck interlocked in Mr. Beverly’s arms, he took out his bowie knife and scalped her hair clean off. He then licked the exposed part of her head which showed her skull, as if he were licking off some dripped ice cream on his hand.

Mr king looked at Mr. Beverly with one swift stare. Instantaneously Mr. Beverly started to quiver and scream

“ I’M BURNING I’M BURNING”

He raised his shirt to show his stomach. As if it was being burned from the inside out. His large intestine then burst out of him and projected across the log in which penelopes corpse lay in.

Danielle began to cry hysterically. I went and sat next to her and held her in comfort.

Danielle’s sobs become uncontrollable

“Theft. One of the worst things you can do to someone...Stealing someone’s most valuable story, their life. Then twist it around for their own will and profit. This story focuses just on that. Ms. Torrent you might get a kick out of this one.”

Danielle paused and shivered in my arms. Slowly raising her head to face Mr. King.

He smiled

“This one takes place in a forest. In fact identical to the one we are in currently. The strangers are all blind to what entity is around them. All but one girl. One girl whom was born with a gift. A gift to hear the stories of the deceased. They pour their soul into her. Pleading that this mortal will help them find peace in the afterlife, but our young character has other plans for their tragic tales. To turn them into tall tales”

Danielle looks around frightfully and begins to plead softly.

Figures from the forest begin to emerge in a translucent teal mist and proceed to advance in Danielle’s direction.

A little girl with bruises around her little neck called out to her

“Danielle, why did you lie? My daddy killed me? Not my little sister… Now she is dead and it's all your fault!”

An older man and his wife hold each others hands and heads. They call out to her

“They never caught that young man who killed me and my wife. Now we will never be able to see our children. Why didn’t you tell the truth, Danielle?!”

Seas of ghosts emerged from the forest all calling out to her

“ Why Danielle”

“Why Danielle”

“WHY DANIELLE!, WHY DANIELLE!”

The voices turned to banshee-like calls

Danielle screamed too

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!”

“WHY DANIELLE!”

“ PLEASE I BEG! I’LL MAKE IT RIGHT!”

“WHY DANIELLE!”

I looked around to see everyone holding their ears and looking toward the ground, waiting for this nightmare to stop. I held my ears and looked at Mr king who was surrounded by the sea of ghosts. He looked back at me and smiled that blank smile once again.

Danielle screamed once more

“STOP!!!!”

An eerie silence washed over the campfire and woods. We all opened our eyes and saw the forest was empty again. Danielle still shaking and quivering in fear. The log in which she sat was drenched in her own urine.

She peaked her head above her hands, face swelled in her salty tears. She shook as she tried to relax her shaking arms. Silent.

“DANIELLE”

20 ghostly arms reached from behind her and grabbed at her body. Danielle’s eyes shot out of her head as she tried to scream but to no avail as her mouth was covered. They tugged at her and pulled her body and soul back to wherever they came from, and just like that. Danielle was gone too the only thing left was the stain.

The fire crackled

“What is taken always eventually gets brought back to its rightful place”

“Mr. Wilkins gets up and starts speaking in his native Scandinavian language that neither I nor Mr Christy can make out.

“Djävulen!, Djävulen!”

He parades on and on and on until a swift thrust through the air is heard. Almost like a Frisby flying into the arms of its catcher.

A solid thud hits Mr. Wilkins. Blood cascades down his mouth as he plummets to his knees. His backside, an ax.

“ Never much cared for slashers” commented Mr. King.

It was only me and Mr christy now. Mr christy did not utter one word the entire time us being around this fire. He just kept his stare towards the fire.

Now his stare was projected towards the sky.

“Mr. Christy, I imagine its time for you to head home now”

A single tear wept from Mr christy’s face as a blinding white strobe light appeared and shined onto him. His body shot up into this illuminating beacon and just like Danielle, and the others before him. He was gone too.

“They have been looking for him for quite some time now,” Mr. King said.

Although the fire kept the woods incredibly toasty. It was no comparison to how incredibly frigid the air was. The bodies that lay amongst the once lively fire, and the smell of death lingered through the air.

“There is something special about your writing. Something riveting. Something so incredibly true. Yet you do not embrace such a truth. Perhaps I shall show you”

Mr. king cast his arms out in a thrust motion and transported me to a place all to familiar.

A small room. One mangy-looking lantern barely hanging on by its electrical string. Showcasing just enough light to show the walls around me. Inbrodied with glass. These were not walls, they were mirrors, and this was not just any room. This was my aunt's attic.

“She abused you here didn't she?”

I crumbled to the floor on which the 6 mirrors stood tall.

Each mirror shows me each horrible memory I endured in that attic.

My aunt's razor kissed the delicate skin of my wrist as blood poured into her cup that she glazed onto the mirrors.

Throwing me into the attic as punishment, forcing me to tell her what I saw spending hours upon hours in that place.

Making the mirrors show me the corpses of my parent's bodies sprung up in a tree. Making me nearly choke on my own vomit.

Leaving me to fend for myself as she would spend days and days in the attic chanting. Screaming.

Each mirror depicts the torture I suffered at her hands of her.

One mirror was just her.

Just my aunt's frail slinky body. Her knotted curly long black hair messed in and around her face. That cold blank smile. Very reminiscent of Mr. kings smile.

I became dizzy and nauseous spinning round and round in the room of mirrors.

I opened my mouth wide and expanded my vocal cords to produce the most ear-bleeding scream I could muster. I balled my fists as hard as I could and punched each mirror into tiny shreds. Breaking my hand and encapsulating it with my own blood and shards of glass. I closed my eyes and waited for the blasted ringing from the glass to silence.

I shook and held myself in a fetal position until it stopped.

I held my hands over my eyes and peaked to see myself laying next to my aunt's corpse.

It was me.

She saw me in the mirrors.

I stumbled out of the room and into the kitchen and plonked myself down.

Speechless and breathless

I wept

A thud breaks my weeping

I open the front door, the blazing sun catches me off guard

I look down with slanted eyes to see an ivory letter on the food of the porch.

It reads,

Dear Stranger,

I hope you enjoyed this weekend as much as I did. I hope my stories will offer you some inspiration for your writing as well as you have inspired me and mine. Attached to this letter is my part of the book. I expect to have you send me the first 200 pages in two weeks. Then I will send for you to return to Maine where we will finish the book together.

Stephen King