Horror
Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 5: The Baron
5 The Baron The hinges of the door across the narrow passage from where Professor Fichtenberg now slumbers as Romero creak in protest as Vin intrudes upon the darkness. The room is a duplicate of the one he had first been introduced to the night before, yet bereft of the warmth and sundries of habitation. A queer sensation marks the bare mattress and candleless chest of drawers, as if he himself were a ghost gazing on the shuttered remains of a former life. Even the air feels void of natural resonance and threatens to syphon the vitality from his chest. The succubus in that uncanny stillness, however, recedes under the mirth of Parson’s call.
By Justin Michael Greenway3 years ago in Fiction
Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 4: The Castle
4 The Castle The six members of Ravenword disembark travel-weary and anxiety worn. The night has taken deep hold on both their fatigue and the bus line that was to carry them to the village of Colle, as evident by the handwritten notice posted over the route.
By Justin Michael Greenway3 years ago in Fiction
Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 3: The Beach
3 The Beach The argument that created the vacancy in the wooden chairs clustered under the vivid turquoise-and-white umbrella now occupied by Ravenword, still rises over the skimpily clad throngs on the outstretched beach. Unprepared for seaside recreation, the company lounges in an array of makeshift beachwear. Parson is the only exception and is delighted to flaunt his fire-engine red, box-cut Diesels and gym-wrought physique. Julia, in a pink bra and the faded yellow short-shorts she sleeps in, giggles at the bare breasts bouncing past them, while Vin and the lesbians recline under the umbrella in board shorts and T-shirts. Billy’s attire remains unchanged.
By Justin Michael Greenway3 years ago in Fiction
Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 2: The Journey
2 The Journey An innocuous yellow taxi pulls up to the curb at San Francisco International Airport near the sidewalk check-in kiosk where a beleaguered T. J. is coordinating a gaggle of luggage with Motisha barking orders over his shoulder. The sky is a wide canvas of deep blue, which is unusual for the Bay Area, despite the fact that it is late May. Contrary to popular imagination, not all of California is perpetually awash in sunshine, even in spring, and nowhere is this truer than the sullen northern coast of the Golden State. For many, as attested by Samuel Clemens, their coldest winters were indeed summers spent in San Francisco, where the billowing fog is pulled in and out of the Golden Gate on the wings of the biting Pacific wind. But today all suggestion of gloom or calamity is vanquished in the disregard of sunlight and anticipation. Parson emerges from this taxi to the chorus of humanity’s coming and going with Motisha’s strident vocals taking center stage. As the cab driver moves swiftly to the trunk to transfer his luggage to the baggage cart of an approaching porter, Parson watches Motisha and T. J. with a devilish grin. After tipping the taxi driver and skycap, he strolls up to them, his eyes dancing from point to counterpoint.
By Justin Michael Greenway3 years ago in Fiction
Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 1: The Invitation
1 The Invitation The morning dawns under the outstretched hand of an ancient malevolence lashing the nebulous battalions of dark clouds to stoop low and unleash its vindictiveness upon the waking landscape. The storm had been predicted, but the full-bodied violence of its fury had not. In ages past it would have been recognized as the harbinger of impending misfortune, as nature itself battles of the insidious blight forcing its way into the region. The oldest and strongest of trees bow beneath the dismembering onslaught of the howling squalls this malignant manifestation has set upon the town. Such storms may be known to other regions but, in temperate California, this tempest has wrought a specter of an undefined dread. For there is more to fear in the oppression than damage or calamity, an intent so malicious that not even the angry gales can dislodge it from looming ominously in the heavy atmosphere.
By Justin Michael Greenway3 years ago in Fiction
Waking up to Nothing
Chapter 1 I’m not entirely sure when it happened but I was knocked out. Either that or I was about to die before waking up here. My head pounded fiercely and the glare from the sun only increased it. I took in what little of my surroundings I could through the windshield, noticing I was alone in my car on the freeway. I should have panicked. I should have believed I was in some sort of accident and lost all consciousness, but when I saw the freeway was filled with vacant and destroyed cars, something inside me jolted to life and I reacted. Sweat pooled at my brows, and an uncomfortable tingle started at the crown of my head, making its way down to my toes. I wiggled them to make the feeling go away. My body ached everywhere as I reached into the backseat to grab my backpack. It bothered me that I could remember something so simple as the location of my backpack but nothing related to what happened to me before now.
By Troi McAdory 3 years ago in Fiction
Tossing and Turning
Anna rolled over and groaned. What was this mattress stuffed with? Gravel? It was impossible to sleep on it. One would think such a thick bed would be soft at least. It was worse than sleeping directly on the ground. Giving up, she rose and swung her legs over the edge, her toes searching for the ladder.
By Esther Spurrill-Jones3 years ago in Fiction
Wretched Little Worm
Eerie nights like the one Evander James was experiencing were strangely becoming more and more common. A shiver ran the length of his skin as the cooling fall air licked at his flesh with an uptick in the wind. The low waning light of the streetlamp as he walked beneath gave off just enough guidance in the murkiness of the creeping fog.
By Sai Marie Johnson3 years ago in Fiction
