Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Halloween Stories: Part III

We received a lot of stories for our Halloween Hunt Writing Contest, and from September 16th we're publishing one each day until October 6th - when the Winner's story opens as a hunt!

Read them all and stay curious.. who's story got turned into the hunt?

The stories released are unedited and pasted as submitted to us.
- Kiana -

Today's story is called:


The tighter I grip, the more it hurts. The grooves and vertices of the gun dig into my hand as I feel the pressure of her neck muscles travel through the muzzle of the gun that I press against her temple.

The feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. The pressure was so light, and harmless, but utter, mortal terror pervaded every fibre of my being. I was antithetically frozen by my fear of death.

The tighter I grip, the more it hurts. I shut my eyes so tightly the colour behind the veil begins to turn red as I imagine the tears that spill from beneath turning to blood.

The feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. When I looked up and saw tears rolling from her firmly closed lids, I pitied her. At that moment, that was all I felt. Innocence defined.

And enshrined forever.

The tighter I grip, the more it hurts. My index finger was aching now, bone and muscles screaming, but I would not release the trigger. I know it had already been pulled, I heard the shot. I heard the bullet tear through her skull. I heard her body slump to the floor. But I hoped, if I never let go of the trigger, she would not be dead. It hurts.

The feeling was smooth, but I don't know why. It was....peaceful. I saw it from above. The woman, my murderer, large by my perception, but small by others. She had brown hair, her face and worn clothes marked by dirt and blood. Me, I was beautiful, once. There was not much left of my face now. My skin, previously alabaster freckled with ameliorating flaws was now a scene of devastation. I was so small, by all perceptions. A child. That fact was irrelevant in my death, to me, it could not be more terrible. Yet it was so smooth.

Amy stood at the end of her mission. She wept over the corpse of the innocent girl, the last life taken in so many. She had never intended to count. Some of them surrounded her. It was so full of life, verdant green, grass and tress – though tamed, they were at peace with their keepers, or were. Their keepers had died at Amy's hand and as all four winds turned on her, they marked their hatred, bending toward her.

Where there was not life, there was death. That, they were identical in, but in their life the only divergence from one another they did not have was in their irregularity; faces painted, men of great size, women of great hair. What this might indicate was irrelevant, they were dead. Where there was not death, there was the passage of life. Crates, cages and caravans in bright colours complimenting the verdant surroundings. They were in a circle, defaced with the death that Amy brought. But this was just the end of a path.

A town, left as a burnt husk.

A church, left as forgotten rubble.

A basement, left.

An island, her death row design.

There was never meaning in death. But there was always a source. Inevitably, it was more death.

She has screams but he had none. He was bound to a chair, eyes taped open and forced to watch the brutal and inhuman violation of what he loved most in the world. And this was true love – the kind that engendered shared suffering and whose absence engendered the end of life. He watched for days, sleep denied to either of them until there was nothing left of her. She was defeated. And once she was defeated, they murdered her before his eyes. They did not have a such a conclusion for him. No, he was literally left with his death while he lived, waiting simply for him to waste away. They buried him alive with his lover. They did not even grant him suffocation; an endless supply of air gifted to him from the surface. All he had was the broken body of himself and time to wait until his own withered away. They had both forgotten why this crime was committed. Such a thing was irrelevant. All that mattered was the act. When such an act is performed, the world does not forget. A darkness was born beneath the island.

Those few who found love on this island were haunted by nightmares, visions filling their minds of those the world would come to call “The Lovers”. This island was not a place for love. Only its destruction. Destruction is a form of creation, not absence of it. The Lovers could do naught with its absence, and over centuries, as so many came and went, attracted by the great and terrible power beneath the island, none had the spark of creation that would truly awaken “The Lovers”.

1963. Over the past four years, a branch of the US Government had been investigating paranormal occurences and their potential. They were attracted by the strange readings and the madness of mediums that came to the island. A base was installed overlooking the only other inhabitants of the island, a small, destitute town inhabited only by lowlifes andmisfits On the other side of the island, a carnival called the island its home. They knew a great deal more than the government investigators. True mystics lived among them and were attracted to such places of power. In the conclusive year, on the conclusive day, an agent living on the island received a phone call informing her that her husband of ten years had committed suicide. So brought the catalyst. So sparked the destruction.

The Lovers awoke in the mind of Amy. All they knew was destruction. And so she wrought it.

As I didnt' have the SL name for this writer, I didn't feel comfortable publishing their RL name. - Kiana

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