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Issue
3, Volume 1
April 2017
THE HORROR EDITION
Featured Piece:
‘Till Death Do Us Part By: Pooja Bale and Sowmya Balakrishnan
IRVINGTON HIGH SCHOOL | CREATIVE WRITING CLUB
‘Till Death Do Us Part Group Piece by Pooja Bale and Sowmya Balakrishnan
stay longer but never stay the night. She thought I didn’t notice her sneak out at 3 am every night. She would cover herself up with her big black trenchcoat and flit her eyes here and there as she hurried away. I could only stare after her longingly. Before I knew it, I had her locked down in marriage. I do admit, it took a while to finally convince her to agree to such a commitment, but to this day, it’s the best decision I ever made. I can still see her walk down the aisle, her hair falling softly around her face, smiling softly. But even on the happiest day of our lives, I saw the darkness in her face and the black behind her eyes. I saw it as we read our vows, I saw it as we said I do, and I saw it as her lips met mine. By the time we went home together, it was half past 2 am and we were both tired out of our wits. She quickly excused herself to go take a bath and get out of her heavy wedding dress. She thought I didn’t notice the increasing listlessness that enveloped her very being. Dragging herself to the bathroom, she stayed in the tub for what seemed like hours. I frantically knocked on the door a few times with no response. My blood ran cold as I smashed down the door: there, still in her wedding dress, was my wife logged down in the tub. The liquid was not water as one would expect but a thick, dark substance which her head was under. I turned away, fist in mouth, choking back tears. I always knew something was wrong, those hints of black I would always see in
I remember the day I first set my eyes on her. It was 1987, at the antique bookstore on 42nd and Meyer Street and she struggled to reach for a novel on the top shelf. I wanted more than anything to be the hero, to sweep her and the book off their feet but I couldn’t even speak, let alone move, too mesmerized by her beauty. Her dark brown hair cascaded down her back, accentuating her pale face and old-fashioned outfit. I finally worked up the courage to approach her, our gazes meeting for the first time. Her smile hid something, something dark perhaps. She had the deepest green eyes, but I saw a flicker of black somewhere behind them. Of course, we hit it off quite well, going on date after date, nearly inseparable. We spent nearly every waking hour together, going for walks in the park or just cuddling on my suede couch. But as soon as the clock struck 11 pm, she would hurry off home, claiming she left the stove on or that her cat had run out of food. A few nights, after much pleading and begging, she would
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her eyes, the unnatural paleness of her face, the late-night departures. “Honey?” The voice penetrated my mind. “Are you okay?” I was too scared to face her again, but I did, and there she was standing, wet hair and towel-clad. The tub was drained and clean. “Sweetie? Is something wrong?” she asked innocently. “No d-dear, I- I just dozed off… I must be more tired than i thought….,” I replied quietly with a nervous chuckle. “Would you like to sleep now? Sleep is the point where the body is closest to death.” With horror, I watched an inky black take over her eyes, starting from the middle and spreading outwards, darker and more sinister than the one I saw mere hints of before. She flashed me a sickly-sweet smiles, but it was not hers. The same dark liquid from the tub stained her teeth. And with that, down I went. When I came to, it was morning the next day. Sunlight streamed through the large windows onto my newly-wed wife, who was fast asleep next to me in bed. Her face showed nothing but tranquility. I listened to her breathe for a while, assessed the life in her. It all must have been a dream, I thought. I hoped I wasn’t going crazy from all the stress marriage can place on someone. After that day, all hell began to break loose. Literally. April 1988, 1 month after our wedding, she would get up every night at the
dead hour and crouch in the corner of the bedroom, simply staring at the crease where the two walls met. Every night for 3 months and every night, I would get up and watch her in awe. Maybe she saw something. One night I mustered up the courage to confront her. I crept towards her and cautiously placed my hand on her shoulder. Nothing. The next second, with intense force, she whirled around to face me. Only her head, though. Her body remained facing the wall. Her eyes were that deep black again. I am not quite sure what happened after that, but I found myself in bed again, swaddled by my covers, with my wife deep in slumber next to me. December 1988, my lovely wife began yet another of her midnight antics after a few months of well-deserved hiatus. Though this spectacle occurred only a few times the whole month, it chilled me more than the cold winter nights. In the middle of the night, she would hover over me, complete with her trademark black eyes, and stare at me for hours on end. The first night I noticed, I nearly screamed in terror but I was too paralyzed by fear. All I could do was look back into her insidious eyes. I could sense another presence, something hellish, invading my sweet, wonderful wife. The next few times she did it, I would pull the covers over my head to push out the cold from the air and from her stare. July 1989 is when things really started getting weird. I know, you thought things were already out of hand, but there's more. At first, I was not aware of what my beautiful wife was up to until I heard a loud
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clatter come from the living room. I looked at the empty space next to me in bed, but it still felt like someone was there. I arrived in the living room to see strange symbols and languages painted across the walls, ceilings, and doors. I touched one of the scrawlings and recoiled, them being drawn in blood. I then stumbled upon my wife, sprawled on the floor with deep slits in each of her arms and red on her fingers, caked under her nails. I noticed all of these were done at nighttime, but starting January 1990, I would begin to see her possessed behavior during daytime. While eating my breakfast before leaving for work, I would see her gripping a knife in her hand and staring intently at my back. Another day, when I came home from work, ready to unwind from the day, I was met with my wife hanging from the ceiling fan, a note stapled to her chest reading, “You did this to me” in black paint. The weekends were another story. I would lock myself in the bathroom for hours on end while she prowled the house making unworldly guttural noises. “Why are you in the bathroom dear? Are you feeling okay?” she would innocently ask. “Y-Yes honey, of course, just some stomach troubles,” I would say as I shrunk further into the edge of the bathtub. One particular Sunday morning, she just stood outside the bathroom door. She knocked on the door three times and then paused. Three times louder. Pause. Three times pounding. Pause. Hair-bleaching
scream. Silence. Then a hand reached under the door, a hand bony and black. It scraped against the tiles, groping for something, maybe sanity but I knew it wouldn’t find it here. Of course, it all dissipated in a matter of minutes. To me, this all seemed like some horrible horror cliché, as if just like out of a B-list paranormal movie I'd seen. Come March 1990, I felt like I was going crazy. By this time, my dear wife was with child, due in just one month. I couldn’t quite comprehend how this happened; to me, it seemed like the fetus just popped in there one day. Every other night, she would shriek “GET THIS DAMN THING OUT OF ME” and punch herself in the gut while I desperately tried to get her to stop. The baby could have been the Antichrist for all I knew, but I couldn’t just let her kill it though part of me wanted to let her. The degree of her psychosis was increasing by day and I hadn't slept in weeks, constantly writhing in fear under my sheets. No one else seemed to notice anything. I tried telling a few of my coworkers but all I received were weird stares. My wife urged me to go see someone for help but I refused, suspecting some sort of trick to get me out of the house and quell my anxiety. All the while she urged me, black wisps floated around in the green iris of her eyes. Something had to be done. The last straw was snapped in half and promptly incinerated late July 1991. Our sweet black-haired-blue-eyed baby boy, Edmund, at the fresh age of 1 year and 3 months, was thriving, despite my wife’s
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eccentric behavior. I couldn’t express the joy he brought me. He was my everything. It was extremely warm and sticky that month and my wife decided to take Ed to the little pond a little ways behind our house. I had to go off to work that day and remember waving goodbye to a smiling mother and child as I drove off. Of course, I did not trust my wife one bit and when I came home in the late afternoon, my suspicions were confirmed. No one was at home, so I walked the 10 minutes to the pond. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I saw her sitting by the edge of the pond, swirling her feet in the clear water. But my precious child was nowhere to be found. I ran over to her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her, screaming, “WHERE IS HE???” but all she did was laugh. She threw back her head and goddamn cackled until she was keeled over gasping. Then I saw him. Floating facedown in the pond a few feet away, tangled in watervines. Then I heard sobbing behind me. My wife had tears streaming down her face, repeating “Why? Why did this happen? WHy?? Everything was going so well… I just don’t understand” Fake. Filled with anger and sadness, I rushed over to my sweet child and pulled him out, laying him on the grass. His face was an ashy blue. I attempted resuscitation, but I knew it was futile. I pushed back tears and hugged my little boy for the last time.
“It's time,” I told myself on that fateful day. I checked the calendar for the 4th time, making sure to imprint the date in my brain. “August 24th, 1991” I don’t know how I put up with her after what she did. It was early morning, about 5 am. My sweet, beautiful wife was fast asleep in bed. I tiptoed out of bed and reached into the nightstand drawer… But then something came over me. I paused and thought of the time we first met, our wedding. For a fleeting moment, the beauty of it all crossed my mind. It seemed…magical. Unreal. I saw visions of her breathtaking face, her genuine smile. Then the darkness came. I saw her tireless antics, the sleepless nights, the death of my son… She rolled over, stretching, and yawned, “Sweetie, what are you doing up? What are y-” I plunged the knife into her chest, stomach, back as she spasmed on the bed. I tried to drown out her screams and ignore the blood spattering onto my face and shirt. I hope it’d wash out because I liked that shirt a lot. At that point, an uncontrollable rage washed over me. My mind unhinged more than it had been for the past 4 years and I shoveled her warm blood into my mouth, God knows why. Then it all came back to me. Everything. Maybe the extremeness of that event was what I needed to jolt myself back to reality and rewire my brain. I reeled in
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horror at what I had done. All the things I had seen were all tricks my disintegrating mind had played on me. I felt on my hands the skin of Ed’s throat as I pushed him under the water, watching and waited for his body to stop moving. I stared down at my
bloodstained hands and at my loving wife’s lifeless shell, her face contorted in a state of otherworldly distress. No wonder everything always went back to normal, it was my damn overactive imagination. Except for this time.
The Things We Do For Love By Sowmya Balakrishnan
the next month, I was closely supervised by everyone. The atmosphere was suffocating and it was hard to breathe. I didn’t dare to falter again and make a foolish mistake like I did before. I maintained a calm and collected image, and projected myself as harmless. And eventually, it was all forgotten. It was just a one-time thing, everyone had come to reason. Everything was fine. And I had come to believe that as well. I had found it frightening, how far my simple fascination had come to dictate my life. I did my best to stow down whatever horrid feelings and thoughts that I usually came to accept with ease. I burned every book I owned by Edgar Allan Poe. I started to approach life with the same mentality as every teenager my age had. I became more social and was accepted into a clique of the most popular boys at school. I goofed around, took my studies relatively seriously, and strengthened my relationship with my parents. Everything seemed to be working out, and everything finally seemed to be normal. Which is why I did not think much of it when I became infatuated with a girl. It seemed at that time to be a normal
Sanity has always been a concept that I’ve struggled with. At the age of five, I spent my playground days, fascinating myself with a magnifying glass and unsuspecting insects while others amused themselves with the tether ball. At the age of seven, I spent a whole day at the principal’s office for poking at Sally Mae’s cast hard with a fork. Age fourteen and then, one special and unforgettable night, I found solace in Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories. Most would have been frightened after reading The Cask of Amontillado, appalled by the whole concept of burying someone alive. I was an exception, able to derive pleasure from Fortunato’s torture. That night, I called Montresor my hero. It was never supposed to get out of hand. My fascination with pain was something I had thought to be as innocent as someone’s fondness for ballet. I found myself to be very wrong when I foolishly shared my poem entitled The Beauty of Blood to my class. I still remember the look on everyone’s faces, wide-eyed, hands over their mouths in shock. My parents were called to have a talk with my teacher. For
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occurrence that most, if not every guy at school experienced. It was also something that, like most guys, I didn’t expect. Love was a curious thing and I didn’t believe that there were lovebugs fluttering in the pungent air of high school. But one fateful day, I had been bitten, sorely so, and to this day, I still blame my case on love’s blatant trickery. Long dark brown locks, green eyes, and a lush pair of lips. If it were anyone else, it’d be these things that would have caught their eye first. But me? Past the petite frame, the gorgeous face, it was the aura of sheer innocence that seemed to surround her wherever she went. That was what captivated me. The way she giggled and blushed at everything, the way she smiled. Right then and there, when I saw her for the first time, tapping away on her laptop, mauve spectacles perched on her nose, I knew that Clara Davis was the one for me. I spent three months tongue-tied and lost for words when I saw her in the hallways, the motivation I had to make a move frequently became tarnished by my insecurity. Clara unknowingly continued to stop my heart with an action as simple as tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear or covering her mouth to stifle a giggle. I wanted to hold her hand, I wanted to hug her when she looked sad, I wanted to sweep her off her feet. My desires grew stronger with each day that passed and with the constant encouragement I received from my friends, I decided that it was time to make it clear to Clara. I remember it was a crisp autumn afternoon. It was the 16th of November, the
year 2013. The leaves had turned orange and red, and the skies smelled nostalgic of summer. I was dressed in a dark green jumper and a pair of jeans, and I had attempted to make my dark hair cooperate with gel in the morning. I struggled to pay attention in class, too busy playing out fairytale scenarios of me confessing to her in my head. I felt alive with a purpose and I couldn’t shake the smile off my lips. The bell rang, signalling that it was the end of the school day. Students filtered out the doors eagerly, clutching their textbooks to their chests as they lamented to each other about whatever work they had to catch up on that evening. I kept my smile on and my head high as I weaved my way through the sea of students, seeing Clara at her usual spot on the bench near the parking lot, that beautiful face painted with a faraway look. As I carefully placed one foot before the other, bringing myself closer to her, I swallowed once. “Hey,” I managed a smile. “I’m Beau.” Looking back now, that was the last time I remember smiling. I won’t go into the details, highlighting every word that we exchanged, but I will tell you that it actually went well in the beginning. We exchanged niceties, I complimented her smile, and she responded with that sweet-sounding giggle of hers, which warmed my heart. I felt at ease and I thought that it would all work out. Feeling overconfident, I remember smiling at her before launching into my confession. Every word that came out of my mouth was genuine, reflecting everything that I had been feeling for a while. I told her that I
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thought I loved her and asked her for a chance. We maintained eye contact and I remember watching her rosebud lips part to respond. I was so sure that it was all going to work out, that she would be mine. But then, “Oh, Beau, I’m so sorry, but I already have a boyfriend.” Crushed. That’s how I felt. A one-ton brick had just fallen on my heart. I was absolutely dejected and I don’t know how I pulled it off, acquiescing to her statement with a lighthearted laugh. I remember getting up, saying goodbye to her. I headed straight home and straight to my bedroom, locking myself inside. I sat there alone, trying to conquer the fits of dejection and self-pity that barraged my soul. I looked out the window and wondered how idiotic I must have looked in front of Clara, opening my heart and divulging my deepest feelings for her. All throughout my confession, she knew that it wasn’t going to work. But yet she had let me finish and for what? I suddenly felt rage boil in my veins and my hands curled up in tight fists. She made me look like a fool and she had the actual audacity to sound apologetic when rejecting me. Frissons of anger made my fingers twitch and did not cease in their course. I roared out loud and punched my pillow for God knows how long. At one point, I stopped and registered the bundle of feathers that had once been my pillow, trying to catch my breath. Seeing the pure white hue of the now-eviscerated pillow made my blood boil even more as I recalled the sweet ivory of her skin, prone to turning a pretty pale pink whenever she blushed. I was
suddenly filled with a burning hunger to discolor her skin and turn it a dark crimson red, to expose her for the temptress that she was. The beast that had been locked for three years within me now demanded to be unleashed, demanded to be listened to. The knife that I ferociously dug out of the kitchen drawer met with no question as no one was home. Neither did the house keys that jingled in my other hand as I closed the door shut behind me. The sky above me felt one with me, darkening with gray clouds as I slammed the car door shut, turning on the engine with a resounding roar. Rage blinded my thought process as I dialed my friend, Harry. One ring, two rings, and then three and - “Hey, man, what’s up?” “Tell me what Clara’s address is,” I remember saying into the phone. Despite my rage, my voice was strangely calm, smooth and suave. “Clara?” I could hear the knowing smirk on the other line. “No way! She said yes?” “Yes,” I said, faking a cheerful laugh. “She and I are dating now.” “Congrats, mate! Man, good for you. I’m so proud of yo-” “Yeah, yeah, thanks,” I had muttered quickly, impatiently. “Could you tell me her address? I want to pay her a surprise visit.” “Mate, isn’t that a bit too early? I mean, you guys just started dating and the whole house thing seems a bit too sud-” “TELL ME,” I roared into the phone. The beast in me was quivering with impatience.
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“Man, okay, okay… geez. 2637 Hundsforth Avenue. Enjoy your date with her.” “I will,” I had purred. The knife next to me on the passenger seat glinted in the early moonlight and I remember licking my lips with anticipation as I took the short drive, parking in front of a quaint home with blue shutters. I paused for a long moment, just staring at the house, questioning myself. Should I really do it? Was it worth it? Was I taking things out of proportion? In the end, I had trusted the beast that seemed to know best. I was reliving the tale of The Cask of Amontillado. Clara was the clueless Fortunato and I was her Montresor. I felt a wave of glee wash over me as I thought about how proud Montresor would be of me at that moment, taking revenge into my own hands. I had finally come to embrace the persona that I had when I was fourteen and for the first time in years, I felt complete. It was liberating to barge into the house and tear up the stairs. Knife in hand, I didn’t even bother to make my presence discreet as I manifested the beast. I caught sight of long dark brown hair in the room nearest to the stairs and without hesitating, I launched myself inside. I remember her calling my name in surprise before her lips parted wide, permitting deafening screams to escape into the air. “I gave you all of my love,” I screamed as I plunged the knife into her heart, not caring even as she begged me to stop, green eyes wide with tears. “I opened up to you and you made me look like a
fool!” I watched her convulse with each stab, watched with satisfaction as each stab made her crimson blood flow more easily. I watched as it spread all over her white sweater and her ivory skin. I slapped my bloody hand on her pale neck and withdrew to see my handprint right there, marking the junction between her neck and her collarbone. I directed my gaze to her eyes and noted how clouded they looked. She was hovering between life and death. And even then, goddammit all, she still looked so beautiful. I roared one last time, screaming as with a finality, I stabbed hard, right into her heart. A low moan escaped from her pretty lips and I watched her eyes glaze over. Dead. She was dead. I appraised her countenance, marred with streaks of blood. I dragged my gaze down to look at my handprint on her neck. This was all my work. I took a life. I took her life. However much longer that I wished to spend to just stay by her side and appraise my handiwork was limited. Even as no one had conveniently been in the house besides her, I had been reckless with my deed. My incoherent growls coupled with her bloodcurdling shrieks were all too easy to be heard. Her neighbors had called the police and I had to sit with my parents at the police station, wearing the evidence of my crime on my skin and hands. I felt no remorse and no shame, even as I watched my mother dabbing at her eyes frequently with a handkerchief and my father sitting, massaging at his temples, saying absolutely nothing. I felt cleansed, freed of a burden.
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I still feel the same even now as I write this, two years later, at a maximum-security prison in Utah. The prison has taught me a lot of skills and I’ve even made a couple friends. Books, however, are a rare commodity and I haven’t had luck finding a good read. So I had settled for finally plucking up the courage to ask the loony psychiatrist here for a book.
Thrilled beyond belief, it was certainly a shock when she handed me a copy of The Cask of Amontillado. “It’s a good tale,” she had gushed to me. I pretended to look interested and flipped to the first page. One quote by Edgar Allan Poe inscripted in neat cursive. “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity”
A Shout in the Void II. F aust Oakley: an excerpt
By Sowmya Balakrishnan
I saw it coming. I saw it coming long, long before the idea of uniformed men lurked the sticky shadows haunting our streets. I saw it coming the day I realised this world wasn't as perfect as some philosophers claimed it to be, not as round as that Persian astrologer claimed it to be in one of those ancient riddles of paper. The war is something I've been anticipating for as long as I can remember. All those times my mom and dad spoke in hushed voices behind closed doors every night after they'd put me to bed, I knew. Many people think that Belgium isn't a country made for war, and I agree with them. Our soldiers are dogs, bloodthirsty souls. If my family was not fortunate enough to be one of the richer ones, I would be patrolling these exact streets. The thought creates tingles at the very tip of every finger of mine as I think about pointing a gun at
one of my own people; I don't know how any of them do it, the heartless wolves. This is what I think about as I hold my baby sister in my arms, her arms wrapped loosely around my neck as I rock side to side gently, keeping a steady rhythm. What's her future? It pains me to think that she'll have to grow up in this environment; she's never going to have the opportunity to have Mama smack her upside the head for coming in late. She's never going to experience the exciting need to go outside and play in the park. No. She's going to be afraid the second the sun begins to dim. She's going to run home and pray no one's noticed she hasn't washed her hands. She's going to stay cooped up in this cage because she'll be scared to turn a corner and realize one of her socks are higher than the other. She's going to be afraid to live. Downstairs. I can hear my mom speak with the soldiers at the door, their voices much
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too loud for this peaceful household. My poor mother, sweeter than honeysuckle, has to endure these rude men sporting guns I know she's always been deathly afraid of. I've offered to deal with them, but she always insists I stay with Amethyst out of fear that she'll wake up and force the soldiers to intrude our home. I'm only able to breathe when the sound of our front shutting echoes soothingly through the empty hallways. I wait a few more minutes before setting Mimi down her bed, I pull the covers over her small body and smooth the hair away from her face only to kiss her forehead, a silent promise that as long as I'm around, nothing's going to happen to her.
** ** ** It doesn't take long for me to leave after that; my mother is the only who knows about my escapades, otherwise getting out would be a lot more difficult than simply sliding the back door open and climbing over the fence. The further away I am, the more I allow myself to think. And the more I allow myself to think, the more I think about her. My rock. The thought of Ariadne has me taking quicker strides in order to get to our meeting location faster. It's easy to avoid the occasional lights flashing in the field; nobody thinks of patrolling here, which is why it makes it the ideal get together area.
The Number of the Beast By Pooja Bale
I never should have gone in that house. I should have listened to all the warnings. How could I have been so blind? It was a few years ago. I got a flyer in the mail about a new haunted house on 6th Street which would scare anyone who entered out of their mind. There was a challenge along with it: whoever could make it through the house without chickening out would win some sort of prize. It did not specify. So being the adventurous idiot I am, I decided to go. I told all my friends about it, but they just looked at me like I was crazy. Then the day came. I drove to the house and parked a little bit away. There were cars everywhere. The house didn’t
seem so creepy from the outside. I walked in and surveyed the entrance. It was surprisingly empty. I assumed everyone had gone in already. There was a desk to sign in and cheesy Halloween decorations scattered about. I knocked on the desk to see if anyone was there, but no one came. A note was placed on the desk: “Collect all the golden rings as you go. Redeem them for an amazing prize!” A soft voice whispered in my ear “Leave now, get out while you can, do not go forwards.” I brushed it off and proceeded inwards. The first room was completely bare with a door on the opposite wall. I walked towards it and as my hand gripped the
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doorknob, an automated skeleton dropped down in front of it and clacked its jaw. I admit, I did scream a little. A gold ring was on its thumb. I grabbed it and moved on. The second room was darker and also bare except for a figure crouched in the corner. I approached the figure slowly. It was a girl. Something felt terribly wrong. I tried the handle to the previous door, but it wouldn’t budge. Her head turned around with a horrid creaking noise. Only her head. She had a bare face. I stumbled away, stunned. I had no choice but to go forwards. The “girl” attempted to crawl over to me, but I yanked open the next door and ran into the next room. She grabbed onto my leg and dug into my ankle. Her touch felt like burning ice. A ring was placed on her finger. I closed my eyes, my heart thumping and grabbed the ring. Unfortunately, her finger came off too. I threw it down, shrieking. The door slammed behind me and her hand fell off and dissipated into mist. The ring clattered on the floor. I was utterly appalled. This room was the third one. It was pitch black and I walked slowly through. I could not see for the life of me. That’s when I began to hear screams. They were soft at first but with each step they increased in volume. I ran blindly forwards until something compelled me to stop. I reached out and felt something cold and metallic: the door knob. I yanked and yanked but it wouldn’t open. The screams became unbearable. It was as if every tortured soul in the history of mankind was screeching their sorrows into my brain. I collapsed to the floor, my hands gripping my hair. I felt
something hard. Another ring… but how did it get…? Suddenly the screams stopped. Dead silence ensued. The door swung open extremely slow. I crawled into the next room.
Room number 4 had only a small, flimsy light bulb hanging from the center and a chair underneath it. The light was already on. The main thing that struck me was a horrible stench that wafted from beneath the chair. I edged around it and tried the door marked 5. It required a key to be opened. I walked over to the chair, breathing through my mouth. There was a note on it which read “Your escape lies beneath the earth.” Something made me kneel down next to the chair and dig with my bare fingers at the ground underneath. I dug for what seemed like an hour before I came to a wooden box. I opened it up and fell backwards. The stench was stronger than ever, but it was what was in the box that threw me back. A boy was in it. A dead boy. My brother. He looked like he had been there for some time now. My face wrenched in confusion and concern. I had just seen him today…He had gone to one of these houses, too, last year. Could that be…? Clutched in his hands were a rusty key and a gold ring. I gingerly grabbed the key, but it stayed in place. I pulled harder but the hands
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moved too. I didn’t want to touch but I knew I had to. I pried off each finger with a sickening crack. The ring fell into my hands. 10 cracks. I felt like throwing up. I unlocked the door and walked into the next room. Bright sunlight hit me, but I wasn’t out just yet. I was in a clearing in the middle of the woods. I looked behind me and the wall and door were gone, replaced by a lush growth of trees. I walked forwards and saw strange symbols etched into the trees. In the ground, a pentagram was drawn with some sticky black substance. Figures appeared one by one, dressed in cloaks blacker than night and wielding silver knives. They closed in on me. I felt something in my hand: a knife of my own. The figures got closer and closer; I counted about 13. One approached me and attempted to slit my throat. I grabbed the cloak and pulled off the hood. My best friend’s face stared back at me. It tried again, but failed. The rest followed in suit. I murdered them all. Something in my blood ran cold, and before I knew it, my hand plunged the knife into each and every one of them one by one. Each one was killed in a different way. A voice whispered in my mind, “That’s what she’ll look like if she’s killed. Those are all the different ways to stab her.” I ran through the clearing, dropping the knife. I couldn’t wipe the blood from my hands or my soul. I saw more bodies of her, all dead in different ways. One was hanged, one drowned, one gutted, one dismembered. I tripped over a few of her bodies and nearly bumped into one. I screamed louder than I ever had and it echoed through the whole room. I made it to
the door and found an especially gory version of her propped against the door. Her torso was ripped open and inside was the gold ring. I groaned and slowly reached my hand in and grabbed the ring with a squish. I yanked the door open. The final room. I laughed bitterly. What did this one have in store for me? I felt a heavy presence in the room. It had an eerie red glow about it and I was 80% sure that the floor was blood. I screamed out, “WHAT KIND OF SICK JOKE IS THIS HOUSE???” But I already knew. I had read my share of horror stories. I knew this room would be the worst, but I didn’t know how worse. I didn’t know it could even get any more horrible than this. A figure appeared in front of me. It was myself, except horribly disfigured. It brought its face close to mine and said softly, “Well, this is the final room. Don’t worry, it’s not too bad.” It chuckled and placed a gold ring in my hand. As its skin touched mine, I saw flashbacks of me in each room. It was more horrible to view than experience. I saw everything in those rooms that I had not seen when I was actually there. In each room, there was this figure, entirely in red. It followed me, latched onto me, almost. It was touching my hand this very moment, except it wasn’t me anymore. It was something I cannot describe even to this day. “Have a good day,” it said as I pushed through the door. I found myself back in the entrance room. A box waited for me on the desk. I opened it and inside was a large cash prize and 2 tickets redeemable at any venue. I was puzzled, but I did not
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question it. I walked outside and climbed back into my car. I checked my rearview
mirror and laughed. Laughed like there was no tomorrow. The red figure was sitting in the backseat.
To The Devil His Own By Pooja Bale
They say the devil can come and get you any time he wants. He can just be a reflection standing behind you in a mirror and suddenly reach out and drag you back down to the depths of hell. Only fools believe this. However, I did come face to face with him one day. I was in the church basement rummaging through a trunk of miscellaneous items when I came across this old, leather-bound book. Big whoop, it must be some sort of Necronomicon. Unfortunately for me, it was. I had read about this online before so I opened it, glad to see something so interesting to me come to life in my hands. It was blank. I flipped through it and nothing. Only yellowing pages stared back at me. I flipped through it
again and caught sight of a black blur. I went through the book carefully again and came across some sort of instructions. It seemed to be some kind of game, taking place in a church (what a coincidence). It was titled "Satan's Reflection." "What a weird title," I thought. It seemed like all the horror movies and stories I've ever read in a few pages. It first instructed me to go to the west side of the room and draw a door with black chalk, knocking on the door 6 times. "Where in Hell's name am I going to find black chalk?" I said aloud as I stepped on something that rolled in front of my foot. Black chalk. It was at that point I should have dropped that book and ran the other way, but my curiosity got the best of me. I did as I was told and to
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[everyone's] surprise, the brick wall gave way to another room. Now here's where it gets even stranger. The room was already "set up" so to speak. A mirror was in the center of the floor, surrounded by a ring of candles and a ring of white powder I later found out to be salt. I stood in front of the mirror and continued reading the directions. "Call out the devil by his true name. You will be asked 3 questions. Answer wisely. If you do, you shall be given a favor. If you don't,-." It cut short right there. On the next page, it continued "Whatever you do, do not: 1. Break either circle. 2. Let the devil come out of the mirror. 3. Tell the devil your name. Remember these: 1. He cannot harm you unless you do any of the above. 2. He cannot lie to you. 3. He must give you the favor." I decided to try it out. No harm no foul right? Wrong. "Satan," I said to initiate. Nothing. I delved into my knowledge of the occult. "Lucifer," I said. Nothing. What else was left? One more. "Beelzebub," I said. Suddenly the room went dark. The candles slowly flickered on one by one. In the mirror, a fog formed and an extremely cliché looking devil with bright red skin and horns appeared, replacing my reflection. I just stared. This is not what I was expecting. "Hello," it said, "and welcome. What is your name?" I remembered what the book said, and did not answer. "Very good," it said, "now on to question two. What is standing behind you?" I searched in reflection behind him to see what he was talking about. Nothing materialized. "Nothing," I said. It began laughing. I whirled around and stumbled backwards. Nothing. I turned back around. He smiled a toothy grin. "Right again. The last and final question: do you
know what you have done?" My blood ran cold at the possibilities, but I answered with what I knew best. "Nothing?" It laughed even louder. Then, it stepped out of the mirror. "You can't do that," I said dumbly. It cackled louder. A horrible raspy laugh now. Then everything went black. "WAIT," I cried out, "let me make a deal with you. Everyone makes deals with the devil right?" I heard a grunt in reply. I continued, "How about this: if you let me go, I'll give you access to the billions of souls in our world. No one protects against you anymore and if you have a human conduit, you can do anything." I heard some contemplative grunts in response. Then I found myself back in the church, outside of the room. It looked as if it did not exist anymore. Now let me explain to you how he can get to you. You probably don't protect against him do you? Forget everything you know about "protection"; that won't work. You see, he's out there already. As soon as I stumbled backwards and broke that salt circle, I released him. He goes around, "haunting" people. Then he steals them. Their souls, I mean. You first just hear a couple of creaks. That means he's near. Then, things start moving and you hear voices. The classic haunting. Then, you see him and then it's too late. He loves coming to get you through mirrors. There's no warning for those. You just see him and he's got you. Maybe he's in yours right now. I guess sometimes the fools are smart ones.
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