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Whispers in the Shadows

Vol I

By
Alan James Keogh

This work may not be copied in it’s entirety. Short samples may be used as long as credit is given to the author and a link to the authors website is given.

© Alan James Keogh, 2011. All rights reserved

Smashwords edition.

Table of Contents

They are Coming

They Live

Inevitable

Together Forever

From the Corner of Your Eye

Suffer Little Children

Nails

Sanctuary

A Night of Wonder and Enchantment

Alpha and Omega

Relinquished

To a Heathen God

Beneath the Surface

Invisible Killer

Cosmic Joke

Deadly Secrets

The Fabled One Hundred

Resurrection

Afternoon Tea

Beneath the Trees

They Are Coming.

The sun was shining fiercely, the day was hot, not as hot as some, but enough to make you sweat. She paused as she wound her way through the graves, it seemed almost perverse to be here surrounded by death on such a beautiful day. A reminder that life continues whether you live or die. All around the graveyard there were trees and plants, reminders of life. Blooms of colours where flowers had been laid to rest above the final resting place of others. The day had a surreal quality. Everything was so bright, so spectacular. The colours seemed more real than they ever had before, as if the colours she knew previously were only shadows of themselves and here she was seeing who were casting the shadows. A sprinkler misted water over the grass, preventing it from dying like the occupants of the graveyard had. The mist cast a rainbow, it hung in the air, promising life to those who could find its end. She took a deep breath of the clear air and continued on her way. She would be there soon. She passed the mausoleums, running her hand gently along the outside. It was still cold despite the sun’s intense heat. It was cool and soothing, she felt a shiver run along her spine, letting her hand drop from the marble surface, she felt the heat rush in on her again, as though she was no longer under its protection. Everywhere she looked tombstones were covered in decorative wreaths and flowers. A few at the back were empty of adornment, looking lonely and solitary amongst the colourful boasts of the others. She considered moving some flowers to them, then wondered if that was disrespectful. Glancing at her watch, she discarded the idea. She didn’t have much time left. As she walked in her sandals, she could feel the grass pressing against her toes. She quickly looked around, then bent and removed her sandals, carrying them in her hand. The grass was cool and pleasant. She continued her journey, feeling some trepidation as the final destination appeared. The tombstone was slightly larger than those around it and more ornately decorated, an angel sat perched atop the stone, looking sadly towards the ground, its arms bent upwards, as though calling the soul of the dead toward her.

Facing the tombstone, she smiled, then apologised for not visiting sooner. She spent so little time here. She wished she had longer. She looked up at the statue, and saw with some surprise, the angel was holding a bouquet of dead roses. It seemed perverse, but she was feeling tired. She would have to go soon, the day was getting hotter and sweat began to run down her back in thin rivulets. Her dress wasn’t as cooling as she had hoped. Carefully, she kneeled. She was still alone in the graveyard. Slowly she lay herself down atop the grave and positioned herself carefully, she would be lying on his body, if he were here now, his hands would be wrapped around her, giving comfort. She closed her eyes, then opened them. It was so nice here, so peaceful, she could feel herself drifting into a slumber. She looked around the graveyard again, the grass was brown and dead, the gravestones crumbling. Rubbish blew about the tombs, skeletal bushes and trees shook angrily as the wind moved through them. The sky was grey, deep thunderclouds clashed against each other, rolling together, like the waves of the sea. Her dress was tattered, her feet bare, no longer bound in the sandals made from scrap rubber. As she closed her eyes again, lightening struck followed by a deep rumble of thunder. The rain began. It was cold, so cold and soothing on her feverish skin. She smiled, then opened her eyes and looked up at the sky, feeling the rain on her face and body. It was a torrential downpour, already her dress was soaked and sticking to her emaciated frame. Lightening cleaved the sky, out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. Something was coming toward her, her eyes, blinded by the lightening couldn’t quite make it out. She wasn’t worried. She would be gone by the time it reached her. She had places to go. Important places. She turned her face toward the ground again, there was another flash of lightening, followed by deep thunder that drowned out her words. “I’ll be with you soon.”

They Live.

It began slowly, innocuously. Although the first appearance was quite sudden. There was no warning, no dent, it was just there. As if the small little hole had always belonged on my calf. As though it had always been there and always would.
I first noticed it, and, after a quick moment’s inspection, I thought that I should visit the doctor soon, then, I went about my day and it promptly left my mind.

The next time I noticed, I chided myself for not making an appointment and once more thought to do so. However, this time, it seemed fascinating. Sickeningly so. On the outside of my left calf was this small, although rather too large, hole. It was perfectly circular and completely black. It was as if no light could penetrate it. I studied it for hours, twisting this way and that, trying to see if there were more. I even used a torch to try and find what the cause was. The hole was too deep to see completely into, what I could see was regular looking skin and the rest faded into shadow. There was no redness, no swelling and no pain. Once I had satisfied my morbid curiosity, I went to the phone to call the doctor, but, on my way, it slipped my mind. One moment I was striding confidently, if a little panicky, towards the phone, the next, I stopped, paused, then wondered who I was going to ring.

It seemed every time I saw it, I immediately remembered, but, once it was out of my sight, it left my mind. This went on for a few days, then, another began to appear. I could see a small dent, perfectly circular, and watched as, over a few hours, it deepened. It happened imperceptibly. I was only aware of it if I looked away and back again. But, curiously, each time I looked away, I momentarily forgot what I was looking at. they were completely erased from my mind. I can think of numerous times I glanced at my calf and saw nothing but smooth, slightly hairy, skin.

It was a week before I noticed them again. This time there were seven. They had taken on a slightly honeycombed shape, thin walls of skin separated each one. I used a magnifying glass, but could not discern their cause. They only thing I was sure of, was that they were there and they were not pores. When I next saw them, I was shocked and horrified. I counted fifteen and what appeared to be three more. Their overall honeycomb shape became more apparent. I stared at them for hours. Moving this way and that, seeing how they would react. They seemed to compress slightly if I stood, as though, weakened, they could no longer support my weight. I went to bed, troubled, but unsure of what. I had written down, “Call a doctor about your calf, NOW”, on a piece of paper, but, when I looked at it again, the writing was scribbled out, obscured by thick, black marks.

When I awoke the next morning, I felt a strange sensation in my calf. Swinging out of bed, I glanced at the sheet and saw a strange, yellowish liquid that had soaked into the sheet where my calf had rested. The residue seemed sticky, almost mucousy. The area around the holes had a sheen and the skin was also coated. Counting, I found thirty four. I tried not to gag at the sight. The sensation returned, more uncomfortable than before. Quickly, I grabbed the flashlight and tried to see what it was, but I still could not penetrate the depths of those damn holes. Quickly, I looked for something, anything, that was thin and long.

I noticed that as I walked, my left leg seemed to sink slightly as my weight was put on it, like a spring under pressure. Finding a thin needle, I carefully pushed it into one of the holes, slowly so as not to accidentally stab myself. As it went deeper, the golden yellow liquid oozed around it. Becoming thicker and faster flowing the deeper the needle went. Finally it stopped, however I could not feel the tip. I could feel the sides of the needle, but nothing else. I pushed it further and felt something writhing.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I pulled the needle from my flesh, dragging more of that disgusting goo with it, a slight smell of rotting fruit filled the air, vile but with a sweetness to it. As the needle head left my flesh, I wretched, then vomited. On the end of the needle was a small, black worm, wriggling as it died. As I watched the creature that had lived in my leg squirm, I realised what the sensation was. It was coming from each and every one of those holes. Something was inside each one, something was squirming in each one. Something was burrowing deeper in each one. Shudders pulsated through my body as I tried not to vomit again. I stared at that tiny dying creature, unable to look away. There was no time. No time to think, only to act. I made my way to the kitchen and, grabbing a sharp knife, I sat down and set to work..

First I cut through the tiny pockets of skin, allowing the holes to become one. Then I dug out each and every one of the vile creatures. The deeper I dug, the more I found. blood had begun to flow freely and fill the hole I had created, I limped to the bathroom, barely able to walk. As I sat on the side of the tub and grabbed the hose, I could feel them inside me, hundreds, perhaps thousands. All gorging. Turning the water on, I rinsed the wound clean, clearing my field of vision. As the blood cleared, I saw them. A writhing mass, living inside me. Occasionally, one would fall from the group and, squirming, would be washed down the drain. At first I used the knife to try and remove them, then, my fingers.

I felt something sharp bite into my hand. One of them had attached themselves to the tip of my index finger. With a shout of horror, I cut it away from my flesh. I carefully cut until I found tissue, then I began to saw. Hacking away, trying to remove as much as I could. Clumps of those insidious things fell from my leg, my vision grew cloudy, shooting stars of red and black flashed across my eyes. I knew I was going to pass out soon and still I tried to work, faster and faster, trying to finish the horrific job. I remember breathing deeply, then darkness.

I awoke in the hospital, an untold amount of time had passed. A delivery man had looked inside my window to see if I was home and had seen a trail of blood, he had called the police. I tried to explain my actions to the doctors. They didn’t understand. There was no trace of those creatures. But I can still feel them, I can feel them advancing, burrowing deeper and deeper, gorging on my flesh. Thriving in my warm body. Soon, they will burst forth. I will have to stop them. Some how, I will.

Inevitable.

I almost died. I would love to tell you what happened, but I don’t remember. My memory goes as far as waking up that morning and going to the shower. My next memory is three weeks later. I wasn’t in a coma or anything exciting like that. I just can’t remember. Supposedly I was in a lot of pain so I guess my mind simply blocked it out. I recovered well, faster than was expected. Out of the hospital in two months and walking on my own in three. They say I was in a car accident, a lorry ploughed into the bus I was on. I was the only person that survived.

For a while in school I was called the boy who lived. Though I had no arch enemies from my experience, unless you count those who had lost someone. It quickly petered out though, I didn’t really care what I was called. It made no real difference. Besides, the nickname was far too long to stick. At least, as one that’s used when trying to get my attention.

I don’t really know when I started to know when I would die. It just sort of occurred to me one day that I had a date and time stuck in my head for no apparent reason. Three days after I realised it was the date I would die. Then, it changed. At first I was concerned as the date came closer or further away, then I just started to live with it. I didn’t concern myself to much with the date. Usually it was a few years away. Sometimes I got flashes from people. What they were feeling, how they were doing. I don’t really attribute this to any magical or mystical being, rather, I just think I am more observant than those around me. A little tilt of the head, the slight movement of the lips and I can instantly tell how you feel. This doesn’t happen all the time. Only when I am not paying attention. Once I try to read people, it goes away.

I don’t interfere with people really. Not often. Occasionally if I get that someone’s really down, I try to say something, but really, what can you say to a stranger in the street? “Hey, I know you’re down, buck up, don’t kill yourself?” generally I don’t feel too bad about what happens to them. They are of no concern to me. Some of you may think it’s cold or heartless, but it’s neither, I am ambivalent. If I know I can help, I will. But otherwise, why bother? Most of the time it doesn’t work or people think I’m crazy.
There was only one time I felt bad about not stepping in.

Katrina Welts. She was the closest thing our school had to the popular girl. There were no groups of gorgeous, snide girls every one wanted to be or be with. There were no handsome, dumb jocks everyone feared and respected. But there was Katrina. She was kind to everyone, no matter who they were. She had a knack for spotting people who were down, she would always go and talk to them. Comfort them. If there was someone in tears, Katrina would be there. She had a magic touch. If you had no friends, a simple chat about homework with Katrina would lead to others talking to you. She had a kind of magnetism that rubbed off on people. If they were close to her, they seemed to take on some of her allure.

I was passing her in the corridors, trying to remember if I had any biology homework left to do when it hit me. Full force in the stomach. She was in agony. And I felt it. Burning though me, sapping my energy. Draining my will to continue. When I turned to call to her, she looked back. What I saw terrified me. There was something fundamentally wrong with her. She was damaged in ways I could never begin to comprehend. I stood, unable to move, to call out to her. By the time my brain kicked into gear again I had lost sight of her. I could have gone after her, I could have rang her house or left a note.
But I didn’t.

I pushed it away, rejected it from my mind.
I developed theories, they can never be proven, but it helps sometimes. All those times she reached out to people who were drowning, all those times she helped others, I think that maybe she too was reaching out. Looking for help. Hoping that rather than frantically clawing at her like a life preserver, that they would simply take her by the hand and together, they would go to safety. That it wasn’t just me who could have done something, could have stopped her.

Of course, there was shock around the school the next day. I tried to hide my guilt, luckily most thought I was just upset like them. They didn’t know that it was far worse. In time, everyone moved on, people stopped crying, her seat was filled by another student, her locker cleaned out and given to someone. They forgot. Maybe not completely, but I wouldn’t allow myself. Her parents and friends said they had no idea. That everything was fine until the morning she didn’t come down for breakfast. But that’s bullshit. There’s always a sign. Always an indication that something is wrong. I felt it, that day she looked at me. She was screaming and no one could hear her. No one but me. I have often thought of telling someone. What I did. But then, what would that accomplish. They wouldn’t understand. They would try to placate me by saying I couldn’t have known, that it wasn’t my fault, that nothing could have been done, that I simply imagined the whole thing later.

Sometimes I wonder if she did it voluntarily. If there was something there, something small and insidious, telling her to do it. Maybe a friend or relative. Maybe some fucked up cousin. Maybe it was unintentional and they will never know that they set her death in motion. We go through so many interactions with others that mean little to us, if we strained our minds to breaking we would probably never remember, but they on the other hand, will never forget it. Some off hand remark, a casual glance could set events we could never know in motion. How many people have been unintentionally saved from suicide, or death? That quick hug that’s given so freely, staying their hand later. That five minute conversation that stopped them getting hit by a car running a red light. Even a sincere smile of thanks or gratitude. Equally, there’s the reverse, people who talked to those in their last few hours of life struggle to remember something, anything they could have done to prevent it. Sometimes there was nothing. No way to avert the impending tragedy, but what about those that could have done something, noticed they were down and didn’t offer help, would they remember? People talk about how if they had said something, actually talked to them but would it have made a difference. Would our subconscious pipe up to correct us when we say “no, they were perfectly fine” would it remind us of the subtle cue’s that we didn’t pick up or ignored? Probably not. No one wants to hold themselves accountable. They blame themselves but do they think it was my hand that pulled the trigger, it was my hands twisting the rope, it was my hand reaching for the pills, the alcohol, the blade.

Those truly responsible, those who really push and push and push till something gives, rarely accept responsibility.  Those who do it purposely with that goal in mind relish what they have done. They feel no shame or horror.

I like everyone else try to make excuses. It wouldn’t have made a difference. I couldn’t change it. But I know better. I could have done something. I should have done something. There’s no way to get the blood from my hands.

It mostly happens when I go for walks. I begin the train of thought that always leads to the same destination. There is no way of derailing it. It will promptly arrive with its cargo of guilt. Strangely, the walks clear my head. Oil the machinery, allow me to keep going without getting bogged down with too much thought. Each breeze against my face clears my head a little more, snagging some thought or idea with it and carrying it away. The countdown in my head is today’s date. A few minutes away. I know I could probably stop it, but how? If I change course and go home, perhaps a house fire kills me, if I continue, I could be mugged. If I go back, there could be a car crash, an explosion. There is any number of ways to die. It could be something simpler. My guilt over comes me and my brain stops, a congenital heart defect causes it to stop. An aneurism shuts down my brain, a clot stops my heart. I continue walking. They air is warm, the sun bright. A gentle breeze picks up some leaves and swirls them away. Releasing a deep breath, I continue to walk as the seconds count down.

Together Forever.

She was cleaning when she came across them.
She found vacuuming soothing, the gentle hum and repetitive motions. She was cleaning their room, under the bed, it had been so long since she had vacuumed their room. The head of the vacuum dragged them free as she tried to get at that difficult corner.

A pair of red, lace panties.

They were vulgar things. Far too vulgar for her to ever consider buying, let alone wearing. She turned pale, and turning off the annoying drone of the vacuum she sat on the bed, clutching them. Tears began to well before falling, dragging down her mascara, cutting through her rouge, so carefully applied not long ago.

It was the end. She found it hard to breathe, with each breath she wanted to scream, give release to the feelings building inside her. Slowly, she stood, feet unsteady in her high heels, and left the room they had shared for almost twenty years. She made her way downstairs, to the sitting room. She moved carefully, her mind spinning through a thousand emotional shifts. Hurt, anger, pain.
What was wrong with her? Was she not good enough for him? What did she do wrong?

Reaching the sitting room, she went to the fireplace, immaculately clean, not even a speck of ash marred the surface. Carefully, she put the disgusting object onto the grate. She picked up the box of matches and with a swift, practised flick the match head burst into life, the fire merrily burning. She paused, staring at the flame, at its flickering elegance. She brought the match to the fabric, slowly the fabric caught. the slut-red panties began to burn, unimpressively at first, then the flames established their dominance, quickly burning through the underwear, leaving nothing behind but charred remains.

She looked at the ash, thinking of her marriage, that’s all it was now. A sham. Their love had burned away long ago, leaving them nothing but ash. Standing, she went into the kitchen, the fireplace needed to be cleaned.

First, she scraped away the ash with a small trowel, then taking a bucket of warm water and a cloth, she scrubbed feverishly at the remnants until it was back to its pristine glory. Each movement of the cloth exacerbated her anger. How dare he? How dare he? She had given him her life. They had been together since they were fifteen. There was no one else for her. She did everything for him, she cooked, she cleaned. Everything.

As she poured the blackened water down the sink something snapped. Something fundamental. Her mind began to fracture. Shaking her head lightly, she looked around, unsure of where she was. How silly of her, getting distracted. She had things to do! With everything back in its place, she returned to their bedroom, planning to finish the vacuuming, it was important to keep a clean and respectable home.

She glanced in the mirror as she passed and was shocked to see the state of her make up, streaked and uneven. Water must have splashed in her face as she emptied the bucket. A faint voice piped up “then why aren’t there any black marks” she frowned for a moment before pushing the thought down and smiling again. She would just have to fix her make up. Sitting at her dressing table, she carefully wiped away the make up that was left. She reached for her night cream, then laughed. She was so used to her make up remaining perfect, only removing it at the end of the day.
Reaching for her brushes, she began to reapply the façade with quick, practised movements. Normally she took her time, enjoying the daily ritual, but she was in a hurry now. She had to finish cleaning, then start dinner. She had somehow lost an hour. She could be so silly sometimes.

Finishing her make up, she continued to clean. The sound of the vacuum unnerved her, she didn’t like it. She finished quickly and surveyed the room. Normally she would consider it lazy, but really, who was going to notice. Only she would. Why should she care if no one else did? Simon cared. He liked a neat and tidy house.  She laughed, Simon? Like he would notice.

A sudden image of red panties flashed across her eyes. She had to sit down again. There was no one. She had no one. No one but Simon.

They never had children, she thought they were too messy, Simon thought they were too noisy. No friends, who was there to meet? Her old friends have moved away or their friendships had just fallen apart. She had nothing. Every day was the same. Get up, shower, apply make up, wear a nice outfit, clean and make dinner. The only times she left the house was to go grocery shopping or for their bi-annual clothes shopping. Her eyes began to well up again, she could feel tears threatening to fall once more. She shook her head, dispelling the images and thoughts. It was no time to be thinking such silly things. Simon would be home soon, she didn’t have time to make their dinner and reapply her make up.

She looked down at her dress, relieved to see it wasn’t stained with make-up tainted tears. She realised with horror the dress she was wearing was slut-red. How on earth could she have bought that? How could she have worn it? Her mother would never approve. Stripping quickly, she stepped out of the dress that puddled at her feet and looked in her wardrobe. Picking a nice blue dress, a respectable one, one that could be worn to church, she slipped it on.
Looking at herself in the mirror she saw with dismay her jewellery no longer matched. She didn’t have many pieces, but what she had was carefully matched to her clothes.

Taking off her red necklace she carefully placed it on the display, then she took her blue one and put it one, shivering as the cold metal touched her skin. She swapped out two rings, they were small, subtle. She didn’t like to wear bracelets. They were gaudy.

She returned to the kitchen, her heels making the satisfying and reassuring click as they fell on the tiles. She began preparations for his favourite meal, a roast dinner. She wasn’t as prepared as she should have been, but no matter, it would be delicious anyway. She placed the joint of meat into a dish. Drops of blood fell on the white counter. There was something, small and persistent in the back of her mind. That colour, it called to her. Shaking her head, she wiped it away and continued with the preparations.

He would be home soon, the dinner was cooking, filling the house with delicious smells. She paused at the mirror to check once again. Her make up was perfect, hiding the fractured person underneath. She smoothed her dress nervously, then went to the kitchen.

He was normally home by half five. As six o clock passed, she began to worry. It wasn’t like him to be so late. Usually if he knew he would be late he would call her to let her know.

Seven passed.

Then eight.

She sat in darkness, terrified of what might have happened to him. She moved around the house, turning on lights, she felt better, calmer. At half eight she heard his car pull up, his key in the lock. His heavy footsteps entering the house. She frowned. His feet better not be dirty. She had cleaned the hall just this morning. He came into the kitchen, then paused when he saw her sitting at the table. “Where were you?” “I had to work late” “you should have called, I was worried.” “You’re right. I’m sorry.” “No matter. Dinner will be ready in a moment, have a seat at the table.” As he sat down she lit the candles she had placed out.

The flames seemed to mesmerise her for a second. He was about to ask if she was ok when she snapped out of it. He didn’t give her her customary kiss. She felt slighted, but didn’t mention it.

“We need to talk.” “Soon, first, lets just enjoy dinner, it’s your favourite.”
She placed his food in front of him, piled high with everything he liked, generously doused in gravy, exactly how he liked it. Taking her own plate, she sat down across from him and smiled. There were glasses of wine, already out. He sipped at his at first, then took larger gulps. Soon draining the glass. He ate quickly.

She ate slowly enjoying each mouthful, savouring it. Occasionally, she would sip her wine, but no more than sip.
When they had finished eating, she cleared their plates from the table, putting them in the dishwasher. Simon looked tired.

“Can we talk now?” “In a few minutes, just let me enjoy this moment. It’s the best part of my day.” He looked uncertain, but stayed silent.

They sat at the table for a few moments before Simon clutched his stomach in pain. She smiled as he groaned. He fell from the chair, landing with a thud, writhing in agony on the floor. His body making new and fantastic shapes.
She knelt beside him, taking his head in her lap “shhh, shh, it’s ok, it’ll be over soon.”

She stayed with him until he died, then she began the difficult task. Slowly and carefully she dragged his body upstairs, gently putting him on their bed. The bed they had shared for twenty years. Lying down next to him, she reached for her bottle of pills, prescribed to aid sleep. Taking as many as she could swallow, she nestled in beside Simon. Gently she closed her eyes, they would be together now, forever.
Whether he liked it or not.

From the Corner of Your Eye

The attic was almost unbearably warm. Even though both windows were open the heat was stifling, they provided ample light though little ventilation. Motes of dust floated lazily in the shafts of light, a butterfly fluttered briefly by the open window and outside birds sang. Jane looked at the cardboard box dispassionately. Feeling hot and tired, she longed to be outside and, grabbing a handful of papers, she flopped backwards onto the small couch. Plumes of dust erupted, waving her hand in front of her face, Jane tried not to cough. As the dust settled she started to rifle through the paper. She had no interest in organising the contents of the box, but had no choice.

Near the bottom of the box, there was a camera. Smiling, Jane turned the camera toward herself, half suspecting the camera was broken. The flash lit up the room briefly, casting everything in pure white light. Something moved behind her, startled, she gasped, turned, and realised it was only a trick of the shadows, Jane laughed at herself while going back to the papers.

Finally finished, Jane quickly made her way downstairs, bringing the camera with her. Leaving it on the kitchen counter, she made a sandwich. While sitting down to eat, her dad entered the room and, seeing the camera, went straight for it. “Where did you find this?” “Oh, it was up in the attic, was it yours?” “Yeah, it was, I thought I lost it.” “I found it in one of the boxes.” He snapped open the backing and carefully took out a roll of film. “I don’t even remember how old this is. He went to a drawer and dug through it, then finding what he wanted, he put the film into a small black canister. I’ll get this developed tomorrow, see what’s on it.” “While you’re there could you pick up some more film? I tested the camera and it stills works” “yeah sure, no problem.”

Jane was sprawled on the couch, watching TV, when a small, heavy package hit her stomach, sitting up, her dad called out “there’s those pictures, it might be interesting to have a look through them” as he continued down the hallway. Opening the paper folder she took out the pictures, most of them were of people and places she had never seen, some seemed familiar.

Coming to the last one, she paused. Her heart began to beat frantically, the rest of the pictures slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. They lay there unnoticed as she stared at the image in her hands. It was the picture taken the day before, incredibly, impossibly, there was something else in the picture. A large dark shape stood behind her, seemingly looking at the camera. It was humanoid in shape, but it had no features. It almost looked as if the creature was standing in the couch rather than the small space behind. The top of the creatures head appeared to go through the roof. Noticing the other pictures she quickly picked them up, returning them to the folder.

Jane lay on her bed, staring at the picture, “surely it’s a mistake, maybe the film was damaged or something”. She stood, leaving the picture on the bed and began to pace. Seeing a dark shape from the corner of her eye she spun around. There was no one there. She couldn’t show the photo to anyone because what did it prove? That there was a dark shape behind her? Something that could probably be explained by a logical and reasonable explanation.

Eventually, she decided to throw it in the bin and forget about it. She turned to her bed, the cream duvet was still wrinkled where she lay but the picture was gone. Jane panicked and frantically looked around the room. The window was closed, as was the door. She sat on the bed and breathed deeply, it was gone. It didn’t matter how it was gone or where it went, the important thing was to forget about it.

It watched her, pacing back and forth, occasionally muttering to herself. Hidden in shadows it was safe from her gaze. She couldn’t see him. But she had before. He waited until she turned from him before grabbing the picture. She spun around. He knew that she had seen him, even if it was only briefly. Something had to be done. He didn’t know how she would react.

Jane looked at the camera, wondering if it should be thrown out. She made up her mind and decided to put it back in the box in the attic. Feeling better she went to the bathroom and began brushing her teeth. Bending down to rinse her mouth, she stopped, then stared wide-eyed in horror as the water became a thick black sludge. It filled the sink and began to bubble over when she finally screamed for her dad. “What? What’s wrong?” “The sink.” “What’s wrong with the sink?” The black sludge continued to pour from the tap. Her dad moved closer, then, stuck his hand into the thick, black goo. He removed his hand, now coated, and looked at her. “I don’t see anything wrong with it. He twisted the tap, the flow slowed, then stopped. She realised he didn’t see it, didn’t feel it, even though it coated his hand and wrist. She glanced back at the sink, it was still full, heavy droplets hung from the edge, occasionally falling to the ground with a dull thud. “I…I thought I saw a centipede in the sink.” He breathed out “that’s all? I thought something had happened to you.” He smiled at her, then, shaking his head, left the room. Slowly Jane moved toward the sink and reached out gingerly, taking a deep breath, she put the top of her finger into the goo. It felt oily and gritty. She rubbed it between her fingers then held them under the light, expecting it to ripple with colour, like an oil slick. Instead there was nothing. No rainbows of shimmering colours, no reflection of light.. Not sure what to do, she tested the tap again, more black sludge filled the sink, then, a second later all the sludge turned to water. It cascaded over the sinks edge, falling to the ground and covering the floor. Quickly she turned off the tap and reached down to the plughole to try and unblock it. Seeing something was sticking from the drain she pulled at it, then, gasped as it pulled back, as it did the water started to drain out of the sink. The ooze she had touched left her skin feeling unclean.

Moving from the computer, Jane stretched, she had found little information on what was happening to her. Nothing fit. She had found a brief article talking about shadow people that secretly ruled our governments. Realising what she was going through wouldn’t be found so easily, she decided to keep a journal of everything that was happening.

Lying in bed she stared up at the ceiling, the stars and moons she had put there as a child glowed softly, occasionally she forgot they were there and when she noticed them again it was always a pleasant surprise, but now they gave her no comfort.

When she woke the next morning she opened her eyes, rather than seeing her room she saw nothing. Darkness surrounded her. She was unable to move. Unable to scream. Two bright, fiery orbs moved into her vision. Soon the darkness started to dissipate. Frustrated and frightened Jane called out “What are you? What do you want?” she shivered and got out of bed. On the mirror, there was a message,

“Park. Midnight. Alone.”

Jane didn’t know who or what had left it and going to the park could be dangerous, but, she reasoned that she was not much safer at home.

While he was observing her, she saw him. He had cocooned people many times while they slept and, sometimes they had woken, but they never saw him.

The moon was full, it hung, round and heavy in the sky, staring down at the world like the clouded eye of a long forgotten god. A faint breeze stirred the trees causing them to chatter excitedly. The streetlights bathed everything in a dark, yellow glow.

The moon had been covered by clouds, as if the events about to take place were too terrible to watch. Jane moved through the gloom, not really knowing where she was supposed to go. As she walked her watch beeped, indicating it was midnight. She stopped and looked around. She was in a large clearing, she had wandered here aimlessly but wondered if perhaps she was drawn here.

Around her the shadows began to move before gathering into the shape of a man. “Who are you?” “I am everything. I am everyone.” “What do you want from me?” “Knowledge” “what kind of knowledge?” “How can you see me?” “I don’t know, I just can.” “You are special. You are different.” “I don’t know why I can see you, I really don’t, why can’t you just leave me alone? I won’t tell anyone I saw you and I’ll just forget it ever happened.” “You can’t.” “Why not?” “You will have children. They might see us.” “Us?” the shadows moved once again, forming more people. Jane took a step backwards. “We must not let that happen.” She continued backing away. “You must be stopped.” “But I haven’t done anything!” “It does not matter.” “How can you punish me for something I have no control over?” “We are strong. We are powerful. We decide. We can give life and we can take it away.” “But why? Why does it matter if people see you? You’re shadows! You can’t be real!” “They cannot know.” “Why not?” “It would drive them mad.” The head figure pointed behind Jane, she turned and saw a large Oak tree, once majestic and tall, lose its leaves, they started falling, faster and faster, coating the ground beneath it, the leaves continued to age, curling and disintegrating, disappearing. The trees limbs started to droop, then fall, one by one as they continued to rot. The stump that was left continued to decay. There was a slight breeze and the trunk crumbled, it’s dust carried away on the winds. Jane turned back toward the creatures. “It never existed. No one will remember its presence in the world. No one will notice it’s gone.” “But I know. I saw it.” “Did you?” “Yes I did.” “That is why you cannot be.” Jane continued to back away from the creatures, planning to run as soon as she could. “There is no point” the creatures started talking as one, their voices in unison. “No point in what? Life?” “No. There is no point in running. We are everywhere. We are everything.” Jane turned and ran, the eyes of the shadows grew brighter as they dove after her, they covered her completely, engulfing her, destroying her. Erasing her existence. She tried to scream but she made no noise. The ball of shadows contracted then burst outwards, the clearing filled with light, as they fed on her energy.

Jane’s father woke the next morning and made breakfast as usual. He looked out at the beautiful day. The kind of day she had loved. He thought of his wife, Angela and how she had died giving birth to their stillborn child. He sighed and gathered his things, getting ready to go to work, thinking of his life and how it should have been.

Suffer Little Children

The freshly fallen snow was invitingly unbroken. The world seemed to hold its breath in awe of the beauty. The skeletal trees which before had seemed dark and threatening now looked clean and fresh. The silence was only broken when two children ran into a clearing, the crunch of snow and their gasps for breath filled the air. Their eyes fill of glee and their cheeks red, they continued running, the boy in front stopped and scooping snow as he turned, threw a snowball at his sister. The cold seeped in through her jacket as she went to pick up snow to retaliate. Before she could aim the cold missile her brother set off again. She started to after him but she realised he was too far away. She looked around her surrounding, realising they were deep in the woods she called out to her brother “Joshua! We should go back, the snow will start falling again soon and we won’t be able to find our way back.” Her brother slowed but didn’t stop, wary of trickery. The girl looked at the grey sky, growing nervous.

She didn’t want to be caught in a snow storm, they were close to home, but if the snow fell as rapidly as before it would obliterate the markings along the path. She looked over to where her brother was running. He had disappeared from view. She muttered “idiot” under her breath and started to go after him. She walked carefully, she thought Joshua would hide behind a tree and would try and surprise her. Now aware of the cold she did not want her jacket to get any wetter.

As she got closer to the spot she had last seen him a sense of dread grew in her stomach. “C’mon Joshua, we have to go back” a twig cracked to her left, causing her to jump. She turned towards the noise “Joshua, I know you’re there, stop playing games, I’m getting cold.” Behind the trees he started giggling, she shook her head, he always giggled when he was about to get caught in hiding games. She looked for his footprints, figuring she would double around and catch him from behind. She followed his foot prints further down the path, trying to pretend she wasn’t following them. In doing so she nearly fell down the hole. Seeing it she stopped suddenly, fright causing her to stumble backwards.

Creeping carefully closer she looked into its inky depth. Standing once more she notices Joshua’s footprints stopped at the hole. Her eyes were drawn to a splash of brilliant red at the edge, she bent over again and called out “Joshua?” she could hear a faint moan. She was still unsure if he had fallen or if it was just an animal. She remembered hearing him behind some trees and realised he was probably just trying to scare her. Already a plan was forming, she too would pretend to fall by screaming and then she would hide and when Joshua came to investigate she would sneak behind him and scare him. As she turned she felt long fingers with sharp points rest on her back before being pushed into the hole. Her head barely missing the edge. She screamed as she fell, her hands flying out and grasping at the sides, hoping to grab a root, but her hands found nothing but smooth earth. The fall seemed endless in the darkness. The light from the opening failed to penetrate the darkness, no longer was she aware of which direction was up or down. She readied herself for the eventual impact.

Her screams which had died off started again as branches started to hit her face and body, her clothes tearing as they tried to protect her. She slowed as the branches were beginning to grow closer together, although they slowed her, the thud of the impact left her writhing in pain and trying to breathe.  When the pain had subsided she gingerly stood, remembering the way the ground had shifted as she had hit it. She could hear someone whimpering “Joshua?” “M-Martha?” as Martha moved towards her brother her feet sunk into the ground, she noticed that she seemed to be standing on a mound and, holding her hand outwards walked towards the sounds of her brother “Joshua keep talking, I can’t see anything” Joshua had once more started whimpering, following the noise she soon found him. Bending down Martha wrapped him in her arms “are you hurt?” “I-I don’t think so” relief flooded over her.

Now that she wasn’t concentrating so hard on finding her brother Martha became aware of a rotting stench that surrounded them. Behind her there was the sound of breaking branches before a thump. They could hear the ground shifting as whatever landed moved about. The thing started to giggle. Martha turned towards the noise “you’re the one who pushed me! Where are we? And how do we get out?” the giggling stopped “wouldn’t you like to know” the creature giggled against, it’s voice was old and unused, the words sounded as if they had to fight to escape the clutches of the creatures throat “I’ve been alone so long. No one to play with. Its been so long” “maybe if you showed us the way out we could play together outside, in the fresh air with the snow” the creature sighed “but if I let you out, you might run away. I’ve been so lonely and so hungry” “I promised you we won’t run away and there is food at our house, we’ll happily share” Martha knew their only hope was to try and bargain with the creature.

As Martha felt warm breath caress her ear, she suppressed a shudder “so many have made promises, empty promises. They lied, like you are lying now. I can smell it on you. So many come here to visit, it’s so much fun, no one ever leaves” the stench of the creatures breath filled her nostrils. Martha though she might pass out from the wretched stench but the creature seemed to move away from her. She could hear it take a deep breath before it giggled again.

Nails.

Her long nails kept drumming the table. Never stopping their steady beat. It was a habit of hers that, at first, annoyed him, now, it filled him with seething rage. Such a little thing symbolised everything wrong in their relationship. His own fingers began to move restlessly, itching. The bright red polish caught the light, bouncing it into his eyes. She was as oblivious to her movements as she was to his anger, her free hand turned a page slowly, before letting gravity pull it the rest of the way. He stared at her intently, a small part of him trying to warn her to stop. Another, urging her to continue. Reaching up, she scratched her cheek, her nails temporarily stopping. He knew that if the rhythm was different, or if she had missed the starter beat, the spell would be broken. Finished their job, her hand fell back to the table, and once more began their march. His hands started to clench. It would be soon. His eyes danced over her, finding the perfect target. As he surveyed her, he was filled with disgust. God. When did she start looking like a whore? When did the make-up go from a light coat to this thick plastering layer? He noticed the little lumps where she had tried and failed to hide a spot. They seemed to multiply under his gaze. Her lips were painted the same slutty red as her nails, her eyes were heavily clouded from over-zealous strokes of the make-up brush. She bit her lip as she read, the white tooth startling against the blood red. Her clothes were far too tight, both for her age and her weight. He wondered who she was trying to impress. Most likely herself. God knew she never left the house anymore. Just sat around all day, watching TV, reading, or the pastime that seemed to be growing in favour, eating. He could just see the small rise of stomach that spilled over her waistband, disclosing her white, pallid flesh. And still. That constant noise. He gripped the glass tighter, briefly wondering if it would smash beneath his fist. The sun had begun to angle into the kitchen, throwing squares of orange light onto the floor and cheap, white cabinets. God, he hated the colour. “Cindy?” she looked up, her fingers never pausing, in time to see his knuckles coming toward her. There was a meaty thud as they connected, then a harsh bang as she and the chair fell. He looked at his knuckles, coated in smears of blood and makeup. She lay on the floor, to stunned to react. Soon she would begin to cry, tears flowing silently, accusingly. Then the shouting would begin. Then, who knew? He didn’t care. The drumming had finally stopped.

Sanctuary.

The long robes covered his body, obscuring even his feet. the hood jutted out above his face, normally, this would obscure it, but now, he was wearing a dazzlingly white mask, its nose was long and pointed and from where his mouth should be, a long black hose snaked down his side before disappearing underneath his robe near his ribs.

As he walked the robes swished along the ground, concealing the sound of his feet, he moved steadily, almost without movement, it seemed as if he was gliding. As though the ground was liquid and he was merely sliding through it. His hands were interlinked beneath the voluminous fabric, hidden from view they intertwined, parted then joined once more, continually twisting, taking on new and fantastic shapes.

Stopping he looked, trying to see through the thin, glass plated slits in the mask, moving his head slightly to either side. Satisfied he was still alone he continued his journey in the darkness. For a distance it appeared that his mask was floating through the air, unconnected and ungrounded, only accompanied by the unrelenting rustle of cloth.

The floor was stone and cool, cracked and broken. The cloth slid over each crack easily, never stopping or snagging. Finally coming to a door he stopped, glanced around furtively and then entered. The door banged loudly, reverberating inside the empty building.

Gripped with some unknown determination he ascended the stone steps, his fingers, hot and sweaty, paused their frantic dancing, his feet began to feel icy. With each step his movements increased in urgency, no longer smooth and subtle his movements became jerky and violent. Reaching the top of the tower he restrained himself from jumping onto the old thick gnarled rope which dangled in front of him.

He grabbed the rope with both hands, it was rough and welcoming. Tightening his grip he pulled, again, harder and faster. All around the sound of bells filled the air, growing louder and louder in the small, confined space. Echoing and reverberating around the room. His breathing became shallow and rapid, the mask was hot and stifling. Reaching up he ripped it from his face, a small cloud of steam rose from the mask, the small box which had worked with exquisite precision previously, grinded to a halt. The mask clattered to the ground, it lay there, forgotten but attached.

his face freed from its prison he lifted his head and breathed deeply, savouring the air, although old and still, it tasted sweet and fresh. His breath became deeper, then slower. A feeling of perfect tiredness washed over him, he half walked, half staggered over to the wall, leaning against it the coldness moved through the fabric. He slid down it slowly, no longer wanting to stand.

His eyes started to burn and his head became heavy. Closing them, his head fell forward, chin resting on chest. Strands of his hair started to fall from his head, unseen and unnoticed. The prayer beads he had kept safe slipped from his pocket, clicking as each bead hit the ground and dragged the next with it. As he lay there his breathing slowed, then, with one final effort he exhaled. He would lie there, undisturbed for untold years, his chest muscles softening, his head falling deeper into it, the rotting muscles in the back of his neck unable to hold his head aloft, until, his head overbalances and the weakened muscles releases its grasp on his head, it falls onto his clothed lap with a muffled thump. The room grew dusty and insects moved in the darkness, spiders cast their silken webs, but always his body remained free of their gossamer strands, each insect knowing what would happen should they touch the rotting flesh.

A Night of Wonder and Enchantment.

The billboard had promised a night of wonder and enchantment, and, though these were claims often repeated by many other shows, he had believed it. The billboard had given the location of both the show and where to buy tickets. He had impulsively decided he would get a ticket, right then. Everything else could wait. He vaguely knew the address and, once he was near, he knew why. His parents had sometimes gone to the theatre in this district. Though the buildings were now run down and some boarded up, he recognised them. They had  brought him once, the memory distorted through the excitement of an eight year old. Everything back then had been so glamorous. The shop fronts bright and enticing, lights beckoning him in. now they were faded and cracked. The windows, once filled with amazing displays, were empty and broken. As he passed an alley, he glanced down, in that brief second he had a moments doubt of what he was doing. Down the alley, he had seen someone lying against the wall, a syringe sticking out of their arm. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that they were dead.

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