Survivor: Creative writing

For many survivors creative writing is a wasy to process thoughts and feelings. In all cases the act of creation is something to celebrate,

Today we have a short horror story from one of our #CSAQT family, John. His story is a short piece of Horror fiction.

I watched the candles flickering with the storm outside as I ate my evening meal. The flame was dancing to the roaring winds like some unholy music trying to seduce me to its demonic ways. On the table, I noticed someone had scratched the number 914 into it and vowed when I catch the person that did this would suffer a great misfortune for their crime. This table has been in my family for nine generations and was now ruined by some insane scribbled. Nine hundred fourteen meant nothing to me, but I will find the fool responsible for this crime. They will soon find out that they can not hide from the like of me. I have the most extraordinary mind in this city and outwitted the police many times over.

I heard something hit the window, and I thought it was a young girl’s hand, but it was just a branch from a nearby tree. The lighting gave the illusion of a real hand soaking wet, pressing hard against my window. I could have sworn that I saw a hand full of flesh white as death but realized that the storm was playing tricks on my mind. I rose from my seat to make sure that there wasn’t a person outside but saw nothing to trouble my mind.

Through my window, I stared out into the storm admiring its beauty until I saw a woman in a blue dress. She turned her head as the lightning danced across the sky that gave her a ghostly appearance and jumped back in fright as thunder rung loudly within my ears. I wasn’t frightened by the storm but by the girl’s face. She reminded me of a girl I once knew, but that girl couldn’t have been her.

That girl died more than three years ago from being murder, and the girl’s fear was forever locked in her dead, lifeless eyes. She walked down the wrong alleyway and stumbled on The Brooklyn Butcher while claiming his next victim. She wasn’t his usual type, but she saw his face, and he had to kill her. I knew all of this because I am The Brooklyn Butcher, and I am way too smart to be caught.

I curse myself for being weak and that it wasn’t the girl ghostly form coming back to haunt me. She was dead, and there were no such things as ghosts. The lighting was playing tricks with my eyes making me see something that wasn’t there. Believing that woman was the girl I killed years ago would be madness, and I was too sane to believe that.

After finishing my meal, I retire to my study to read the paper and have some Brandy. I dozed off in my chair until tapping on my window, stir me from my slumber. I grabbed my candle and watched as the shadows played across the room like demonic children playing their hellish games. The candle was nearly melted away and told me that I was asleep for hours. I pulled my watch from my pocket and saw that it was half an hour to midnight.

I heard the tapping again and felt myself becoming concerned. The study window was on the second floor, and there was no ledge for anyone to stand on. There wasn’t even a tree on that side of the house, and I was confused about what was causing that tapping sound. I made my way to the window, and the darkness behind it seemed to swallow all light. I have never seen anything so void of light, and it was like there was nothing outside of it.

I pressed my face against the window seeing only darkness and felt an eerie sense that I was looking into death itself. I thought for a moment that I must have imagined the tapping sound until a horrific sight came into view. The woman I saw earlier was now floating by my window with a terrifying thing happening to her face. The woman’s face had started to rot off, leaving a bloody skull with rotting flesh clinging to it. She tapped on my window with her decaying finger and left a red dot of blood smeared into it.

I was so scared that I couldn’t believe my eyes and told myself that this was all a dream. A nightmare that any second I would wake up from, but yet I remain asleep. The specter still hovered outside of my window, following my gaze with its empty eyes sockets. The creature was making a dreadful sound that made my heart nearly stopped from terror. I prayed that this nightmare would end and that I would soon wake up in my chair.

I knew now that this was the woman I had killed that night so long ago, she was asking me why I took her life. I screamed back at her, “Because you were weak,” and watched as she faded away into the darkness that surrounded her. I breathed in a sigh of relief and was glad that thing was gone. My joy was only short-lived when I noticed the paper on a nearby table.

What I read couldn’t be real, for it said that they hanged me for twenty-one murders, which couldn’t be true since I was still very much alive. I started hearing moaning from several other specters and knew that I must escape my home at once. Everywhere I ran, I saw another woman that I had butcher on the street of my fair city, and they were just as gruesome as the last.

I couldn’t understand how any of this could be happening and ran through my house, trying to escape my nightmare. The fear that I was feeling was growing by the second, and the specters that were chasing me grew to twenty-one as I came to the front door. The door wouldn’t open at first; I could feel them approaching me and their cold aura sucking the air out of the room. I could almost feel their icy hands on me as the door open, but before I could feel their dead decaying flesh on me, I ran out into the stormy night.

What I saw next gave me more fright than what I had just experienced in my own home. The city that I loved so much and lived in since I was a child was now gone. Where once was a city street full of people was now a lake of fire with people screaming within it. I watched in horror as their flesh melted off from their bones, yet none of them would die. I couldn’t believe as their flesh grew back and watched the whole process repeat itself.

I finally understood what was happening, but it was too late as my victims’ hands grabbed me and pulled me back into the house, tearing my flesh from my body. When I came to, I saw some of my candles flickering on my table as I was having my evening meal. I noticed something was scratched into my table and barely made out the number 915.

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