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Her Protection

In every major town and city, there is a house of which no official record exists, and whose windows have been boarded up for longer than anyone around can remember. The previous occupants, if there ever were any, are untraceable, and no organisation or individual will ever lay claim to the plot on which it stands.

Nevertheless, when you break in–always through a back, ground-floor window; you must never touch the outer doors–you will see amongst the dust the signs of inhabitants long gone. A flattened cardboard box, an overturned child’s cot, balding patches on the carpet where the pile has been worn away. Invariably there will be an orphaned double mattress in the master bedroom. What you will not see, however, are rats and cockroaches, or animal waste. Vermin know better than to come here.

These are Her sacred spaces.

The first time you visit, bring only what you need to help you enter the house. Then locate the master bedroom, stand in the centre, and draw an unbroken circle in the dust around your feet. Make it about a metre in diameter to be safe.

Face the doorway and say aloud; “I wish to make a sacrifice. Will you welcome the offering?”

Then leave as quickly as possible. You must not return until night has next fallen.

This time, bring nails, a hammer, an empty litre bottle, a sharp, sturdy knife, and a torch. Enter the same way you did last time. Remember the mattress in the master bedroom? Someone will be sleeping there. Don’t worry about waking them up; She has taken care of that for you. Turn the sleeper over onto their back and cut their jugular vein, making sure to collect as much blood as you can.

You will need to pour a little of the blood onto the floor of every room, including this one, but make sure you have some left at the end. When you’ve finished, leave by the same way you entered, and close up the boards again. (This is what the hammer and nails are for.) Walk home. Speak to nobody on your way. When you get there, tip some of the remaining blood into your right hand and smear it over your door handle before you enter. Then go to bed.

If there is any blood left, you must pour the rest of it onto any pavement in the city, but do not allow it to be poured down a drain. The knife you must never use again, and should bury. Do not trouble yourself with covering your tracks. When you next leave your house, the blood on your door will be gone, and the murder you have committed will have no repurcussions. From the moment you leave Her temple, DNA evidence will never again implicate you; law enforcement will creep around your footsteps without touching them. On cameras, your face will show up a blur.

You are under Her protection now.

Just make sure you get the right house.

You’re Not Scared, Right?

You are lying in your bed, the dull whirring of your air conditioner is the only thing separating you from total silence.

You know, that particular silence that is so heavy, and so thick, it’s almost the equivalent of a loud noise itself? The kind of silence where you could hear a pin drop three rooms away in; the kind of silence that fills your ears with the sound of your own heartbeat as your ear presses against your pillow. That kind of silence.

The dull whirring is the only noise you can hear, a noise that typically goes unnoticed, until it is the only noise present. It’s comforting, whether you realize it or not. A sort of white noise. But suddenly, your room is back at the temperature specified on the thermostat, and the whirring comes to a stop, as the vent makes a dull clang. To your misfortune, you are not yet asleep, and the silence sets in.

You should be comforted by the knowledge that you could hear anything and everything in your surroundings; making up for the lack of vision provided by the darkness. But you aren’t. It’s this very environment that sets you on edge, causes your heart to beat a bit faster, makes your body tense without explanation, and that makes you aware when you are not alone.

But you are alone right? You’ve been laying there with your eyes closed for almost 15 minutes now, and you made sure everything was normal in your room before you turned off the light; you’re a smart one. All those Facebook quizzes you took have just reinforced what you already know, if you were in a horror movie, you’d survive until the end. You’ve even made a carefully laid plan of what you would do in any of the situations you’ve read about on creepypasta.com. But that stuff is just nonsense anyway, right?

You aren’t scared. Or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

But wait…what was that? Was that the rustling of fabric? But, you didn’t shift in your bed, or make any movement. Did you make that noise? No, you couldn’t have. You’re paralyzed your bed, stiff with an unease that was not present until these very moments. You must have imagined it…you must have.

You roll over to face the wall. Out of sight, out of mind. If there’s something in the room with you, it will just have to accept that you are much to tired to deal with it at the moment. You’re still stricken with uneasiness as you hear rustling again. This time, the rustling is accompanied by a soft thud on the ground.

Your heart seizes in your chest…did you really just hear that? No no, you’ve just gotten yourself worked up about nothing. You really should stop play horror survival games so late at night, it’s messing with your brain. You’re a rational person, stop acting so childish and just fall asleep already.

You close your eyes tightly, silently hoping sleep would whisk you away soon. You’re practically begging for the safety of the nonexistent dreamworld of your own creation. You’re running away in a sense; but there’s nothing there…right? You’re just tired. I know, I know.

As your eyes are clinched tightly shut, you become aware that no matter how much you want to, you can no longer move your arms and legs. Come on now, are you really letting this get to you? What are you? 12 years old? Suck it up and fall asleep already.

Now, more tense than ever, that unnerving sound echoes across the room again. The rustling of fabric, followed by a soft thud on the ground. Unwittingly, you’re holding your breath now, eyes shut as tightly as possible. You have childish urge to pull the blanket over your head. You’re imagining it all! It’s all in your head; I thought you were better than this.

You heart is pounding loudly in your ears now, but not loudly enough to drown out the now repetitive sound approaching from across the room. What’s that rustling!? Maybe you left some paper on the ground. That has to be it! And that thumping? Probably the cat, or the dog, or something. They probably ran in when you weren’t looking before you closed your door. Yeah, you’re just paranoid.

The noise is now within a foot of your bed, and with your back to it, you don’t dare turn around to investigate, not that it’d do much good; the only light in your room is the dull glow of your cell phone on the nightstand next to you, you plugged it in before crawled into bed remember? But you don’t dare turn around and look; there’s nothing there anyway.

Minutes that feel like hours pass as you face your wall, stiff as a board, unable to will your uncooperative body to move. You haven’t heard the noises in a while now, not since it reached the edge of your bed. You know there’s nothing there you silly. It’s this silence. It’s messing with you. You really should have turned on some music or something before you went to bed. Oh well, maybe next time.

Suddenly, a familiar clang echoes through the room, followed by that familiar whirring. You exhale deeply, your body relaxing as you are flooded with relief. Thank God that’s over, now you can finally sleep in peace. That silence was really getting to you. You roll over and open your eyes to check the time on your lit cell phone, it must have been at least an hour since you first went to bed.

You are greeted face to face with his ear to ear grin. Dimly lit sockets where eyes once resided stare intently at you.

Ah, I see you’re still awake.

–
Credited to Shadow Lovely.

THE DEAD SKULL

I BET YOU THINK THAT ALL OF THESE STORIES ARE PRETEND BUT GUESS WHAT THIS ONE IS FOR REAL! HOW DO I KNOW? WELL I KNOW BECAUSE I AM LOOKING AT YOU AND I KNOW ALL OF YOUR SECRETS! I EVEN KNOW YOUR FAVORITE ANIMAL. ONE DAY I LOOKED AT YOU IN THE BATH ROOM. MAYBE I WILL BREAK SOMETHING AND TELL EVERYBODY IT WAS YOU. THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO STOP ME. BUT GUESS WHAT?

I AM A DEAD SKULL!!!

Core

This message is my map, and this map is my message.

The earth here is thin. I move about it so freely, and the ease of it is a delicious thing, but it is also frightful. I dig my inscriptions by feel and touch, and because I know the earth, I know that this will be massive for your senses.

Here in this layer of the planet, I am inbetween my people and your people. I float about in this soft soil like a drifting bubble, weightless and yet handled so delicately within my surroundings that my fragile dome will never burst. I am fit to drift along in euphoria. I would do this forever, if granted the chance, but I have responsibilities to my people, and to our Mother.

If I were to glide about, dreamlessly, in this infinite expanse of softrock, a few fathoms beneath your manmade pave-veins, I would lose myself in the arms of Mother, and she would love to have me lost. That exquisite moment will not arrive until your end-time comes. For now, I must finish the task I have been chosen for by our matron. She was born from the hardrock and the fire at the very core of Mother, and so I cherish and love her for choosing me to finish this map for our people.

If I were to abandon my quest and return home now, I could be in the heartfire of earth within two of Mother’s circles. Perhaps that holds no meaning for you, but because I have lurked just beneath the pave-vein in your greatest den and homestead of New York City, I know that the word I must use is “years.” You measure your core by a finite passage of time in units. We measure ours by Mother Earth herself, as you once did before in history, before you created the deathly grid and thought yourselves too intelligent to honor Mother. This is what saddens her, and this is the cause of the war between my people and your people.

It has taken me over one thousand of your years to reach the earth just below your pave-veins and grids of softrock. At first, I did not understand, and I would glide along through the thin places as your slow moving metal boxes with the rubber feet would adhere to the limited paths that you have provided for them. They are lumbering beasts, unable to dig, deaf and dumb constructs that are reflective of their creators. I do not pity you, because if you had used her gifts the way they were meant to be used, you would be as my people are now.

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The End

On his way home that night, as he walked through town, a man stepped out of an alley in front of him. He tensed to defend himself, but the man just stood there. Looking him over, he realised the man looked like a hippie. Something of a comedy caricature of a hippie, really. Long unwashed hair and beard, sandals…and a sandwich board reading ‘THE END IS NIGH’. That, he thought, was unusual, even for a hippie.

“You want something?” he asked.

“The world’s ending,” said the hippie. “I need your help.”

He stepped around the hippie and kept walking. High as a kite, he thought to himself. The hippie started walking after him, and fell into step beside him.

“Please, I need your help,” said the hippie.

“Look, man, I’m really not interested,” he said, and kept walking.

The hippie leant against a wall, watching him walk away. The hippie wasn’t all that disappointed; lots of people gave this kind of response. Another skeptic, he thought to himself, fingering the ragged holes through the middles of his hands.

Upstairs

When I was a child I lived in a rented two-floor house. Both my parents worked so I was often alone when I came home from school.
One early evening when I came home the house was still dark.
I called out, “Mum?” and heard a voice say “Yeeeeees?” from upstairs.
I called my mum again, and again got the same “Yeeeeees?” reply.
I felt she was calling back at me and climbed up the stairs.
When I reached the first floor I called her once more and the voice “Yeeeeees?” came from the furthest room.
I felt both uneasy, but a strong urge to see my mother, and started to walk towards the room.
But just that moment I heard the front door downstairs open and my mother come in, carrying a lot of shopping bags.
“Sweetie, are you home?” my mother called in a cheery voice.
Hearing her voice made me feel instantly better and I turned back to go downstairs at once…but not before I had a quick glance towards the room.
While I watched from the top of the stairs, the door to the room slowly opened a crack.
For a brief moment, I saw something strange in there.
A pale face, staring at me.

Slenderman

After waking up with a jolt, the girl laid in bed a few seconds longer. Reaching over to switch on her bedside lamp, she tried to remember exactly what had stolen her sweet slumber away. When she couldn’t, the brunette swung her legs over the side of the bed and heaved herself up. Checking the time on her phone, she snorted when she saw it was midnight- the witching hour. Knowing that sleep would only evade her, she left her bedroom for the kitchen, a good cup of coffee on her mind.

As she passed by her front door, a chill spread like liquid fire down her spine. It’s only winter, she told herself, focusing again on the coffee plan. Measuring out scoops, water, and preparing her cup kept her occupied, but as the dark liquid boiled, she had nothing left to keep her mind from wandering off. The chill returned and she couldn’t help but glance behind her to the front door. It stood there innocently enough, just like always. The dead bolt was still in place and she could see nothing amiss with it. Turning back to her coffee, she did her best to forget about the feeling.

With her cup in hand, she started back towards her bedroom. As she walked by the front door, she decided that a quick glance out of the peep hole would help calm her restless mind. The chill worsened with each step she took towards the door and further away from the safety and warmth of her blankets. She pressed her empty hand against the cold, metal door and took a deep breath before leading her eye to the peep hole.

At first, she could only see an inky blackness and somehow seemed to swirl in itself. When she blinked in surprise, the void melted away. She wished it hadn’t. In it’s place, there stood what she could only guess was once a man. The limbs were long and inhumanly awkward, with bulky joints branching off into several arms, not unlike the branches of a tree. The creature was drapped in a black suit, somehow manking the thing more nightmarish to her. The icing on the proverbial cake, however, was what passed as the hellish thing’s face. It was as though her mind blurred the ghastly visage to spare itself further shock and horror.

She shoved herself away from the door with the hand still pressed against it. The scalding mug of coffee fell, the liquid burning her bare legs as she fell backwards and tried to crawl away from the door. She knew, somehow, that her mind hadn’t been playing tricks on her. As she crab walked away from the door, she watched as tendrels as black as the void she first saw snake around through the cracks. The girl was trapped between the instinct to flee and the gut feeling to not turn her back on the door. When the door jolted, the urge to flee overcame her and she slipped in the burning liquid as she tried to make it back to her room.

She knew deep down that she was trapping herself in a corner, but she had to get away from the door. The girl was halfway down the hallway when she heard the previously locked door creak open. She screamed and slipped into a wall, cracking her chin on it and stunning her.

After that, there was only blackness.

–

“Nicole?” a warm, male voice snapped the woman out of her trance. As she turned around, she was met by one of her sister’s doctor’s. She nodded, not sure if she should say anything, or even if she could find her voice if she did have something to say. That morning, she had gotten an urgent phone call from the hospital, saying that her sister, Lindsay, was there. Before they had even let her see her, the doctor’s had pulled her off to the side and insisted that they talk to her about what might have happened. Phrases like ‘self-inflected’ and ‘assault’ had been thrown around and Nicole felt her mind reel.

She still hadn’t fully understood what they had been saying until she saw Lindsay with her own eyes. Her little sister had a bandage wrapped around her head, covering both of her ears as well as her eyes. They said it was to keep her now deadened eyes from drying out and to try to keep infection out of the wounds Lindsay had made to her ears. The doctors had guessed that either she or someone else had jammed a pencil into them to keep her off balance or to deafen herself against something. There was the mix of first and second degree burns on her hands, legs, and feet, from what was assumed to be the coffee her neighbors found slipped all over the entry to her apartment.

As Nicole walked into her sister’s hospital room the first time, she thought she had spied the silhouette of a man in the window. That, she knew, was impossible. Her sister’s room was on the third story of the hospital.

The Bwystfel

When I was a child, I lived in Radnorshire, one of seven children and the youngest of six girls. As my parents had six other girls and an infant boy to take care of, they left me to myself, and I ran about like a wild thing. Not that they didn’t love me, but they had other things to do.

I was about five when I began to see the Bwystfel. It roamed about the farm, slipping in the shadows, and the only way to see it was to look for the shapes that were darker than the spaces between stars. Its mad eyes were like coal sparks, it laughed like a goat in pain, and it was always angry. I watched it from a distance: one spring, I saw it kill a nest of sparrows – closing its hands about the nest until the little naked birds smothered on its flesh — one summer, it poisoned the sheep, biting the ewes’ legs until rot and infection ate into their flesh that no about of doctoring could fix. Later, it skulked into the shed and sliced the handyman’s chest open, then danced his blood up the walls and over the rafters. My parents said it was an accident, but knew better. “The Bwystfel did it,” I told my father, and he boxed my ears for being a liar. No one believed me at all. . . except the Bwystfel itself.

It grew angrier. At night, it crept into my room, giggling and ripping the blankets away and pinching me. I shared a bed with two of my sisters – we didn’t all have separate rooms like you do – and when the Bwystfel came, we shivered together, too afraid to move until morning. We were very little girls, and nobody trusted us with a candle, so we had no way to drive the thing away. It tormented us in whispers, calling us names and telling us we were bad children, because our prayers that it would leave us be weren’t answered. My sisters refused to speak a word of it, and they wore the Bwystfel-inflicted bruises like jewellery – saying they’d fallen over or been bitten by the cat.

I decided I would have to find the Bwystfel myself and scare it away. I took the statuette of Florence Nightingale that my mother gave us to hold when we were sick and a stone with a hole in it, both for luck. As it turned out, I would need the luck.

I walked for ages, got lost, and eventually stumbled into a small wooded copse where I had never been before. Under the trees it was cold air, and pine needles and dried leaves lay thick upon the patchy grass. I clutch Florence. . . and then I saw the bones.

Bleached and ancient, they lay scattered in a circle: small bones, large bones, bones half buried in the loam, bones with scraps of dried flesh still clinging to them. A sheep skeleton hung suspended in the tangle of a blackberry bush, and canes had grown through the eye sockets of birds. I started to cry – I knew I’d found the den of the Bwystfel.

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Debut

I.

Well, I’ve finished my education and learned everything there is to learn about singing, and despite the difficulties, I’ve found myself at the heart of Music City and struggling to get my material out there. I haven’t been able to meet with any labels and I’m barely surviving on gig money. I have an audition at a new place that’s opening down by Broadway Street. It’s a Vegas style night club, very yuppie. I can sing, but I also have to dance with the other girls. My first song will be “Moulin Rouge.” They were impressed with my audition, and they may pay me for some choreography ideas. Maybe I can get some hours there. Regardless, times are hard for everyone right now. Any day that people hear me sing is a good day. My voice is lucky, and I’m so excited for the future that I simply had to start writing my feelings down in something other than song form.

II.

I learned to bartend and made some good tips this evening. I also sang with the band, and even though everyone there was drunk, I think they really liked me. The more I sing, the more I feel like I was put here on this earth to make people happy with the sound of my voice. I’m not trying to be conceited. I am forged through the sweat of my brow to make beautiful sound. I also make a pretty good vodka martini.

III.

My boss, Bobby, thinks he’s Brett Michaels. He keeps going on and on about how he’s going to make me a star and how much money Alleycats is going to make with me singing at the helm. People applauded after the girls worked through my dance today. I told Bobby that he should tie cat collars with rhinestones around our necks and buy us hair extensions to attract more clientele. He went for it. I’m excited. I’ve never been able to afford hair extensions before. The last song I sang before I went home this evening was amazing. I saw a table of drunks in the front row who appeared as if they were crying. That’s the best feedback I could possibly ask for.

IV.

Some of my teachers came by today because it was my day off. They’re quiet, mostly, but they expect what I promised them four years ago. I always thought I’d be able to get my education and disappear without going through with it, but they’ve found me. They want results, and I only have a month. Even though they paid my way and coddled me through learning the art of vocal performance, I don’t think a piece of paper on the wall is worth this. It doesn’t matter. I can’t back out now, and I’m destined for the big time.

V.

Bobby is interested in more than helping me promote my career. I was flirting with a local blues singer in the lounge tonight after singing, and he flipped his shit. Said that I couldn’t afford to have a boyfriend in this business and the only person I’d be hooking up with was him if I wanted to keep my job. I noticed that The Better Business Bureau is right across the street when I left today. I’ll keep that in mind if he gets out of hand.

VI.

More teachers came to see me, except they came to the bar itself. I would have been ashamed, except they didn’t talk to anyone, so no one knew that they were there for me. They wore the black robes in a night club in the middle of the city, so they obviously care little for outward appearances. They focused on me so intently when I was singing that I got scared. I did well, but they’re giving me the message, loud and clear. I have to fulfill my part of the bargain or I’ll lose my voice. If I lose my voice, I have no future. I’m scared.

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Roadwork

When Conner arrived at the gas station, he exited the car with a speed that surprised even him. He took a few quick steps, almost at a run, before turning back towards the car. Under the garish sodium lights of the service station, the little blue sedan looked a sickly greenish gray. It looked squat and malign in its stillness. The little throbbing headache at the base of his skull seemed to diminish with every step and he began to catch his breath.

He took the phone from his pocket and raised it high into the night sky, waving it from side to side like a signal flag. Nothing. The signal meter defied him by remaining empty. Not even a flashing roaming message. Conner scowled at the little phone and thrust it back into his pocket.

He glanced around at the station, two solitary pumps and a closed convenience market. An isolated island of pale yellow light in the dark of the North Carolina forest, the silhouettes of the trees bit sharply into the starry night sky, surrounding him like a ring of teeth. The grating hum of electricity mingled with the crackling of insects from the woods beyond, drifting in the warm summer night air.

Jutting from the side of the shuttered market was a scraped and listing pay phone, its metal stalk visibly bent from some long ago impact. Conner approached it, digging a quarter from his pocket, and gripping the scarred plastic handset. For a moment, nothing happened, and the sense of isolation deepened, like the ground being pulled out from under him, and the panic returned. A series of quick clicks bit into his ear and the dial tone chimed. His fingers felt numb as he dialed.

Even at a few hours past midnight, Reynolds answered on the first ring.

“Yes?” Reynolds’ rolling baritone was silky, and unmarred by the late hour. “Who is this?”

“S’me. Conner.” He was unable to keep the quaver out of his voice, and he had a sudden urge to look back towards the car, suddenly afraid that it might have moved, or left him there all together.

“This isn’t the phone I gave you.” Reynolds liquid voice darkened, almost imperceptibly.

“It’s a payphone. Ain’t got signal out here. Middle of fucking nowhere. Listen Ren, I-”

“Is something the matter, Conner?” Conner bristled at the mild, calculated condescension in the older man’s tone, and inhaled slowly, measuring his next words with caution.

“Well… Shit. I don’t rightly know, Ren, but I got a real bad feeling about this.”

“Where are you?”

“Service station. Just got off the freeway. Bout to head south through Natahala.”

“And what is the matter, Conner?”

“Like I said, there’s something fucked up about this one. Didn’t like the guy I picked the car up from, don’t like whatever it is that’s in the fucking trunk. I know this sounds fucking stupid, but it’s giving me a headache. I feel like I can smell it, but I know I can’t. Something just feels rotten about it. I mean rotten, rotten.”
There was a long silence on the other end, and Conner knew that Reynolds was unmoved. Even as Conner said the words, he knew how stupid it sounded.

“Conner,” the old man said at last, “We’ve worked together for a long time. I like you. But you’ve never given a shit about what you deliver. What’s the strangest thing I’ve had you carry?”

“The heart.” Conner answers without hesitation, seeing the white styrofoam cooler steaming with ice, strapped in the front seat like a babies car seat.

“Yes. You also once delivered several pounds of heroin. Did you know that at the time?”

“Not ‘till after the fact.”

“Because it’s better that way, isn’t it, Conner.” Reynolds paused, the smooth rhythms of his voice already calming the younger man. “It’s better if you don’t know. The man you picked the car up, in his own way, is as trustworthy and reliable as you are. I understand why you might bristle at him, given his unfortunate looking visage, but he is like you. A trusted contractor, and discrete. I employ you both, for your discretion. Do you understand Conner?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. I think you understand why I’m offering so much more for this delivery, and why it has to be late at night, and on the backroads. Our client this time has specific instructions, and we’re not getting paid to wonder why. We’re not getting paid to pry.”

“I understand.” It galled Conner, how stupid he’d sounded, how stupid he’d been, panicking, and calling Reynolds late in the night.

“I know you do. And I know this one is odd, son. I do. I hope you believe me when I say that it makes me as uncomfortable as it makes you. I’d do it myself, but no one is as good as you. I’m smart enough to know when to trust the best.”

“Thank you, Ren.”

“No, Conner, thank you. Now, get back on the road. When you drop off the car, the client will have his own men to take care of the package. And then you can sleep, and you won’t have to work for a year. All for one nights drive.”

“Okay. I gotcha.”

“Conner. I trust you wouldn’t, and forgive me if this is insulting, but, don’t open the trunk okay? It wouldn’t help, the package is locked up anyway. And it needs to stay locked because the client wants it locked.”

“Of course, Ren. Look I’m awful sorry for calling, I guess I just got spooked something fierce.”
“Not at all. That’s what I’m here for. Now, get on the road Conner. And call me when it’s done.”

Reynolds hung up before Conner could reply, and he returned the handset to the cradle.

Keys in hand, Conner returned to the car, driving himself forward even as his newfound confidence waned as he approached. The phantom odor, more like a memory of a scent than an actual smell returned, something sweet and corrupt. As he turned the key to start the engine, the gentle pain in the back of his head returned, rising slowly. He gritted his teeth, and pulled out of the service station.

The Natahala national forest closed around the two lane road, and the darkness swallowed the service station behind him. Conner tried to focus on the destination, the route laid out, the starry sky outside. Anything but the trunk. It worked, for a few minutes.

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