Anger-It Might be Cliché, written by P.L. Cobb for the Enigmatic Monster Project, an original horror blog.

Anger–It Might Be Cliché

It might be cliché, but hey: anger is a part of our life now.

It’s bad, but can be good, somehow. Good in the way controlled fires are. Left alone, and who knows what chaos it shall mete out. Destruction by the metric tonne.

Also, when driven by anger, you are master of none. No one. Zilch, And there’s no way to change that.

When anger owns your ass, you’re better off as food for the worms, or the grass.

But it all depends, and in the end isn’t that all we can hope for?

If I could pay my bills in rage, perhaps I’d be less than poor. But loathing takes its toll, and always asks for more. So much so that every inch of me feels sore. It’s as if anger has had me whipped, saying: “This is it, bitch!”

Bleed me till I’m dry, let me spend myself until I’m empty. Strip away all my layers, questioning why I pretend to be so complex, so human, when I am really Anger’s whore.

In the end, isn’t that what we all are? Whores?

And then the Spider Came Along, by P.L. Cobb. A supernatural horror short about a widower who comes face to face with his wife's killer.

And then the Spider Came Along

It was a long, dark night. The kind of long and dark where one is lonely. Loneliness was known to cause insanity … But it was also a beacon for other strange things.

He, recently widowed, sat hunched over his desk, carefully carving a squiggle into the wood with a knife. A soft whisper tickled the back of his neck; it was very slight, but still it prickled his skin. Immediately he turned around to find the source. The last thing he wanted to see greeted his wide-eyed stare.

A spectre. No–a ghoul, a mocking visage of his wife was in the room with him. It hurt him to see her decomposed body. It enraged him. Once dark skin was now maggot-white; her hair hung limp around her head like a veil. A death veil.

The ghoul was not truly looking at him, but its pale eyes were pointed in his direction.

In life those eyes had been hazel-green, he reminded himself.

The spectre, the ghoul–whatever it was–raised a hand to point at something behind him. There were, he noticed, puncture wounds running all the way up to the thing’s elbows.

Puncture wounds. His dead wife. Carefully he turned around. Above his head was the creature known as the Spider. It clung to the place where wall met ceiling, hidden in the shadows.

Slowly he stood up, and backed away from the desk. Within a clenched fist the knife felt reassuring. He had always known that the Spider would return, had counted upon it, but never suspected the time to be so soon. I buried her last week! Pure loathing, mixed with fear, set his pulse racing. They seldom have any decency.

There were things which lived beyond the scope of human understanding; the Spider was one amongst many. These beings flitted in and out of time and space. Sometimes they walked between worlds. None of what they did made any sense, save for one: they all had to feed. Hunger, even for a god-like creature, was an instinctual need. Emotions, particularly from organic life, intoxicated them; greed drove them to seek out the choicest individuals, and people died.

His wife was just one amongst many, and the Spider would not stop with just her. A vision flashed before the man’s eyes: of people running, panting, through gloom-laden woods. It had come for both of them on a camping trip. Who would have suspected that a long weekend could go to hell so quick?

It didn’t move from its perch, but it watched him with all eight of its eyes. And he watched it as it began to click its fangs.

He held up the knife, hoping against hope that his plan would not go to hell as his life had. With an unsteady hand he began to carve a sigil onto his free hand. Spider, spider on the wall. Spider, spider in the hall. When you hear the raven’s call, back to your hole you shall crawl. 

The rhyme was stupid, but it steadied his nerves. If an alien god was going to kill him, then he would invite another to kill it. When he finished carving the mark, he managed a weak smile. “I hope you don’t mind me inviting a friend!”

The Spider, the Golden Spider, held no love for the Red Raven, and vice versa. He did not want another juggernaut in his home … But what choice do I have?

The Red Raven was punctual; it answered his call immediately. Another spot of darkness filled the small office. Suddenly, the air became thin. Space became scarce as the two gods sized each other up. Before they clashed, the man ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

The Enigmatic Monster Project

It Starts With A Whisper …

If you need more Rhonda in your life, then you need to visit her website!


Shhhh …..

I try to calm that whisper down. It won’t be subdued. No, it won’t. The words that are coming from the whisper are dark, lonely and scary. So scary and almost evil. Where is that voice coming from? Surely it’s not from me?

It starts with a whisper …. when it is just a whisper you can suppress it  … ignore it … pretend it’s not there … after all it’s just a whisper in your head.

The problem with that …. the whisper can turn into a roar like the raging sea.

As a whisper it’s harmless you say.

“Come dance with me …”

“Come sit with me in this cold darkness …”

“Come lay down with me ….”

“Let me fold you in my arms hide you from the light …”

Crossing over to the dark side for a short spell … then it’s I can handle this! I am in control. I got this! It’s like skipping back and forth … like its nothing ….

Nothing …. darkness … empty … coldness …. the whisper becomes louder and more demanding ….

The calling …. the yearning … the need becomes a heady desire to be fulfilled … the visits into the darkness become more frequent …

The voice becomes more demanding until it takes over you …

The darkness becomes your companion like a lost lover that you have been reunited with and you no longer can bare to be separated from  … then you forget what scared you about that little whisper … why did you ignore it?

Home … the darkness of your soul feels like home … it is where you belonged all the while.

It starts with a whisper … come play with me …

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Why Is This Still A Thing?

One day aliens will finally visit us on this dismal little ball of rock. I say dismal because as the top species we have simply made it this way. The aliens won’t even bother with our leaders. They’ll just ask for the smartest people on the planet: scientists, engineers, mathematicians, artists, humanists, etcetera. If those people are still permitted to exist by the time the aliens do come …

These aliens will then point to news stories about discrimination against the gays, transgendered people, poor and sick people, veterans, women, children … They’ll point to all the stories about how racism is still prevalent, and then the stories about why white supremacy is still here (and reluctant to leave us in peace). And if you think that they’re going to gloss over the atrocities done in the name of religion, politics, war, then you’re out of your mind!

Then these aliens will ask us: “Why is this still a thing? What are alternative facts?” When our jumbled answers don’t satisfy them, they’ll ask another question.

“What is wrong you people?”

And the answer to that is simple: many of us are dumb, wicked, selfish. Also known as the asshole.

Mostly unsatisfied, the aliens will thank us for our time. “This is why we never visit you. Oh, and we’re taking your Netflix away. Byeeee!”

If Netflix is still allowed to exist by then. Humans like to ruin the good things they do have. What is our problem?

(Oh, that’s right!)

Set Fire To Something, by Mitchell Stoycheff

Set Fire to Something

The acrid smell of gasoline was as strong as it was heady. It pervaded the air like a poisonous cloud assailing the senses. My nose burned from underneath it, and my eyes watered as I continued to pour the liquid my hands shaking.

Around me the night screamed in alarm: every bug was a siren; every bird was mortal. They peered out at me through the darkness of the night. Their accusing glares matched the beating of my heart. They were everywhere, and they pounded against my thoughts like hammer.

I focused on my task, the smell of gasoline. The smell of vengeance and the smell of justice. There was nothing left to my world; all obligations forfeit. Splashing the last few drops I tossed the container aside and fumbled in my pockets for my lighter.

This was it.

As I went to flicked it on I looked up to the face of the scarecrow, his split fibrous grin was dark and slick with liquid. Its eyes were unnaturally focused. Could this demon smell it? Did the scent of the gasoline lead it here. I stumbled back slipping in the slick grass, fear bubbling in the back of my throat. It’s head cocked to one side rolling awkwardly.

It shuffled toward me, almost unstably. Its was a game it played. I had seen it move and I had seen it kill. My eyes looked to the gleaming meat hook stuffed in its right arm, recalling how It strung up Sally from the rafters, how her screams were cut short.

My hand clenched the lighter, almost as tight as my chest heaved. There was no time left, no air left. I was going to die. Would it do the same to me as it did to all the others? Would it hurt. My vision blurred, I was the only one left after all, who would bury me?

The demon lunged at me and I screamed and tried to roll away. The pain was immediate. My fingers dug haphazardly in the earth as struggled to pull myself away from the fiend, knowing that I was within its clutches. It tugged, and my left leg screamed in agony. Terror and pain erupted from my lips in an anguished fearful cry. Tears blurred my vision, as I fought its supernatural strength. It pulled again my body sliding in the slick grass with ease.

Twisting I swung my leg at it in desperation. It took the blows with ease, its feral grin unflinching. Instead in leaned forward, tearing the hook from my leg with ease sending shock waves that splintered up my body. I screamed in pain, I screamed for God, even as the black spots formed in between my tears.

Despite it’s blurry form its soulless eyes were in clarity. It was the eyes of death. I struggled backward as it angled itself even closer, the bloody hook dripping with bits of ragged flesh. I whimpered pleas of sorrow as I continued to struggle backward against the pain. The rough skin of the tree ended my retreat, and I was forced to look up to the demon that loomed over me, like a carving of statue whose eyes glittered even in the night.

I had so many regrets, so many plans for the future. None included this haunting menace. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want any of this, but it was all I had left. The scent of vengeance and the scent of justice. Could they be the same, when the nightmares of the world came crawling out. My hand trembled as I flicked the lighter, bringing a spark to the darkness.

The demon pealed, the meat hook flashing brightly in the moonlight, but the flash of fire was faster as it consumed him and tree that tethered the demon to this world.

tradtional, art, poetry, horror

Dirty Boy

There’s another term for that arrogant son, another name. It’s not chum, or scum. Just Dirty Boy.

Yes, those are words that describe the sum of the parts of our arrogant ass. Dirty Boy likes to be picky, petulant, petty. If he could he would his waste time–and yours–with confusing–and perhaps–accusing rants. This and that he’ll shout about. A fleck of spittle will hit you in the corner of the eye. You might flinch, I mean, having someone’s spit in your eye is disgusting.

That’s just how Dirty Boy operates. What he has for a brain is more like a sponge, porous and moist … It teems with life. Yes that’s the twist, our arrogant son is not his own man; the boy is just human suit, a host. Once he was normal, maybe even wholesome.

Parasites can’t distinguish between good or bad; morals make them laugh, where the laughs can be had.

These creatures, these mites, work together, the sum of the whole. A macrocosm, Dirty Boy, mites, and all that bites. Perhaps there’s more. Dirty Boy, to weak to resist it … He’s a host to more than one party. Spooks and kooks, with their demoniac grins and their esoteric kinks, wink beneath his flesh, dancing upon useless corneas like hopelessly wild things.

Why, though?

Because why the hell not, that’s why. If Dirty Boy’s going to fall, he’s going to do it his way. He’ll make it a crash and burn to remember, if there ever was one. The mind’s been gone for a long time now. When the body goes, when he truly is dirt …

We will rest in what we think is peace. If it’s good enough.

Until the next weak-willed fool comes along, makes a pact with absolute evil, or whatever. Who really cares?

This Is What Little Girls Learn

This Is What Little Girls Learn

Little girls learn fast from their fathers, their mothers, how to bottle up feelings until they chew their way out, making tiny holes, burrowing through delicate skin–like worms, like moles.

Little girls turn into ragged little dolls, eaten from the inside out. They learn to wield bitter feelings like knives, and cold anger like steel hammers, but without knowing how to release them.

Petty fathers teach little girls nothing good, nothing new, not what a good father should. Harsh mothers don’t teach them anything at all, just sit on kitchen chairs, a cloud of resentment, a cloud of despair.

And what should they care about it?

Little girls grow up fast, not knowing how they came to be, how they got from point A to B. They hollow out like metal tubes, a natural progression, pent-up aggression. Hollow tubes–though full of wind–are still empty. Riddled with holes, they corrode. Unable to stand, they collapse.

And little girls turn into women, maybe nothing, and what should we care about it?

We can always make more.

 

What Evil Lives In The Shadows...

What Evil Lives In The Shadows…

Night comes to envelop you in your sweet slumber. The cool winds outside rattle the windows. The lights go out and only the shadows are there to comfort you as they slink across the floor and come out of hiding from their safe havens. They live and breathe in those dark corners of your room where dust and other evil things lurk.

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As a child I would always linger in my doorway. The closet had to be securely shut. I would peek under my bed, which rarely housed anything but dust. I never wanted to give the monsters a reason to come back again with food or toys. I would jump into my bed. Run and jump in.

My sheets still tucked under the corners of the top mattress. I didn’t believe in god but I prayed. Prayed that I would make it through the night and the monsters would stay at bay or bother someone else. I would wiggle into my bed sheets, pull them up to my neck, and wait for my mother to come in to tuck me in. She would check the closet, check the corners, and check under the bed. She would tuck me in and leave the night light on and the door open.

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My imagination would play tricks on me. Forever would I hear noises that I was certain bared teeth and glowing red eyes. Not once had a monster ever visited me, but that never stopped me from keeping my feet and limbs from hanging off my bed at night. You just never know!

As an adult I just don’t see the sense of taking an unnecessary chance.

Sweet dreams!

From your,

Riveting Jacked-In Dreamy Mind-Bender

R. J. Davies.

Afternoon, by P. L. Cobb

Anxiety Evolves Into Something Else

This is part of an ongoing series exclusive to my Patreon: A Huntress of Beasts.
The entire series will be available to patrons only.
You are currently reading draft 3, any suggestions for edits are welcome!

She left her body, dazed, confused. At the other end of the room her body was slumped against the wall. A bright red gash stood in stark contrast with her lemon yellow shirt. From her left ear all the way down to her navel oozed a line of blood onto the bleached-white linoleum. Her face was blurred, as if it had never been.

It was odd how one could feel so free and yet so unfinished at the same time. The body had served as a varnish for her soul; from the corner of her eye she caught herself in a mirror. A shadow stared back at her.

Having the ability to feel things outside of her body was different. Right now she felt a level of anxiety that was so much more intimate with her than if she were alive. Now that everything was bared for the cosmos to gawk at, there was nothing to hide, and Anxiety–pure emotion personified–was given free reign over her. Slowly it began to break away from her corpse, a distinct hum radiating from the thing as it crawled to her, the spirit. A morbid fascination stole over her as she watched.

When It was close enough it began to grope her.

And then it began to dig inside of her.

The Anxiety moved with a such a violent fervour that she was forced to dart away. Running was a mistake. It was useless because there was no where to go, which served as encouragement for the rabid beast. Anxiety just came back again with renewed vigour.

Then it reached the the spot where the choicest of morsels hid–the place where every unsavoury aspect became her–in a crack upon her soul. She did not relish that, in fact it tasted sour, like acid. And she hated it. All she could do was flit back and forth, not unlike a caged bird.

Anxiety’s mouth grew wide, a hiss escaping its great maw, conveying deep-seated frustration. For the first time it had been forced to show something other than its namesake. The creature hunched in on itself, quivering with rage now. Rage coloured the creature, who had been no more than a grey shadow moments before, into a poisonous shade of blue. Blue became purple and purple became red. Then without warning the colour shift began anew, this time erratic.

As the changes slowed to a stop Anxiety’s hunch became severe, more akin to a folding-in on itself than a hunch. It was creating a cocoon. In the flickering lights of the kitchen she saw the cocoon shell glitter, obsidian-like. Beneath the shell she caught a flicker, the creature inside very much alive. She inched closer and spied the outline of a nymph.

For the first time since she had died she could breath. In its frenzy Anxiety had given her the chance to escape. There was no doubt in her mind that it still lusted for her, nor was there any doubt that it would violate her if given the chance.

For the second time since her death she looked into the mirror. Why did she have a mirror in the kitchen? She couldn’t recall. Deep within the glass was the shadow.

The shadow was her.

Without the glamour of flesh or bone she was grey, the same grey as a pigeon. In the kitchen light she even caught an iridescent shimmer.

Was being grey so bad? When she was raised she had been raised to believe in absolutes, blessed truths and abject lies, black and white . . . When she could think for herself she realized that it was all a lie. Life was not black and white. Sometimes it was the shimmering green of a hummingbird, the fiery orange of a tiger, the brazen sheen of an eagle’s eye . . . And sometimes it was a muted grey, like a pigeon.

No. There was nothing wrong with this.

She gave the obsidian cocoon a farewell glance. When she had said her goodbyes she kissed her body on each cheek, and found the open window above the sink. She flew into the night sky, free for the moment. She knew that as soon as Anxiety emerged it would be on the search for her. It was not a pleasant thought. Even more unpleasant was knowing that it would not be the same: Anxiety would evolve into something else.

Anxiety always did. After having its fill of angst it would crave something of more substance. Before it killed her that had been the air from her lungs, the hormones of fear, the tissues of her brain, and then her blood. Perhaps that was why she saw no face, because there wasn’t one to be seen. What had she kissed then? Her skull?

She shivered.

In all of this there was something which was not quite right. Throughout her life she had always experienced Anxiety as a feeling. Feelings didn’t kill, they didn’t lust after you. Whatever had attacked her–

–No. No! A new breed of thought–tasteless, ominous–reared an ugly head at her. None of it stuck, as if she were incapable of comprehension. Fear made her waiver in the sky until all control was lost to her and she dropped like a rock. The thought of closing her eyes did cross her mind, but when she saw the woman below her she couldn’t. A woman below her, looking up at her, and a black aura.

No, not just black. The aura radiated from the woman, much like sun rays, only with an obsidian glitter, eerily cocoon-like. Even with her lack of body she still felt the instinctive tightening of her chest. I can’t breath!

West Coast Adventure by R.J. Davies; photography by Mitchell Stoycheff

West Coast Adventure

Bea felt like she was on top of the world. She had just moved to Vancouver after mulling it over in her head for months. Her worldly belongings were packed. Then Bea did the unthinkable and moved across the country to a city she was a stranger in. Her daughter was off at college in Montreal and Bea needed a distraction, an adventure. Ever since the divorce several years ago Bea wanted to do something … She hadn’t known what but knew she needed to mix things up for a bit. Bea decided that the move would be temporary; she’d stay out on the coast for a year and then return to her home town.

What she hadn’t counted on was Jarrod.

Ten years younger than her, two feet taller, and the body of a god. Turning the coffee on she stopped and wondered again what he saw in her. She was pretty, but he looked like a model, the type of person who could have anyone they wanted. They had been dating for three weeks. When they were out in public women were swooning over him, slipping him their numbers–but she noticed he had eyes only for her. Bea felt special. It was something she hadn’t felt in decades. He made her feel young, vibrant and sexy. He was exactly what she needed. In the back of her mind she heard her mother’s nagging voice, he seemed too good to be true. Too perfect … Was he? Nah, she was just lucky to find this amazing guy.

“Coffee’s on,” she called out to him.

“Thanks babe!” he shouted back.

He was in the bathroom. She strolled down the hall to check up on him. It was something she did every so often. Checking her good luck out. Sneaking peeks of him when he wasn’t looking. Looking for some tell tale bad habit to prove the nagging voice in the back of her mind, something that would show that he wasn’t perfect, but he was a lovely in every way. She leaned against the wall and watched him brush his teeth. He didn’t see her watching. He rinsed his toothbrush. He picked up her hairbrush, slowly raised it to his face, and inhaled deeply. A grin creased her lips. God he was so sexy. Then he carefully pulled the hair from her brush, gently holding it in his hand he pulled out a plastic bag and stuffed it in. A knot in her stomach told her that was an odd behaviour. Kind of. Wasn’t it? Maybe he was saving it … To take with him … For what?

“Hey babe I didn’t see you there,” he came out grinning at her.

“I was watching you brush your teeth.”

“Yes all the better to eat you with,” he laughed as he wrapped an arm around her waist scooping her into a warm embrace as he nuzzled her neck. She suddenly forgot what she was concerned about.

Picking her up he carried her back to the bedroom where they had just finished marathon sex. Going in for a replay was so exciting. He had an insatiable appetite that she found overwhelming and exhilarating. They spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped up in each other, corporeal, hungry, experimenting with Karma Sutra moves that left them drained and tired. He pulled her close and nibbled an earlobe.

“You are the most exciting woman I have ever met,” he whispered.

She moaned in agreement.

“You are the only one who gets inside my head and gets me. I have never felt this way with anyone.”

She grinned. “I feel the same way baby.” Bea felt content in his large muscular arms. Jarrod held her close to his sweaty hairy chest and it felt like heaven. She had never felt safer in her life. The little voice in the back of her mind whispered, We don’t know him that well, don’t be so trusting, you’re always so trusting Bea!

She was heading home from work and felt the little hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. The unsettling feeling of being watched haunted her all day long. Working for a bank at the customer service counter she was openly visible to everyone that came in. Bea loved her job and the customers that she dealt with on a regular basis. Today she felt edgy, apprehensive and nervous. She kept watching the clock and couldn’t wait for her shift to be over. At times she was even a little jumpy. She didn’t like that feeling. In all honesty she couldn’t wait to get back to her apartment and close all the curtains. It was the oddest feeling … She hadn’t noticed anyone giving her any extra attention … Nothing more than normal. It could have been that there was another missing woman reported on the news this morning. Same height, hair colour, complexion, and age as she was. People were getting a little anxious: it was the fourth one in the last three months according to the news.

Trying not to give it any thought she stopped at the little corner store. Outside there were bins of fruit and a basket. Picking up a basket she surveyed what was available. She grabbed a pineapple, some strawberries and bananas. Then went inside. The bakery section was all homemade fresh pastries and breads made by the storeowner’s wife. She picked through and found some tarts and a loaf of grained bread. Near the back of the store was the meat section. One of the greatest things about living in the big city there was a slaughterhouse just down the road and the meat in this store was sold cheap. Jarrod actually worked for the place, she could have went there and picked it up directly but this was more convenient. Picking out some beef and chicken she headed back to the check out.

“Hi Bea, how was work today?”

“The usual. How was business today for you?”

“Steady, so I’m not complaining.” He laughed.

She passed him some money and he handed back her change and bagged up her goods.

“There is going to be a street festival tonight maybe you can bring your guy down to that. They will be closing off the street, there will be music, drinking, and a lot of partying.”

“Well, count us in,” she laughed and gave him a wink.

Heading back outside she walked two doors down and entered the door that led up to her apartment. She hurried inside and locked the door. Sighing she looked around her apartment and heaved a sigh of relief … Safe, she was safe. Home safe. No eyes watching her here.

“Hey babes,” Jarrod came out of the bedroom. She screamed.

She nearly dropped her bags. Laughing, she looked at his startled face. “Sorry baby, I didn’t know you would be here.”

“Let me help you with those.” He came over and took the bags.

“There’s a festival going on downstairs tonight. Do you want to go check it out?”

“Sure.” He began putting things away for her.

“How was your day?”

“It was alright. Nothing eventful, how about you?”

“Same. I’m going to go grab a quick shower and change.”

“Sure I’ll make us something to eat.”

The hot water felt like heaven on her tired skin. Bea let the day wash down the drain. She was at home, safe in her apartment, Jarrod was there and making dinner. What more could a woman ask for?

The thought of someone watching her began to feel absurd. An over active imagination … Maybe it was watching too many of those CSI shows. The thought of watching Jarrod take her hair and put it in a baggie popped into her mind. Why would he do that? She laughed at the thought. Was he being romantic? Perhaps she should just come out and ask him. What if it embarrassed him? She knew from experience that some men didn’t like to be embarrassed. Should she just let it go?

Turning the water off she stepped out onto the bathroom mat and began drying off. Staring at herself in the mirror and decided not to let it bother her. Shake off those weird feelings; unless she had proof of something … Then there was nothing there but her imagination running wild. Taking the blow dryer out she plugged it in and dried her hair. There was going to be a party downstairs, maybe that’s exactly what she needed: to take her fella out on the town, have some drinks and go dancing. It was beginning to sound like a lot like something that she didn’t want to pass up. Running the brush through her hair she pulled it back and tied it up in a knot. Gathering up her cloths she dumped them in the laundry basket then headed to the bedroom. Slipping into lace underwear and her skinny jeans she leafed through her soft satin and laced blouses that hung in the closet. She picked out a soft blue that would bring out the colour in her eyes. Bea slipped it on and joined Jarrod out in the kitchen. He was just finishing up dinner so she set the table.

“Looks delicious,” she sat down beside him. Jarrod filled her plate and then his.

“Thanks,” he began to dig in.

“Did you hear, another woman went missing?”

He nodded and continued eating as if she was talking about the weather.

“Someone at work pointed out that these ladies look like me. What do you think?”

He paused, looked at her and finished chewing slowly. Shaking his head. “No baby they don’t look anything like you. You’re my angel.”

She half smiled, “Thanks baby.”

“Stick with me babes, you’ll be safe.” He changed the subject and talked about a couple new movies that were coming out that he wanted to see with her. She enjoyed the distraction and let the subject go.

They danced and drank with new friends until four in the morning. Dragging themselves upstairs they couldn’t stop laughing. As they stumbled into her apartment, he pulled her into his arms.

“You’re the best time I have ever had,” she grinned at him.

He looked at her like she had just slapped him then his features soften. “I have never been anyone’s best time.” Jarrod danced her to the bedroom and she fell asleep in his arms feeling content.

Rousing awake she felt chilled and disoriented. She tried to stretch but her hands, arms and legs were restricted. Bea’s eyes blinked as she looked around her. She was sitting on a cold floor … Where was she? It looked like an empty cellar. It was a 12 by 12 room, all cement. There was a dim light in the corner, the only light that was provided. She couldn’t see a window, only a large metal door. Bea began to scream but her mouth was gagged. What was going on?

The door creaked open and a large man stood in the doorway wearing a rubber clown mask. The light glinted of the cold metal of the large knife he held. What happen? The last thing she remembered was falling asleep in Jarrod’s arms. Jarrod! Oh god, this man killed him! Her mind was racing all over the map. Jarrod was dead somewhere and here she was about to die. All she wanted was a little adventure. The man came into the room and slowly walked over to her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she sobbed, pleading with him to let her go. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, a small part of her brain understood this, but she couldn’t stop herself.

He came to a stop and knelt down beside her. The tip of the blade he caressed against her cheek, which sent her into another fit of wailing. He gently dragged his knife down her body to her shirt, cutting her favourite blouse. Blinded by fear and tears she felt the blade caress her breast as he ran it over and down to her lacy bra. With one quick movement he cut her bra. The cool air licked her skin.

He leaned in close to her and pulled the mask up part ways as he licked the tears off her cheek. That tongue felt familiar! Oh god Jarrod? Could it really be him? Blinking back the tears she tried to focus on his eyes.

The man chuckled, “I know you know.”

Jarrod! NO!

He pulled off his mask and her heart sank as she realized that this was her boyfriend. By the look in his eyes she wasn’t leaving this cellar alive. 

March 18th, 2012 by P.L. Cobb, written for the Enigmatic Monster Project

March 18th, 2012

It’s Sunday, and I am at the same place I always end up on this day: church.

I don’t talk to God though; I don’t give him the attention they say he deserves. All around me people whisper, saying things under their breath like ‘Jesus, please forgive me’ or ‘Help me to forgive, so that I may be forgiven.’ Somehow I’m able to sit like a statue, unmoved by the subtle heartbreak that surrounds me. Everyone here just wants to be loved.

So, what is love? How do I understand all the ways in which a person can love? Or, how about all of the ways the congregation claims I am loved: selfless, sacrificial love–but not truly free–surprise!

So, how would I describe love? Maybe as a mystery of the deep, or deeper than deep, an enigma. All the why in the world could not contain it. All the how would never explain it. No man-made gods could ever give or withhold it, but we just can’t accept that. If we could we would all possess it by now.

The sermon goes by in silence, sometimes someone coughs. I nod my head, not out of agreement with anything that the pastor is saying, but because I am starting to fall asleep. When the pastor ends his speech the congregation bows their collective head in prayer. My head lowers out of respect, but my eyes and my heart are focused on the blue carpet. I wriggle my toes just to make sure I have not fallen asleep. The collective gets up to leave, me trailing along behind them.

Another Sunday has come and passed and I am still waiting for an answer. Are my questions so difficult that even the good god above cannot answer them, or is this LOVE truly that abstract?

ABCs of Horror Screenshot

Pity

“How can I ever repay you?”

As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them.

The demon, however, was delighted. He listed the options on his fingers. “Well, well,” he drawled. “You can do two things for me: bear my child or give me your blood.”

She fought the urge to cringe. Neither choice was pleasant. The last one, though, sounded like the lesser of the evils. “I’ll take option B.”

He gave her a mysterious look. “Pity.”

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Monday, or “This is Not Going to Work Out!”

“I can’t believe you did that to me,” he said in a hurt voice, softly. He hated being this afraid of her. Something had to change if she wanted him to stay.

She turned around, every inch of her slug-like body glistening. Today she manifested herself as a bloody gob of phlegm.

He wondered if he had gone too far this time as her body engulfed him. She was livid. “Why do you always start this before I go to work?” he cried. She knew he had to work! And he also knew that it was useless to ask–she would never tell him the real reason for lashing out like this. He gurgled: “Please stop! Can’t you just tell me why, just this once?”

Depression was a likely candidate. Seasonal depression was common during the winter. Did she have a tough weekend? Or was it about having a baby … She had wanted one for a while, but he was still hesitant.

Whenever he was off from work she disappeared, so there was no excuse for this behaviour. At least not in his mind. If he had to guess she was cheating on him, while he remained the loyal husband. She was an enigma, and a killer, but he had always loved her, which made the what if more painful.

“You’re too possessive,” he told her, sadness painting his features. “I don’t think I can go on with this for much longer. I don’t think this is gonna work out. I–” his voice cracked. “I want a divorce!” The words came out in a rush.

Her massive body began to quiver.”Oh, so you’ve finally found your backbone?” She was mocking him.

Mocking him? Admittedly he had trouble understanding her. Today was no different. “Let me go,” he whispered.

“Hmm, no lover. Not today!” Her body began to envelope him as she pulled him inside herself. “You haven’t given me a child yet!”

His voice was drowned out as she trapped him. No! he said to himself, panicked.

His wife’s habits in the bed were voracious, to put it lightly.

Lust: A Timely Topic

Lust: a timely topic for the rest of this year, not just for the month of February. In this ‘essay’, unfinished and unpolished, I have a few things to say. Some are said in rhyme.

What’s the crime?

Lust, goes well with sexual desire, but keep that from a man and you’ve just lit a fire. With every denial henceforth you’ll just be stoking the flames, raking the coals, preparing a nice hot inferno–right under your ass! And the funny thing is, you’re not to blame!*

But don’t tell him that. He’ll call you a liar.

Repressed sexuality seeks release in power, just the right size for a pair of small hands. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, but what if the grape was already sour? The apple pre-rotted?

His demands for fairness and equality sound sweet, but beneath the veil he’s not quite well in the head. Power is not enough. But what could possibly fill the void?

When is a man without a soul not like a gaping hole?

Maybe when he cuts a hole where his heart should be, and fills it full of feces, maybe then he’ll be a real boy. If there is a heart underneath that cold exterior we could kick it around like a football, treat it like a child’s toy! How drole that would be!

Who said we were any better than our fellow citizens? We’re monsters, built from children’s teeth; parading about in our human suits. You’re so close to us you should be burning.

If that, my friend, is not a show of real power, then I’ve got little else to say . . .

*As if you could force someone to feel something. If you could they wouldn’t be screaming. You would. At them. And they’d be the ones feeling sorry for themselves!



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Anna

Anna

Anna poured herself another glass of wine. Sitting at the kitchen island she was turned to the hallway. There was a mirror hung on the wall and her reflection watched her every move. She eyed the beautiful woman staring back at her. She didn’t remember putting the mirror up. Did Ken do that for her? Poor Ken, he just didn’t understand that pretty people didn’t really have to do anything in this world except let others worship their beauty. Ken her newest boyfriend … Rich, not so handsome, but very doting. He followed her around and did whatever she asked. Up until an hour ago when he left in a huff.

What did he mean by that, ‘What will happen to you when your beauty fades and all you have left is your inner beauty for the world to see?’ She didn’t like it. Not for a minute. How dare he implied that she could lose her beauty. Plain people always used that inner beauty crap as a weapon of choice. They liked to refer to it as if it was something special. Use it as a sledgehammer of sorts in a verbal argument. She paused at the thought … Verbal argument? Sure that was a thing, wasn’t it? Humph … Plain people were not special, they were just there for people like her, to take care of the beautiful people. They were lucky to be graced with such a task.

She sniffed and sipped her wine. Anna felt like she might have a cold coming on. Ken was a dear and did buy her this delicious bottle of red wine … Wine was made from grapes and that was fruit. Fruit was good to have when you might be coming down with something, her mother would always say that. Picking up the bottle and her glass she headed off to the living room and sat down on the sofa. Kicking her feet up she turned on the TV and surfed channels as she continued to sip at her glass.

If Ken didn’t come back to make her dinner she would have to order out. What a shame after they went shopping that he would make her waste their money like that. Anna finally found a fashion show on. Checking out the latest buys she marvelled that she had already had purchased a couple of those outfits last week. Yes, she was on top of it all. Ken and people like Ken just didn’t know how much work it took to look so beautiful. She had to make hair appointments, shop, beauty spas, make up … The list was just too great. No, he had no idea and there was just no way to convey this information to him. Ugly and normal people had it made. Really they did, all they had to do was work for a living. Her tummy growled.

Well, that just settled it. Shame on him for not getting back here to make her food. Now she had to get up and get her cell phone and call for take out. She felt the stress of the burden mounting within her. Anna reminded herself that she really should book an appointment for the spa tomorrow. Stress caused wrinkles and this mad man was making her stress. Ken would just have to pay for that too, after all he should be here for her. Where was he anyways?

Anna took five minutes to hunt down her cell phone and dropped back into the sofa feeling like she just went through a work out. She quickly ordered the usual from her favourite French restaurant, and they would be there within forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes! Ken was really going to hear about this when he returned.

Anna thought she heard something … Like something clawing at the wall? She was hearing a lot of weird noises lately. She turned the TV off and listened hard. No … No, there was nothing. Looking back at the TV she noticed her reflection was a little distorted. It looked like a shadow running across the room. She quickly turned around but there was nothing behind her. Nothing. Looking back at the TV her reflection looked distorted and very wrong. She didn’t look like herself at all. Flicking the TV on she got up and checked her reflection in the mirror.

Mirrors didn’t lie. Anna looked and saw her perfect reflection. Examining herself from every angle she felt pleased with what she saw. Then her reflection winked at her. Her mouth dropped open. Did she just wink at herself? Or did her reflection winkeat her?

She laughed, “oh Anna you’re being silly.”

Touching the cool mirror … it was solid and smooth. It was just a reflection. She stifled a yawn. Staring at herself for a few more minutes she was pleased that it was just a reflection and nothing more. Turning she slowly made her way back to the sofa and sat down. Putting her feet up she stretched. Watching another reality TV show made her feel feel sleepy and she drifted off.

As soon as her human host was in a deep sleep, the monster within woke up. Grinning she got up and peered at her human reflection. She did wink at the human earlier and was pleased that it made Anna a little uneasy. These fragile creatures were too easy for the taking. Especially the beautiful ones, ones that were vain, shallow and lazy. Perfect for the seizing.

The door opened and in came the human male who was called Ken.

“I’m sorry for earlier Anna,” he presented her with a large bouquet of flowers. Red roses … They were her favourites.

“You should be,” Anna walked out to the kitchen. Ken followed.

“I know you are beautiful on the inside as well as the outside.”

She paused and turned to him tilting her head. “Do you?”

He nodded.

“Am I?”

He nodded again. “I’m sorry.”

“I am sure you are,” she grinned. ‘Oh Anna, you do provide me with the best food,’ she thought to herself.

“Will you marry me?” Ken asked.

“Marry you?” she laughed.

“I’m sorry you’re right.” He got down on one knee and smiled broadly. “Anna, will you marry me?”

“Ken, there is something you should know,” she began laughing

“Anna?” he got up looked at her wondering how to react to her outburst.

She stopped laughing and walked over to him grinning. “Ken, I am going to keep you with me always.”

He smiled taking her response as a yes. Hugging her tightly he kissed her on the lips. She grabbed his head with her hands and held him to her face as she began sucking the soul and energy from his body.

She loved watching the eyes of her food as they realized the kiss was no longer a kiss. That there was something wrong … Something so very wrong going on. She was stronger than she appeared. He struggled to push her away with all his might but it wasn’t enough–she wasn’t human, for the most part she was but this part of her … The demon side wasn’t something the strongest human would want to mess with. His struggling turned frantic as the kicked and punched at her. She devoured him like a bowl of soup. When she was done … He was done. The life had left his eyes. The struggle left his limbs. He slumped, slowing to the floor … Lifeless on the cold white marble floor. Grinning she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

Sighing with satisfaction of eating a good hearty meal she looked down at the body. The doorbell rang.

Anna felt her human side stirring at the sound. Waving her hand at the empty air near Ken’s lifeless body laying in a heap on the kitchen floor she opened a black portal and rolled him into it. Waving her hand again she closed the portal just as the doorbell rang and her human woke from her slumber. Stretching she yawned. Rubbed her stomach and looked around herself. How did she manage to get out into the kitchen? Sleep walking again? Flowers? Ken was back! Great!

The doorbell rang again. She hurried over to it. Opening the door she found the delivery guy smiling at her.

“Good evening miss Anna. You are looking good tonight.”

“I look good every night,” she snapped. She felt a little irritated and didn’t know why.

Handing him cash she took her dinner and closed the door. She took her food out to the kitchen and left it on the counter.

“Ken?” she shouted. “Ken are you here?”

Anna search for him but found only the flowers and an engagement ring he had left on the counter. Opening the bags up she pulled out her dinner. The food smelled delicious but suddenly she didn’t feel hungry anymore. Why didn’t she feel hungry? Where was Ken? What was taking him so long? He should be back by now.

She took her food into the living room and sat down. Flicking channels she found an old movie she liked. Glancing at the door … She hoped he would return soon. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone but she really liked having him around. Anna sighed and settled in to watch a movie she hadn’t seen in a while. She had a feeling she wasn’t alone and it wasn’t scary. It was comforting.


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Tearing Them Apart From the Inside Out

The grisly task began thusly: lightning quick his hands shot out from the shadows headed straight towards the intended mark, the lone girl. Her scream was cut short as one large hand covered her mouth, while the second dug into her chest. With three fingers he broke a hole through her rib cage.

Once her heart gave out he began to relax. Phase one was completed, now phase two could commence at a more leisurely pace. It was always the initial killing which disturbed him the most; it was one of the few things which made him feel anything. What was reflected in the victims eyes always made him recoil. No matter the direction he attacked from, they always saw him.

Blood sprayed onto his face. He blinked. Three ribs stuck out in the air at odd, jagged angles and he was already bored. Lately he had been loosing interest in his hobbies. Maybe he had gone through the motions too many times? His methods had always been from the top down, he realized. Perhaps now it was time to shake things up . . .

He stood up and paced around the body. It took all of his will power to do this. First he needed to think things through; he pondered, exploring the many avenues. By many, that meant two or three. Or just one. He stopped to let out a sigh.

Then stood for a few silent minutes staring at the wall. Nothing of note went through his mind during that small period. It was . . . Mildly pleasant, he realized.

Also, he had already known what to do before he stood up, it just didn’t seem interesting enough, or enough of anything to carry out. Leaving the body was an option. It had always been an option. What the people of the waking world thought or felt about his work made little difference to him, and besides that he had always left a grisly remnant.

His large form leaned over the body again, and thus began his second task. Lightning quick hands took hold of the ribs and refolded them over the girls lungs. Then he folded the skin back over her chest, and whispered a few words. Skin began to fuse with skin. Personally he thought it looked better in shreds.

He forced the mouth open and breathed into it. Then he did what he was best at and disappeared. From behind a bush he watched as the woman sat up. Her hands began to trace her body, her ripped clothing, then as the realization hit her she began to shake. He let her shake for a bit. It was good for the heart. Without making a sound he crawled from behind the bush and began to slither up to her back.

The woman whipped her head around. A pair of accusing eyes burned him. “Leave me alone,” she gasped.

Well that was new!

Already his interest was beginning to renew itself. She remembered him, but how? Humans had no souls, from what he understood. Did he just prove himself wrong? Was it just that humans had no afterlife, and their souls went to a place where they could be forgotten? A soul but no real afterlife. Now that was intriguing. This was merely one explanation for what had happened. More were just waiting for him, he could feel it.

He watched as the corners of her mouth turned down in disgust, horror, confusion. Maybe he’d like to kiss that mouth, see what would happen then. His tongue would slither down her throat up to her nasal cavity where it would then bore a tiny hole up into her brain case. Then he could see for himself how she felt about him.

In one night he went from doing things from the top down, to the bottom up.


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Ashkenaz, the ever living flame, and jerk

Lucky Boy

Leery of the man behind him, Jason ducked into the men’s room. He had noticed the stranger following him almost immediately. Something drew his attention toward that man, something which made him feel different. It was like a thrill through his flesh. Jason didn’t like it. He had known thrills, and this was not the good kind.

Following a hunch, he hid himself in a stall, locking the door. With his feet he balanced himself on the toilet seat. There was someone in the stall beside him. One second there was just awkward silence, the next the man beside him was screaming. Blood sprayed the ceiling, the walls, the floor . . . Jason stuck his fist in his mouth to keep any sounds from coming out. Then there was a burning. He could feel the heat through the thin wall separating him from the blood bath. Paint began to bubble and peel; at that point Jason squeezed his eyes shut. Blood and saliva ran down his wrist while sweat trickled down his skin. Nostrils flared at the smell–of rot, smoke, death . . .

It was over.

Eventually.

When the stranger was done Jason heard him laughing to himself, a deep chuckle which sounded volcanic. When the stranger left Jason was paralyzed. The janitorial staff were the first to find him. Then mall security, and then the police. From there he found himself at the hospital with no recollection of how he came to be there. His mother was weeping at his bedside, and somewhere he heard vague whispers travelling down the halls.

“Lucky boy . . .”

“Lucky boy . . .”

“ . . . Lucky boy . . .”

Sorry About Your Mom, written and photographed by Penny C.

Echoes

The road hummed quietly underneath the tires of my car as I cruised down interstate 5, the twin lights from my vehicle casting brief reflections on various signs that whizzed by, periodically proclaiming the miles left before my anticipated arrival at Ashland Oregon–my hometown. In the background the radio played quietly the heavy pop cadence offsetting the unnatural silence of the darkness around me.

For the past month I had spent the days hiking the lush national parks of Vancouver British Columbia, seeing the sights and taking in the fresh mountain air that seem to still linger the car. But as vacations always do, they arrive painfully slow and pass much too quickly, and just like that I was back in the car, making my way back home. The ten hour drive seeming like three vacations in contrast to the month I’ve been away. If only the current scenery could offer more to quench my boredom.

On both sides of me a mix of tall trees fought against the concrete river that slashed in the middle of their forest. Leaning over the interstate as if trying to regain what it had lost. It was an interesting thought, the trees taking back what was stolen from them; I’d have to write that down later.

Fiddling with the volume I sang along to a song that I hadn’t heard in a while; not caring if I was off key as the darkness continued to tunnel forward the trunks of trees like the walls of a cave. As I passed a sign announcing the entering of Wolf Creek Provincial Park, and the last milestone of long, yet very boring car ride, my car sputtered into momentary darkness the night swallowing my car.

I gripped the steering wheel in sudden fear and eased on the brakes trying to see in the moonless night. The night seemed to laugh momentarily before my headlights awoke and fought the threatening shadows. I sighed while the radio blared happily. Turning it down, I refocused on the road, thinking about the repairs I would need to do on my vehicle. It was bad enough that it was three in the morning, worse that I was in the middle of a decent sized park.

As I rounded the bend my vehicle sputtered again the lights flickering wildly as my car fought against the night. The radio gave a hiss, crackling and spitting in protest as it struggled to find power to continue. With a final cry it let out a sound akin to that of wet tires on pavement before it cut out with the rest of my car. Guiding my car to the shoulder, my car gave a final lurch and stopped altogether. Wonderful.

I gave a deep irritable sigh my weariness creeping up on me. Fishing my cell phone out of my pocket I hit the button and it flared up briefly before going black. I stuffed it back into my pocket with a pang of frustration. This was snowballing quickly out of control.

Now what was I going to do? The crickets chipped softly in reply.

With a shake of my head I stepped out of the car into night without the normal accompaniment of my interior light which left me strangely more alone. With only an hour left in my drive I felt the weight of the shadows even more. No one would be awake at this hour and I was so close to home. I stared off in the direction of Ashland longingly and then back the way I came both ways were shrouded in darkness, without the moonlight to break it.

I pondered the thought of traversing the interstate at some ungodly hour at night with the possibility of getting savagely attacked and ripped apart by a bear with spending the night in my car. Without much thought you could only guess which option I picked. As I bent to get back in the car two pinpoint of lights flared in the darkness.

Could this be it? Could a moment this serendipitous actually happen? I mean I guess it was possible; after all it is an interstate. Stepping a few feet away from my car I waved frantically the growing orbs of light. Even from the distance I was at, I could hear the pounding music that poured from it, its throbbing drums and heavy electric guitar solo disrupting the quiet.

As the vehicle drew closer I felt myself growing more anxious, the car appeared not to have seen me, its slight swerving a disturbing sign. But At this point I was tired and anxious, and I didn’t want to waste an opportunity, so I waved on doubling my effort trying to call past their blaring music. As I was swallowed in light and sound I watched the car zoom past in a dark blur, watching two red lights now receding.

“Well” I muttered to myself. “That was disappointing.

I watched the car forlornly as it neared the bend in the road where it swerved heavily spinning in a full circle the tires screeching in protest against the night, before in slammed downward into the ditch and into a young but strong tree. My heart pounded loudly in my chest and I found myself rooted on the spot, my mind going blank in the panic.

Finding myself I quickly sprinted forward toward the vehicle. The interior light was flickering and music came in spurts the old rock song fighting stubbornly to finish its solo. As I neared the vehicle the smell hit me. Gasoline. The heavy scent was pervading the air quickly. I hesitated a moment jumping back and forth on the balls of my feet. Cursing I ran forward with redoubled effort, I was wasting time.

In the front seat hunched around a tree branch that gored his shoulder was a man about twenty his sandy blond hair was gelled back in an old style. Ignoring the heavy scent I grasped the door latch and pulled. The door screamed with an angry protest before stubbornly refusing to move. I cursed and looked to the passenger seat where a petite brunette was groaning. Quickly running to the other side of the vehicle I prayed to whatever god was out there. Grasping the door latch it opened with ease. Thank god!

“Ma’am, Are you alright!?” I practically shouted at her in my panic. She groaned incoherently her head rolling to the side as she looked over to her friend.

“Brad?” she groaned. Her voice was thick with pain, and blood was seeping from the gash on her forehead. The scent of gasoline grew stronger its intensity sharp and eye watering.

“Ma’am” I reiterated forcefully trying to get her attention. “Please, you have to get out of this car.” She sobbed softly as he grumbled painfully before letting out a wet cough. I felt a sudden rush of air and the engine gave a puff of black spoke filling the air with its dangerous omen. Cursing I grabbed her arm, her skin ice cold, despite rising temperature. She sobbed harder as I pulled her away from the smoking vehicle. She struggled after me still disoriented but without resistance.

“Brad!” She was crying now, her voice was raw and full of grief. “Brad! I’m so sorry!” The car exploded with an echoing scream of torture. I froze in fear for the peril before me, in grief for the woman, and guilt for the man that I couldn’t save. I watched her collapsed painfully to the concrete road the emotion of the night overtaking her. I could not save her friend, and I could do little to console her, but I could make sure that we were found and headed for safety.

“Ma’am, I’m going to call the police.” I told her running past the burning car the rough scent of metal fabric and flesh searing at my senses making me choke. When I was a fair distance I turned away from the burning wreckage and fished my phone out of my pocket hoping that my phone was back in working order.

Hitting the button my phone flared brightly. Muttering a yes, I dialled 911.

“911 emergency assistance, are you safe and out of danger?”

“Yes” I replied swallowing hard. “I need to report an accident.” I turned back around toward the inferno and froze. The night was one again cool, and the truck and sobbing woman both had vanished, as if they were never there, even the tree that was pulverized by the force of impact was tall and regal.

“Sir?” the woman called urgently. “I’m going to pinpoint your location please stay on the line.” I clicked my phone off absently and walked back towards my car, the interior light flooding outward, my engine purring quietly. What had happened? Was this all simply a hallucination or something else entirely? I gave ragged breath, remembering the anguished cry and the horrible screaming. I certainly seemed quite real. Maybe I needed to see a psychiatrist? Quickly settling into my seat I buckled myself in and drove off wanting to put distance between myself and this horrible memory.

As I passed a few more bends in the road I finally exited Wolf Creek Park when a car quickly zoomed past me an old rock song blaring wildly. I looked back sadly but kept driving, away from the grief that had imprinted itself there.

Zuberi

Written by R. J. Davies, edited by P. L. Cobb

He better show up! She couldn’t believe this. The last twenty-four hours felt like a nightmare, and here she was standing on a ledge. Below her was a blazing inferno, a mess of fire and human souls.

“Well?” he appeared in front of her. Tall, strong and handsome–and so very powerful. In his human form she saw her ex-husband grinning at her.

They had been married for six years before the divorce. Katie had heard her friends talk about what demons their exes had been. But her ex-husband was a demon. Kyle Miller, or that was who she had known him as, always seemed so gentle and attentive to her every need. The downside of their marriage came in the form of strange calls and even stranger visitors; when the long absences started Katie had had enough. Five years of wedded bless went out with a bang during the final year. Kyle had been missing for so long that he was presumed dead. Katie filed a for divorce. She had mixed feelings over the affair. The day when he showed up on her front door had surprised her. When she told him to leave he surprised her again by starting a shouting match. After showing him the divorce papers she woke up to find herself on this ledge. 

“Who are you?”

“Who do you want me to be?”

“What happen to the real Kyle?”

“I made him up.”

“What?”

He nodded with a smile.

“You’re lying.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Am I?”

“Go to hell!”

He laughed, “Oh sugar, we are already here.”

“What is your real name?”

“Zuberi.”

“Zuberi?”

He nodded.

“What are you?”

He smirked, “A god.”

“What am I doing here?”

“You’re my wife. It’s was about time you met the rest of my family.”

“We’re divorced!”

“That’s not recognized down here,” he chuckled again.

“This can’t be real.”

He leaned close to her and whispered, “Then wake up.”

“Am I sleeping?”

He laughed and the sounds ricocheted off the walls as he shook his head no.

Her mother had warned her about him. Why hadn’t she listened?

Allow Me to Elucidate

Or rather, to introduce, as in: “Hello, I am a figment of your imagination–the scourge upon the youth of the nation . . .”

But don’t give me too much credit. My ego will grow to be too great, and will float away. And if that were the case who would believe you?

For three long years I’ve haunted you. Me, myself, and my hallucinations three . . .

Familiar?

Our Overlords, by P. L. Cobb and Jacob Zaccaria

Observe.

Figure 1: In the mighty form of figure one, we observe the lord all mighty. Theo. The monster. Named so because of Gmail. Curses! Our grand lord and task master, forever left to slumber beneath the City of Misery.

Figure 2: Furtive and frightening is it that may not exist. The thing which exists in-between the realm of existence and that of non-existence (and patron god of the ever redundant). Oh holy parasite of dubious goodness . . . Coopid of the many wings. And things.

Figure 3: Cats do not exist, and that is a fact. The master of all arcane science. Ashkenaz the daemon scholar, wreathed in flame. Wherever he shall go you shall remember his name.

Ha, ha!

What is happening to us?

What is happening to me?

To Our Mercurial Saviour

To Our Mercurial Saviour

The liquid drops.

Shifts in heat and pressure tantalize your delicate senses. Titillating sensations run up and down your appendages, and you shiver.

Heat rises and falls, teasing you, mesmerizing you like a hooded cobra. In a show of aggression it bares its fangs, hissing. The bones in your ears vibrate; inside your skull it sounds like miners chiseling away at the foundations of your soul. Digging holes in your sanity.

You shake your body, desperate to make the noise stop, desperate to stop all sensations. It is useless. In doing so you succeed in increasing the frequency of the sounds. Tapping turns into a shrill trilling, causing your eyes to water. Water infuses itself with the oils from your thick hide, and your eyes begin to sting. It’s as if the cobra has spit its venom into your face.

The liquid begins to rise–that’s how it feels to you. An intense pressure begins to bare down on you, crushing you, ripping your skin and snapping your bones.

You suddenly realize that you are angry. You are annoyed. The emotions that were once nameless are now terrorizing you, threatening your very existence. The pressure is building up; you stand, precarious, seeking release, moving. Each movement creates friction. Friction creates heat. A tightness surrounds you, and you realize that you are trapped within something. Or tied to it.

And then you remember. A grand plan, your masterpiece. Below lies your creation, this meticulous masterpiece. Your order out of chaos. Order and chaos bring to mind your plan. To purge the universe with a flaming sword. Then the death of a god. And rebirth.

Without hesitation, you unleash what has been growing inside of you for millennia. A rush of new feelings fill you until you are brimming with joy. You’ve never known the exquisiteness of orgasm until now.

Even as your body is falling apart, you are at peace. A once magnificent form regresses back into formless dust, and a vast consciousness dies.

We, the creatures you had vowed to save, regress back to a primordial state, then to the very stardust we were made with. As our hearts and souls become one, it suddenly dawns on us that we did not save ourselves.

You were us.

Oh, to be as mercurial, and precocious as you are–God!

Did you not send us the heretics and the blasphemers? And did we not cut them down, even as they slept, like the criminals we were?

We live in you, and you die in us. And now are we not one?

It is finished.

Now our great death shall forever attest to your greatness, oh Goddess. Let this be our last, melodious song to our mercurial saviour.

Blessed be!

As our consciousness disperses, we prepare ourselves for a dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge that we will reform once again. After nameless millennia, when this wretched universe has died, we shall re-emerge as gods–and our realms shall be known as Hel.

The Enigmatic Monster Project: horror of all flavours

I See You, My Lovely

Written by R. J. Davies Mornix

He held his breath. He wondered what she was thinking. Christie Hart had no idea how sexy she was. It drove him to the brink of madness whenever he thought about it. She wasn’t tall or  thin like a super model, but she was a goddess. He knew she was …  There was just something about her. It was a sickness; he knew it on some level . . . But she was his medicine. Whenever he got close to her, or watched her, he was taking his medicine.

He promised himself that some day he would work up the courage to talk to her … Someday … It had been six  years since he first met her. He had been a passenger in a vehicle that was the victim of a hit and run. Since he didn’t say anything she didn’t really pay attention to him. But he noticed her. The way she walked in that uniform, the way she took control of the scene and interrogated everyone. A male officer had begun to give her a hard time but she put him in his place with a look and a few whispered words. He had always wondered what she had told him.

He spotted her one evening leaving the local gym. Thinking she was headed into work he followed her. Officer Hart was headed home. So he followed her there.

It was just innocent drive-bys once in a while. Then his drive-bys became more frequent. Now he knew everything about her. He followed her as she went through relationship after relationship.  He joined her gym and began working out. The last six months he went from soft and flabby to a washboard stomach. April, another woman who went to the same gym asked him out a couple of times. They went out to the movies once, and he felt like he was cheating on Officer Hart. Once he had worked out on the treadmill beside Christie. She always smiled and nodded. A lump always caught in his throat; his heart would race and his palms would sweat. He thought he was having a mild heart attack. That was the only time he tried to talk to her.

He stuck to just watching. No one that knew him would even guess that he did this. God, if anyone found out he would die of embarrassment. Swallowing hard, he reminded himself of her  garbage bags that he had back at home in the garage. He had started going through her them when his sister had popped by last night.

No … No … He wasn’t ready for anyone to find out about his girlfriend. He liked the privacy of their relationship.

She stood up in her living room and stretched. He watched as she turned off the lights and TV.

He waited. She didn’t disappoint him. She never did. He held his breath until she turned on the bedroom light and pulled out his camera. He watched as she crossed the room, feeling grateful that she lived on such a lonely stretch of road. No one ever bothered him here and she always left her curtains open.

Only for him.

“I see you, my lovely,” he whispered, and then blew her a kiss.

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Party Time?

Written by P. L. Cobb

She felt surprised and relieved to find that the front door was still locked. Lynda grunted in satisfaction.

She had been rudely awoken during the early hours of the morning to what seemed to be a wild party downstairs. Lynda shivered at the memory. “It was just a dream,” she told herself in a reassuring whisper.

When it happened again the next night she wasn’t so sure about it.

The next night rolled around, and she couldn’t sleep at all. As soon as the noises started up Lynda began to creep down the stairs. Halfway down she saw her living room swarming with creatures straight out of a nightmare. Her whole body froze at the sight. Lynda could feel the blood draining from her face too. What . . . ? Her mind went blank as her eyes scanned the room.

Was there anything she could do, she wondered, looking from nightmare to nightmare. Some were rather benign, while others resembled the demons pictured in Medieval texts. Others she had no word to describe them with . . .

Who is that? Lynda’s eyes stopped roaming and focused themselves on one of the creatures. He was one of the bigger ones, not the biggest, but still larger than her; he was one of the demonic ones too. What set him apart from the rest were the black robes he wore. None of the others had that. He is rather handsome, she realized, In an odd way.

His eyes met hers and the party came a halt. There were a few awkward minutes that followed, before Lynda worked up the courage to say anything.

“Get out of my house.”