With That Horrific Potential

“Out of all the creatures, it had to be you,” she murmured. When she had taken the plunge, fallen into another world, another plane beyond her own, she had met him: Druzi. He was the pale thing, the thing straight from stupid fiction books, things not truly imagined to their full potential . . . The things with that horrific potential that go along  ignored, purposely, for commercial gain.

She had fallen into his hell, and all he could do was stare at her. She was lying on the ground, mocking him with her advanced freedom, with her evolved life. Oh, how he hated her for it.

And the way she talked, as if she knew him from a dream. He wanted to scratch her eyes out, peel the skin away from her face, all for her ignorance. Damn. One would almost assume that he had oozed out of some dead white man’s imagination from the way that she went on. It was odd though, he realized, for she had never said a word at all–really. All she had done was appear.

Poof!

Just like a confused ghost. Druzi was at a loss for words, not that he talked much to begin with. Sometimes he wish he did, if only for a real reason for his own brethren to shut him up, beat him down, torture him, belittle him. The part of him that was human wanted to ask her: what is it like to be alive?

The rest of him wanted her to become one with the dust.

By the look on her face, he knew that he would fight her to the bitter end. And he knew, without a doubt, that she would take her own life before she ever let him win. He was a bastard, a lowly one at that, a fact that he knew too well. There was a weight to her words, one that she didn’t understand herself.

All the same, she would come to understand the true meaning of horror. Not the commercial kind; the true, gritty, unfiltered kind of horror.

He took solace in that.

While he did that, she steeled her nerves for what would come. She was, after all, a lion-hearted woman; there were no damns to give, it was all or nothing, now or never . . . That creature would not win, she promised.

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Smiling God

The words from their last encounter rang in his head. You summoned me. Today was not a good time for this, just like yesterday wasn’t a good time, and likely tomorrow too. In the morning as he awoke the smiling god was leaning over him; in the dim light it appeared as a spectral horror.

As soon as their eyes met its smile widened. The smile was at the point where it was on the verge of becoming a snarl. He couldn’t tell the difference though. It was all the same. On this day the god had said nothing, only faded into nothing. When there was nothing for the horror to say, something bad would happen to him.

Today is not a good day . . . He felt ill.

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No Connections Whatsoever

No Connections Whatsoever

Where were they? she wondered as she sipped her tea; a deep orange-red tea, smooth, with a delightful aftertaste. She sat in her great armchair, staring out into the night from the convenience of her living room. It was actually a nice night out for a change.

It was full dark however, and the stars were nowhere to be seen. Which she found rather mysterious, although not for the same reasons others would expect.

“I wonder what could have happened to them?” she said aloud. The steady tick-tick of the kitchen clock answered her.

Tick-tick-tick.

Dead-dead-dead.

And so on and so forth.

She wasn’t bothered too much by the thought. She had never really knew them to begin with, and had held them with contempt. Immediately after giving them rooms she had regretted ever setting eyes on them, so when they left she was immediately relieved.

There was something about them she was not quite ready to concede to herself, something that she had known but had willfully ignored.

Gently setting the tea down, the old woman got up with a great sigh. “I’m getting too old for this,” she muttered to herself. The old inn had been in her care for a long time, and never once had she ever come across such a bizarre case.

Well . . . That wasn’t quite the truth. She shook her head at herself. There you go again, lying to yourself! You old coot! As her feet carried her up the stairs, she closed all of the curtains, the same way she had for the past forty years. A long time for such a practice. The guests had often ribbed her for it; her inn was in a respectable neighbourhood after all, there were no prying eyes, no would-be-thieves . . .

She stopped. For a while she stared at the wall. People often came to her inn, people with something not quite right about them. They always left at dusk, never to be seen again–

–until their bodies were found a week later. It was always a week. She knew what they were doing.

The fools . . .

Willfully sacrificing themselves to . . .

The old woman shook herself out of her stupor. It was time for bed.