Br0kenRichBoyz

[wendart]

I have more posts then actual followers ;-;

[richricciardo]

ive been there

[richricciardo]

Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty Chapter 2

Origins : England

First Published : 1870

Word Count : 790

Genre : Memories

Summary : Black beauty tells the tale of a tragic hunt for hares.

Before I was two years old a circumstance happened which I have never forgotten. It was early in the spring; there had been a little frost in the night, and a light mist still hung over the woods and meadows. I and the other colts were feeding at the lower part of the field when we heard, quite in the distance, what sounded like the cry of dogs. The oldest of the colts raised his head, pricked his ears, and said, "There are the hounds!" and immediately cantered off, followed by the rest of us to the upper part of the field, where we could look over the hedge and see several fields beyond. My mother and an old riding horse of our master's were also standing near, and seemed to know all about it.

"They have found a hare," said my mother, "and if they come this way we shall see the hunt."

And soon the dogs were all tearing down the field of young wheat next to ours. I never heard such a noise as they made. They did not bark, nor howl, nor whine, but kept on a "yo! yo, o, o! yo! yo, o, o!" at the top of their voices. After them came a number of men on horseback, some of them in green coats, all galloping as fast as they could. The old horse snorted and looked eagerly after them, and we young colts wanted to be galloping with them, but they were soon away into the fields lower down; here it seemed as if they had come to a stand; the dogs left off barking, and ran about every way with their noses to the ground.

"They have lost the scent," said the old horse; "perhaps the hare will get off."

"What hare?" I said.

"Oh! I don't know what hare; likely enough it may be one of our own hares out of the woods; any hare they can find will do for the dogs and men to run after;" and before long the dogs began their "yo! yo, o, o!" again, and back they came altogether at full speed, making straight for our meadow at the part where the high bank and hedge overhang the brook.

"Now we shall see the hare," said my mother; and just then a hare wild with fright rushed by and made for the woods. On came the dogs; they burst over the bank, leaped the stream, and came dashing across the field followed by the huntsmen. Six or eight men leaped their horses clean over, close upon the dogs. The hare tried to get through the fence; it was too thick, and she turned sharp round to make for the road, but it was too late; the dogs were upon her with their wild cries; we heard one shriek, and that was the end of her. One of the huntsmen rode up and whipped off the dogs, who would soon have torn her to pieces. He held her up by the leg torn and bleeding, and all the gentlemen seemed well pleased.

As for me, I was so astonished that I did not at first see what was going on by the brook; but when I did look there was a sad sight; two fine horses were down, one was struggling in the stream, and the other was groaning on the grass. One of the riders was getting out of the water covered with mud, the other lay quite still.

"His neck is broke," said my mother.

"And serve him right, too," said one of the colts.

I thought the same, but my mother did not join with us.

"Well, no," she said, "you must not say that; but though I am an old horse, and have seen and heard a great deal, I never yet could make out why men are so fond of this sport; they often hurt themselves, often spoil good horses, and tear up the fields, and all for a hare or a fox, or a stag, that they could get more easily some other way; but we are only horses, and don't know."

While my mother was saying this we stood and looked on. Many of the riders had gone to the young man; but my master, who had been watching what was going on, was the first to raise him. His head fell back and his arms hung down, and every one looked very serious. There was no noise now; even the dogs were quiet, and seemed to know that something was wrong. They carried him to our master's house. I heard afterward that it was young George Gordon, the squire's only son, a fine, tall young man, and the pride of his family.

There was now riding off in all directions to the doctor's, to the farrier's, and no doubt to Squire Gordon's, to let him know about his son. When Mr. Bond, the farrier, came to look at the black horse that lay groaning on the grass, he felt him all over, and shook his head; one of his legs was broken. Then some one ran to our master's house and came back with a gun; presently there was a loud bang and a dreadful shriek, and then all was still; the black horse moved no more.

My mother seemed much troubled; she said she had known that horse for years, and that his name was "Rob Roy"; he was a good horse, and there was no vice in him. She never would go to that part of the field afterward.

Not many days after we heard the church-bell tolling for a long time, and looking over the gate we saw a long, strange black coach that was covered with black cloth and was drawn by black horses; after that came another and another and another, and all were black, while the bell kept tolling, tolling. They were carrying young Gordon to the churchyard to bury him. He would never ride again. What they did with Rob Roy I never knew; but 'twas all for one little hare.

[richricciardo]

Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty Chapter 1

Origins : England

First Published : 1870

Word Count : 790

Genre : Memories

Summary : Black beauty tells the tale of where he was first born and his first home.

The first place that I can well remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it. Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water-lilies grew at the deep end. Over the hedge on one side we looked into a plowed field, and on the other we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside; at the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom a running brook overhung by a steep bank.

While I was young I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass. In the daytime I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her. When it was hot we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold we had a nice warm shed near the grove.

As soon as I was old enough to eat grass my mother used to go out to work in the daytime, and come back in the evening.

There were six young colts in the meadow besides me; they were older than I was; some were nearly as large as grown-up horses. I used to run with them, and had great fun; we used to gallop all together round and round the field as hard as we could go. Sometimes we had rather rough play, for they would frequently bite and kick as well as gallop.

One day, when there was a good deal of kicking, my mother whinnied to me to come to her, and then she said:

"I wish you to pay attention to what I am going to say to you. The colts who live here are very good colts, but they are cart-horse colts, and of course they have not learned manners. You have been well-bred and well-born; your father has a great name in these parts, and your grandfather won the cup two years at the Newmarket races; your grandmother had the sweetest temper of any horse I ever knew, and I think you have never seen me kick or bite. I hope you will grow up gentle and good, and never learn bad ways; do your work with a good will, lift your feet up well when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play."

I have never forgotten my mother's advice; I knew she was a wise old horse, and our master thought a great deal of her. Her name was Duchess, but he often called her Pet.

Our master was a good, kind man. He gave us good food, good lodging, and kind words; he spoke as kindly to us as he did to his little children. We were all fond of him, and my mother loved him very much. When she saw him at the gate she would neigh with joy, and trot up to him. He would pat and stroke her and say, "Well, old Pet, and how is your little Darkie?" I was a dull black, so he called me Darkie; then he would give me a piece of bread, which was very good, and sometimes he brought a carrot for my mother. All the horses would come to him, but I think we were his favorites. My mother always took him to the town on a market day in a light gig.

There was a plowboy, Dick, who sometimes came into our field to pluck blackberries from the hedge. When he had eaten all he wanted he would have what he called fun with the colts, throwing stones and sticks at them to make them gallop. We did not much mind him, for we could gallop off; but sometimes a stone would hit and hurt us.

One day he was at this game, and did not know that the master was in the next field; but he was there, watching what was going on; over the hedge he jumped in a snap, and catching Dick by the arm, he gave him such a box on the ear as made him roar with the pain and surprise. As soon as we saw the master we trotted up nearer to see what went on.

"Bad boy!" he said, "bad boy! to chase the colts. This is not the first time, nor the second, but it shall be the last. There—take your money and go home; I shall not want you on my farm again." So we never saw Dick any more. Old Daniel, the man who looked after the horses, was just as gentle as our master, so we were well off.

[richricciardo]

Life isn't always  what it seems to be.

 RichRicciardo

[richricciardo]

A Life In Time

Crime - Horror - Thriller - Unsolved - Mystery

Albert sat quietly waiting his turn along with the rest of the crowd gathered on the town common. He had been selected as one of the townspeople who would contribute to the contents of the city's 200th anniversary time capsule. It would be placed at the foot of the new statue commemorating the soldiers that had perished in the various wars over the Years.

He wasn't a member of the military although he did have family members who served and died. He was denied admission to the military because he had lost two fingers in a farm accident when he was just a young boy. After learning of his rejection many of his classmates took to pointing with the fingers he lacked and making jokes at his expense.

His family was one of the first families to settle in the small town that would become a mid-sized city in the mid-west. His great-grandfather started a farm and a lumber business that became a success.

The family fortune and name would grow along with the town. When his parents passed away he became the richest man in the city. But that did nothing to improve his social standing. He was still quietly shunned by the more active social groups,

He was only invited to events where donations were important. They always needed money and he had more than most of them combined. He hated the affairs but felt obligated to attend out of respect to his family. No matter his age, whenever he was there, he always felt like the little boy that everyone pointed fingers at and laughed.

Other than his family name Albert was as forgettable a man as anyone could ever meet. He was short, plain and frail He led a quiet life running a business his grandfather had started back in the early 20's. He was happy for a few years when he met his wife. She was the only person in his life that ever truly loved him for who he was, not what he had.

They married when he was 32 and she was 27. She was a social gadfly and was loved by everyone that met her. They both wanted a family but his wife passed away before they had children. After she passed away he lost interest in life in general.

He was recognized as a pillar of his community. He was active in every social group and contributed what money he could whenever asked. But he was active because he knew his wife would have wanted him to be.

He volunteered whenever the need arose. He volunteered as a firefighter. When hikers, children or residents from the surrounding towns were lost he would guide the search parties. Sometimes they were successful in finding those lost, most times they weren't.

He was only 17 the first time he joined a search party. He was 71 when he joined the last one. The searches found many of the missing but there were many, dozens over the years, that were never found; Adults, children, males and females, cases that were never solved. "Cold Cases" as they were referred to by law enforcement

There were many theories that followed the cases. People believed it was the work of cultists or sex perverts. Many suspected a jealous husband. But the murders were done in different ways with different weapons that made it impossible for the task forces that were formed to catch the killer or killers.

The last unsolved murder was committed almost 5 years ago. By now the people had almost forgotten it. No one seemed interested in discovering the identity of the mysterious monster.

Only the killer was still craving the fame and notoriety he felt he deserved. He had expected to be discovered years ago. He had even taken to leaving small clues at the crime scenes hoping the detectives would put them together.

Despite the years and the abundance of forensic evidence the authorities never came close to identifying the killer. The media never even gave the killer a name. Despite the killer's efforts to give the police clear clues to help them find him he wasn't even sure they ever linked the crimes together.

Albert had volunteered to work on the task forces and had done his best to track down the killer. No matter how hard he worked no investigation ever came close to finding the killer.

What the people who had been chosen to contribute added to the time capsule would remain a secret. The contents were intended for the residents that would be there 100 years from mow. He had decided that the string of murders were a vital even if embarrassing part of the town’s history.

Maybe he could contribute in a way so that people in the future would be able to finally reveal the identity of the person that terrified their town over 100 years ago.

He reverently placed the small metal box into the concrete container along with all the other trinkets, baubles and mementoes. He stepped back and stared at the box as it was lowered an covered, enshrined in the soil for the next 100 years. The box he had placed in the capsule was very special. It was a box that his grandfather had kept all of his prized possessions in. The contents he had placed in the box were every bit as special. The capsule would be opened in 100 years. It meant that it would be another 100 years before the town, before the world finally knew who the killer was,

In the box he had placed in the capsule were 12 different fingers from 12 different victims. They were his favorite trophies from the 73 victims that he had kidnapped, tortured and killed over his lifetime. He had cut off many pieces from his victims over the years but fingers were his favorites. More than a few of them were from people that had enjoyed pointing their fingers at him. He made sure to point their fingers at them when he was done cutting them to pieces,

Along with the fingers was a map indicating where what remains still survived could be found after 100 years. On the map was the location of the home he'd lived in all his life and a signed confession.

Maybe, in some distant lifetime, he would finally get his own name in the papers.

[richricciardo]

The Changelling

Mystery - Thriller - Deformed - Spooky

A cool breeze filtered into the room through the half-open window. I puffed thoughtfully on my cigarillo. My partner, Conrad LeFontain, sat in the corner, reading something on his tablet. I was never much for them things; too much technology these days.

“Mail call!” said a voice from outside.

“Howdy Perry,” I said, inclining my head to the lanky, middle-aged postman.

“Howdy, Walter, Conrad,” replied the postman, tipping his pith helmet. “You’ll never guess what happened today!”

Perry was known for telling tall tales, which most people thought he’d fabricated. Conrad and I knew better. Perry rarely just made stuff up, no matter how fantastic.

“What happened, Perry?” asked Conrad, sitting up in his aging recliner.

“Another hell-hole opened up on my mail route!” replied Perry excitedly.

“Great. Another one” said Conrad with exasperation. We were all the time having to close them things.

“Where?” I asked.

“It’s on McElwaine Way, past Dead Horse road.”

“We’ll take care of it,” I said.

“You going to the class of 2008 reunion?” asked Perry. I cringed.

“Probably not,” I answered, taking another puff of my cigarillo.

“Why not?” asked the postman.

“I got my reasons.”

“Well, I’ll be there, seeing as the wife’s a math teacher,” said Perry.

“I figured as much,” I said.

“It ain’t too late to change your mind,” said Perry. “Well, see you around... the bend.”

“Good day to ya, Perry,” I said.

Perry went off on his merry way.

“Well, we got a hell-hole to fill in,” said Conrad.

We gathered up our equipment and put it in the back of our old jeep. I started the engine, and we puttered down the road to McElwaine Way.

“You getting any vibes?” I asked.

“Yup,” replied Conrad. “There’s a dark energy vortex coming around this next curve.”

This region had been prone to hell-holes since at least the late 19th century. It probably started with the supposed Corn-Man cult in Crooked Horn, just on the other side of the hills from North Fork.

I parked the jeep along the side of the road. We got out and took our equipment out of the back. It didn’t take us long to find the hell-hole. The black circle opened in the forest floor, waiting for someone to fall in... or out.

I sprinkled salt around the edge of the hole. Conrad then took out the holy water and tossed some of it inside the hole while praying in Latin. The hole slowly closed.

“Do you think anything got out?” I asked.

“Possibly,” said Conrad. “I’m still getting some dark vibes on the other side of those trees.”

“Well, we better investigate that,” I said.

Conrad had a special power; he was able to see and sense things no one else could. His ability to see into the spiritual dimension has proven incredibly valuable to me throughout our partnership. He can pick up a trail of dark energy like a bloodhound. No one knows exactly how his powers work, not even Conrad. He simply calls it a gift.

I followed closely behind him through the forest. Given my unusual heritage, I too could sense things weren’t quite right. We came to a clearing in the forest that was marked off by police tape.

“Hello,” said Conrad.

We looked into the property on the other side of the tape. It was one of the little houses that one finds in these parts, with red, wooden siding. County Sheriff’s vehicles were parked along the road and deputies were coming in and out of the house. I saw Julia there, of course. She had blue rubber gloves on and was taking notes on a tiny notepad. Her long, sleek, black hair was in a bun on the back of her head as usual. I walked under the police tape.

“Walter, what are you doing?!” asked Conrad.

“I’m gonna talk to Julia,” I replied.

“She gonna be pissed!” he warned.

“What else is new?”

“Deputy!” I called as I swaggered across the lawn to Julia, who scarcely looked up from her notebook. “What brings you out here on this fine September day?”

Julia scowled at me.

“Walter, what are you doing here?” she asked. Her voice dripped with annoyance.

“Just closed a hell-hole,” I replied, “How about you?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?!” She’s cute when she’s mad.

“What happened here?” I inquired.

“None of your business!”

“Oh, Walter!” said Sheriff Donne, as he ambled out of the house. “I might need your help with this.”

“Sheriff!” protested Julia, “he’s intruding on an official investigation!”

“I’ll say when he’s intruding, deputy,” replied the sheriff. “Come on in, Walt. You too, Conrad.”

The walls and floor of the small cottage were splattered with blood. Furniture, appliances, books, and other articles littered the floor.

“What the Sam Hill?!” I exclaimed.

“Where’s the body?” asked Conrad.

“Follow me,” said Sheriff Donne.

He led us to the coroner’s van, where a body bag lay, waiting for transport. He partially unzipped the bag so we could see the face of the victim. His skin was pale; paler even than a dead body would be normally. His throat was sliced open with a knife.

“I don’t see anything supernatural about any of this,” said Julia.

“Julia, people don’t just up and cut each other’s throats around here!” said the sheriff.

“Hmm,” I said, scratching my close-cropped beard. Something about this seemed familiar. What was it?

“This ringin’ any bells for either of you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said the Sheriff, “Can’t quite remember why. I’ll check the old case files and give you a call if I find anything.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

Conrad and I started walking back to our jeep. My brain was flooded with memories from high school; the names, the faces, the terrible things that happened that sent me on the path I now trod. I was not going to that damn reunion.

I thought about the events of that day as we sat at the supper table enjoyed the beef stew my Ma made. My Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Mary Lou sat across from me. My cousin Katherine sat to my left, Conrad to my right. I ate my bread and stew in silence while Uncle Jimmy recounted something that happened to him in the Gulf War.

“You going to the reunion, Walt?” asked Uncle Jimmy.

I Looked up at him and swallowed a mouthful of stew

“Nope,” I said, returning to my meal.

“Why not?” he pressed. I gave him an expression that was probably akin to Dirty Harry as he was asking a criminal if he felt lucky.

“High school was a waking nightmare, Uncle Jimmy,” I said. “I’d rather it be forgotten.”

“It can’t have been that bad,” said Katherine, brushing a lock of hair away from her face.

“Try going through what I go through every full moon and see how bad it is,” I said.

“Try being a girl,” she retorted.

“She’s got ya there, Walter,” said Ma.

“Turning a wolf is a great way to ruin a date,” I said.

“I wasn’t aware you dated in high school,” said Katherine.

“Katherine...” said Aunt Mary Lou, raising one eyebrow. She could say more with one eyebrow than most people could in five minutes of conversation.

“We got any pie?” asked Conrad, changing the subject.

“That we do, Conrad,” said Aunt Mary Lou. Aunt Mary Lou wasn’t the best cook in the mountain country, but one thing she knew was pie. As she was getting up to get said dessert, a melody emanated from my vest pocket. I took my phone out.

“Walter, you know the rule about phones at supper,” said Ma.

I went out on the back porch to take the call.

“Ulric, paranormal private detective, how can I help you?”

“Walter,” said Julia. “I think you were right about this.”

“Right about what?” I asked. Julia rarely admitted I was right about anything, so I needed to savor the moment.

“The body... it didn’t have a single drop of blood in it.”

“That’s not natural,” I said, making an understatement to hide anxiety.

“I just... figured you should know.”

“You gonna be alright?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she replied. She wasn’t fine.

“Well, gimme a call if there are any more developments.”

“I will. Goodnight, Walter.”

It was a Friday morning as the red sun rose over North Fork. Conrad and I had returned to the crime scene to find any more clues to the creature’s identity.

“This is a bad idea, man,” said Conrad, as I jimmied the lock on the old house.

“Look, there’s a monster loose in North Fork, and we're gonna track it down and send it back to where it came from,” I said.

Conrad cleared his throat and tapped my shoulder. I turned my head to see Julia standing behind us. Her arms were crossed, her lip was curled.

“I thought you two would come back here,” she said. She produced a key and opened the door for us.

We walked inside, carefully looking at the evidence.

“Is there anything in here that could tell us what that thing is?” I asked.

“Could be a vampire,” offered Conrad.

“Naw,” I replied, “Vampires don’t use knives, normally.”

Father McKay’s ringtone started playing in my vest. I answered the call.

“What can I do for ya, Steve?” given that we’d known each other since middle school and he knew I meant no disrespect.

“Walter,” he replied, “something’s come up. I need to see you at your office.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, hanging up.

“Gotta go,” I said.

“But Walter, I need you on this!” protested Julia.

“Conrad can help you, I gotta talk to an old friend.”

The minister was waiting outside for me when I arrived. He was pale as a sheet.

“Steve,” I said, “You’re bleached!”

“I know,” he replied. “I barely slept last night.”

“Come in, you better have a seat.”

We sat down in my office, and I reached into my desk drawer where I kept a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. The priest gladly took the glass.

“Now,” I said, “What happened that’s gotten ya looking like that?”

“I saw... Francesca last night” replied Steve.

My blood ran cold at the mention of that name. Francesca Kilkenny, “Franky” to us, was Steve’s high school sweetheart until she disappeared into the woods one day. We searched for days until someone found her. Except what they found wasn’t Franky. It looked like her and sounded like her, but it wasn’t her. She’d been replaced by something horrible. It would slowly drain the life-force of a willing victim until he was nothing by a husk. That nearly happened to Steve. An unwilling victim it would just kill. It was the first thing I banished to the dark dimension. It must’ve come back into our dimension through the hell-hole. Everything made sense, now.

“You’re sure of that?” I asked.

“I thought I’d been seeing things when I saw her walking along the side of the road, but then I saw the news.”

I took a sip of my whiskey.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Track it down, then I’ll probably have to put it down.”

“You okay with that?” asked the priest.

“I don’t have a choice,” I replied. “That’s not Franky. It might look like her, but as far as we’re concerned, she died ten years ago.”

Steve looked like he was going to break down crying. He’d been carrying the memory of what happened for a long time.

I put on my Sunday clothes. My hair was brushed, and my beard groomed for once. My revolver, loaded with silver bullets, was nestled in my shoulder holster. I topped it all off with my best suede jacket.

“Where are you off to?” asked Katherine.

“High school reunion,” I replied.

“I thought you weren’t going.”

“Changed my mind.”

My boots clunked on the front steps of Julia’s place. The door opened, and there she was, her dark, Shawnee hair was all braided and dolled up. She wore a pretty floral dress and a nice pair of boots. I stared at her longer than I probably should have.

“What?” she said, narrowing her eyes at me.

“You clean up good, Julia,” I replied.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

Probably the first time she complimented my appearance. We got in the jeep and drove to the high school. Conrad sat in the backseat.

“What makes you so certain it’ll be at the reunion?” asked Julia.

“Vibe,” said Conrad.

“Conrad’s rarely wrong,” I added, pulling into the nearly packed parking area.

“Stay here,” I said to Conrad.

“Dude!” he replied.

“You didn’t go to high school in North Fork; what are you supposed to be? My date?”

With that, Conrad consented.

Matilda Wankle, my old math teacher, greeted us as we entered the gym.

“Oh, hello Walter, I didn’t think you were coming!” she said.

“Well, I changed my mind,” I replied.

“Julia, I didn’t think you were part of the class of 2008,” said Matilda.

“I was a year behind,” said Julia, “but I couldn’t let Walter go alone.”

“Isn’t that sweet,” said Matilda. “Well, y’all have a good time there.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Wankle,” said Julia.

The place was packed with old school mates. Some of them waved at me or gave me a high-five; some just nodded. Most looked at Julia. The DJ played 3 Doors Down as we mingled.

“Okay, what now, Walter?” asked Julia.

“We watch and we wait,” I replied.

“Howdy, Walt!” said a voice from behind. Perry Wankle stood there in a blue blazer and a Hawaiian shirt; his standard attire for such events.

“Didn’t think you were coming to this shindig.”

“Ma changed my mind,” I replied.

“Well, help yourself to some punch! Made it myself!”

I took the punch glass from Perry. It smelled peculiar.

“Perry, is this...?”

“White lightning?” said Perry, quietly as he could. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

And away he danced. It was an open secret that Perry owned a still, but the sheriff turned a blind eye.

I scanned the crowd again. Then I saw it. It was talking to Barton Baxter, formerly the captain of the football team and my arch enemy. Barton waved at me and smiled that idiotic smile. I approached them, with Julia close behind.

“Howdy, Baxter,” I said.

“Ulric, how’s things?” he said. “Still chasing shadows?”

“Yep,” I replied.

“You remember Franky, right?” he said, gesturing its direction.

“Hi, Walt,” it said, looking at me through evil eyes.

“Hi, Franky,” I responded. “How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been well.”

It had a predatory look in its eye.

“I don’t think you know Julia,” I said, trying to act natural.

“Hi,” said Julia, “I was a year behind the rest of y’all.”

“How much did he pay you?” jeered Barton. I thought maybe he’d grown up since school. He hadn’t.

“Excuse me?” said Julia.

“Well, you didn’t just come here with this wacko,” replied Barton.

“You got something to say, Baxter, just say it,” I said. My eyes were like daggers.

“Are you implying that I’m some kind of call girl?” said Julia, placing her hands on her hips.

“I’m not implying anything,” said Barton, putting his hands up.

“Listen, buster,” said Julia, “Who I go out with is my business. Walter didn’t have to ‘buy’ my time. All he did was ask. I said yes, because, unlike you, Walter is a gentleman.”

Barton Baxter stood there in stunned silence. The thing that looked like Franky had wandered off somewhere, unnoticed. Julia took me by the arm and dragged me to the punch bowl.

“Where’d she go?” I asked.

“I didn’t see,” replied Julia.

“We’ll have to find her again,” I said, downing a punch. I’d need it to get through the evening.

“We should split up,” said Julia.

“That’s what it wants,” I returned.

“Walter, I’m armed, we’re in a building full of people, what’s it gonna do?”

Julia went to another area of the gym, I searched the crowd again. Then my eyes met it’s. It was across the gym from me, near one of the hallway doors. It gave me a wicked smile and its eyes turned black. It beckoned to me. I walked slowly in its direction as it disappeared down the hallway.

We were alone in the hall. My hand started to reach for my gun.

“What you did wasn’t right, Walter,” it said.

“Not from where I’m standing,” I replied.

“A girl’s got certain needs,” it said.

“You’ve killed folk,” I said, “Nearly drained the life outta Steve, and you expect me to just let you walk?”

“Walter, I’ve been just so lonely these last ten years.”

It walked a little closer to me, seductively. I froze. I couldn’t bring myself to move.

“Get back!”

Steve stood behind me, holding a crucifix. His shout was enough to break the trance. I drew my revolver, but the thing bit my hand. The weapon fell to the ground. The creature pushed me into the wall and pressed its lips against mine. My will was broken. I could feel my life-force draining out of me. Before the next new moon, I’d be a shell of the man I was; another victim.

A shot rang out. Then another. The thing slumped to the ground, dead. Steve stood nearby, holding my revolver in his shaking hands. He dropped the weapon to the ground and fell on his knees.

I heard Julia’s voice telling everyone to stay calm. She busted into the hallway, Glock drawn.

“Are you alright?” she said, returning the gun to her purse.

“We will be,” I replied, placing my hand on the minister’s shoulder.

[richricciardo]

Secrets

Secrets - Murders - Horror - Thriller

The news had been covering the murders seemingly nonstop over the past 18 months and Diane was getting sick of it. While she was definitely sympathetic to the tragedies that befell the coeds, she always felt they bore some of the responsibility of their fates. As a strong Christian woman, she believed that Godly living was imperative to survival in a godless world. She felt emphatically that her Christian values are what kept her and her family safe. Her daughter was away at school and it scared her a little bit. She was a great girl who focused on her school work and would never be in a position to be killed by a psychopath, she hoped. It gave her a sick comfort when she heard about what the girls were doing before they were killed. As long as she could keep her daughter away from that lifestyle, she would be fine. She fit the description of the other girls in every other way.  

From the sound of things, all of the victims had been out partying, drinking and, most likely, fornicating. She believed it was these actions that put them in a position to be victims in the first place thus, they were partly responsible for their own deaths. If they’d stayed home, studying and living Godly lives, they’d still be alive. However, despite her beliefs, the way in which the women died was horrific to her and she hated when the news began describing the state of the victims. She switched the channel, landing on yet another headlining news coverage of the latest gruesome homicide. This death was the tenth in the 18 month span. Twenty year old Gia Moriarty was found in the back of a frat house in Austin, positioned behind a dumpster. This homicide bore fruit for all the newscasters who had begun speculating about the potential of a serial killer. Diane didn’t believe that at first but now it made sense. All the women were caucasion with brown or black hair and in their early 20s. None of them appeared vaginally or annually penetrated for sex but with a hot metal object to cauterize the parts pre-mordem. Their bodies were left staged both breasts removed and a cross carved into their chestplate. She shivered when she heard it and knew her position of fault was cruel. Because of that, she never spoke about it to Frank.

She switched the channel again, this time to an episode of my 600 Pound Life. One of her guilty pleasures. She loved to watch the way other people lived but truthfully, deep down inside, she would sit and pass judgment at their physical limitations; despite her being 80 lbs over the recommended weight for her diminutive frame. But, in comparison, she was healthy and that made her feel good.

“I’s watching that news story, honey.” Frank spoke up from his recliner to her right. He was so quiet she had forgotten he was there.

“Oh, sorry, Frank. Ion wanna hear ‘bout them girls bein’ kilt by some psychopath. Some of them remind me of Becca.”

He sat up, quicker than she’d expected but his tone was still soft, and slow. “Now, how you know he crazy? Look like he riddin’ the world a dirty whores.”

His tone was matter of fact which sent a shiver down Diane’s spine.

“Frank!” She yelled, agreeing with him deep down but too much of a Christian to admit it.

“What, Diane? You know you’se thinkin’ it, too.” He spat with his slow, southern drawl.

She looked at her husband. His red portly face wrapped in a sandpaper beard of snow and tufts of hair bursting from just about his ears. The top of his head glistened from the overhead light, the moisture a contribution of his own battle with obesity. He was once a handsome strapping athletic man, who worked with his hands and always provided for her and the kids. He had really let himself go since then but Diane still thought he was handsome, in that old dad kind of way. Since Rebecca left for school though, he had begun taking better care of his appearance and had become more romantic. He was happier lately so she wasn’t going to push him too much. “Well, I mean, guess if they wasn’t drinking’ an a druggin’ they’da had their faculties to be safer on and off the campus. Like our little Becca is.”

She smiled and he returned the smile.

“Knew you’d understand.” He said directly.

She smiled again not knowing what it was that she’d understood but she loved when Frank agreed with her and was in a good mood, so she took the compliment. She switched the tv back to the news station that was just wrapping up the explanation of the mutilated body. She looked over at Frank who was staring at the TV with the same vigor as he used to do with her when they were young kids. His hungry eyes used to wrap her body, cup her breasts and practically do the job before they ever touched. Now he was looking at the TV like that as the newscaster described women who were torn to pieces like slabs of meat. She stared for a minute. Frank felt her looking and adjusted a bit, pulling at his crotch to adjust the front. He tried to shift the awkwardness, “Well, these lil’girls needa follow the good book ‘stead of bein’ fast out there in college. You talked to Becca bout this? ”

Diane embraced the pivot, “yes, she ain’t goin’ out to nonna them frat parties and that mess. She said,’momma now you know i’m here for education not fornication’ just like I taught her.” Diane was a proud peacocking mom at the moment.

“Yes. we did good, Diane. Shure miss Becca, though.” Frank stood up.

“Where you goin’, Frank?” Diane was enjoying their conversation.

“I’ma hop in my basement for a few. Then heada work.”

“Frank, what you be doin’ down there all that time lately?”

“Nothin’ woman. Maybe workin’ on sumthin’ for ya, but you can’t see it jus yet.” He winked playfully.

Diane blushed and she hadn’t blushed in nearly 15 years, 20 because of Frank. 15 years ago there was a hiccup in the marriage that left Diane close to another man. He made her blush and do a bunch of other things but through the Lord’s mercy the marriage was able to be saved. “I love it, Frank.”

Frank stood up, walked over to his wife and kissed her on the almost wrinkled forehead. “Love ya.” He whispered.

“You too, Frank.” She held his hand for a minute.

Frank walked out of the living room and into the kitchen toward the stairs. Diane flipped the TV back to My 600 Pound Life. She heard Frank moving things downstairs but just turned the TV up. After about twenty minutes or so Frank emerged from the basement. “Off to work hun. Love ya.” The screen door slammed shut before Diane could reciprocate.

She waited a few minutes listening for Frank's car to sound like it had driven off into the distance. When she was satisfied at the muffle of the engine, she was on her small, pudgy feet. She was an impatient woman, evident even in her unwillingness to wait for dessert until after her meal. She could never wait for anything and Frank knew it. She interpreted that his acknowledgment of the potential gift would only encourage her to  scour the basement.  She approached the door but there was a padlock on it. No worries though, she knew where Frank kept all of his extra keys. Frank knew that she knew where he kept everything. This only solidified her belief that he wanted her to find what was in the basement. She went to the front door and popped up a loose floorboard. She reached into the dark space, and pulled out a large janitorial looking keychain. She stood up, fingering through them as she walked toward the basement door. She found a series of keys that looked like they could open the smaller bronze padlock. She tried the first and then the second with no luck. For some reason she jumped to the fifth one and slid it in the lock, perhaps because the shades of bronze were the most similar. The key turned and the steel mechanism released and shifted.

The lock opened.

Basements were rare in the south for a multitude of reasons from conditions to necessity. Some include: temperatures, ground freezing depth and even soil composition. Still, Frank had insisted on paying the extra money when they had the home built about 15 years earlier, shortly following Diane’s affair. Frank told her that it gave them a fresh start. He was very selective in their location, making sure the soil could support a basement. He would say that it was for storage purposes which was something that other Texans would never understand. Diane didn’t question his logic much, infact she generally supported him and didn’t have much of an argument since he forgave her infidelities, thank you Lord. Diane pulled off the lock placing it on the counter to her right. She opened the door and was immediately hit with the stench of mildew, formaldehyde and a faint perfumey smell probably named something like LOVEspell or SugaryKisses. For a split second she thought Frank might have bought her a new perfume. She wasn’t a fan of those young girl smells but it was the thought that counted and currently, Frank had become increasingly thoughtful. She descended the stairs, each one moaning under the stress of her weight. The smell intensified as she walked into the dark basement. Looking to her right, she noticed an old surgical table she didn’t remember owning with a dark brownish liquid stain running off the edges. Some of Frank’s old tools littered the corner, his industrial blowtorch perched near his old iron fireplace rods that had burnt animal flesh charred on the tip. Similar brown liquid spots left a trail on the cold, cement basement floor deep into the darker recesses. Diane walked towards the darkness, squinting to see what was in the back left corner of her moldy basement. Her eyes still adjusting, she saw the silhouette of jars on shelves. She could tell the jars were filled with a dark liquid. Two gelatinous orbs floated in the liquid but she couldn’t make them out clearly. She looked around for a light cord hanging from the ceiling and remembered that there was one in the center of the basement. She walked to her right and toward the center of the basement and yanked on the cord.

A dangling free standing light with no cover swung awkwardly in the basement, the light flailing around recklessly. Her eyes stung from the sudden burst and she adjusted looking to her left first in the jar corner. The liquid was blue and the orbs were…

No, it couldn’t be. She rubbed her eyes aggressively, leaving stars when she opened them back up. She walked closer, grabbing the first jar with shaking hands looking terrified at the floating slabs of flesh that looked forcefully removed from women’s chests. There had to be almost fifty jars, all with similar size and shape breasts. No, more.

She didn’t hear the truck rolling slowly down the long gravel road toward the house or the squeaky brakes as the trunk came to a halt just outside the window.

Diane backed up hyperventilating. Her mind was spinning, her heart beat with an impressive thump. She turned to run and saw something at the opposite corner that made her stop. She walked toward the far right, the light still swinging back and forth slowly teasing her with a partial visual and then burying what she was seeing in deep darkness. She reached up for the light and held in in her shivering right hand making a loud clanging noise as it smacked rapidly against her rings. Diane aimed the light at the far right corner and there was a young woman, naked on the floor. Her body was bruised and battered. She shivered, nearly dead, her nose and eyes were wrapped tight with a thick cloth. The girl couldn’t have been much older than Rebecca. Diane placed her hand over her mouth. Tears gushed from her eyes. She swore the girl was dead but then her body flopped, like a fish on her last breath out of water. Diane squinted through the tears and saw the girls lips were sealed closed with an adhesive and stitches. Diane nearly threw up, bile filling her throat then up to her mouth. She swallowed it down in an acidic gulp. Her face contorted.

Diane didn’t hear the front door open or the sound of footsteps in the kitchen. The loud throbbing in her ears drowned out the basement door being pulled open and the loud creaking of each step down into the basement. Through the sound of the rushing vomit in her throat, she didn’t hear the slapping of the boots on the old concrete floor. Diane, unable to see anymore of this, turned around only to find Frank standing there with a club in his right hand. His eyes were the darkest she’d ever seen. The vein that ran from his eyebrow to temple pulsed like a firehose at full tilt. He was breathing heavily through his nose. Diane’s heart fell to her feet. Her stomach almost let all of her bowels go. She gulped and tried to scream but the terror silenced her. She took one stumbling step back and crashed to the floor landing on her elbow with a crack. She wailed in pain never taking her eyes off of Frank, who was closing in methodically. He leaned over and grabbed her gruffly by her blouse. A tiny rip could be heard from the force of his pull. He looked her into her eyes, rage and hatred filled them both. Diane thought she was looking at the devil, his once handsome face taking on demonic qualities. He leaned in close, his nose nearly touching Diane’s and in a low, throaty growl asked her:

“Can you keep a secret?”

[richricciardo]

I like your text, it's fine with me!-

Oh thanks, I there. Cat.

[richricciardo]

The Camera Of Tomorow

Fiction - Mystery - Thriller - Old Fashion 

Ryan Perkins is a gentle and quiet thirty-one-year-old office worker who likes collecting antiques. He lives in New York City and is well acquainted with the antique shops there. However, this afternoon while walking to the convenience store, he looks down an alley. He notices an old-fashioned symbol of three gold balls hanging over a door signifying a pawnshop. He hadn’t seen that particular sign in years and, with caution and curiosity, enters the alley to have a look.

          The alley is a narrow, dirty dead end with all the trash cans so packed that it looks as if they haven’t been emptied in a long time.  Ryan startles a cat that yowls loudly at being disturbed.  Then, careful of where he is stepping, he moves toward the recessed door and stops.  A dim light shines through the grime on the door’s glass window, just enough to read the lettering, “Pawn and Loans-proprietor G.Schmit.” Try as he might, Ryan can’t see clearly enough through the grime to tell what is inside the store. He looks back toward the entrance, thinking of leaving, when he realizes that he has turned the doorknob and pushed the door open enough to cause a small bell above it to announce his arrival.

          Stepping inside, Ryan makes a quick observation and concludes that this pawnshop is very old indeed. Four old fashion lights hang down from the tin embossed ceiling. The walls are painted a dark tan with rich deep walnut wainscoting halfway up. Ryan notices that all the display cabinets and counters are full of antiques, most extremely old and in excellent condition.  He looks around the shop slack-jawed, wishing he had enough money to buy its entire contents, when he hears a voice with a slight German accent call.

          “May I help you?”

          Startled, Ryan turns and sees someone standing inside the broker’s cage that he hadn’t noticed before.  Approaching the counter, Ryan sees that the broker is a small old grey-haired man wearing a green visor and arm garters while smoking a vintage Hubertu pipe. Ryan finds the smoke from the pipe intoxicating as he apologizes to the keeper, “I’m so sorry.  Please accept my apologies.  I didn’t see you standing there.” The broker merely slowly blinks his sad Bassett hound eyes and smiles slightly.

          “I am so surprised to have discovered your shop!”  Ryan exclaims excitedly. “I thought I knew every antique store in the city. Have you been here long?”

          The little man takes a long pull on his pipe, causing it to crackle loudly.  Then, as he exhales, he responds, “Since 1903.” Ryan is surprised by the date but now understands why there are so many antique items in the store.

          “The alley out front used to be a throughway from Broadway to West 236th street until the city built dat large post office over there, cutting the street down to the dead-end alley it is today. Consequently, not many people know I’m here.” The pawnbroker returns his pipe to his mouth for another drag.

          Ryan tells the pawnbroker that he is an antique collector and is quite impressed by the many exquisite items and jewelry he sees here.

          “Ya,” he responds. We’ve been in business for a long time but have not traded in too much modern stuff.  So please take your time and look around. If you see anything you are interested in, just ask, and I’ll do mine best to tell you about it.”

          Ryan thanks him and begins looking around at the treasure trove before him. He studies the jewelry with so many items looking like they were made in the early nineteen hundreds.  So many gems are huge diamonds set in what has to be fourteen karat gold. He browses among the steamer trunks, some with clothing still inside, and is amazed at the travel stickers because they looked as though they were just placed there yesterday. Ryan’s eyes grow large when he sees an old bellows-type camera on a shelf with other old Brownies. It reminds him of a late eighteen ninety-six Marion and Company camera. When he lifts it from the counter, he is amazed to discover that a thick metal box has been attached. Turning it over in his hands, he can’t see the manufacturer’s name and turns to the old man for help.

          “Mr. Schmit, pardon me, but what can you tell me about this camera?  Unfortunately, I don’t see a name or patent number on it.”

          Schmit smiles from one corner of his mouth, his pipe hanging from the other.

          “You have an excellent eye, mine friend, for dat is a very rare piece indeed. One of a kind, actually. It was invented by a man named Hollenberg in the late nineteen hundreds. The box on the bottom is supposed to develop the picture right on the spot. No need to take it to a photography studio.”

          “You mean like a Polaroid?”

          “Err, sure. And it worked too. The problem was that no one believed him.  They all thought he was mad or dat the camera was some sort of trick camera like a magician would use, so no one was interested in it.  Having spent his life savings building the camera, creating the right chemicals to develop the photo, and transferring it to the proper paper, he ended up penniless. He brought the camera to me, and I gave him one hundred dollars for it. It was the least I could do.”

          Puzzled, Ryan asked, “Did you say you gave him one hundred dollars?”

          Flustered, Schmit exclaimed, “What? Did I say dat?  Oh no, no, no. It was mine grandfather who did dat.  You’ll have to forgive me, you see.  I’ve been here so long and know all the stories about every item dat it seems like I was the one to make the transaction, you see?”

          Ryan nods in acknowledgment and asks, How much do you want for it?”

          The old broker puffs on his pipe a few times while considering a price and finally replies, “Seeing as it is a rare one of a kind piece, I think twelve hundred dollars would be a fair price, ya?”  

          Ryan turns the camera around in his hands a few times and, glancing up, asks, “You say you have all the pieces that go with it and that it still works, yes?”

          “Ya, ya it stills works.”

          “Then I’ll take it!” exclaims Ryan and removes a credit card from his wallet. Upon seeing the piece of plastic, the broker seems confused and says he only takes cash or maybe a check if Ryan has one. Ryan just so happens to have his checkbook with him and writes out a check for Mr. Schmit. Schmit disappears into the back room and soon returns with all the accessories for the camera in a box.

          “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, “er, “ Schmit stops to scan the check for Ryan’s name, “Mr. Perkins.”

          “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine, Mr.Schmit, and I promise to be back soon to buy more!” Then, as Ryan opens the door to leave, Schmit calls out to him.

          “I almost forgot to tell you that all sales are final. I hope you understand.” Ryan nods and leaves.

          Schmit hears the bell above his door tinkle wildly as Perkins bursts in two days later.

           “I’m sorry, Mr. Perkins, but I did say all sales are final, ya?”

          “Yes, yes. But that’s not why I’m here! This camera, there’s something wrong with it.” Perkins pauses to catch his breath and puts the camera on the counter. “Mr. Schmit, every time I take a picture, the picture that develops is not the same one I’ve taken!  For example, I took a picture of the apartment building across from me, which was fine, but the picture I got back showed it on fire! It clearly was not, for I was looking right at it. I then went downstairs and shot a picture of the intersection at the corner. The traffic was flowing smoothly, but the resulting photo showed a five-car accident with one dead body lying in the street!”

          Schmit raises his hand to stop Perkins, “Dat was the problem Hollenberg was having trying to get buyers to believe him. He called it the camera of tomorrow because it only took pictures of things that hadn’t happened yet but would in the future.  So that’s why no one would believe him or thought he was trying to hoodwink them for a fast buck.” Perkins’s color pales as he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and removes a photo to hand it to Schmit.

          “Then, Mr. Schmit, can you kindly explain this?”

          Schmit looks at the picture and says, “Hmm.” Then he walks to the front door and locks it. Upon returning, he tells Perkins that he had better sit down. Schmit goes behind the counter and comes back with a bent and creased photo, the same as Perkins but older. Both pictures show Ryan Perkins lying on the pawnshop floor with a bullet hole in his forehead and a pool of blood behind him.

          Perkins cries out, “What does it mean!”

          “I’ll tell you what it means. Back in nineteen o five, when I pawned the camera for Mr. Hollenberg, I took a picture of mine shop to see how it worked. What I got was this picture of you, Mr. Perkins. As I’ve already explained earlier, picture rendering always comes true. You just don’t know when. It could be in a couple of hours or days or even years.” Schmit’s demeanor changed from calm to rage in a manner of seconds.

          “DAT MEANS I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO WALK THROUGH DAT DOOR FOR A HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN YEARS!  I have been trapped in the time by the camera so it can complete its forecasted future event. You and I are going to end this hellish nightmare right now! Schmit points a small pistol at Perkins, who covers his face, sobbing.

          Schmit has genuine compassion for Perins and explains that he tried to take his own life in the past and failed. He then placed the gun barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger three times, click, click, click. Then to prove his point, he fires a single shot into the pawnshop ceiling with a loud bang. Finally, as dust and dirt drift down, Schmit says through tears, “See? I don’t want to, but I have no choice. I am so sorry. You see, Mr. Perkins, it can’t be changed once the photograph is developed. It WON’T be changed! The course is set and will not be completed until everything is as in the picture.” Schmit points the gun at Ryan and pulls the trigger.

           Perkins falls from the stool he is sitting on and lands on the black and white checked floor as a pool of blood forms around his head.

          Almost immediately, the whole pawnshop starts to change and crumble, catching up to the present time.

          A few weeks later, the convenience store owner phones the police to complain about a terrible stench that seems to be coming from the alleyway. Upon investigation, they discover in an old store the remains of Ryan Perkins, seemingly an apparent victim of a robbery gone wrong. One of the coroner’s assistants comments on how the old store looks as if it had been a pawnshop at one time and picks up a curious-looking camera.

          “Hey, Charlie, look at this. I collect old cameras, but I’ve never seen one like this before. Do you think anyone would notice if I took it?

          Charlie says, “Nay, but if it still works will you take my picture with it?  I’d like to see how I would have looked in a tintype.” Both men laugh and place the camera on the stretcher along with Mr. Perkins.

[richricciardo]

Dark Fair

(Trigger warning: This story contains mentions of violence and suicide)

Sensitive content

Historal Fiction - Mystery - Fantasy

The Game began on a Saturday in the spring of 1932. The blue sky arched like the tents of the fair that had arrived the night before, unnoticed by the inhabitants of the small harbour town. It was the fishermen who first noticed the lights behind the hilltops and already an hour later the message was on everyone's lips.

Now you have to know that pleasure rarely reached the southernmost tip of Cornwall. People lived on what they fished out of the rough waters in their cutters early in the morning or grew in their tiny gardens and harvested later. Most of them had two sets of clothes, one for the day's work in the numerous factories or tin and copper mines and one for attending church on Sundays. And if you could spare a few cents, you donated them at the collection, for there was always some poor wretch who needed the money even more urgently than yourself. Yes, all in all it was a meagre, often arduous life.

So, you can imagine that the arrival of a fair suddenly lifted the morose mood and sent young and old into a frenzy. The villagers all agreed that they did not want to be stingy on this day.

The little money that had been put aside for hard times was taken out of piggy banks and mattresses, the children were dressed up and coats and top hats were taken from the wardrobe. Then they made their way together to the hills where the fair had set up its tents.

Francis Hawken, a young man of twenty-two who had just completed his apprenticeship with the local master carpenter, cut a particularly handsome figure in his new pinstripe suit. His dark hair was neatly parted and bright blue eyes that usually held a mischievous spark stood out from under bushy eyebrows.

The suit had been an expensive purchase, a custom tailoring made of blue wool for which he had paid the tailor a whole month's salary. But when he had looked into the mirror that morning, he could not have been more pleased.

Francis was of marriageable age. He received a modest but secure salary and was thinking of leaving his father´s house and moving into a small hut near the coast.

Since the girl he had long fancied had been promised to someone else, he had hesitated for a while to go ahead with his plans. But with the arrival of the fair, his determination had also returned and he found it was time to move forward. Life had to go on, after all.

And so it was that Francis, like the other villagers, stood outside the wrought-iron gates of the fair on that balmy spring morning, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the colourful tents and rides beyond. A small tin sign had been attached to the black iron bars, announcing in accurate letters that the fair would not open its doors until the noon hour.

Disappointed sighs rang out in the tense silence and soon people were spreading coats and scarves on the lawn and settling down on them while the children sang a rhyme and passed the time with boisterous games.

Francis found a shady spot under a weeping willow, folded his arms behind his head and let himself sink into the soft grass as the sun very gradually climbed towards its zenith.

When the church clock finally struck noon, he sat up and watched as the gates were opened amid loud "Ah" and "Oh" and people streamed into the interior of the fair in little groups.

As if in a trance, he stood up and followed the villagers. The sound of his footsteps was muffled by a thick layer of forest litter and everywhere there was the smell of candy floss, small cakes and sweets.

For a while he let himself drift with the crowd, wishing he had four more pairs of eyes. It was impossible to take in everything at once. There were flashing rides, stalls threatening to collapse under the weight of sweets and delicacies, small tents, hurdy-gurdies, singers and jugglers, shining horses, acrobats and fire-eaters. At one tiny stall he bought an apple pie, still warm from the oven, and kept an eye out for a familiar face. In the morning, he had thought he had spotted Deirdre Mellyn among the waiting crowd, a pretty girl with blonde curls and dimples whom he would have been only too happy to buy a ride on the fairy lights carousel. But when he finally spotted her on the arm of George Rosemergy, he took a different tack. He was drawn to a remote part of the fair.

It was less busy here and only occasionally did villagers stray among the workers' horse-drawn carts and battered caravans.

It was a small, inconspicuous tent that caught his attention. The tarpaulin was folded back at one side, revealing the dark interior. Curious, Francis stepped closer until he could make out what was hidden behind it. Only then did he notice the sign above the entrance: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

"Enter at your own risk," he muttered and traced the letters with a pensive expression. Apart from the sign, there was nothing to indicate that the tent was one of the circus attractions. It was plainer than the other stalls. No lights were flashing here, no music was playing and in general the place seemed deserted. Forgotten, like a worn-out pair of shoes left by the wayside. Nevertheless, or precisely for this reason, Francis could not avert his gaze. Just as he was about to duck to step under the canvas, a voice came from the depths of the shadows.

"Ahhh, a visitor. Come, enter. I promise I won't bite."

Francis stopped rooted to the spot as a man stepped into the narrow cone of light that fell inside the tent from outside. His pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness, almost silvery, as if he had bathed in moonlight, and his movements were as smooth as the silk scarf Francis had given Merrin Davies for her last birthday.

The man indicated a slight bow.

"Asmodeus del Vi," he said. "It´s a pleasure to meet you... Come, please. Make yourself comfortable. I'll prepare some tea for you."

Francis hesitated. Strictly speaking, he was looking for a girl he could impress with the dapper suit and his saved-up wages. But if he was honest, he was in the mood for something else entirely.

Asmodeus turned to him. A slight smile played around the corners of his mouth.

"No tea? How about a whisky? Or perhaps a brandy? I have a good vintage in stock."

"Thank you. I'll have the tea, please."

While Asmodeus filled a kettle with water and placed it on a small cooker, Francis looked around curiously. The only source of light was a half-burned candle whose glow illuminated dozens of bundles of dried plants, herbs and spices hanging from the ceiling. They gave off a pleasant smell, tart like the herbal tea his mother had brewed on cold winter evenings. The memory stung him.

Books were piled up on a circular table and on roughly nailed-together shelves whose boards seemed to groan under the weight. A mirror caught his attention. It was about man-high with a gilded frame that gleamed in the candlelight. A magnificent piece, but unfortunately useless. For the glass was blind as an old woman's eye.

"I see you have discovered my mirror," said Asmodeus. "It was a gift from my sister, Dina. They say it shows you the truth, past, present and future..." He eyed Francis with pitch-black eyes.

"Tell me, are you an honest man?"

Francis pondered. Was he an honest man? Could he in good conscience claim to always prefer the truth to a convenient lie?

"A liar would probably answer yes," he finally said. Asmodeus laughed out.

"Very good, very good. You know how to play the game."

"What game?"

"Ahhh, that's the question, isn't it?" Asmodeus walked over to the cooker and took the whistling kettle off the plate. Then he filled two cups with dark herbs, poured the boiling water over them and handed one cup to Francis. The second he placed on a small tray before sinking into an armchair.

"I offer my clients a deal," he explained, lifting a small velvet pouch that clinked softly. "A very lucrative business, in fact."

"What is in the pouch?" asked Francis. Asmodeus smiled, opened the little ribbon, slipped his hand inside and pulled three thick, golden coins out of it. Francis's eyes widened.

"Are these real?"

Asmodeus handed him a gold coin.

"As real as you and I, sir, make sure of it yourself."

With a look of disbelief, Francis bit down on the golden metal. Soft and definitely real.

"The gold is yours. On one condition." Francis listened up. What could he offer a man like Asmodeus in return?

"We'll play a game. If you win, you can keep the gold, plus everything you see in this tent. However, should you lose..." Asmodeus paused, and now a cunning expression entered his eyes that sent a shiver down Francis's spine, "your soul becomes my property."

"My soul," Francis repeated dazedly. "How could I gamble away my soul?"

Asmodeus waved it off.

"That is a mere formality that should not worry you. If you abide by the rules of the game, you will be in no danger."

"Explain this game to me. Then I will decide whether or not to get involved."

Asmodeus smiled and rose from his chair.

"Come, I will demonstrate the rules with an example. It's quite easy, you'll see."

Francis swallowed his discomfort and followed Asmodeus to the mirror that reflected the flickering candlelight. As he stepped closer, he noticed that the words Memento Mori had been carved into the frame. Memento Mori. Latin, he thought, annoyed that he had only attended primary school.

"Stand in front of the mirror. A little to the left... Yes, that's it. That's it."

The stained glass showed him his reflection.

"The mirror is able to see the truth. The whole truth. I am now going to ask you a question and your task will be to tell me what the mirror shows you. Do you understand?"

Francis nodded, even though he would have preferred to return to the other villagers at this point.

"All right... Tell me, what do you desire most in the world?"

Francis looked into the mirror. At first, he saw only himself, a tall young man, well dressed and cleanshaven as befitted his age. But then the milky glass before his eyes turned into a razor-sharp image. Only it showed not himself or Asmodeus, nor the inside of the tent, but a young woman.

"Merrin," he whispered, stepping up to the mirror. Carefully, he reached out for her, but as he touched the glass, the image dissipated and the mirror clouded until he was once again face to face with his own blurred image.

"Excellent!" exclaimed Asmodeus, clapping his hands.

Francis blinked.

"What... what was that?" he asked.

"The truth, sir, the truth. I asked you about your deepest longing and the mirror showed you the answer. All you have to do in order to win the game is to answer my questions honestly."

"And then you'll let me have the gold? What's the catch?"

Asmodeus's smile widened. He put a hand on Francis's shoulder and drawled, "Four questions. Four honest answers. No catch. I promise."

"It's a tempting offer," Francis said. Very tempting. Too tempting. He would be a fool to let this opportunity pass. After all, there was no secret worth giving away thirty gold coins.

"Fine," he finally said, holding out his broad hand to Asmodeus, "we have a deal."

Asmodeus chimed in. It took all of Francis's control not to pull his hand away instantly. Asmodeus's skin was cold as ice and smooth as the stones he had fished out of the sea as a child. A sly smile crept into the corners of his mouth and Francis was overcome with the oppressive feeling that he had fallen into a trap.

"Well." Asmodeus pointed to the mirror in an inviting gesture. "Shall we begin?"

"Yes," Francis said, "I am ready."

Asmodeus chuckled softly. "Oh, but you are never ready, my dear."

"Tell me, what are you most afraid of?"

Time seemed to slow down. For the first few moments he saw only himself, pale and nervous, while his heart pounded in his ears. He knew what the mirror would show him and yet he felt himself break into a cold sweat as the glass cleared and he caught sight of himself, his right hand closed around a leather strap. His arms were bloodied, his face bright red and his eyes shadowed by thick rings. At his feet crouched a young woman bending protectively over a child as he brought the belt down on her again and again.

"Tell me what you see," Asmodeus whispered.

"I'm older," Francis breathed. "Drunk. And I beat my wife and child. They are afraid of me."

"Like father, like son, isn't it?" Asmodeus's voice was soft as a breeze. Francis had almost forgotten that he was still standing beside him.

"Yes," he said. Like father, like son. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he thought he could feel the bruises and welts that his father's anger had left on his body so many years prior. But then he pulled himself together, clasped his trembling hands behind his back and tore his gaze away from the mirror's surface.

"Can we go on?" The sharpness of his tone seemed to bring Asmodeus back to reality too, for a sly expression flashed in his eyes.

"Fine, fine," he drawled. "Then look into the mirror and tell me about your darkest memory."

It was as if he was looking through a window into his past. The lifeless form of his mother swayed gently in the wind. Her face was pale as porcelain, her lips chapped and cracked, and a dark bruise shimmered through the almost transparent skin under her left eye. Francis opened his mouth. He tried to speak but the words would not come until he thought he would choke on them.

"It was I who found her," he finally brought out. "On a crossbeam, down by the docks. Hanged. I think she just couldn't take it anymore. The beatings and threats, the constant fear she lived in." He fell silent, swallowing against a wave of nausea. He had shoved away the memories of his mother's suicide years ago. That door had been locked, like a secret that wanted to be kept. A secret he had just sold for a bag of gold.

Disgusted, Francis turned away from the mirror, but as he was about to take a step aside, Asmodeus grabbed him by the arm and said in a dangerously soft voice, "Remember the Game's stakes, Francis!" Francis froze. "I never told you my name."

Asmodeus smiled. There was nothing human in his gaze any more.

"Look. Into. The. Mirror." Francis obeyed. "Now tell me who you see."

A strangled yelp escaped his throat as Asmodeus's eyes turned blood red. If he had been handsome before, charming even, he looked like a monster now. Like... "The incarnate," he gasped. "You are the devil."

"Asmodeus," he whispered. "I am Asmodeus."

It was then that the scales fell from Francis's eyes. Father Williams had spoken of Asmodeus in one of his sermons last year.

"And fear also Asmodeus, the demon of covetousness, wrath and lust. For he leads you down the paths of sin." The Father's warning rang in his ears as he looked around at Asmodeus. He was almost surprised that it was not the devil's face that now stared back at him.

"That leaves one last question, doesn't it?"

One last question and he could go his way. "You made a pact with the devil," whispered a small voice in his head. "Do you really think he would let you off the hook so easily?"

Francis was shaking all over. He didn't care about the gold anymore. What happened to it no longer concerned him, for he would reject the prize. What he did care about, however, was the promise he had made to Asmodeus.

"Now. Answer me this one, final question and you are a free man," Asmodeus purred. "What do you see in your future?"

And one last time Francis looked into the mirror. Dread crept under his skin as he saw what was reflected on the glass surface. He shook his head.

"No," he whispered. It was not possible, it could not be.

"The mirror always shows the truth." Asmodeus smiled. "What do you see?"

"I... I see…"

One day later, Francis Hawken's broken body was found down in the bay. The tide had washed him up on the beach like flotsam, but when the sun rose, an attentive observer would have caught a glimpse of gold between his pale fingers.

[richricciardo]

The Man In Blue

Mystery - Suspense - American

The town was snuggled peacefully between two small mountains. It contained one road with one stoplight at the center of town with charming brick houses south of the light and to the north, a single gas station and a few essential businesses. The 122 residents lived simple lives, going to their nine-to-five jobs and spending time with their families and neighbors.

Nothing happened in this town. It was quiet, with few visitors and even less crime. The people of the town knew each other well and had for generations. Everybody loved the seclusion, having no desire to grow or progress. They were simple people with simple lives in a simple town.

Every house was occupied. Every house but one, the biggest house in the neighborhood. A vibrant red-brick mansion with a tall, rusting black gate guarding it rested at the farthest south lot. Vines clung to it and the grass grew tall around it, hiding the front steps up to the bolted-shut door. Contrary to its outward condition, the inside was well kept, the furniture in pristine condition besides the layer of dust. It comprised two stories and a basement. A balcony from the master bedroom displayed a beautiful view of the mountains and a stream flowing down into the valley. It was, by all accounts, a wonderful place to live.

But it remained vacant for as long as the town people could remember, or at least that’s what they told the few people that asked. Few went near it, and even the kids and teenagers avoided it. They steered clear, moving to the other side of the street, and when people would drive into town, they always had the urge to speed up when passing the property. Nobody knew why, but it felt like the mansion was watching them. Nobody tried to move in and nobody tried to tear it down. The few people who ventured near the front gate felt intense horror at the sight of it, either freezing or running away. Those who froze would pass out and somebody would have to come retrieve them and take them to the town clinic. But nobody would speak about these things. After each occurrence, the people would seem to forget and move on with their normal, small town life.

One summer afternoon, a visitor drove into town. A man in a 2001, black Honda Accord stopped at the gas station. He stepped out of his car, sporting a high end baby blue suit coat, white undershirt and a Stetson hat pulled low over his eyes. He walked across the parking lot and into the Shell. He lifted his wrist, the time on his Rolex showing three-thirty. Mr. Benson, the cashier, stared at him. What was a man like this doing in this town? His outfit certainly didn’t match his vehicle, either.

The man went straight to the back of the store and returned a few minutes later with a monster energy drink and sat in on the counter.

“Is that all?” Mr. Benson asked, still unable to see the man’s eyes.

“Yes,” the man grinned, “Just a little monster to keep me going.”

Mr. Benson scanned the drink, and the man handed him a ten-dollar bill.

“So, where ya headed??”

A smile grew wide across the man’s face. “Here,” he said as he grabbed the monster.

“Visiting family?”

“You could say that.”

The man turned and exited before any more questions could be asked. Mr. Benson couldn’t contain his curiosity, so he stepped outside just as the Honda pulled onto the main road, heading south at a leisurely pace. Which house would he stop at? The Honda drove past the Carlsons, the Tysons, and the Manheins. It continued on, passing house after house, and Mr. Benson wondered if the man was lying. The car grew smaller and slowed as the houses ended and the mountain tunnel began. Then the car stopped. It stopped next to the mansion.

The man stood at the entrance, smiling up at his old friend. He retrieved a black key from his pocket, unlocked the gate and strode up to the front door. He slipped another key into the lock and the door creaked as it swung open. The man stepped in and disappeared into the darkness.

Little Bobby Selton watched wide-eyed from her bedroom window across the street. People weren’t allowed to go into that house, so why had that nice-looking man gone in? She jumped off her bed and tiptoed into the hallway, past her sleeping sister, and peered around a corner into the living room. Her mother faced away from her phone to her ear. Bobby slid across the living room entrance to the front door and slipped on her shoes. Maybe the house was safe to go inside. She closed the door calmly and meandered across the street.

The mansion loomed above her, mysterious and enticing. It would be a perfect place for hide and seek. She reached for the lock, but it slid open before she touched it. Was this a magic house? Bobby leapt across the threshold and onto the cracked brick sidewalk and skipped up to the front door. She didn’t feel like the people in all those stories her mother told her. Her heart beat faster, but instead of fear, she felt excitement. She hopped onto the porch and rapped her fist against the door.

“Bobby! Where are you?” Bobby’s mother stepped onto the front porch and froze in horror. The mansion door opened and a tall shadowy figure bent low, grabbed Bobby’s hand and pulled her into the house, slamming the door shut. Bobby’s mother turned and walked back into her house and redialed Mr. Benson.

The town hall filled with residents, all huddled together with doom written on their faces. Mr. Benson detailed his account of the man entering the abandoned mansion, causing a stir. Then Bobby’s mother stood up and recounted what had happened. “I have a terrible knot in my stomach about this man. I’m afraid for my only daughter, Sandy. I don’t want her or any of the children near that house.”

The townspeople dispersed, rushing to their homes and peeking behind closed curtains at the mansion at the end of the street. It grew more dangerous in their minds and infiltrated their thoughts. The peaceful, small town became one with hushed voices and untrusting thoughts. Something bad was going to happen, something that had happened before, but nobody could remember. Nobody would speak of it, but they all dreaded the day that man reappeared.

[richricciardo]

The Straw Men

Warnings : You probably won’t like this, but most the time i make fantasy related texts.

November 2, 1961

I’ve had the most unusual experience over the past two days; something which I am still processing. It’s a strange thing, the Appalachian countryside; full of superstition and folk traditions. In the eyes of those who live there, witches still roam the hills and hollers looking for unsuspecting people to hex. Even still in this modern age of science, in some places of the world, magic is king.

I recently came into possession of a cottage in West Virginia. Heh, “possession” is a good word for it. I feel as though I need an exorcism after all that’s happened over the last two days. My uncle had left it to me in his will, and I meant to go visit the place, but between work and everything I didn’t have time. My uncle was strange, but most of my family were strange. I’m the black sheep, you see. I turned out relatively normal and took up a career in journalism. I’m a man of facts, which is why I’m writing this journal, in the hope that whoever finds it will believe what’s written herein.

My brother, Marty, and my wife Janet drove out to Crooked Horn, WV on October 30. The leaves on the maples had turned to shades of yellow, red, and orange that made the drive pleasant. The mountains stood glowering over the highway in what could almost be described as a threatening manner if geologic formations could be considered threatening.

The area roundabout was populated by agricultural land. Large harvesting machines were at work, bringing in the corn. Sheep, goats, and cattle wandered the hill country, grazing peacefully, and in fields the ever-present scarecrow stood guard over the crops. I wouldn’t find out until later how important those scarecrows were.

“What a gorgeous place!” said Janet. “We should’ve had our honeymoon here!”

“Had I known that we could’ve saved a ton of money,” I said.

“Oh, stop it, Peter!” said Janet, slapping my arm playfully.

“Antigua ain’t cheap!” said Marty. I could see him grinning in the rear-view mirror.

As we approached the middle of town, the locals were busy. They seemed to be preparing for some festival. The next day being Halloween, I assumed it would be some masquerade party. I wasn’t entirely wrong. At the edge of town stood a dilapidated country church of the type one sees in little towns. In the middle of the village stood a pile of lumber and straw. Foks were still piling wood onto it.

“Looks like a bonfire,” said Janet. “We should go.”

“Seems like a good idea to me,” said Marty.

We stopped at a filling station and country store to fuel up. As we walked in the front door, the customers and staff seemed to eye us with suspicion.

“Howdy,” I said.

“Afternoon,” said the clerk. “What brings you to Crooked Horn?”

“I inherited the McCormac cottage,” I said.

The man seemed to wilt like a head of lettuce.

“I don’t recall Old Cyrus having any younguns,” said a middle-aged woman nearby. She eyed me with an expression that sent a chill through my bones. She reminded one of a witch that one might find in a book of fairytales. I would only find out later how right I was.

“We’re his nephews,” said my brother.

“I see,” said the clerk.

“We figured we’d at least come out and see what we’d inherited,” I said.

“You have a lovely town,” said Janet. “We’re looking forward to spending more time here.”

The clerk looked into her eyes, and grinned.

“Yes ma’am!” said the clerk. “Nice, quiet town.”

“I noticed they were building a bonfire,” Janet continued, gesturing southward. “Are you having some sort of party?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk. “Have it every year on Halloween.”

“We’d be delighted to come,” said Janet.

“We’d be delighted to have you,” said the witch.

“We start about sundown, and we don’t quit ‘til midnight,” said the Clerk.

“Sounds like a great time to me,” I said.

We bought some of the local produce and went back out to the car. As we were getting back in, I spied a scarecrow in the field across the road. I swore I saw him move.

We arrived at the cottage as the sun was setting. I pulled into the short, dirt road to the cottage, which lay nestled between two hills, and surrounded by trees. A stream ran alongside it.The caretaker, Howard, sat on a bench on the front porch, strumming an old guitar. He was a black man, tall and lean, his straw hat tilted to one side. He wore stained overalls, a flannel shirt, and well-worn work boots. He lived in the shanty just down the road and cared for the cottage and the surrounding land when it was not in use. My uncle let him live there for free, and he had the run of the land to hunt and fish as much as he wanted. He smiled broadly as we exited the car.

“You must be the McCormac boys,” he said, shaking my hand.

“I’m Peter, and this is Marty,” I replied. “And this is my wife, Janet.”

“Howdy,” said Howard, shaking hands with everyone. “I’ll take your bags inside.”

We walked up the porch steps and entered the cottage. The walls were wood paneling except on the wall of the fireplace, which was made of field-stone. Taxidermied animals and antlers lined the walls, and an old grandfather clock stood in the corner. Rustic wood furniture was the only furnishing. I turned around to see an old horse-shoe over the door frame. I soon found that all three of the doorways of the house were adorned with horseshoes. Knowing my uncle’s propensity for superstition, I wasn’t surprised. The man always had a rabbit’s foot in his pocket.

“How charming,” said Janet as she looked around the cottage.

“Nice place,” said Marty. “How's the hunting in these parts?”

“Mr. Cyrus and I were usually successful,” said Howard as he entered with the bags. “You packed quite a lot.”

“We’re staying a week,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” replied Howard.

“Why not?”

“This ain’t a good time for out-of-towners,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” asked Janet.

“This time of year, with harvest and everything, it wouldn’t be a good time for out-of-towners.”

“The locals seemed friendly enough,” said Janet.

“They seem that way,” said Howard. He spoke no more on the subject, though I pressed him during supper.

I woke up the next morning, October 31, to a horrific scream. I leaped from the bed in the master bedroom and raced down the hall, to where I found Janet standing outside staring in shock into the bathroom. She was soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel. Marty came bounding down the hall. I shielded Janet. Marty turned his back once he realized Janet was unclothed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I saw someone looking in the window!” she said pointing at the bathroom window. The curtain was pulled across it.

“Maybe it was an animal,” offered Marty.

“It was a person, I swear!” said Janet emphatically.

Marty went outside to look around while I helped Janet get dressed.

“There was definitely someone at the window,” said Marty when he returned.

“Who would do that?!” said Janet. “Spying on a lady while she’s trying to take a bath! The nerve!”

I heard the front door creak and Howard’s deep voice.

“Breakfast!” he said. “I hope I ain’t too early.”

We all entered the dining area, where Howard stood, carrying a basket of eggs.

“Fresh eggs!” he said, bouncing his eyebrows.

“Howard, you wouldn’t happen to have seen anyone creeping around the cottage?” asked Marty.

“No, sir,” said Howard. “Why? Didja see someone creeping around?”

“I did!” said Janet. “There was someone at the window while I was trying to take a bath!”

Howard furrowed his brow and his lips lowered to a frown. His eyes widened in a sort of horrified expression which he was trying to hide.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive,” said Marty. “I found tracks.”

“Folks around here tend to be curious of outsiders,” replied Howard.

“Oh, sure, very curious!” said Janet. “Perverts!”

“You talk about the locals as if you’re afraid of them,” I said. “Is there something I need to know, Howard?”

“Nothing you would believe.”

He left it at that. My reporter instincts told me to press him on it, but I didn’t want to be rude to the man. I should have. I should have demanded answers.

That afternoon, Marty and I decided to go out for a hike in the hills while Janet went to town to do a little sight-seeing and shopping.

“Do you suppose Howard was the one spying on Janet?” I asked.

“Naw,” said Marty. “The tracks were the wrong size. Howard has big feet. Whoever was spying on you was smaller, lighter.”

I trusted Marty’s tracking skills. If he said Howard didn’t do it, then he didn’t.

“Maybe some teenage boy,” I offered.

“That’d be about the right size,” said Marty.

We came to a hollow between two hillsides, where a little stream ran. There were strange markings carved into the trees. Bits of rags hung in the branches. Animal skulls were placed at certain strategic locations.

“What a weird place,” said Marty.

The place was eerie in a way I can’t adequately put into words. We decided then we should turn back to the cottage.

When we arrived, Janet was nowhere to be found. Surely, a brief shopping trip to the village couldn’t have taken this long. It was then that Howard entered the cottage with a basket of fruit.

“Afternoon, gentlemen!” he said.

“Howard, have you seen Janet?”

Howard wore a concerned expression on his face.

“You left her here alone?” he asked.

“She went into town,” said Marty.

A look of alarm spread across Howard’s features, such as I’d only seen on the face of shell-shock victims.

“What in the world has you so spooked, Howard?!” exclaimed my Marty.

Howard heaved a heavy sigh and sat down in the old rocking chair.

“I suppose I can’t hide it from you much longer. Back in 1861, Crooked Horn went through a run of bad luck. First there were the locusts, and then came the blight, then the Yankees came and burned the crops and pastures. The town was on the verge of total starvation. Then an old farmer named Jonah O’Toole started dabbling in black magic. His grandmother had been a witch back in Ireland, and some of her knowledge had been passed to him. He... conjured a familiar spirit that he contracted to protect the town; they call him the Corn Man.”

My mind reeled. Witchcraft? Familiars? This didn’t belong in an age of science and reason. But modern man is not so far removed from his primal ancestors as he would like to think, and there are still things in this universe that science cannot adequately explain. Howard continued his story.

“Things got better. The crops improved. The animals stayed healthy. There were no more plagues. But once the minister at the church caught wind of it, he wanted to have O’Toole thrown out of town, but O’Toole used his powers against him. He was the first victim of the straw-men.”

“Strawmen?” asked Marty.

“The straw men are living scarecrows. The minions of the Corn Man. They do his bidding and the bidding of the witch of the town. Right now that’s Morrigan O’Toole, Old Buggard’s granddaughter.”

“After that, no one dared cross Jonah O’Toole, or Old Buggard as he came to be known. That minister was Hezekiah McCormac, your great grandfather.”

“What does this have to do with Janet?” I asked. “Where is my wife?!”

Howard continued:

“The Corn Man exacted a terrible price for his services. Every ten years, the citizens of Crooked Horn must perform a blood sacrifice. The victim must be a person with green eyes.”

I stared in horror as I thought of Janet’s flashing emerald irises.

“This is crazy,” said Marty.

“It’s all true. Every word,” said Howard.

“Then what do we do?!” I demanded.

“We interrupt that party,” said Howard.

The fire roared brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark night. The band played lively dancing tunes on fiddle, banjo and washboard. All the townsfolk had gathered to celebrate the harvest. All of them were wearing elaborate masks and costumery. It resembled one of those medieval paintings depicting demons in Hell.

Marty and I entered the revelry. We had pistols concealed in our jackets, should it come to violence. We hoped it wouldn’t.

We split up, looking through the crowd, calling Janet’s name. I grabbed one of the revelers by the arm. Something was wrong; it felt too soft. The creature looked at me with button eyes. I tried to pull the mask off, but there was nothing underneath. I held in my hand the creature’s head; a sack full of straw! The headless thing just stood there. I dropped the head. The thing leaned down, picked its head up and placed it back atop it’s torso. To my horror, I realized that a large number of the revelers were not human at all.

I staggered back, shocked. I heard Marty’s voice calling my name over the music and pressed through the throng toward it. There he stood near the center of the jubilant party, staring in astonishment. There was Janet, wearing a white dress and dancing among the masquerade, if one could call it dancing. She staggered back and forth in a drunken fashion. Clearly they’d intoxicated her somehow.

I lurched forward and took her gently by the arm.

“Peter!” she said, eyes lighting up. “Am I glad to see you.”

She tapped me on the nose with her finger.

“We need to get you back to the cottage,” I said.

“Why?”

“Janet, you’re drunk,” I replied, brusquely.

“Oh, Peter, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! Have some punch! Enjoy yourself!”

“Janet, we’ve got to go!” I shouted.

The music stopped. The partiers turned to face us, and closed in about us in a tightening circle. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, came to the forefront. Marty drew his pistol.

“Stay back!” he commanded. The mortals obeyed. I took Janet around the waist, picked her up and carried toward where we’d parked the car, Marty Leading the way. The straw men blocked our way. They each were armed with sickles, pitchforks and other farming implements. They marched toward us, slowly. Marty fired his pistol, hitting one in the chest. Nothing happened. He fired again and again. To his horror he realized that you can’t kill something that was never really alive.

“Leaving without saying goodbye? That ain’t gentleman-like!”

I spun around at the sound of the voice. There stood Morrigan O’Toole, grinning wildly at us as the straw men closed in. A shot rang out, and one of the straw men fell. Just on the edge of a nearby cornfield stood Howard, a shotgun in his hand. He fired again, and another straw man fell to earth. I found out later that the shells were filled with rock salt, which is detrimental to evil spirits. The straw men distracted, we raced to the car. I loaded the inebriated Janet into the back seat. I looked out the window to see the gruesome circle tightening around us, as straw men and masked townsfolk gathered. Marty was nowhere to be found. Howard could only do so much against so many. We couldn’t get out.

I thought this was the end. Then Marty came running in, a firebrand was in his hand. He threw it at the straw men, setting them ablaze. Howard had evidently followed Marty’s lead, setting fire to the ranks of the evil beings. The witch screamed. Marty jumped into the passenger’s side. I floored the gas, and we drove out as fast as we could.

Two days later, I found out that the fire we’d started ravaged Crooked Horn, leaving little left to salvage. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, had apparently died in the fire, and with her, the terrible reign of the Corn Man had ended. The cottage was still intact. I wished the place had burned down too. I have no desire to return there.

[richricciardo]

We all have opinions.

RichRicciardo

I mean, if i’m honest, uhhhhh- Sometimes those opinions could change the world forever; What do you guys think?

[richricciardo]

Expect Dissapointement and you'll never be dissapointed.

Some sort of quote that’s been on my mind and i don’t know where it comes from!

[richricciardo]

Skrt

Huh now who wrote this?

[richricciardo]

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ ||.|| New Kid||.|| ♥

Part 1

Daniel Ricciardo x Fem!Reader

Warnings : A bit strange at times, Some cursing, some sadness and some fluff, a bit sexist and some protective Daniel.

 Author Notes I Guess: English isn’t my first language so there mit be some mistakes but i tried to correct them! Also, this is my first post. So you probably won’t like it but if your looking at this and giving a chance, thanks.

Quick Résumé: Your a new driver and you mostly get judged for being there and your slightly disrespected. You’d realise in the meaning while, Daniel was the only one who was more gentle, and not rude like the rest of the drivers. 

You’d woke up in the morning, knowing that you would be the only female driver there, most males will be shocked. You’d get off your bed, still a bit tired. Then you’d go to the bathroom, taking a nice warm shower before you’d go back in your room to changed into your outfit for the day. You’d live in a small formula one cabin with a bunch of males so, there would be a line of boys to wait after. Luckely, you’d get up early. Since, you knew most of them we’re a bit dramatic and would rush you. Except for Dan, he’d be a little more patient with you. Never the less, you weren’t hungry that morning, so you just took a coffe that morning.,

Max Versteppen glare’d at you as you took sips of  your coffe, he was intimidating. You don’t really know if it was just you or he always looke’d a bit angry. Naturally, Daniel always seems to come to the rescue. He came close to the table you where sitting at.

“Hmm, ‘Y/N’, is he bothering you?”, he aske’d with a small concerned look. He’d skratch his neck. 

“Does it look like she complaine’d?”, Max sat up from the table, staring down at Daniel.

“Not exactly, but it’s polite to ask.”, Daniel told him with a calm, soft voice. Like if Max could scare him. Max paye’d close attention. If he wasn’t so “Peaceful”, i’d dought he would leave Daniel alone.

By the end of the complaining, i already finished my coffe and i was ready to leave. I tried to just move my chair and leave without them noticing me, but of course, that din’t work. I knew Max saw me and glare’d at me while i left but din’t care to say a word. I took the bus to the station. Taking a few breaths, before you would enter the stadium. Of course, without any race cars, it felt empty and peaceful. You’d go sit at the edge, looking down at the track. You can already imagine having a good time. You din’t care what rank came up since racing was mostly your life, you din’t have much until you got initiated. If you din’t have this place, you’d be out on the streets and you knew that since you we’re an orphan. That was the only thing you din’t want anyone to know, not even your most trusted friend. You suddently heard the speakers ringing. It probably ment qualifies  were in the next hour or so.  It was probably 9 am by now, you’ve been here for at least 2 hours in a row, just thinking about your life before Formula 1 racing came to you. It’s amazing how a struggling orphan could end up here and maybe soon be a millionaire. 

You suddently felt a small tip of a finger. You realise’d then that you had tears on you. You turn to see it was Daniel. He gave you a small tissue. You’d dry up your tears. 

“How long have you been just standing there?”, you’d asked. You kinda we’re realising that no one showed respect here, except him. But you did wonder how long he waited there, he must have a good patience.

“As long as when you cried.”, he aswere’d you with a soft tone. “But im glad to see my presence cheered you up, just a small bit!”, he added with his soft classic smile.

“Yeah.”, your answer was short, but i belive he wouln’t mind. You we’re going to ask him something, but you we’re interupted when a load speaker suddently annouced the beginning of the qualification. He’d wanted to walk away, stopped himself and told me “good luck”, and left.

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You arrive’d to the somewhat garage, installing yourself into the car. You din’t care to speak to the crowd that was surrounding your formula one kart. You’d drift onto the track. You’d hear the roaring of your car, and the wheels we’re squeaking. Of’course you we’re precise with your  movements and you we’re very calm. It took you a long while, but you arrived soon to the middle of the track. You’d drift easily, as if it was a Fiat. You soon ended up at the end of the track. Went back into the garage. You din’t think on talking to anyone. Mr.Hamilton came walking towards you. 

He’d glared at you, in a shocked, kinda of stern voice; “Your lucky this time, kid. But you’ll never end up in 1st place ever again. And you won’t win during the race, i can confirm that.”

You rolled your eyes and walke’d pass him, you knew he din’t mean his words much at all. Your glare soon went to Mr.Ricciardo, he walke’d toward you in a rapid pase. He’d pat your hair.

“Good job”, he said shortly. He’d then add; “I’ve never seen any rookie be this good.”, he smile’d at you.

You trie’d to hide your blush, but you knew it was obvious he’d already seen it.

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You arrived at the small cabin, knowing tomorow would be the day you’d be counted as a rookie or not.