Welcome to the third annual 31 Days of Horror writing challenge!
This years list was such a treat to make and I really like how it turned out!
For those wonder what this is, the 31 Days of Horror challenge is simple:
Every day of October you take the corresponding prompt and write a short horror story to go along with it. If you feel like posting it anywhere tag it with #31DOH2022 so others can see what you have created.
If you have any more questions check out the FAQ or send me an ask.
Content warnings: death, descriptions of corpses and decaying
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The Lasalle name held no prestige even when the family’s grand theater by the city square blazed with lamplight every night. It hung faded over a boarded-up entrance with cracking, peeling letters, and crass graffiti on the right wall facing the street.
The chandeliers still hang from the entrance hall, dripping with cobwebs swaying like wraiths. The mirrors have largely fractured, the gilded paint on their frames cracked and chipped. Beer bottles and cigarette butts litter the old tiles with scuffed flower motifs.
Callista alone remembers the grandeur of the theater. She sits patiently in the audience (although she must admit her patience is wearing as thin as the threadbare seats) pulling the cotton that spills out, the once-rich burgundy chairs now a dull brown. She pays no mind; only, she sighs loudly when a large rat skitters by her feet.
It does a double take when it sees her - rats are such intelligent creatures - but, discerning no harm, it runs away, no doubt back to its partner and many, many rat children.
The audiences found the rats dreadful. The ladies would clutch at the pearls that choked them, fainting when one ran by, and the gentlemen would oh so gallantly (gentlemen always considered themselves gallant, as if it was such a tremendous task, this calming after seeing rats in a crowded city) catch them, holding them stiffly upright. Callista used to peek out from the doors on the side of the amphitheater if the manager wasn’t looking.
She remembers Viola most all, with eyes like spotlights from the back of the theater, trained on Callista.
There are no simpering young ladies and their chivalrous escorts to mind the rats now. What is theatre with no audience?
The orchestra plays silently tonight, as every night. It still brings the hair on the back of her neck to a stiff stand, goose prickles up and down her arms, a quickening heartbeat. Or at least, she remembers these sensations.
The flesh forgets, but perhaps, tonight, it remembers. Perhaps tonight, as with every night before, or so Callista hopes, there is a bit of land outside of town where wild clover dances, and underneath, the bones try to clasp their fingers together, and the descendants of worms from decades ago constrict unknowingly compelled by some small part of a diaphragm their ancestors pushed through.
She pushes her skirts under her legs, leaning stubbornly back into the chair. Presses her lips together as hard as she can. Somewhere, maybe, there’s a fox who lives only because her starving great-great-great-grandmother, through sheer luck, dug up the body of a contralto and, because nature loves irony, tore out her throat. Perhaps that fox makes small, low whimpers as it dreams, the echoes of a song passed down in time.
The stage, empty and dusty, and obscured by shadow, beckons her still. If she snuck into the wings, she would find the floorboards decayed with gaping holes through which a person could fall. The smell of face powder and perfume would be replaced by mildew, and the rustling of skirts and gleeful, sheepish shushing would be nothing but insects and rodents running and fighting in the walls.
If she stood on that stage, no spotlight would save her from the consuming, frigid dark that enveloped the building.
It used to be: no matter how hard she practiced, she could still feel the pounding of her heart in her throat when the audience’s eyes and ears focused in on her hotter than any spotlight.
Callista looks to her left, to her right, behind her, above to the mezzanine. Empty. Empty. Empty. A one-woman audience with no show to watch.
She touches her throat (metaphorically, of course. She hasn’t had a throat or a sense of touch in decades), and turns her attention back to the empty stage.
Curtains rise. The lights are blinding. Actors fill the stage, setting the story into motion.
In the wings, you wait.
The shouts of the stage echo throughout the theater. A gunshot would not startle you as much.
Backstage, the world is still. Everyone waits for their role. There is no other reason for them to exist.
ACT TWO.
Walk in the background. Be more than one person. There is a crowd here, you try to tell the audience, even if it’s just me.
There’s you, and you, and you, and you.
Actors and stagehands trapped between curtains. Audience trapped in the seats, held down by the dark.
A light follows you.
You can’t see the world beyond it.
ACT THREE.
Here is a happy ending where everyone pretends to have gotten what they wanted.
The couple is together, the children look to a bright future, the conflict is resolved.
In the wings, you wait for the break of
the chandelier—
the catwalk—
a bone—
The curtain falls.
The world stills its motion.
You keep waiting. It will always come. Nothing ever survives the story.
INTERLUDE.
Murmur of conversation. Lights on the other side. A brief respite.
Costumes are changed. Makeup is fixed. Lines are studied.
No one will look at each other; we only wear the faces we are given and those faces are only visible on stage.
Who are we when the story is paused? Who exists outside of these roles?
You don’t have a name.
You are just a background character meant to fill in the space.
You wonder what it’s like to be on the other side.
ACT FOUR.
Another screaming match between sisters. It is here that you thrive, stepping out of the shadows and into center stage.
You, who was never important before, suddenly become the very thing that holds the play together.
The audience can’t take their eyes off you.
It is exhilarating.
It is agonizing.
The fight is scripted. You can only save one and that is a choice made for you. One sister dies, knife to her throat, and one sister watches from the cradle of your arms.
You are not important until death has arrived. Perhaps you are not a background character, but a banshee prophesying death, or a grim reaper whose arrival is inevitable.
ACT FIVE.
Here is the end: bodies on the stage, blood pooling around them. The audience is silent and horrified. The lights burn, unrelenting in their exposure of the crime.
You are alive. You are on your knees amid the carnage.
Here is the one who is meant to be your heart; dead.
Here is the villain who set it all in motion; dead.
Here is you, the survivor; alive.
Curtains fall. There is no applause.
You walk back to the wings and wait for the story to begin again; all new bodies wearing the same old faces.
Sometimes I really wonder why I took this job. Working weekends at the old car yard. With cars so old they probably haven't moved since glam punk was popular, cars coated in so much dust there's probably a whole colony of bunnies in there someone. Not to mention the spiders that surely cover almost every inch of free space.
Surprisingly though that’s not the strangest thing here. It's the old beetle tucked down by the fence corner, mostly covered by the slightly dead bushes determined to hide it. My boss told be to never venture down there, down a well beaten path that takes you away from the hoard of cars. I did find it rather weird that no other cars were placed near it, even though there is a tonne of space. I questioned my boss about it and he simply told me that it is for a reason. Helpful. And not any good at quelling my curiosity.
So of course that’s how I find myself here. Locked inside the car yard after closing as the last of the Sun's rays are absorbed into the Earth. The vines growing out of the car were not something I expected. Nor the way they curl, twist and bind themselves to the car, like they're somehow stopping it from running away. Besides that the car itself seems to be in reasonable condition. Well reasonable for this car yard, there is rust on it but at least the rust hasn’t caused any holes. I reach for the silver handle, maybe I'll find something interesting inside.
The green upholstered seats could certainly use a wash, though again at least they are in one piece. The vines are also in the car, they must come through the floor of something. Well I think that until I glance at the dash of the car and down to the cassette player, the vines are growing out of it. Like out of the machine, where you would put the cassette. The buttons are still visible, slightly worn out but like they would still work. I hear a creeping sound behind me, probably just my weight as I lean further into the car.
Against all better judgement I hit the play button on the player. The car isn't on so it's not exactly like it'll work. Except it does. It starts playing, some horrendous concoction of notes, both in and out of tune. It grinds against my ears, my brain. My hands move of their own accord to cover my ears, the extra protection doing nothing to stop the screeching. My legs fall out from underneath me, knees smashing into the car floor. Falling sideways I pull my legs to my chest, simply willing for it to be over.
Something grabs my ankle and pulls. I pull back, my ears might be bleeding but I am not about to be taken by someone lurking in the shadows. The car lights up, the headlights turning on with a buzz. I see green around my ankle, the vines. Its pulling me, and harder this time I can't stop it. It drags me towards the open door of the car and a flail, quite ungraciously but no one is here to see it. The vines pull me out of the car and drops me into the dirt. Quite hard. Dead bush digging into my shoulder.
Another vine grabs my arm and drags me through the dirt away from the car. Arm getting increasingly scratched as I move. I end up away from the car, the vine seems to be helping me, far enough away that I can stand again and slowly can begin to walk away.
1
It was nice to be home. It was nice to be able to put her cane down and just know where things were. How many steps it was from the front door to the kitchen. From the kitchen to the living room. From the living room to her bedroom.
2
She didn’t need to worry if there was something new somewhere because it was just her here. No surprises, no stubbed toes, and no bruised shins.
3
She never had to worry if the lights were on; it’s not like she needed them to see or anything. It was nice to not have to worry if the described video was on for her shows or having to ask someone to turn it on.
4
Everything was exactly like she needed it.
5
Right now, though, she was getting ready for bed. Putting on an oversized shirt and her favourite pair of pyjama pants. All that was left to do was to walk the eight steps down the hall, turn right, and take two more steps for the bathroom so she could brush her teeth.
6
So she headed out of her room absently counting her steps as she thought about all the things that needed to be done tomorrow. What time she needed to be at the restaurant for lunch with her Mom, the grocery shopping she needed to do after. All of it was echoed by her quiet counting. One, two, three, four, five, six
7
Maybe she would put off shopping until Sunday, just order pizza tomorrow night. A lazy night in.
8
She pivoted on her heel to turn to the bathroom and ran into the wall. She stood there for a moment stunned. Had she miscounted? Had she not been paying enough attention? She put her hand on the wall and took another step down the hall.
9
There was still just wall.
10
11
Where was the turn?
12
Why was it still hall?
19
20
She could feel her heart racing.
26
27
28
This was her home.
35
She knew her home better than she knew herself some day.
47
Her toe caught on an upturned corner of carpet and she fell, hands reaching out to catch herself. The sting of rug burn bit at her palms.
49
She crawled forwards a few lengths.
53
54
Tears began to spill down her cheeks as she got to her feet. She wanted to turn back, try and get back to the safety of her bed but she was scared of what lay behind her now.
62
So she kept going.
81
Kept walking.
115
206
381
