Tale of the Week 285: Haunted - Submissions thread

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

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Haunted


Image from https://publicdomainpictures.net by Linnaea Mallette

Keywords
Cold
Mist
Trembling
Pumpkin
Past

Rules - PLEASE READ

• The title and picture are there simply for inspiration, you do not have to use them if you don't want to - besides the keywords everything else is up to you!
• Each theme will have a number of keywords that have to be used in your submission. They can be used in any way, but please place these words in bold so they can easily be seen by the competition organiser(s).
• When using the keywords you may change singular nouns into plurals and vice versa; and you may change the tenses of verbs. No other changes are permitted.
• The submission must have a minimum of 200 words. The title counts towards this minimum, but footnotes, explanatory notes, and other supplementary texts do not. The submission must also have a maximum of 500 words INCLUDING all titles, footnotes etc.
• The submission must be placed in a spoiler.
• The submission period will last at least two weeks. If we have three entries after two weeks, voting will begin. The submission period may be extended at the discretion of the competition organiser(s).
• If you are a contestant you are honour bound to not read other contestants' writings until you have submitted yours.
• If your entry is found to be substantially similar to another entry your submission will be disqualified. This is at the discretion of the competition organiser(s).
• Contestants are not allowed to directly advertise their stories or ask for votes. If this is discovered you will be disqualified. Posting "Please vote for my entry in TotW" is NOT allowed. However, posting "Please vote for your favourite entry in TotW" is not only allowed, it is encouraged!
• This thread is for submissions only. If you have any comments or questions then please post them in the commentary thread.
• Please note that all rules including word count and key words will be strictly enforced. Rule breakers will be disqualified from the vote.
  

Awards

Each winning story will receive 1 Writers' Study Competition point. This point will be added to the total number of points you have won from TotW and other Writers' Study competitions, and recorded in the Writers' Study Hall of Fame. When you have accumulated enough points, you will be awarded the appropriate Writers' Study Competition Medal.

• 6 points - bronze medal
• 12 points - silver medal
• 24 points - gold medal

[Kilo11]

Finally got around to doing this, and I must admit I had fun with it. Too bad it's after Halloween already, but I imagine we can all muster up some lingering spookiness for this TotW. Looking forward to seeing what else comes in!

Submission (500 words)

In the city of Exeter in the Kingdom of England there was once a narrow lane that terminated at a circle of tall houses, ringing the cobbled road in on all sides and leaving only one entrance, or exit, depending on your perspective. It was a common enough place. The buildings were all built after the fashion of the time, with perhaps a slightly genteel air about them, but there was nothing else to mark the spot as unusual or intriguing. However, the houses of Bridgemont Court were in no way usual, and to call them unintriguing would be an untruth of terrifying magnitude, akin to calling Dr. Frankenstein a “cooky fellow”. I saw their aspect near the close of --37, a cold wind rattling the late autumn leaves that desperately defied the coming winter, and as I walked past the trembling shrubs and sarcastic crows I was struck by the loneliness of that neighborhood. The pumpkins of the harvest festival, some few weeks prior, still lay forlornly scattered over porches and lawns, mists curling over and through them without leave or mercy. The postal boxes stood with peeling paint amidst small mounds of old newspapers and forgotten letters, relics of happier more lively times. But most cutting of all were the swings set in the small green at the court’s center. Their chains were rusted and rigid, and yet the winds still struggled against them, setting a melancholy melody throughout the area. I ignored those sights and sounds as best I could and proceeded up the steps of the farthest house. You see, at the time I was acting as a solicitor for the local magistrate, and the resident of that place was set to receive a summons, one I was to deliver. The steps creaked beneath me but held, and I rang the door’s bell with forced alacrity. At first there was no sound, nothing to mark a resident of any kind, but soon enough a candle appeared in the utmost rooms. It descended, passing across every stained and weather-worn window on its way down, but eventually reaching the landing on which I stood. I smoothed my vest and conjured a weak smile on my cracked clay-cold lips. Nothing happened. The panes above the heavy oak door showed a light behind, and its dim rays could be seen dancing in the gap on the floor, but nothing happened. I rang the bell again, but again to no effect. After some moments of consternation, and, I must admit, rising irritation, I began to hammer on the door with my hand, demanding to be seen. Then, suddenly, the candle went out, taking with it every ounce of illumination on that street, and in the black vault that ensued a chorus of voices whispered in my ear and through my soul: “We see you.” I ran, and since that day have never again returned to Exeter or indeed to the Kingdom of England, and I dare say you should not either.

[Hitai de Bodemloze]

498

A cold mist clung to the windows, as Alex took his seat at their regular corner booth, placing his phone down on the worn oaken table. The café wasn't too crowded, the delicate frostfalls of early winter keeping all but the most determined caffeine addict away. Whilst a few of the usual suspects where scattered about the establishment, still shivering and trembling after coming in from the cold, it was largely empty. Yet Alex would always be here, every November 4th, regardless of the weather. And of course, so would Joanna. It was their anniversary after all. "I ordered your favourite," he told her, looking over with a mischievous grin. She looked back at him unblinking, wearing her best 'oh, you're such an idiot' expression; the ghost of a smile playing at the edges of her lips, one painted eyebrow raised, and a twinkle in those deep hazel eyes of hers. Chuckling to himself, Alex lent back in his chair, casually looking around the café whilst his fingers absently toyed with the screen of his smartphone. "Do you remember that Jo? Our first date?" he asked her, as his eyes wandered around the room. He turned back to Joanna, who was rolling her eyes, giving him one of those 'of course I remember' looks. "You got so anxious about ordering a pumpkin latte after Halloween," he reminisced fondly, "as if the barrister was going to laugh at you. In all these years, I've never seen you so insecure." Joanna gave him a piercing stare, nostrils flared and eyebrows narrowed. He quickly put his hands up in surrender. "Sorry, sorry!" he told her quickly, before adding: "it was cute though." He glanced at the clock in the top corner of his phone. It had been a few minutes now; there weren't many other people there, so his order should have been ready by now. "One pumpkin latte for...Joanna!" There it was. Even though it was a different barrister, a different voice, the words were the same, and he closed his eyes, letting the memories of that first date wash over him one more time. He remembered Joanna haughtily stalking up to the counter to collect her drink, then sitting back down, all back-straight, prim and proper, whilst she slowly sipped away at her favourite childhood drink. He had fallen in love with her then and there; seeing that childish side of her for the first time, otherwise locked away in the body of a woman who had tried to grow up far too fast. Far too fast, and far too young. Alex sighed and opened his eyes. He took the phone off the table, closing it and putting the photos of Joanna away for another year. He stood up and waved away the barrister, telling her not to worry about the latte. Sliding on his coat, he made for the door. It had been four years now since the accident, but he still couldn't let go of the past.

[C-Beams]

Here is my entry for the creepy season. 489 Words.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Misandry

“Shh." Detective Kelly jabbed his finger to his lips. His eyes transfixed upon the basement's doorknob.

“What do you hear?” Constable Williams whispered. His voice broke with fright.

Kelly raised his gun and took a step forward. He froze.

The doorknob clicked, turned, and creaked open.

Williams swung up his pistol in both hands, the barrel trembling before his squint.

The door opened and light flooded out to fill the corridor. Before them stood a young woman.

“Williams,” Kelly called out with a raised palm. “Don’t shoot.”

The woman fell to her knees. Her back arched and beat with desperate sobs.

“Help me,” she cried behind blonde, bloodied hair.

Williams let out a breath as Kelly crouched before her. She recoiled at the touch of his hand.

“It’s alright. We’re the police. You’re safe now.”

The woman looked up, her eyes wide and white.

“He’s still here,” she whispered.

Kelly looked to Williams. Beyond the door came a clink of metal.

“Leave the house,” Kelly said as he pulled the woman to her feet. “Quick. Back-up is on its way.”

“Back-up?” The woman sniffed and wiped her face. “When?”

“Any minute.” Kelly beckoned her down the corridor. “We’ll catch this madman. Go.”

“Yes. I will,” the woman said as she pushed past Williams.

Kelly and Williams turned back to the doorway. Another clink sounded.

“Ready Williams?”

Williams nodded, sweat gleamed over his brow.

Kelly raised his gun and entered the room. Williams followed.

The basement was wide and lined by workbenches. Each surface adorned by chains and clamps, saws and cutters. They saw no one.

Williams pressed a hand to his face as the waft of rot choked his throat. At the centre of the room was a hole, ringed by crusts of blood. Kelly stepped up to its edge, his heels sticky with clots. In the pit he saw a mangle of heaped corpses.

Kelly looked away as the clink sounded. On the wall opposite was a cellar window. Unlatched, the frame flapped against a cold breeze.

“Damn,” Kelly said as he hurried over to peer through the misted pane. “The killer’s fled.”

Williams crept beside him as his eyes flinched around the room. “He’s fled?”

“Yeah. Long gone.” Kelly tucked away his gun and examined the basement.

Beside him on a workbench, he saw several glass jars that swam with the cuts of pale, fleshy meat. A paper file was slipped between them.

Kelly pinched it out and teased the sleeves open. Inside he found Polaroids of the killer’s victims.

“My God,” Williams said as he counted their number. “There’s about thirty men here.”

Kelly winced. A notion caught in his mind like a thorn.

He dropped the file and raced to the hole. Inside, the bodies lay blue and purple, their faces bloated like pumpkins. They were all men, he realised – each castrated.

Kelly looked back to the corridor and bit his teeth. “That woman.”

[Adamat]

429 words

He walked through the near-deserted streets of the old city. He still remembered the better days, when a cold night like this wouldn’t have deterred young or old from braving the lantern-lit streets on their way to their favorite pub. Perhaps he was simply getting old, but in his heart he felt that for once, the cliché held true. Time had not been kind on this place with its abandoned shops, broken streetlights, and trembling beggars. Everything used to be better, here. The old gatehouse stood tall as he reached the end of Main Street. A monument to the fighting spirit this place had in the times of kings, knights and adventurers. Its stone was starting to crumble, and moss seemed to be suffocating the stone wherever it could. In the past, they used to take care of the beauty this town had. Preservation was no longer an item on the agenda of its inhabitants now, it would seem. The inn by the gatehouse was still open. A small light lit up the sign and the street in front of it, but that was the only indication that the proprietor was indeed doing business, still. Even when he opened the door, it was almost eerie. No patrons, no music, not even any drunks. He walked up to the bar, taking one of the many empty stools and sitting across from his old friend. “I’m leaving today,” he finally broke the silence. The innkeep hardly showed any emotion. “If that’s what you have to do,” he replied as he served a bowl of lukewarm soup. “Here, it’s the last of the pumpkin harvest for this year. You’ll need your strength for the journey,” the barman said, some affection for his old friend in his voice. When the bowl was empty, he rummaged around his pockets for the last of his money. “Until we meet again,” he said, leaving the three coins on the bar before heading out once again. When he left the gate and walked into the farmlands that he used to till as a young lad, he felt nostalgic. Should he turn around? Should he make do with what the sleepy town could offer him? No. Nothing remained here, and neither would he. In the distance, the industrial city with its factories and its huge districts was still brightly lit, a thin layer of smog hanging over it like a blanket of mist. The future, it was calling. Perhaps everything used to be better there, too, he thought to himself as he set off on the long journey.