Dark Fiction - Heavy Metal

Heavy Metal

By Casey Douglass

The fog deepened as he walked, the echoes of his footsteps swallowed by the milky darkness around him. He smiled to himself, it was a very fortunate occurrence, as fabricating a thick fog like this would be very draining for him. Sometimes nature just gave you a hand.

The street was empty, which was odd for this time of night in the city. High rise offices in the distance loomed like silent sentinels, blocking out the first stars of the evening with their black bulk. Small particles of moisture in the air swirled and eddied around dirty street lights, which strained to give off more light than a candle which was about to burn itself out.

He sighed heavily. He missed candles. Oh he knew they were around, but not like in the old days when entire houses were lit with them, the flickering flames dancing against the carefully sculpted décor...a much richer time for everyone, especially him.

Glancing down, he straightened his black t-shirt with its satanic pictograph, hesitated, and then messed it up a little once more. He caught sight of his ripped jeans, the heavy pewter chains clinking gently with each stride. Such vulgarity.

The sound of laughter pulled him from his quiet introspection as a group of teenagers rounded a corner ahead of him, their backs to him as they headed the same way he walked. He heard the muffled chirping of a mobile phone, the laugher coming every time it made the humorous noise.

The vein in his right arm started to throb. He wondered if it was hunger or annoyance, but he wasn’t sure. The gaggle of teens turned the next corner and began down the hill to the venue, other lone stragglers joining them from other directions as they got nearer to the main door, all converging on their place of worship, most wearing Lacuna Coil clothing. The vague thump of music reached his ears, the sound proofing doing a remarkably good job of not unsettling the locals who lived nearby. The river behind the building glistened in the reflected light that travelled from street lights to fog to water, a silvery serpent just moving through.

‘Ticket please?’

He flinched, surprised that he had reached the door with its surly guardian so quickly.

‘Of course.’ He reached into his back pocket and handed the scowling man the small slip of paper. The man tore the end and returned the main piece to him.

‘Have a good night.’

‘Thank you...and you.’ He almost smiled but dare not chance it.

Strolling inside, he found the outer foyer to be deserted, but the show had already started so he registered no surprise. Upon opening the second door, the rawkish music washed over him, the darkness married with the flashing lights above the stage dazzling and disorientating him. Everything swam around him as dark silhouettes jumped up and down, waving their arms to the music and bouncing off each other. A jolt of annoyance rose through his body, his teeth biting into his lip. He arched his back and pulled himself to his full stature, the room around him stationary and crystal clear once more.

Slowly he moved through the crowd, tracing a line around the back to where the bar was. The potential! The crowd erupted into applause as one tune ended and another seemed about to start. He ignored what was said by the noisy man on stage, tried to block out the screeching of guitars being adjusted and tested. He scanned the massed bodies, his stomach beginning to rumble.

The next song began. The music was excruciating, a mass of noise and shouting that seemed to reverberate inside his chest. His eyes fell upon a woman a few paces away, jumping up and down to the rhythm. She smelt clean and fresh, and had a hint of that earthy smell that he could never quite place, but that usually meant high quality blood.

‘You’ll do very nicely,’ he said into the ambient noise around him.

He began to move closer, teasing himself with the anticipation, his incisors pressing uncomfortably into his cheeks. He couldn’t do it here but he didn’t want to lose track of her if the crowd shifted.

A large fat man sidled into his path barring the way. He gently pressed the man's shoulder, transmitting the irresistible urge to urinate to the man’s subconscious. The man hunched over and quickly waddled away crying out as he went.

He stood right behind her now, the smell was intoxicating. He reached out about to enthral her when the voice began. He stared at the stage in awe as the dark haired female began to sing along with the music. What had seemed a cacophony of sound lacking all profundity, now sounded like honey dripping from a crystal spoon, like the sigh of a spring breeze on the fresh leaves of the season, like...like..nothing he had ever heard before. With a jolt he realised that the woman was watching him, singing to him, her smiling eyes bewitching him. He shook his head from side to side, a feeling of sluggishness worming its way into his thoughts. The woman winked and turned away, the uncomfortable feeling vanishing as quickly as it had come.

He stood in a daze as song after song washed over him, not realizing that his original target was long gone, or that his mouth had fallen open, revealing more than he would usually have dared allow. Before he knew it, the crowd around him erupted and whooped, the members of the travelling band standing hand in hand, bowing down before them. He applauded without thinking, his claps louder than any others. Then the stage was empty, the crowd around him thinning to the point of isolation. His wits returning he made for the egress, and hastily slipped into the shadows.

He waited for a long time, his sensitive ears picking up scores of voices through a slightly open window at the back of the building. He strained to hear hers. He felt ill and weak, he hadn’t fed for months, not since that unpleasant business with the actress and her director. He could really do without that kind of exposure. His trembling hands toyed with the chain on his jeans, his grip flexing and bending the links until they snapped and tinkled to the floor. He didn’t notice.

‘I’m just going out for some air, it’s stuffy.’

He jolted to full awareness, it was her! Her voice sounded different, an exotic accent added a flavour to her words that didn’t come through to any great degree when she sang. It transfixed him. She was coming outside! A small side door banged open and she stepped out, still wearing her stage uniform which he had failed to notice before. She was petit, with a slender body, and her dark hair coiled around her collar. Her black jacket and trousers clung to her figure tightly as the heat had plastered them to her. She carried a small bottle of water in her hand which she sipped as she walked to a railing and stared out across the river.

He edged out from the shadows and soundlessly stalked forward, walking in that special way that, if compared, would make a slinking cat sound like a clumsy dog running on gravel. Nearing the door, he gently pushed it closed with one finger. No interruptions.

The woman ahead sighed and fanned herself with her free hand, the dank river air currents carrying back her scent to him. He stopped short and trembled. He might woo her instead! The trembling, the dazed mind, it might not be hunger after all, it could be love, truly and utterly. How could he feed from her against her will, a creature of such beauty and voice, it would be the most evil thing he had ever done. A tear stung the side of his eye as a leaden feeling pressed his stomach down. He was a monster. Maybe she could help? Maybe she could help him break his habits, his dark deeds. Maybe she would save him from his loneliness, help him find the light again, help him-

‘Don’t stand there all night, are you coming to talk to me or not?’ she said, her back still to him.

‘Oh...I’m sorry, I was being bashful.’

‘Come on, no need to be like that!’ she giggled.

He slowly moved towards her, he felt like he was floating.

‘I wondered what you’d think, a stranger accosting a pretty woman when she is alone in the dark, I didn’t want to scare you.’

He had almost reached her, he could feel the heat coming from her body, he could sense her pulse.

‘I thought you might be scared of me,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t bite.’

He stopped. She spun around and buried something sharp and cold into the side of his neck. He opened his mouth to scream but she clamped a hand firmly over it. The world spun around him and he fell to his knees, she dropping to hers at the same moment, tightening her grip. Her eyes flashed close to his, mischief sparkling near their edges.

‘Didn’t you wonder?’ she asked smiling.

Gasping, he felt sticky fluid running down his neck and through his clothes, his eyes still locked onto hers.

‘Mmph.’

‘Was that a “What?” I think it was! Didn’t you wonder why we always tour out of the way places that no body would ever dream we would play at?’ She wrenched the object out of his neck, the fluid having stopped moments before. He saw her glance at the ornate knife before pushing it into his chest. His eyes screwed shut as he felt it piercing his heart, a white hot feeling rushing through his breast. Even at this stage his mind wondered if the pain was from the knife or from the desire unrequited. A tear dripped down the side of his nose when he managed to open his eyes again.

‘We know where you are, what you are, and what you do. We arrange our little tours when news of one of you bastards gets to us.’ She spat at him.

The night seemed darker now, the shifting fog revealing more figures around them. Standing. Watching.

‘Finish him Cristina,’ one of them said. ‘I don’t think he is the one!’

‘Marco, did I interfere when you got that piece of shit in Milan? What do you mean not the one?’

‘Our vamp is older, greyer, you know...shrivelled prune type face.’

She turned and looked at them, ‘So who’s this?’

‘Must be a random.’

Turning back she smiled and in a mocking voice said, ‘Poor baby, chose the wrong gig to just wander into did we? What’s your name?’ She eased her hand away slightly.

‘Thomas,’ he spluttered.

‘A nice name. Well Thomas...’ she said it like she was trying to swallow some unpalatable meat, ‘goodbye!’

‘Thank you.’ Thomas said weakly, his vision dark, his hearing fading.

‘Thank you?’

‘Yes...I thought you would set me free....not in this way...I was...half right.’

She pulled the knife out and let the body fall backwards, the corpse disintegrating as it hit the hard concrete.

‘Why do they all fucking fall in love with me?’ she sighed and stood up brushing herself down.

Andrea walked up behind her and put his arm around her shoulders, ‘Why do you think we do so well compared to the others? Every trap needs a honey.’

‘Don’t you mean needs honey?’

‘No. I got it right the first time.’

A tittering came from behind them. Cristina turned and shouted, ‘Marco stop being a dick and do something useful, like finding a broom for that mess! And Cristiano! Find out where the hell our real guy got to!’

Marco muttered under his breath, ‘You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’

Her hand cuffed him around the head, making his ears ring.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

‘You wouldn’t want me to catch you Marco, do you know what happened to the last guy?’

She put her arm around him as they all moved back to the door, quiet laughter filling the murky air.

THE END

**************************************

This story was written after I was lucky enough to go and see Lacuna Coil live. They were totally amazing, and it was the best gig I have ever seen. They were as good in person as one their albums and I really hope I get to see them again. I kept thinking about the gig and thought that this was a fitting way of paying tribute. I thought they might like the idea if ever they read it themselves at least.

Lacuna Coil are : Cristina Scabbia, Andrea Ferro, Cristiano Migliore, Marco Biazzi, Marco Coti Zelati and Cristiano Mozzati.

The Official Lacuna Coil Website : http://www.lacunacoil.it/

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Winter

Today feels like Winter has finally arrived. I think it must have made some backroom deal with Summer though, something along the lines of “Hey bud, fancy clockin’ in for me while I kick it at home a bit longer? I promise I`ll be late clocking out for you next year, I’m totally good for it!” 

The last few weeks have been so mild, evidence of which is the swarming of the insects around the hedgerows, and, get this, I heard a cricket on the lawn a few days ago! I know! I have a feeling that said cricket will be dead soon. We have had hail and sleet so far, heavy downpours, a chill wind, and the temperature has dropped by around five degrees celcius. 

My fingers are cold, my neck is beginning to feel the breath of the dead (or drafts if you want less drama), and I am drinking more hot drinks. Yes winter is here and I say about time.

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Dark Review - Enders Game by Orson Scott Card

Review of the book Enders Game

By Casey Douglass

I recently finished reading Enders Game by Orson Scott Card, and I have to say I was very impressed by it. It follows the story of Ender Wiggin, a child born into red tape from day one, a future where population control is rife and only with special dispensation can you have more than two children. Ender is a ‘third’ and if it wasn’t for the military’s interest in him and his hoped for genius, he probably wouldn’t even exist. The earth is under threat from the ‘buggers’, an alien race that has already attacked previously, and it is felt that Ender should have the talent and skills to lead humanity to victory and safety.

He is taken away to Battle School when he is six years old and is introduced to ‘The Game’ which is a zero gravity battleground around which he and the other children (ranging in age from six to early double figures) do battle, using special lasers that freeze the targets battle-suit, either partially or fully, taking them out of the game. It is a way to teach the kids command, tactics and other skills that are useful in preparing them for war, and separating the chaff. Of course, things are not that simple for Ender, he has to be given every opportunity to shine, and so they attempt to grind him into dust by always stacking things against him. More, you will have to read for yourself.

Orson has a way of writing that is very easy to read, and yet still conveys layers of meaning. Ender is a very likeable character, brilliant but unsure, capable of violence but enshrouded in guilt whenever it occurs, even if it was in his own self defense. It is interesting to see how they attempt to break Ender down, and even more exciting to see how he proves time and again that he is truly exceptional. They even use promotion of rank against him, to unsettle him just when he is getting his feet more firmly on the ground.

The story has a nice pace to it and while you couldn’t accuse it of being quick paced, it’s no slouch. There are some nice twists to it and the ending hits you with a few surprises in a short space of time, but it is done in such a way that it just seems right and in keeping with the whole story. It is also one of those rare stories that doesn’t expect you to believe life and morals are black and white, and there is moral ambiguity and shades of grey to many pivotal scenes in the story, which I liked very much.

It isn’t often that I read flat out sci-fi, I am more a fantasy/horror chap, but this was good. I immediately picked up the next two books in trilogy and am just hoping that they will be up to the same standard.

The only thing I struggled with in the book was the mental image of the bugs from the starship troopers film, whenever the buggers were mentioned. While not eithers fault, it was hard to shake, even though the buggers in Enders Game had their own advanced technology and spacecraft.

A solid 10 out of 10 book for me, if I absolutely had to rate it.

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Life Getting in the Way

I haven’t forgotten the blog, far from it. I feel I should be writing on it daily but my health has been a struggle for me lately, and my writing has ground to a halt.

There were a number of promising competitions coming up for Halloween that I had hoped to enter but whenever I tried to conceive or develop an idea, my mind seemed to clam up and mock me with silence. I’m not sure if it was writers block, procrastination or just my mind being worn out and telling me to get stuffed. Even worse, when I have been able to watch a little TV or play a little Xbox, my mental "kick-him-when-he's-down" coach chimes in with “Oh, you can do that but you can’t write 100 words?”

On the plus side, I am reading a lot more and getting through books in record time for me, so at the least, I am expanding my horizons in some measure. Actually, when I am in the mood to write, I don’t read so much, so maybe that’s my natural pattern. Who knows.

I have a few blog posts already fleshed out so will be upping my output now hopefully. Don't worry though, I won't be posting about my every meal or bowel movement, no matter how spectacular lol.

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Just thought I would do a little Contact Me page in a way that seems to make the most sense. I considered showing my email address but I'm in no hurry to get viagra/casino/accident compensation spam, so thought I would opt for this way instead.

If you'd like to contact me about any of my writing, please leave a comment on this post. I have to approve all comments before they appear on my blog and I won't approve any on this post, they will purely be for my own reading. If you include an email address I can get back to you that way.

Or if you are on Twitter, you can tweet me or send me a private tweet at @Casey_Douglass

Thanks for reading.

Dark Fiction - Holiday

Holiday

By Casey Douglass

As part of #fridayflash

Just outside the village, there is a place that straddles the divide between the known and the unknown. To the unwary traveller, it is a place of spacious awe, but to the locals, it is a place to fear and avoid.

When you walk there, you wind your way through a pleasant smelling forest, a general atmosphere of rest and tranquillity hugging your shoulders. You push on, the first sign of something amiss is the smell. To begin with, it smells strangely like a sweet scented mould, not unpleasant but just bordering on the uncomfortable. The odour increases and grows the further you go along the road, becoming more and more intense. The trees lining the road appear withered now, and blackened, as if something leached away at their spirit until they just tired of life.

The last few hundred yards of the road are barren, a dry silty sand all that sprinkles the ground, but you don’t notice this. The ground slopes ever so slightly away from you, drawing your eye to the yawning chasm ahead of you. A vast hole in the ground punches down through the land, its tableau looking like someone had discarded a black dinner plate that was just too heavy for the table top, sinking down and down, the walls of the precipice strangely smooth and slightly shiny. Once you have drank deeply of the nothingness that resides there, you look at something that only vaguely impinged on your consciousness before.

One hundred paces to your right, a rickety rope bridge stretches across the unfathomed depths, twisting and shaking in some foul updraught that belches the sickly smelling vapour from deep below. As your eyes trace the route of the bridge, they alight on the very centre of the eerie view. A wooden house, perched precariously on a slim sliver of rock that stabs out from the centre of the void. You gaze at the house, wondering at it’s existence and how on earth it was even built. It looks a nice house, well kept and in a style that wouldn’t look out of place in any more modern scene. There are even a number of hanging baskets and flower pots on its quaint veranda, rainbow coloured blooms adding the dash of colour that the scene so desperately needs.

A face appears at a window, a waving hand conveying that you should leave in no uncertain terms. You don’t. The place has beguiled you and tweaked your curiosity. After all, you can handle yourself, what is there to be afraid of? You head to the bridge, your eyes upon the figure still gesturing madly towards the forest. The first wooden slat groans slightly as you test it with half of your weight, but seeing the number of them ahead of you, decide to throw caution to the wind and stride forward.

The figure rushes out from the house now, a middle aged man with a balding head and a midsummer tan. He doesn’t look like a local. He shouts at you in some foreign language that you have no comprehension of, but you know enough of the local language to confirm that he’s not from around here. He stands at the far end of the bridge, becoming more and more agitated with every step you take, his face turning red with consternation.

You have reached the half way point now, the blackness on both sides giving you the distinct feeling that this might be how a horse feels wearing it’s blinkers. The bridge sways more violently as your weight adds to it’s wavelength of oscillation, your hand tightly gripping the guide rope. You notice one missing slat just in time and almost stumble avoiding it. The air blowing up from below you is almost unbearable in it’s stench now, but very warm. You aren’t sure if the sweat on your brow is from the heat or the concentration.

The man drops to his knees, his hands clasped tightly together under his chin, the sounds of sobbing reaching your ears. You try to stop, alarm triggering some innate sense of caution that had until now been subverted. You find you cannot. Your feet carry on pacing, slowly and with a purpose, chewing up the distance between you and the man with every passing moment. The man is coughing now, his hands scratching at his throat, a rattling wheezing sound that doesn’t bode well. You grasp the rope rail hard, trying to stop your feet by virtue of your arm strength, but only achieve a stinging rope burn as the fibres rub off a layer of skin.

You are there. The man lays gurgling on the floor, his last breath expiring as your foot touches the rocky foundation of the house. Whatever spell bewitched you clears in an instant, the full control of your body returned to you. You turn and stride onto the bridge again but your foot hits an invisible barrier that’s as hard as a brick wall. Pain shoots through your toes. You stumble backwards in shock and fall over the man's body, your backside landing painfully on the floor. You pant awhile, your pounding heart slowing enough for you to stop shaking, and you slowly raise yourself and dust yourself off.

A flickering figure appears in front of you, seemingly made of dark sand particles and dust from the heated air. It speaks, its voice resembling the sound of pebbles being rubbed together.

‘Welcome to the Locii. I am your servant, and I can grant any wish that you desire.’

You stand open mouthed but soon venture a small wish and stare amazed as it materializes in front of you. Then another. Then another. Your mind is beguiled with possibility and lust for the things you have always wanted, the sexual encounters, the trinkets, the powers. You have been given a vast tankard of possibility and you drink of it deeply. Time passes, and you couldn’t be happier. Fantasies achieved steer the brain away from the old life and cloud its small nagging voice that keeps trying to bring you back, but it fails.

One day, you are sitting in your plush lounge, enjoying another day in paradise. Your servant fades into view in front of you.

‘Another is here.’

You smile, not understanding. The servant points to the window. You gaze out and see a traveller standing awkwardly at the forest mouth, gazing at the view before them.

‘If they come here, you will die.’

You turn to the servant but it has already vanished. The traveller is looking at the house now. You gesture for them to go away. They wave. You shout at the traveller, your voice standing no chance of reaching them. They wave again and move towards the bridge. Panic grips you as you run outside to the bridge.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Ritual

Ritual

By Casey Douglass

As part of #fridayflash

Kenneth felt the plate crack in his hands, the noise itself muffled by the sudsy water.

‘Bloody hell!’ he shouted.

He held on to both pieces and lifted them from the water. They chinked as he pressed one on top of the other and headed across to the kitchen bin. He stomped on the peddle, the tiny mechanism launching the lid into the wall with a metallic clang. He dropped the two halves inside, swearing as one malicious corner scraped along his thumb. The lid closed with a thump as he assessed the damage.

‘Good afternoon Sir.’

Kenneth spun around to face the voice behind him. He let his hand fall to his side, his dripping blood forgotten. A stout fat red thing sat on the draining board, for all the world looking like a demon.

‘Correct! Bravo!’ Two taloned hands clapped rapidly, like the sound of someone popping lots of bubble wrap.

‘What..?’

‘Who would be more polite my dear boy but I’ll excuse your ignorance of etiquette, you look a bit frazzled.’

Kenneth moved nearer, a slight whiff of sulphur and scorched flesh hung in the air, the demon giving off the faintest shimmer of heat haze. He watched it lift a wrist and gaze at a small heavy looking watch.

‘What do you want?’

The demon prodded the watch with a long finger and clucked.

‘Too much heat! Oh sorry...to cut a long story short, from the moment of your birth, your every action, thought, desire and chance happening was preordained to form part of a ritual, known as the Great Completion. When it is finished, in...oh around five minutes, my master will achieve his desired result and the world will change to his will. Do you follow?’

Kenneth shook his head slowly but the colour draining from his face showed that he did, at least partly.

‘Everything I’ve done?’

‘Yes.’

‘Everything I’ve said...will say?’

‘Yes, including that!’

‘What will happen?’

‘And that! Oh I do apologise...the truth is I don’t know, I’m just here to play my part, to watch out for “the other side” if you know what I mean.’

‘God?’

‘Could be. Could be Angels, could be any “being of a higher frequency.” That’s how we have to refer to them now, political correctness and all that. I still call them robe lifters though, if I’m honest.’ He gave a wry smile and winked.

‘What now then? What will-’ Kenneth dropped to his knees, a trembling convulsion shaking his body as his mind cottoned on to some stimulus that his conscious mind refused to recognise.

‘Don’t worry, its almost time.’

A white feather fluttered down from the ceiling and landed on Kenneth’s head. The demon jumped down to the floor furiously waving his claws.

‘No no no! Bugger off!’ He snatched the feather and shoved it inside his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he gazed upwards. ‘They don’t learn!’

Kenneth’s vision began to blur, his head pounded like an anvil being smashed with a lump hammer. He cried out as the pain shot down his spine, causing him to fall flat out at the demons feet, consciousness and life drifting away with every passing moment.

‘That’s a good lad.’ The demon patted the back of his head tenderly.

Another white feather floated past the demon’s head, and another, then another. Within seconds the room was stuffed full of the slow drifting pillow stuffers. The demon opened his mouth to yell but inadvertently sucked in a great swathe of them, choking and tickling his fangs. He coughed and spluttered, his red cheeks now tinged with blue. The ground began to rumble, the cutlery in the drawers rat-a-tatting along with the bass beat.

‘Master!’ he shouted, ‘It’s not my fault!’

A wrenching force rippled the carpet tiled floor, a gaping tear slowly widening to the size of a small car. A flame lanced up from the hole, incinerating the snow of feathers in seconds, their blackened skeletal remains turning to dust as they hit the ground. The demon coughed out the last few that were lodged in his throat and sat down heavily, the rumbling beginning to subside.

A black figure slowly rose from the hole, levitating on a cloud of dark boiling ether. It spoke, it’s voice was whispered and slick like the lichen on a damp grave.

‘Drumax return! There was a problem with the ritual.’

Drumax nodded nervously.

‘My fault?’

‘No.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘A miscalculation by the overseer. All enforcers are being recalled to the circles for a full debrief.’

‘I thought the other side-,’

‘No! Part of the working was off by a fraction. There is now a chicken factory in Kiev with a few thousand bald chickens.’

Drumax let his mouth fall open, it was either that or smile, and he didn’t dare do that with the Reclaimer in front of him. He looked down at Kenneth, the body was beginning to stiffen. He shrugged, no point feeling sorry for him, occupational hazard, being a sacrifice and all.

He slowly got to his feet and joined the Reclaimer on his black cloud. As they sank slowly from view, the rumbling returned, slowly pinching the hole in the floor back together again. Just as it almost met in the middle, their conversation began again.

‘Fancy making a mistake like that!’ Drumax said. There was a slight pause before the other replied.

‘The devil is always in the detail.’

The sound of Drumax’s laugh was cut short by a loud slapping noise and a small whimper. The floor met with a thump, the ash covered kitchen and body looking like a picture in some ghoulish catalogue for zombie home improvements. The window was slightly open to the outside world, but all the neighbours would detect was the slight aroma of some strange barbecue lingering in the frazzled air. It was Summer, after all.

THE END

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