Cyanwrites Blog #1

I’m going to be attempting the NaNoWriMo challenge all November, so there will be no short stories published here for that time. Instead, I might attempt a weekly blog. We’ll see how it goes.

First up, you may notice that from late September to mid October, there was no activity. That’s because I was writing an ironic Vampire novel, which can be found here; http://www.wattpad.com/story/25619502-nightfall

Also, there are some horror stories of mine that are too dark for even here. This, for example; http://spinpasta.wikia.com/wiki/Hartley%27s_Friend (WARNING: DISTURBING CONTENT)

Happy Hallowe’en!

Five Nights At Freddy vs. Pac-Man

Freddy: Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. Keep your hands on the lights,
Because it’s known that I’m a stone cold killer on the mic.
You better be afraid, trying to rap against Fred.
I would murder you horribly, but, well. You’re already dead.
You see, when you’re haunting the night shift, you’re in my pizzeria.
No point trying to run or hide, because I am the God here!
So sit down at a table. I recommend the spaghetti.
You can’t eat it, but you’re all meals anyway to Golden Freddy.

Clyde: I’m guessing you must be a little rusty at trying to rap.
You’re not fresh, you’re dusty. Just like your top hat.
We are the Pac-Man ghosts! Rocking the arcade!
You can’t escape us. We’ll hunt you down and take your lives in this maze!
Spooking out gamers all over the world for 34 years.
We’re pros at making arcaders sweat. We ARE their fear!
We hunt what looks like a pizza everyday, so nice try.
But we don’t find you scary, Teddy. Go home and fix your bowtie.

Bonnie: Did somebody say ‘34? Now the four of you should just hide.
Because I’m your greatest enemy, Ghostie. This is no ‘Bonnie and Clyde’
It’s the big blue rabbit with the electric guitar.
Call me the ‘Bonnie Prince’, Because I’m a goddamn rock star!
Don’t be hating on bowties. Didn’t you know that they’re cool?
I am a robot! I’m four rooms away from terminating this ghoul!
You gobble the face of Pac-Man like he gobbles berries,
But try and gobble my face off, you’ll just make me more scary!

Pinky: Are you supposed to be a bunny? You look more like a pig!
Silly rabbit! These tedious hide and seek tricks are for kids!
Not that you’d know entertainment if but you in the tail.
We’re video game legends! You stay in the same spot and flail.
You’re a fail! you eat like a hungry hungry hippo.
I was the original unknown-gendered hunter in my foursome.
Stop killing your customers and letting their bodies rot, you sicko!
You and your animatronics suck! Me and my ghosts are awesome!

Chica: Oh, hello, Pinky. I guess that must make me the brain.
You see how I twitch like this? I’m completely insane.
Cross me, and you’ll go to hell in a handbasket.
Unless you are a girl, of course. Did you know I’m a chick magnet?
I’m the malfuctioning mascot. Can’t you tell from my eyes?
I’ll drag you to the kitchen, and make a Pinky Pie.
Serve it up the next day with a little parmesan cheese.
Now you can really make the children happy. Let’s Eat!

Blinky: You you assume you can touch us? Is that what you think?
One touch is game over, man! So don’t even blink.
I’m always on the move. I’m a constantly dangerous sprite.
While you stay still when you’re watched and play Red-Light-Steam-Greenlight.
So keep your eye on the cameras, because the longer you take,
The faster I get. I’ll give you a reason to shake!
You think I’ll let you live to see F.N.I.F 2?
Sorry, birdie. Bye Bye. There’s no sequel for you?

Foxy: ‘What’s the time, Mr. Wolf?’ Do any of you ghosts know?
It doesn’t matter. You all forgot to check Pirate Cove!
I’m the fastest runner there is, I move even when watched.
Y’arrr! I’ll clear the room, and put your eyes back in their box.
You should all flee from me like I’ve eaten a power pellet.
Except it never wears off, and there are. No. Exits.
You four haunting spirits will have wish you’d gone to heaven,
When the game of 1980 meets the bite of ‘87!

Inky: We’re all missing the big picture. Your guy’s game is terrible.
We put Namco on the map! Our two games aren’t even comparable.
It’s just nothing load of really cheap jumpscares.
You’re like a remake of the Scary Maze game, but with a bear!
And Foxy. You’re good at nothing but spawning Seven Seas of Yiff.
Is this all that the the Fox says? I better go tell Ylvis.
It’s time to bring this Epic Rap Battle to a closure.
Everyone knows that we’re better. Your lives are up. Game Over.

Mama Duck

[To my wonderful and amazing sister. Happy birthday!]

Mama Duck looked behind her. Her seven little ducklings had grown up quickly. It had only been six weeks, and they were almost the size of adults. Mama Duck was still worried, however, that they weren’t yet good enough flyers to attempt the migration south.

The happy family was currently swimming downriver, in the Norfolk Broads. It was pleasant here; it was warm yet rainy, you were never far from water. There were lots of safe places to make a nest, and there was never a shortage of humans with slices of bread at the ready. This area was perfect for ducks, at least in the summer.

But winter was coming. The days were getting shorter and the nights longer, and Mama Duck could feel the chill in the air. The time to migrate was coming, and she had to whip her no-good children into shape.

She quacked for them to stop, and they did. She flew away from the river and landed on the roof of an old cottage. She quacked for her children to follow. Four of them made the flight. Two of them had to make multiple attempts but still made it. The runt of the little still couldn’t after five tries. Mama Duck had a natural animal instinct to abandon the runt, but somewhere in her heart, a different voice was quacking for her to give it a little more time.

Her patience paid off. On the eighth try, it got the hang of it. Now they were all on the roof. Mama duck ruffled her wing feathers, and made a show of preparing to fly. The message to her children was simple; That was the easy part. Here comes something a bit more challenging.

She set off, flying higher and higher, heading straight south by her inbuilt compass. She turned her head to glance behind her, and all seven of her children were following. The runt was the farthest behind, but he was still keeping up. When he began to lose altitude or speed; that was when she’d worry.

This was not the migration. At least it won’t be if any of her children had a problem, which they likely would. In that case, she’d set them down and have a rest, and lots to eat, before they tried again. Mama Duck was going to get all seven of these ducklings south if it bloody killed her.

After only ten minutes flying, the runt began to falter, so they stopped in a forest, and ate, and rested, and slept. They next day, they were ready to go again. Mama Duck set off first, followed by the runt, who was now faster than the rest having gotten something to eat.

The family of eight flew without incident until they reached the ocean. From here on out, there was no land. Mama Duck had taught them how to ride on the currant of the wind, and there was always the option of swimming for a while if they needed to give their wings a break, which not many birds had the option of.

Even so, there could be no mistakes. There were predators under the ocean, and predators in the sky. Mama Duck kept a watchful eye out.

Her paranoia was well-grounded, when two hours into the migration, a hawk screeched and swooped in from above. Mama Duck quacked a warning, and the family scattered. Mama Duck weaved and dodged as her instincts commanded, until her heart kicked in and she quacked loudly to her children.

Worry gripped Mama Duck as she waited for her children to regroup. She was slightly believed that four of them turned up straight away. Then the other two appeared shortly after. But where was the runt? Oh no. Where was the runt?!

Mama Duck quacked in distress and heartbreak as she looked around frantically. She eventually spotted the hawk, flying away with a seagull. Her child was harder to spot but was flying towards her.

Mama Duck’s little ducky brain worked out what must have happened; the runt must have flown near another animal both easier to catch and larger, in the hope that the hawk would take that instead. Mama Duck’s heart swelled with pride. Her little runt wasn’t as fit as the others, but he was a very quick learner.

The rest of the migration was without incident.

Dream Sellers

‘‘Dream Sellers’? That shop must be new,’ I thought. I hadn’t seen it around here before. It certainly looked like a shop that had just opened, in a fairly rough area of town, just off the high street.

I stepped inside. It mostly sold clothes, though there were no racks. The clothes were just folded up (sometimes not even that) and were displayed inside and on top of IKEA shelving units. This place could not have felt any cheaper. No wonder there were no other customers.

The shopkeeper came out from behind the counter and hounded me closely as I looked around.

“Hello, how are you, sir?”

“…Fine.”

Jeez. Didn’t this guy know good business practise? He was starting to annoy me already. He obviously didn’t sense the dark cloud above my head, because he saw me glance at a hoodie and then exclaimed.

“Ooh! You like jackets! Wait here, sir!”

And he disappeared behind the counter, leaving me alone for all of ten seconds, before returning with a very fetching blue jacket with black leather on the shoulders and elbows. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had to have it.

“Do you like this one?”

“Yes. It’s really nice!”

“How much money do you have?”

“£30” I answered automatically, before thinking about why he might have asked that. I realised at that moment that nothing in the shop had a price tag.

“This jacket is £30, please.”

I was not happy. I had not asked to buy the jacket, but here he was, bullying me into buying it. If I didn’t really want that jacket, I would have had strong words with him. As it stood, I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I grumbled to myself and shelled over the £30.

I was happy, though, because I had left the store with a brand new jacket that I loved. I wasted no time in putting it on as I walked home.

My good mood was to be ruined, however, by my noticing that people flinched when they walked past me. Some of them shivered as if it was cold, when it wasn’t, some even turned and stared at me like I had just insulted their mother. People were beginning to act very strangely around me, and I didn’t like it.

Nothing of incident happened for the rest of the day once I got home. Nothing of incident happened…until I went to sleep.

My dream began at the spot where the Dream Sellers shop was, but back before it had opened. Back when it was just a long closed, graffiti covered steel shutter with a ‘for sale’ sign stuck on it. I turned round. There was a teenager standing behind me. He was wearing the jacket I had bought today, and had grotesque growths on his face, most likely the symptoms of a disease. The most striking thing about his was his hideously twisted neck, as if he had hung himself. He was just staring at me intensely, but his voice was so meek and timid.

“Do you hate me? Do you think I’m ugly? Are you going to laugh at me? Or call me a freak? I don’t care if you are. At least I have a cool jacket. Maybe it will help stop the bullying.”

I awoke in a sweat, deeply disturbed, though I’m not fully sure why. It wasn’t just his face. Besides, he had been bullied for that face, it seemed. I felt pretty bad for being so scared of it.

Was that kid behind the way people were acting around me earlier? Were they treating me like they treated him? I had to go back to the shop. If I couldn’t return the jacket, I could at least find out who used to own it.

I set off walking back to Dream Sellers, the jacket tucked over my arm. They could have their bloody dreams back. As my journey progressed. One or two people jumped with fright when they saw me, and one particular group of kids laughed at me. Was the effect getting worse? Or was there something else going on?

It took a man to stop me and deliver some bad news for me to realise the reason for the behaviour of those around me today.

“Excuse me, mister. You have something on your face.”

“I do?” I replied, alarmed, and looked over at the nearest shop window. I could see my face in the reflection. The growth had started. It was only a tiny bit, on my right cheek, but I had a very strong suspicion that it would continue to grow the longer I owned this coat.

When I reached the shop, my heart sank. It was no longer there. The shutters were back down, and the ‘for sale’ sign was back up. I asked a passer by what had happened to the shop.

“What shop?” he replied. “There hasn’t been a shop there for years.”

Now, I was even more confused. I decided to head back to my house. On the way back.  A couple of kids started to pelt me with stones and laugh. I’m not sure whether it was the jacket, or the fact that this had never happened to me before, but the impulse came over me and before I could stop myself I roared at them. An inhuman, terrifying sound had escaped my throat and sent all the children running away screaming. I admittedly derived some small satisfaction from this, but at the same time, that roar came from me, and that was a very sobering thought.

Back in my house, I went straight to the bathroom and studied my reflection. The growth had spread slightly. It was still small, but there was no mistaking it for ‘something on my face’.

The phone rang. It was Helen, a friend of a friend. She was part of a gang that I pretended to tolerate but secretly found grating to suffer the company of.

“Hey, Jack. You wanna come out tonight?” She giggled her usual obnoxious voice. Normally, I’d have either reluctantly accepted to be polite, or I’d have made up a fabricated excuse and declined, but an idea grew in my brain like a cancer; an idea that she was just making fun of me.

“Oh ha ha!” I spat acidly down the phone. “Ask the freak out on a date so all your friends can point and laugh!” and then I smashed the phone back down onto its holster so hard I cracked the plastic.

That night, I had another dream. I was in a bedroom that wasn’t my own. Posters for rock bands donned the walls. There was a desk with a P.C. on it, some used and bloody razor blades scattered about the desk, and my blue jacket, slung across the back seat. I felt a breeze behind me, so I turned.

The original owner of the jacket was swinging from side to side. He had hung himself in his own bedroom, and his arms and wrists were cut to ribbons. It took everything I had not to throw up at the sight. His cold, blue face twitched, and then looked down at me.

“They all hated me,” he began. “And now they all hate you.”

I awoke in a sweat again, this time with proper cause to be so. I felt my face. It was like feeling a stone wall. ‘Oh no’, I thought, jumped out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom.

In the mirror my fears were confirmed. Tears formed in my eyes upon looking at my own reflection. The growth had spread completely overnight. I now looked just like the boy who had killed himself.

The Song Of Death

Had he heard that right? He played the track from the beginning again. No, there was definitely a lady’s scream at 1:12. It wouldn’t have been out of place in a rock song such as this, but the scream sounded too distressed, too frightened, too…real.

He had the number of the artist who had sent him this track to listen. It belonged to a David Rimmer. He was a singer, guitarist, drummer and just generally a one-man metal band. It was pretty admirable. He was very talented with all his instruments, had an amazingly raw voice, and disturbingly dark lyrics full of gory imagery. Brutal stuff. Still, this one scream bothered Harry. He wouldn’t be able to rest easy until he knew the story behind it, so he rang David up and arranged a meeting.

At noon the next morning, Harry pulled up outside David’s house, and knocked on the door. David answered it, dressed in tight jeans, a black shirt with his own long on it, and over that, a well-worn denim vest. He also still had a mullet despite it being the year 2008.

“David Rimmer? I’m Harry Fletcher. You sent me a demo three days ago? ‘The Song of Death’?”

“Yeah, I remember you. So what do you think?” David answered, with an air of ego fuelled confidence only a rocker could have. “It was totally hardcore, wasn’t it?”

“Definitely! The song was great, but, uh. There’s a lady’s scream in it at about the one minute mark, and I’ve a feeling it shouldn’t be there. I was wondering what the story was about that.”

David’s confidence left him, and I could see a brief second of pure panic in his eyes, but even when that faded and he tried to remain confident, I could see he was worried, and twitchy. I’d even go as far as to say paranoid.

“A scream? About one minute in?…Oh! Yeah, my girl saw a rat. We have rats in the house you see.”

Harry could tell he was lying, but he didn’t comment. He merely said farewell, returned to his car, and sat in it. He didn’t drive off. He sat, and watched, and waited for David to leave. He needed to get to the bottom of this.

David finally left the house an hour later. As soon as he was out of sight, Harry got out the car, and returned to the house. David had seemed really shaken when he had mentioned the scream. He was definitely keeping a secret, and Harry wanted to find out what.

The front door was locked, so Harry circled the house until he found an open window in the kitchen. He dragged a trashcan over and used it to climb into the window, though it was a bit of a squeeze.

He carefully lowered himself into David Rimmer’s kitchen, paying attention not to disturb anything. What he was doing was illegal. He wanted to be in, look around, find the truth, and get out as fast as he could.

Upon searching David’s house, he quickly found that things were very clean. Housework was hardly the most ‘rock-n-roll’ thing in the world, but every surface was absolutely spotless. That didn’t add up. This was not a house where you got ‘rats’ running around the place. Upon contemplation, there were no signs of the aforementioned girlfriend either, at least not downstairs.

Harry didn’t feel it right to venture upstairs until he absolutely had to, so he decided to check the basement first. The basement was locked, but only with a flimsy common-or-garden sliding latch. Harry made short work of kicking the door open.

Harry was stunned and horrified at what he saw inside. In the corner was a full drum kit. Besides that, there was a PC and a mixing desk, with cables running out of it spreading across the floor like entrails. In the other corner was a series of electric guitars, acoustic guitars and bases, all lined up neatly in a row. In the center was a mic, but against the far wall was the feature that drew Harry’s shocked gaze.

It was a bloodstained wooden stretching rack, propped horizontally, and fitted with metal clamps at the ends of its four ropes. Beside the rack was an umbrella stand full of canes, pokers, whips and even a few swords, all placed conveniently near a cheap barbecue with flames licking from the top of it. It was a full medieval torture kit!

But the most shocking thing about the rack, was that next to the space where the head would be, there was another microphone rigged up. Harry felt sick in his throat just thinking about the implications. This explained the scream, though he wished now that he had never tried to find out. He would have forgotten about it sooner or later, but he could never forget about this.

He suddenly felt a very dull pain against the back of his head, and then darkness.

When he awoke, he saw the basement again, but this time, the drum kit and the guitars had switched places, and David was standing in the center of the room. As his vision grew clearer, he realised that the guitars and drums hadn’t switched places, he had. He looked down, and his fears were confirmed. He had been strapped into the rack.

David was looking at his feet, and he was either sobbing of giggling. Harry realised that he was doing both. He looked up, actually appearing more scared of Harry than Harry was of him.

“I can see you judging me. They all judge me when they’re on the rack. The think I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Harry was too scared to respond. David continued.

“You see, Harry. I’m a unique artist. This is the only way I can get my blood boiling enough to make my songs. The only way I can get pumped up enough. I usually edit all the screams out, but that one must have slipped my attention. I’m not too sorry. It led you to me, and you’re going to help me write another song!”

He walked over to me, pulled a poker from the stand, and placed it in the embers of the flaming barbecue. He then cranked the rack until Harry felt like the skin around his waist was about to tear apart. He gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to scream. No matter what David did to him, he wouldn’t scream. If he screamed, and it got onto the madman’s next song, what’s to stop the next guy he sends a demo to from meeting the same fate as him?

David walked over to his line of guitars, and picked up a white flying v, putting the strap over his shoulder.

“Harry, let’s make some music!”

The Snake Statue

He switched the phone to his other ear.

“Thanks for looking after the kids while the wife and I are out of town for the night.” spoke the voice on the other end.

“No problem, Mr. Robertson! Thanks for letting me use your bedroom. From how late your kids can stay up in the night, staying over’s the only way I can keep a proper eye on them.” he replied cheerfully, lying on the bed as he spoke. “Also, I must talk about that really creepy snake statue on your dresser. It’s so realistic! Is it real snakeskin?”

“Um, Alan…we don’t have a snake statue in the bedroom.”

Alan sat bolt upright, alert, and looked over at where the snake statue was located, but it was gone. It had completely vanished.

He felt something rub against his leg…

The Performer

Billy didn’t like that street entertainer. He could see him, at the other end of the street, on stilts, and a loose, floaty yellow poncho, with clown makeup on. Why do street entertainers wear clown makeup? Who finds that funny? It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.

“Stop staring, Billy. It’s rude!” hissed his mother, as she pulled him by his hand into another shop.

While he was sitting quietly in that shop while his mom looked around and his dad was dozing off, he couldn’t stop thinking about that creepy street entertainer. The stark white decor of the shop, nor the pop songs playing on the radio could distract from that. He didn’t want to go back out there. For once, he was content to sit in the shop. But all good things must come to an end, and all bad things must come to a beginning. It was time to leave the shop.

The high street was bustling today. People were out in their droves, looking to catch some sales before the shops closed for the day. A lot of buskers and performers and human statues were also out, looking to make a bit of cash themselves.

The three of them were walking in the general direction of the entertainer. Billy didn’t like it. He couldn’t stop fidgeting and showing his discomfort. His mother hissed at him again. No words this time, but the message was clear. He tried his best to control himself, but she still couldn’t take his eyes off the street performer, who was currently juggling whilst still on stilts.

He knew it was creepy, but he also knew that logically he would not have otherwise have felt this much dread from a clown on stilts. There was something especially chilling about this particular one. He wanted to look away, yet he couldn’t keep his eyes off it.

It turned to look at him for a brief moment. Only a few seconds did its gaze linger, yet Billy could feel its eyes boring right into him. It knew he knew he found it creepy. And this it turned away, and Billy was shaking.

“Mommy, I don’t want to go near that clown man. I want to go somewhere else.”

“Honestly, Billy! It’s just a street performer. Now behave yourself in public!”

So Billy kept his fears to himself. His parents neither understood nor wanted to listen. That was reasonable. In their position, he wouldn’t either. The chill down his spine when he looked at the street performer must only be affecting him. To everyone else, it was just another street performer.

It was starting to walk their way, and he tensed. Though he didn’t realise it, he was also holding his breath. ‘Oh no. Please don’t. Please don’t come this way. I don’t want to be closer to you…’ His mother hissed again, bring him out of that train of thought.

“Billy, what did I tell you about staring? I can’t take you anywhere.!”

The performer set his eyes on Billy again, and while there stared straight at each other, the entertainer started to laugh. It was such a creepy laugh. Billy’s stomach churned and he flinched just hearing it. Even though the clown was so far away, Billy could hear it as if it was right beside him. It was crystal clear. Though the people around didn’t seem to notice a thing. That was even creepier than the clown itself.

The moment it sensed that Billy had noticed this, it started to run straight at him, cackling as it did. Billy didn’t wait for his parents’ approval, he turned and ran.

“Billy!” His mother shouted after him. “Billy! Come back here! It’s just a street entertainer!”

Billy noticed all the people around him looking at him and his mother with scornful glances and judging stares, as if he were just an ordinary stroppy kid and his mom couldn’t control him. Could they not see he was being chased? Did they not care?

He turned round. The moment he did, He saw the clown upon him. It grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him up as if he was light as a feather. It’s cackling was ear splittingly loud now that it was right next to him, and its face was abhorrent. Cracked white paint, a smile twice as wide as human faces should allow without grotesque alteration, and the eyes. The wild eyes full of malice, glee and a spine chilling twisted nature. Its hand distracted from its face by reaching down and pulling a gleaming kitchen knife from its belt.

Harry wriggled, and squirmed, and tried to shake free of the clown’s grip, and he screamed out loud, at the top of his lungs, to anyone nearby who would listen.

“HELP! HELP ME! SOMEBODY! THIS CLOWN’S TRYING TO KILL ME!”

But all he received were irritated mutterings like ‘Ugh, where are that brat’s parents?’ or ‘I wouldn’t let my kid scream and strop like that.’

‘Were these people mad?! Did they even realise what was happening to him? What were they seeing? Did the clown’s behaviour seem normal to them? In their eyes, am I the only one at fault? If so, there’s nothing I can do. No way I can escape with my life.’

Billy started to sob quietly, and he shut his eyes tight. There was a sudden sharp searing pain inside his chest like no pain he had ever felt before. He couldn’t help but scream out at the unexplainable agony. He had just been stabbed in the chest with a knife. The feeling of shock that came with knowing that felt worse than the pain. He didn’t want to see, so he kept his eyes shut, and kept sobbing. He could taste something hot and salty at the back of his throat, filling it until he started to choke. His life was fading, and in his last moments he could still hear the cackling of the clown, and the muttered disapprovals of passers-by at some bratty kid screaming and crying in the middle of the street.

Torment

‘WARNING! Carry on reading or you will die!’

My name is Tommy. I am seven years old and I have no eyes-‘

Stacy stopped reading the comment there. It was one of those chain letter comments. Now most people ignore them. Some people do what they say. Some people even report them, but Stacy was just about sick of these things. She clicked on the user’s name, went to their profile, found their given email address and sent the following email.

‘You’re not funny. You’re not clever. Stop with these comments or I’ll give you something to be scared about. I know where you live.’

The moment she sent it, she felt her stomach drop as if she was falling, and her hands turned cold to the touch despite her room being warm. These signs were minute, however, and Stacy carried out her business.

That night, she had nightmares about a seven year old with no eyes, and a manic smile, with a knife, standing over her bed. She awoke to nothing. Her bedroom was as it was when she went to sleep. There was no seven year old.

She got up, and went to the bathroom, to splash some water on her face. It wasn’t every day that she got nightmares, let alone nightmares about a stupid little chain letter comment. She turned on the taps, and when the basin had filled up, she leaned down to cup water in her hands and bring it to her face. ‘I bet that when I look up, I’ll hallucinate that little boy’s reflection in the mirror.’ She thought to herself, and her head shot up, soaking wet, to examine the mirror. There was nobody there. Stacey sighed, and left the bathroom, returning to her own room.

When she opened the door, the seven year old boy was standing there, in the flesh. A pool of blood had formed at his feet. She could smell it. She could smell the wounds where his eyes had been. This was real, and he opened his mouth and chuckled, the most unnerving, frightening laugh she had ever heard, and it was so loud.

She whimpered and covered her face with her hands, but when she brought her hands from her face, there was nothing there. No boy, no blood, no smell, just her ordinary room.

She logged back on to her computer. There was one new email, and it simply said. ‘No, Stacy. I know where you live.’ But it wasn’t text. It was a jpeg of the message in her handwriting. She shut the laptop and frenziedly threw it onto her bed, away from her. She whimpered again, and pinched herself. No, this was the real world. She didn’t have the luxury of being in a nightmare.

Once she had calmed down, she opened her laptop back up again, and tried to find the comment that she didn’t read. The moment she began to read the first line of it, the screen of her laptop turned into the face of the boy. It wasn’t like a screamer. For one it didn’t scream. It just smiled at her, and even though it had no eyes, she could feel its stare boring into her.

She threw the laptop to the ground and ran out of her room. Her heart was beating so hard it was beginning to hurt, and she could feel herself sweating and getting more worked up with every passing second. She needed to go outside and get some air. She headed downstairs.

The moment she reached the last stair, she heard rustling and crashing in the kitchen. She didn’t want to turn and look there. She didn’t want to. But she had to. She very slowly turned her head towards the kitchen, and there was the eyeless boy.

The moment her eyes connected with his, he raised the knife, and began to charge towards her. She screamed and ran back up the stairs. She had to get to the bathroom. It had a lock. As she was running, she looked back. The boy was gaining on her. It was a mistake to look back. But she reached the bathroom, slammed the door shut behind her and locked it. The boy knocked several times from the other side, and then there was silence.

Stacey cried. She broke down and wept with terror. Why didn’t she run out the front door? She ran up here because of a primal need for safety and security in the familiar. Now she was trapped. She sat, and waited. Waited to muster up enough courage to open the bathroom door. To check.

It felt like several hours before she found the bravery to unlock the bathroom door and open in an inch, to peek out from the gap. There was nothing there. She swallowed, and headed out. It was only a seven year old anyway. She could take a seven year old. She had to protect herself. She had to be strong.

There was nothing in the halls, nor in her bedroom, nor the kitchen, nor the living room, and there was absolutely no sign that anything had been there. The whole house was quiet. Too quiet. There should be sounds. There should be the sound of the clock. There should be sounds of the wind outside, or cars driving past, but there was literally nothing but silence.

Was the child hiding? Stacy grabbed a flashlight, and a broom for defence, and headed into the basement. The flashlight was weak, on low batteries, and didn’t illuminate much. It was only when Stacy had descended to the final step did she feel scared. Her flashlight was weak, and only lit in front of her. The child could be right next to her and she wouldn’t know it. She frantically waved it like a sword to and fro as she searched round the basement.

Every time a chill came from the unheated room, it went straight through her spine and she trembled, as if the tendrils of cold were child’s fingers upon her back. Every time there was a breeze, she nearly screamed out. Sometimes she thought she heard the child’s breath, but it could have simply been her own. She held her breath for short periods of time to check, but she was greeted by more silence.

When she was confident that the child wasn’t in the basement, she turned her back on the darkness, and headed up the stairs, but as her foot touched the first one, the child’s laugh rang loud and sharp in her ear, and she could feel the hot breath on the back of her neck, and smell the strong stench of blood. She ran. She ran up the basement stairs lest the darkness catch her. She needed to get back to the light. She was safe in the light.

The moment she reached the door, she felt the child’s hand grab her leg. She shrieked and shook it off, before slamming the basement door on the child. She saw it. In the last brief instant when she turned round to shut the door, but before the door was closed, she saw it. The horrific child with its missing eyes and its manic smile.

She crawled up into a ball opposite the door to the basement, and then screamed at it.

“STOP IT! STOP TORMNTING ME! IF YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME, JUST KILL ME ALREADY!”

The moment she shouted this, the door burst open, and the child, knife raised, ran straight towards her. She cried out and closed her eyes, covering her face with her arms. She was about to die.

Seconds passed, then minutes. She was still alive. She opened her eyes. There was nothing there. The child had gone. She was alive. For a brief second, she started to feel relief, and hope, that maybe it was all over, but then the child’s laugh rang in her ears, though quiet and distant, but coming from all directions. The smell of blood was back to, though weak. The child hadn’t left. It was still here, haunting her. Tormenting her. She looked around frantically, but she couldn’t see him. He wasn’t anywhere. She knew he was here, she could still hear him, and smell him. But she couldn’t see him. Where was he? WHERE WAS HE?!

Smile

“Mommy, mommy, can I get this doll?”

“Catherine, that china doll’s old and dusty. Wouldn’t you rather have a nice new one from the toy shop?”

“No, mommy. I want this one!”

“Just let her have it, Barbra. It’s very cheap, and she seems happy with it.”

“But it’s smile, George. Look at its smile!”

Catherine went straight to her room the moment they had all gone home. The china doll she had just been bought was not put on the shelves with all her other dolls and toys. She gave it its very own place on her chest of drawers. Her mother didn’t like the doll. She said its smile was creepy. That it looked to human compared to the rest of her painted porcelain face. But Catherine loved it. Apart from dinner, she spent the rest of the day sitting beside it, talking to it, and playing make believe. When it was time to go to bed, she reluctantly bid good night to the little china doll, in its little off-white dress and bonnet, and fell asleep.

That night, she dreamed of seven sad little girls standing over her. Six of them had injuries on their body, but the seventh girl had no mouth. It had been carved off and it its place was a red and dripping gap. They didn’t make any move to be scary. They didn’t try to hurt her. They just stared at her sadly, and with pity. Their non-movement was even more unsettling and disturbing than if they were trying to attack her. This was without doubt the worst nightmare she had ever had.

She awoke with a start, sweating, but she didn’t scream. The china doll had moved. It was now on top of the sheets, over her body. The question of how didn’t even cross her mind. She took unexplainable amounts of comfort in the doll’s presence, and hugged it tightly. The doll she loved so much would make those scary girls go away.

It was a school day, so Catherine got ready for school. It was only when she was fully dressed in her uniform and packed her bag did she realise it was six in the morning. She passed the time by chatting to her doll, which she had named ‘Dolly’.

“Hello, Dolly. How are you today?…That’s good! I’m great too!…I’m afraid I have to go to school today….bring you with me? I’d love to!”

She put the doll into her schoolbag as well, so that her mother wouldn’t find out. Catherine didn’t want to get in trouble.

It wasn’t until she arrived at her school that she took out her doll and displayed it at her desk. All the girls in her class were instantly as mitten as she was with the doll, though the boys, and the teacher, commented on how disturbing its smile was. Eventually, it was confiscated by the teacher and class began.

Catherine couldn’t concentrate on her lessons. There was a need to be with her doll. She didn’t feel right without the doll near her. At first recess, she got the doll back, but had to part with it again once classes began. The second stretch of lessons was even more unbearable that the first one. She couldn’t sit still. She put her hand up.

“Yes, Catherine?”

“Miss, can I please get my doll back?”

“You can get it back once the lesson’s over. It’s a distraction.”

So Catherine sat in silence, and longing, unable to concentrate. The bell for lunch was the sweetest sound she’d ever thought she’d hear.

She spent all of her lunch break with her doll. She turned down all her friends’ offers to play until they left, annoyed. She turned down all orders from teachers to get something to eat. She was hungry, but she didn’t want to part with the doll. They reluctantly allowed her to take it to the canteen.

It wasn’t long before her strange behaviour started to get her noticed. Two bullies from several classes older than hers got wind of her affliction with the doll, and took it upon themselves to steal it. When she was still eating her food, they ran up, snatched the doll, and ran, laughing nastily as they did so. Catherine was stunned. She sat there for a while, realising just what had happened, and then she abandoned her meal and gave chase.

The two bullies were tossing it back and forth between them, and when she caught up with them, began playing piggy in the middle with the doll. Catherine grew more and more angry, and more and more desperate. Her anger turned to rage, and her rage turned to emotions she’d never felt before. Emotions it was not natural for a little girl to feel, but would only otherwise be felt by a psychopath who was in love. She wanted to hurt the bullies. She wanted to hurt them very badly.

She leapt upon one, and began frantically clawing at his face. By the time teachers heard the commotion, and pulled her off, the bully’s face was covered in blood, and even when he was being taken away, he was still screaming in pain and fear. Catherine was sent home.

She dreaded the encounter with her mother during the entirety of her long walk home, hugging the doll to her chest. The doll accepted her love, and gave her comfort in return. The doll never judged, or shouted, or made her angry, or sad. She gazed upon its face. It was beautiful. There was not another doll like it. Its mouth did look like a human’s when compared to its painted eyes and hair, but that just made it more beautiful to Catherine.

She arrived home, and her mother was indeed cross.

“I received phone calls from the school earlier. You wouldn’t eat without that creepy doll, and you attacked another. I…I don’t know what to say to you Catherine. When your dad gets home, we’re all going to have a long talk, but for now, go to your room. As for this doll,”

Her mother snatched the doll from Catherine’s arms, and threw it against the wall. Its left eye shattered into pieces leaving a hole in the china doll’s face revealing the hollow interior.

Catherine’s rage now surpassed the rage she felt from her earlier attack. She leapt upon her mother like a wild animal, and bit into her throat until she tasted her salty, hot blood in her mouth. She wrestled with her mother, biting and scratching. ‘She hurt my doll!’ thought Catherine. ‘She needs to die. I need to kill her for what she did!’

Eventually, her mother stopped fighting, and slumped to the ground, blood bubbling from the gaping wound in her neck. If she wasn’t dead now, she would be soon, but Catherine didn’t care about that. She went back to her broken doll, and hugged it to her.

She could feel it. It needed her help. It was calling out to her for help. Well, she would help it. Whatever it needed, she would gladly give. She just wanted her doll back, in perfect condition. Whatever it took. Whatever the price…

Catherine’s mom lay dead on the living room floor, blood still pouring out of her neck and forming a puddle around her. Near to her, Catherine also lay dead. Her left eye had been replaced by a horrific and bleeding wound, and in her arms, was the doll. Its white dress and bonnet were saturated with blood. Its hair and right eye looked shiny and painted as you would expect from a china doll, but its left eye looked disturbingly real, as did its smile, which had grown wider.