Nine Hours Later
folder
Paranormal/Supernatural › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,253
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Paranormal/Supernatural › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,253
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Nine Hours Later
NINE HOURS LATER
Author's note: This was the last piece of original fiction I wrote (before the desire to write anime fanfiction hit), betweeen - oh five and ten years ago. My inspirations for this were a volume of collected ghost stories by M.R. James, and the latest (at the time) catalog from Projekt Recording. (I used to be a big fan of "darkwave"). The title is from a song, by a pretty good band called Lycia. I had a group of penpals at the time and all the girls told me it should be published, all the guys said it made them - uncomfortable. This story originally appeared in a little (now defunct, I think) ar tzine called "Thistle". Maybe you've heard of it.......
Nine hours later... he still couldn't bring himself to look at the girl's body. I mean, really look at it, and fully realize what he had done, craven coward that he was.
He had only wanted to talk to her; when she started screaming, he had only wanted her to be quiet. If he'd let her scream any longer, people would have begun to look, to stare, maybe even call the police!
He'd never been in trouble with the law before.
When she was finally quiet, he'd looked down at the cramping in his hand, and was horrified to find his fingers wound tightly around her throat, pressing so deeply into her flesh they were half hidden, with her neck bent at an impossible angle.
The neckline of her T-shirt had gotten ripped during the struggle, exposing the rounded tops of her breasts, milky white and smooth. And the desire welled up in him again, causing the blood to pound in his ears, and muscles in his groin to tighten - again.
He couldn't do it here, though. The ground was cold and hard, and the fall foliage was too thin; somebody might see him!
There was an old, abandoned house nearby, he slung the girl's body over his shoulder and scuttled over to it. With her weight bending him over like a hunchback, he outwardly resembled the social freak he was inside.
He broke in through a long unused coal chute, the hinges creaked hollowly when he lifted the chute's lid, and rust flaked down on his head. The thought of descending into the bowels of the deserted house made his nerve fail for a moment. But, only a moment did he hesitate, and he eased himself feet first into the chute, pulled the still-warm body in after him, and carefully let the lid back down.
They slid down, their descent neither quiet nor smooth. THeir passaged raised up swirls of coal dust, and mildew which coated his face, went up his nose, and got into his mouth.
This is what it feels like to be buried, he thought. Dark and silent, grave mold on the face, and worms wriggling through the flesh....
His breath caught in his throat at the thought, then the thought was abruptly banished altogether as they came to the end of the chute, solid metal suddenly gone, and they fell through space, landing with a jarring thud on a pile of rotting coal. Anthracite coal wasn't much good for breaking falls, it was hard and tended to break apart into sharp-edged pieces. Their impact also rasied a pall of gritty coal dust which stung his eyes and made them water, got into his throat and made him cough.
It was quieter than quiet down in the basement - dead quiet. The only sounds were his coughing and ragged breathing, and the skittering noises made by disturbed coal. They echoed in the cavernous room, the returning sounds like footsteps and whispers, making it seem like he wasn't alone. These noises frightened him, and he could feel cold panic snaking it's way up from his guts. It would have been easy to run away, but instead, he forced himself to stand still until his eyes got used to the gloom.
It wasn't quite pitch black down there, watery light streamed through small windows set high in the thick fieldstone walls, and eventually, he could distinguish shapes - bulky shrouded forms of old furniture crouched against the walls, with boxes and crates set amongst them. Next to them was the hulk of the long-cold furnace, and just beyond that, a flight of stairs leading up.
He turned back for the girl's body, and for a moment - a long moment, but just a moment, panic welled up again. He wasn't where he thought she was! He scrabbled madly about in the coal, then he suddenly made contact with one of her limp hands. The flesh was warm yet, and the touch made his blood pound again. But not here, not in this dark place smelling of mildew and rust. He had to find a bed.
Upstairs.
The staris weren't easy to negotiate, they were steep and the risers narrow, the crudely-turned wooden handrail was loose, and the awkward weight of her body slung over one shoulder didn't help. When he came to the door at the stop, the knob was stiff - maybe it was locked?
Fortunately, it was just old and rusty; a few sharp twists back and forth loosened it. Then, the door stuck at the top corner of the jamb and he had to crouch down, push forwards, and ram his free shoulder into it.
The recoil nearly sent him plunging back down the stairs; there to lie entwined in death with his victim. A broken neck would have served him right, wouldn't it?
For him, fortunately, the door obligingly opened. He didn't fall, and as he recovered his balance, the girl's dangling hands slapped against his ass, her fingers were curled, for in her dying struggles, she'd tried to scratch his face. It felt to him like they briefly squeezed his buttocks.
*The slut DID want it!*
He stumbled onto the main floor of the house, it was lighter here, but just as silent. Dust motes danced in weak beams of light which illuminated more sheeted furniture, two shadowy halls, like the entrances to caves yawned on either side of a grand oak staircase.
On each side of the foyer he stood in, doors to rooms were half open and more furniture in dust sheets could be seen. A tinkling sound made him look up quickly - too quickly. The motion made something in his neck crack, and he had to close his eyes against the dull pain.
The sound came again, more insistantly. He looked up again - more cautiously this time. What he'd heard was the gentle rubbing together of tiny glass prisms on a large, dust-sheeted chandelier. It shook again - gently.
*Must be a draft somewheres* he thought.
Now he could hear other subtle noises. Besides the chandelier, there was an unidentified creaking further inside one of the rooms, down one of the halls there was something which sounded like cloth shurshing against the floor - moving away from him, thank God. And from somewhere up above him, a door slammed like the report of an echoing gunshot. That noise startled him, he blinked and remembered why he was here in a deserted house, with the body of a girl he'd just murdered. It was just an old house, settling, it's not as if the place was haunted.
*Right?*
The foyer he was in was of a good size, and would hold a couple dozen people comfortably. He could imagine parties long ago, when the house was full of light and warmth, and laughing friends came wearing their finest clothes, to exchange greetings before going into the parlor. Or, perhaps climb the wide oak staircase to the ballroom on the third floor - he was sure there was a ballroom, the house was big enough.
_____________________________________________________
Re-shouldering the girl's body again, he walked through and betweent he ghosts of partiers past and ascended the staircase. At the top, the wide hall was dark, and the weak light which penetrated here only made more and darker shadows. It was colder too, and most of the bedroom doors were firmly closed. But one door, halfway up the hall was open, and he made for it. It was better lit than the hall, it's two west-facing windows were curtainless, and stretched nearly to the floor.
Between them was a queen-sized poster bed, it's canopy had long since been removed, and the mattress was bare, but it would do. The only other piece of furniture was a huge, dark oak wardrobe which stood against the south wall, otherwise, the room was bare of furnishings.
He entered and tossed the girl's body on the bed, then turned back to the door and closed it. With it open, he was imagining eyes upon him, boring into his back. He set to work, stripping her unresisting body and rearranging it to his satisfaction. Looking down at the darkness between her spread legs, the madness came over him again, the desire to violate and hurt, which he rationalized as lust.
All woman, no matter their age, were whores, always wanting it; and needing to be put in their place. There was no such thing as rape, that was an invention of man-hating feminists, the ones who couldn't get a real man!
But, it somehow wasn't as pleasureable this time, her flesh was rapidly cooling, and getting stiff, not warm and pinchable. Inside, she was barely warm, and dead, she didn't resist, writhing, screaming, ineffectually pummeling his chest, like the other girls he'd raped.
*NO! Not raped! Just given what they deserved!*
He stopped - this wasn't working. It was her face, it wasn't like the others - screwed up in pain, and with fear, crying, begging him to stop. Frozen in the rictus of death, the eyes were almost popped out of their sockets, so wide and staring were they; and her swollen tongue was portruding and purple, with dried blood caked beneath her nostrils.
When he'd attacked his other victims.....
*NO! DAMMIT! Not victims - WHORES!*
...he'd gagged them with a sock, and pulled a pillowcase over their heads, until he found a suitable, quiet place to punish them. She no longer needed a gag, but he couldn't look her in her sightless eyes, so he tossed some of her clothes over her.
There.
That's better. Now he'd teach this bitch a lesson she'd never forget. It was much more satisfying when he could imagine her alive and suffering.
_____________________________________________________
He woke up a couple of hours later, stiff and cold on the bed. It was completely dark outside, but a full moon had risen, and the room was illuminated with a harsh, icy light. He'd had a very bad dream, the memory had almost faded, but some things stood out clearly.
He was lying spread eagled on the bed, his mouth gagged with a smelly sock, with a foul smelling pillowcase over his head. He had been moaning and writhing because something hard was pushing between his legs.
Now it was inside him, and the pain - oh god, oh god, the pain was awful! And...
*OH GOD! MAKE IT STOP!*
But it didn't, it just kept on and on until he heard a strangled moan from above him and some warm liquid was gushing inside. Then the pain faded as the hardness withdrew, and the pillowcase was yanked off his head. And he saw his attacker. It had his body, but the face belonged to the girl - that slut!
She was grinning evilly at him, and he looked down at his body - and it was her body, and a faint throbbing pain came from between the legs - his legs. Blood slicked his thighs, and his - no - her now limp member.
*God - what a horrible dream!*
There was some blood on the mattress, still tacky, but mostly soaked through the top layer he now saw was worn thin in spots, and spotted with faded rust colored marks. He looked over the edge of the bed, at the girl's body, now sprawled on the floor where he had kicked her when he'd finished.
*On the floor, where bitches belong.*
The clothes had fallen off her face, and she stared sightlessly at him - no, she seemed to be looking over his shoulder.....
The bedroom door creaked as it opened. He spun around, and to his considerable surpise and shock, there stood a cop, dressed in the uniform police wore fifty years ago, and holding a drawn revolver. His lips were drawn back in a snarl of disgust...
*How you gonna explain THIS, boyo?*
The cop raised his gun so it pointed straight at his head, cocked the hammer back, and pulled the trigger....
____________________________________________________
He jerked back in shock, his eyes closed, and his blood thundered in his ears. Nothing. He rubbed his eyes, fleetingly, he could smell cordite, feel his skull bones crunch when the bullets bored into them, feel the pain, and the blood coursing down his face.
But...
There was nothing.
No cop, no cop with a gun - no one was there, but the door was still open. Maybe the latch hadn't caught completely, old doors were like that.
Suddenly, a door slammed up on the third floor.
*It was just a draft.*
Then it slammed a second time - and a third.
Again, and again, and again.
More doors started slamming on that floor, then the doors on the second floor got into the act. When the door across the hall joined the cacophany, his nerve broke for good. Holding his pants up, and whimpering with fear, he dashed over to the wardrobe, and yanked the doors open.
Mercifully, there was nothing nasty hiding in there, except a solitary brown leather belt on the one shelf. The door to the bedroom abruptly slammed, and he practically leaped into the wardrobe, pulling the doors shut after him. It seemed as if every door in the house was in motion, slamming with so much force, he could feel the wall behind him vibrate. He wedged himself into a corner, trying to muffle his moans of fear with his right fist, begging, wishing the door slamming to stop.....
_____________________________________________________
Nine hours later...
He still couldn't bring himself to look at the girl's body. I mean, really look at hit, and fully realize what he had done, craven coward that he was.
He couldn't bring himself to look at her ghost, either. It hovered in a far corner of the room, she looked at she had in life, and glared at him accusingly. He already looked back at her once, which had been a mistake.
He felt that every time he closed his eyes, he's see those angry blue...
*funny, I'd never noticed their color before....*
...orbs for the rest of his life.
It was quiet in the house again, and he wished he could go back downstairs, down to the kitchen. Old houses like this often had cisterns, which collected rainwater from the roof. He needed a drink of water. His throat was dry, and it hurt to swallow. He needed an aspirin too, his head felt like it had expanded all it could, and was about to explode.
But he was so afraid. Afraid if he moved, the doors might start slamming all over again.
Something creaked above his head, and he looked up.
But it was just his body, hanging from the light fixture by the belt he'd found in the wardrobe.
FIN
_____________________________________________________
Author's note: I wrote most of this in an hour and a half, then finished it the next day. I had orignally meant it to be the prequel to a planned series of short stories about a family of ghost finders. But, that didn't pan out when my imagination ran dry. The fingers were willing (to write), but the inspiration was weak.
Author's note: This was the last piece of original fiction I wrote (before the desire to write anime fanfiction hit), betweeen - oh five and ten years ago. My inspirations for this were a volume of collected ghost stories by M.R. James, and the latest (at the time) catalog from Projekt Recording. (I used to be a big fan of "darkwave"). The title is from a song, by a pretty good band called Lycia. I had a group of penpals at the time and all the girls told me it should be published, all the guys said it made them - uncomfortable. This story originally appeared in a little (now defunct, I think) ar tzine called "Thistle". Maybe you've heard of it.......
Nine hours later... he still couldn't bring himself to look at the girl's body. I mean, really look at it, and fully realize what he had done, craven coward that he was.
He had only wanted to talk to her; when she started screaming, he had only wanted her to be quiet. If he'd let her scream any longer, people would have begun to look, to stare, maybe even call the police!
He'd never been in trouble with the law before.
When she was finally quiet, he'd looked down at the cramping in his hand, and was horrified to find his fingers wound tightly around her throat, pressing so deeply into her flesh they were half hidden, with her neck bent at an impossible angle.
The neckline of her T-shirt had gotten ripped during the struggle, exposing the rounded tops of her breasts, milky white and smooth. And the desire welled up in him again, causing the blood to pound in his ears, and muscles in his groin to tighten - again.
He couldn't do it here, though. The ground was cold and hard, and the fall foliage was too thin; somebody might see him!
There was an old, abandoned house nearby, he slung the girl's body over his shoulder and scuttled over to it. With her weight bending him over like a hunchback, he outwardly resembled the social freak he was inside.
He broke in through a long unused coal chute, the hinges creaked hollowly when he lifted the chute's lid, and rust flaked down on his head. The thought of descending into the bowels of the deserted house made his nerve fail for a moment. But, only a moment did he hesitate, and he eased himself feet first into the chute, pulled the still-warm body in after him, and carefully let the lid back down.
They slid down, their descent neither quiet nor smooth. THeir passaged raised up swirls of coal dust, and mildew which coated his face, went up his nose, and got into his mouth.
This is what it feels like to be buried, he thought. Dark and silent, grave mold on the face, and worms wriggling through the flesh....
His breath caught in his throat at the thought, then the thought was abruptly banished altogether as they came to the end of the chute, solid metal suddenly gone, and they fell through space, landing with a jarring thud on a pile of rotting coal. Anthracite coal wasn't much good for breaking falls, it was hard and tended to break apart into sharp-edged pieces. Their impact also rasied a pall of gritty coal dust which stung his eyes and made them water, got into his throat and made him cough.
It was quieter than quiet down in the basement - dead quiet. The only sounds were his coughing and ragged breathing, and the skittering noises made by disturbed coal. They echoed in the cavernous room, the returning sounds like footsteps and whispers, making it seem like he wasn't alone. These noises frightened him, and he could feel cold panic snaking it's way up from his guts. It would have been easy to run away, but instead, he forced himself to stand still until his eyes got used to the gloom.
It wasn't quite pitch black down there, watery light streamed through small windows set high in the thick fieldstone walls, and eventually, he could distinguish shapes - bulky shrouded forms of old furniture crouched against the walls, with boxes and crates set amongst them. Next to them was the hulk of the long-cold furnace, and just beyond that, a flight of stairs leading up.
He turned back for the girl's body, and for a moment - a long moment, but just a moment, panic welled up again. He wasn't where he thought she was! He scrabbled madly about in the coal, then he suddenly made contact with one of her limp hands. The flesh was warm yet, and the touch made his blood pound again. But not here, not in this dark place smelling of mildew and rust. He had to find a bed.
Upstairs.
The staris weren't easy to negotiate, they were steep and the risers narrow, the crudely-turned wooden handrail was loose, and the awkward weight of her body slung over one shoulder didn't help. When he came to the door at the stop, the knob was stiff - maybe it was locked?
Fortunately, it was just old and rusty; a few sharp twists back and forth loosened it. Then, the door stuck at the top corner of the jamb and he had to crouch down, push forwards, and ram his free shoulder into it.
The recoil nearly sent him plunging back down the stairs; there to lie entwined in death with his victim. A broken neck would have served him right, wouldn't it?
For him, fortunately, the door obligingly opened. He didn't fall, and as he recovered his balance, the girl's dangling hands slapped against his ass, her fingers were curled, for in her dying struggles, she'd tried to scratch his face. It felt to him like they briefly squeezed his buttocks.
*The slut DID want it!*
He stumbled onto the main floor of the house, it was lighter here, but just as silent. Dust motes danced in weak beams of light which illuminated more sheeted furniture, two shadowy halls, like the entrances to caves yawned on either side of a grand oak staircase.
On each side of the foyer he stood in, doors to rooms were half open and more furniture in dust sheets could be seen. A tinkling sound made him look up quickly - too quickly. The motion made something in his neck crack, and he had to close his eyes against the dull pain.
The sound came again, more insistantly. He looked up again - more cautiously this time. What he'd heard was the gentle rubbing together of tiny glass prisms on a large, dust-sheeted chandelier. It shook again - gently.
*Must be a draft somewheres* he thought.
Now he could hear other subtle noises. Besides the chandelier, there was an unidentified creaking further inside one of the rooms, down one of the halls there was something which sounded like cloth shurshing against the floor - moving away from him, thank God. And from somewhere up above him, a door slammed like the report of an echoing gunshot. That noise startled him, he blinked and remembered why he was here in a deserted house, with the body of a girl he'd just murdered. It was just an old house, settling, it's not as if the place was haunted.
*Right?*
The foyer he was in was of a good size, and would hold a couple dozen people comfortably. He could imagine parties long ago, when the house was full of light and warmth, and laughing friends came wearing their finest clothes, to exchange greetings before going into the parlor. Or, perhaps climb the wide oak staircase to the ballroom on the third floor - he was sure there was a ballroom, the house was big enough.
_____________________________________________________
Re-shouldering the girl's body again, he walked through and betweent he ghosts of partiers past and ascended the staircase. At the top, the wide hall was dark, and the weak light which penetrated here only made more and darker shadows. It was colder too, and most of the bedroom doors were firmly closed. But one door, halfway up the hall was open, and he made for it. It was better lit than the hall, it's two west-facing windows were curtainless, and stretched nearly to the floor.
Between them was a queen-sized poster bed, it's canopy had long since been removed, and the mattress was bare, but it would do. The only other piece of furniture was a huge, dark oak wardrobe which stood against the south wall, otherwise, the room was bare of furnishings.
He entered and tossed the girl's body on the bed, then turned back to the door and closed it. With it open, he was imagining eyes upon him, boring into his back. He set to work, stripping her unresisting body and rearranging it to his satisfaction. Looking down at the darkness between her spread legs, the madness came over him again, the desire to violate and hurt, which he rationalized as lust.
All woman, no matter their age, were whores, always wanting it; and needing to be put in their place. There was no such thing as rape, that was an invention of man-hating feminists, the ones who couldn't get a real man!
But, it somehow wasn't as pleasureable this time, her flesh was rapidly cooling, and getting stiff, not warm and pinchable. Inside, she was barely warm, and dead, she didn't resist, writhing, screaming, ineffectually pummeling his chest, like the other girls he'd raped.
*NO! Not raped! Just given what they deserved!*
He stopped - this wasn't working. It was her face, it wasn't like the others - screwed up in pain, and with fear, crying, begging him to stop. Frozen in the rictus of death, the eyes were almost popped out of their sockets, so wide and staring were they; and her swollen tongue was portruding and purple, with dried blood caked beneath her nostrils.
When he'd attacked his other victims.....
*NO! DAMMIT! Not victims - WHORES!*
...he'd gagged them with a sock, and pulled a pillowcase over their heads, until he found a suitable, quiet place to punish them. She no longer needed a gag, but he couldn't look her in her sightless eyes, so he tossed some of her clothes over her.
There.
That's better. Now he'd teach this bitch a lesson she'd never forget. It was much more satisfying when he could imagine her alive and suffering.
_____________________________________________________
He woke up a couple of hours later, stiff and cold on the bed. It was completely dark outside, but a full moon had risen, and the room was illuminated with a harsh, icy light. He'd had a very bad dream, the memory had almost faded, but some things stood out clearly.
He was lying spread eagled on the bed, his mouth gagged with a smelly sock, with a foul smelling pillowcase over his head. He had been moaning and writhing because something hard was pushing between his legs.
Now it was inside him, and the pain - oh god, oh god, the pain was awful! And...
*OH GOD! MAKE IT STOP!*
But it didn't, it just kept on and on until he heard a strangled moan from above him and some warm liquid was gushing inside. Then the pain faded as the hardness withdrew, and the pillowcase was yanked off his head. And he saw his attacker. It had his body, but the face belonged to the girl - that slut!
She was grinning evilly at him, and he looked down at his body - and it was her body, and a faint throbbing pain came from between the legs - his legs. Blood slicked his thighs, and his - no - her now limp member.
*God - what a horrible dream!*
There was some blood on the mattress, still tacky, but mostly soaked through the top layer he now saw was worn thin in spots, and spotted with faded rust colored marks. He looked over the edge of the bed, at the girl's body, now sprawled on the floor where he had kicked her when he'd finished.
*On the floor, where bitches belong.*
The clothes had fallen off her face, and she stared sightlessly at him - no, she seemed to be looking over his shoulder.....
The bedroom door creaked as it opened. He spun around, and to his considerable surpise and shock, there stood a cop, dressed in the uniform police wore fifty years ago, and holding a drawn revolver. His lips were drawn back in a snarl of disgust...
*How you gonna explain THIS, boyo?*
The cop raised his gun so it pointed straight at his head, cocked the hammer back, and pulled the trigger....
____________________________________________________
He jerked back in shock, his eyes closed, and his blood thundered in his ears. Nothing. He rubbed his eyes, fleetingly, he could smell cordite, feel his skull bones crunch when the bullets bored into them, feel the pain, and the blood coursing down his face.
But...
There was nothing.
No cop, no cop with a gun - no one was there, but the door was still open. Maybe the latch hadn't caught completely, old doors were like that.
Suddenly, a door slammed up on the third floor.
*It was just a draft.*
Then it slammed a second time - and a third.
Again, and again, and again.
More doors started slamming on that floor, then the doors on the second floor got into the act. When the door across the hall joined the cacophany, his nerve broke for good. Holding his pants up, and whimpering with fear, he dashed over to the wardrobe, and yanked the doors open.
Mercifully, there was nothing nasty hiding in there, except a solitary brown leather belt on the one shelf. The door to the bedroom abruptly slammed, and he practically leaped into the wardrobe, pulling the doors shut after him. It seemed as if every door in the house was in motion, slamming with so much force, he could feel the wall behind him vibrate. He wedged himself into a corner, trying to muffle his moans of fear with his right fist, begging, wishing the door slamming to stop.....
_____________________________________________________
Nine hours later...
He still couldn't bring himself to look at the girl's body. I mean, really look at hit, and fully realize what he had done, craven coward that he was.
He couldn't bring himself to look at her ghost, either. It hovered in a far corner of the room, she looked at she had in life, and glared at him accusingly. He already looked back at her once, which had been a mistake.
He felt that every time he closed his eyes, he's see those angry blue...
*funny, I'd never noticed their color before....*
...orbs for the rest of his life.
It was quiet in the house again, and he wished he could go back downstairs, down to the kitchen. Old houses like this often had cisterns, which collected rainwater from the roof. He needed a drink of water. His throat was dry, and it hurt to swallow. He needed an aspirin too, his head felt like it had expanded all it could, and was about to explode.
But he was so afraid. Afraid if he moved, the doors might start slamming all over again.
Something creaked above his head, and he looked up.
But it was just his body, hanging from the light fixture by the belt he'd found in the wardrobe.
FIN
_____________________________________________________
Author's note: I wrote most of this in an hour and a half, then finished it the next day. I had orignally meant it to be the prequel to a planned series of short stories about a family of ghost finders. But, that didn't pan out when my imagination ran dry. The fingers were willing (to write), but the inspiration was weak.