Monolaith ~ A Short Story

It's a family tradition young Holly could do without . . .

Monolaith

Make them pay. Make them all pay.

The raspy voice carried through the attic, drowning out all other sound. Holly Denton shook her head and covered her ears. Her face contorted into a pained grimace as the whisper echoed around her. Huddled on the dull floorboards, knees drawn to her chin, she rocked among the cobwebs and cardboard boxes. Dust particles swirled in the confined space, dancing through a narrow moonlit beam. They made her nose itch and clung to her damp face.

Fresh tears cleared a path down her grime-covered cheeks when the first screams pierced the silence. Holly jumped at the sound, her shoulders hunching in a defensive cringe. Her teeth sank deep into her lower lip to keep from crying out. If she did, they would find her, and like always, they would blame her for things she didn’t do.

The staff always treated her as if she were a leper, and the children weren’t much better. She always got blamed when something went wrong, or someone got hurt, even when it wasn’t her fault. Sometimes it was, though. Like when Sally Peters fell out of the tree and broke her arm. Holly hadn’t pushed her, but she had wanted her to fall, and deep down, she supposed that was the same thing.

The attic grew hotter, the air stifling. Small beads of sweat formed along the child’s brow. She crouched in the corner and rocked faster. Acrid smoke rose through the floorboards and an ominous amber light flickered below. Terrified, she let the first sob burst free.

Keening wails pierced the night, the noise sharp and unending. She could hear the sound of feet pounding against linoleum, the noise roiling like rolling thunder through the orphanage. Holly’s own fear mounted to unsurpassed heights as she clamped her hands against her ears in a futile effort to make it stop. It didn’t stop though, and the attic gave birth to worse terrors.

The rough, wooden planks grew hot beneath her bare feet, making her toes curl. Pain made her eyes flare. It was then that she noticed the shadowy figure perched on the cedar chest. Her eyes burned, watering from the thick plumes surrounding her. Certain her mind was playing tricks, Holly blinked. Once, twice … but the figure remained.

Dim, yellowed eyes peered back at her through the tainted haze. The creature, no bigger than a six-year old child, sat poised in a gargoyle stance. Sallow grey skin, as thin as parchment, stretched taut over gaunt limbs. It remained motionless, watching and waiting, its serpentine gaze filled with predatory cunning.

Holly screamed, her lungs filling with the noxious cloud crowding the attic. Hitting her hands and knees, the child coughed and wretched in a violent fit. Back bowed, she managed to suck in a few ragged gulps of toxic air. It made her head spin and the dismal gray haze grew thicker.

A quiet rustle carried over the sound of her heart hammering in her ears. Turning her head, she watched in horror as the creature unfurled its wings with a stretch. A delicate spider web of veins ran through the thin flaps of skin, illuminated by the eerie light oozing through the floor. Riveted with unspeakable fear, Holly’s gaze traced the outline of each wiry bone, much thinner and smaller than her own. An animalistic whimper tore from her throat. In a desperate bid for comfort, her fingers sought the familiar circle of the pendant dangling from her neck.

Her grandmother had given her the jewel on her seventh birthday, along with a warning that made Holly’s inside quiver like jell-o. “This will protect you against the Monolaith, child. Wear it and keep it safe. He watches you and waits for the day he can make you his.”

“Mother! I will not have you filling my daughter’s head with such filth!”

“It’s not filth, Doreen; it’s true! This thing has haunted our family for generations. You know it and I know it.” Her grandmother’s voice dropped to a low whisper, one not meant for Holly’s straining ears. “It wants your daughter, Doreen. She’s the chosen one, the one born beneath the ninth moon.”

Holly shook herself free of the memories and took a step back.

The beast settled back on its haunches, its wings flattening against its emaciated body. Thin lips pulled back in a chilling spectacle of a smile to reveal unending rows of jagged teeth. Holly reared back and pressed deeper into the corner. Strangled noises worked their way from her throat, a mixture of pain and helplessness as the planks underfoot grew hotter.

Only I can save you now, child.

Startled, Holly searched for the source of the voice. It sounded from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The figure regarded her with a knowing gaze, its eyes unblinking. It dismounted from its perch, its feet hitting the floor with a soft thud.

Her grip on the necklace tightened.

It is like before, yes?

Dim recollection settled over her, diluted memories of past nightmares . . . of the shadowy form soaring alongside the car the night her parents died. She remembered watching it with an odd mixture of wonderment and fear, her head craning at a painful angle when it eventually looped out of view. Mere seconds after it had disappeared from her sight, the tires screeched, her parents screamed and, as the car rolled, her world shattered.

For the first time in months, she recalled the grated whispers that had sounded against her ear as something pulled her from the gnarled metal prison of the car. Broken glass and blood surrounded her like macabre jewels, fractured reflections of diamonds and rubies. The pain was unbearable and her terror immense as she lay there, screaming in anguish for her mother or her father. They lay immobile, not breathing, not speaking, blind to her suffering as Holly plead for help.

That was when the cool, leathery fingers curled around her arms. Something whispered against her ear, its breath reeking of damp earth and mildew: Embrace me, Holly. Accept me and I will save you, for I am yours, and you are mine.

Scared, wounded, and alone, she had.

Unable to draw any oxygen from the oppressive air, Holly’s head started to spin. Sirens sounded in the distance, a faint chorus above the screams and sobs echoing from every direction. The orphanage shuddered; the attic pitched and swayed. Everything started to fade into an enveloping black haze.

I am your fate. I am your destiny. Come, embrace me. No time remains.

Common sense warred with the instinct for survival. A long moment passed before Holly managed a weak but acquiescent nod. Her blonde head bowed in an attempt to avoid making further eye contact with the creature. She heard the rustling though as it neared, a sound like burnt paper being crumpled into the wind. She smelled the sickening sweet stench of her own roasting flesh mingle with its fetid breath. Pain and fear enveloped her … and then, Holly felt no more.


                                                              ~ † † † ~

Blinding white lights and a symphony of beeping machines greeted Holly upon waking. She squinted against the invasive glare, her face wrinkling from the harsh antiseptic odor permeating the room. Long, clear tubes dangled from a metal stand. They wormed needles under her skin and crept up her nose to release a cool stream of air. Soothed by her ability to breathe and the lack of pain, she let her cheek settle against the crisp pillow and closed her eyes. Once again, the creature had kept its word.

She stirred sometime the next day, disturbed by the zipping sound of opening blinds. Dazed, Holly propped herself up on one elbow and shielded her eyes from the sun with the other.

“Good morning, sunshine. I’m glad to see you are awake. There for a moment, I almost lost you.”

The soothing voice washed over her, striking chords of familiarity she could not place. Smiling, Holly greeted the handsome man with raven curls. She stared unabashed into his pale green eyes, mesmerized by their hypnotic pull. He broke the spell with a disarming smile and crossed the room in long strides.

“Who are you?”

“No one of importance, Holly. At least not yet.”

Confused, she dropped back against the pillow. “How do you know my name?”

She closed her eyes, her head pressing into his touch as he ruffled her hair. The orphanage, the fire, it all felt like a bad dream. She had some recollection of huddling near the lower stairwell, hazy beams sweeping through the darkness, shouting, and the feeling of strong arms carrying her to safety.

Holly’s cobalt gaze studied the stranger, searching for any features that might trigger her memory. “Are you the one who saved me from the fire?”

“All in good time, sweet child.” He lifted her hand in his and his fingers pressed something cold against her open palm. “I believe you lost this.”

She stared at the pendant, a flood of gratitude surging through her. Her fingertips traced a reverent path over the knots surrounding the polished circle of agate. The precious heirloom was the only thing besides blurred memories that Holly had left of her parents and family. Tears welled in her eyes and she clutched the necklace tight in her fist.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear. Now, you need to get some rest.” He seemed to sense her sorrow, for his lips pulled into an empathetic smile. “Don’t worry, angel. We’ll see each other again.”

Holly’s golden brow furrowed. “How can you be sure?”

His hands spread in an opening gesture. Eyes as hard and cool as granite remained riveted to the necklace in her hands. “Fate. I’m a strong believer in destiny, Holly. When the time is right, we shall meet again.”

He turned and headed for the door. Not wanting to be alone, she couldn’t resist one more question. “How will I know how to find you if I don’t even know your name?”

The man paused. “You know all you need to know, Holly. My name is not important.”

His voice became a raspy whisper. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and stood on end as his head craned with slow deliberation. He smiled at her, revealing rows of jagged teeth.

“I am the Monolaith. I am the eternal nightmare from which you cannot awake. We are together as one. I am your fate. I am your destiny.”

The chilling mantra crashed into her, jarring her from the false security of her world. Somewhere in the distance, emergency alarms sounded. There in the room, Holly heard the faint rustle associated with death and destruction. The Monolaith had come again, determined to claim his captive bride. He would never stop, and as her grandmother warned, she would never be free. Fear cinched Holly's heart into a knot. The Monolaith pressed closer. Its cracked lips stretched into a feral grin. She smelled the creature’s putrid stench, felt its searing breath roll across her skin . . . and screamed.


WC~ 1868

© Copyright 2010 Adriana Noir

Book Review: The Devil's Weekend

The Devil’s Weekend is a fast paced horror novel with a unique premise that will leave readers on the edge of their seat. I was hooked the moment I read the introductory blurb.

Oliver Ignis is everything we’ve come to know and fear about serial killers. He’s merciless, brutal, and very much in love with his mother. If Dahmer and Norman Bates ever had a love child, Oliver would be the end result of that unholy union.

His life is revealed through flashes of the past and present, from his experimentation with animals, his tragic upbringing, and his murderous bender. He’s a complex being that I came to both pity and fear. As monstrous as his actions may be, the author has an uncanny way of reminding us that there is still something very human and vulnerable beneath.

He encounters the Devil, who presents himself in a wide array of manners. Personally, my favorite was the attractive and debonair man who manipulates his victims with ease. As one would expect, the Devil know what he wants and exactly how to get it, but he offers Oliver the deal of a lifetime. In exchange for his soul, he will allow Oliver an entire weekend to kill without any chance of getting caught or harmed. He will also reunite Oliver with his beloved mother, whom he has not spoken to or seen in years.

What ensues is a terrifying killing spree, shown from both Oliver’s POV and the townspeople he hunts. The story is fast-paced and action packed, giving the reader little time to catch their breath before they’re thrust back into the thick of the horror, and the end results will leave you stunned.

This isn’t just a tale of death and killing. It’s a haunting story of humanity, love, and the loss thereof. Some people find their way, while others lose it, and the Devil witnesses it all. While scary, it is also a thought provoking read that appeals to the psychology behind humans and why we behave the way we do.

Jim Bronyaur has a very crisp and clean writing style. His prose isn’t fancy, but more of a minimalist approach which lends to the frenzied time frame. After all, Oliver only has one weekend in which to accomplish his deeds and thrust the small county of Butler into a nightmare of which the world has never seen. Only a small handful of typos mark this otherwise flawless work, and given the gripping plot, and fascinating characters, it doesn't detract from the overall product. I still give this book a solid 4.5 out of 5 stars.

I highly recommend this story to anyone looking for a suspenseful and thrilling read. It will chill you to the bone while also making you think. If you’re looking for a fast-paced and exhilarating read, pick up a copy. You won’t be disappointed!

To purchase a copy of The Devil’s Weekend, click here Also, don’t forget to stop by Jim’s website, Facebook, and, Twitter. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you!

 Best wishes and happy writing!~

Ouija Boards: How Games Can Inspire Horror

Ouija boards. You can find them in the game aisle of any toy store or major retailer out there, but are they really a game? Much debate surrounds these little wooden boards with their letters and planchettes, also known as oracles.

Some say they are a hoax, driven only by overactive imaginations, or friends playing tricks on each other. Others claim they work all too well, and serve as a portal to the other side: a portal to the demonic underworld that cannot be closed once open. They say playing with an Ouija board is like sending a written invitation to any sinister spirit looking for a home.

I say they are a great tool in horror!

“The Exorcist” was one of the only movies to ever truly scare me in my lifetime. It centers on young Regan, and the chilling aftermath she endures after playing with an Ouija board. It started with the pointer moving by itself, scratches behind the wall, strange noises at night, and the unforgettable violent shaking of her bed. Then came the demonic possession. *shudders* The images of this girl and the horror she went through haunted me for weeks. I slept with the lights on, if I managed to sleep at all. That inhuman voice echoed in my head, eliciting shivers. The mere thought of laying in bed terrified me, lest it, too, started to shake.

 Sure, laugh, if you will--but I was scared!

The book and movie are said to be based on the ‘true’ story of a little boy in Georgetown, USA. His is one of the only official exorcisms performed in the States. The movie, itself, was reportedly cursed. Some claim this was a hoax to garner more public interest. However, some facts do remain. A fire broke out on the set, delaying production for six weeks. The lead actress, Linda Blair, the actress who played Regan, suffered several mental breakdowns. Family members and actors tied to the film experienced a number of tragedies during and after production, including multiple injuries on set. Jack McGowen died of a heart-attack after completing his role in the film. Other deaths “linked to the Exorcist curse” are a night watchman, a cameraman’s offspring, and a special effects expert. Coincidence or not . . . you decide.

Other films that have used the Ouija board as a catalyst for horror include, “Witchboard,” “Thirteen Ghosts (also uses a séance),” “The Uninvited,” What Lies Beneath,” and many more. A more recent film, “A Haunting in Connecticut,” utilizes séances and boards with drastic results.

Whether they are a harmless game, a useful tool, or something much more sinister, the Ouija board has played a major role in inspiring terror. The Ouija will entertain, warn, instruct, or offer information from the spirit world, often with mixed results. This is a key scene that can set the stage for the rest of the story. It’s a plot device that sets the scene for many “what if” scenarios. Perhaps your character is truly haunted after playing with one. Is it a spirit, or something much more ominous? Or maybe, they have gone mad, driven by hallucinations and the result of their own fear. What sort of terror and acts do these hallucinations inspire? One thing is for sure . . . in the case of fiction, the Ouija does, indeed, open many doorways!

Historical note: Up until close to mid-last century, many cases of epilepsy, schizophrenia, and other mental and neurological diseases were attributed to demonic or spirit possession. In the medieval era, people were tortured in the name of medical science as people sought a way to “purge them of their demons.” In later centuries, they were locked away in insane asylums and forgotten, where they also suffered cruel experiments far from society’s eye.

Even advice on how to properly dispose of the board ranges widely. Some say throw it out or give it away, it is, after all, a cardboard game, saying it is comparable to Monopoly or CandyLand. Others claim it is no game and must be cleansed and burned. There are some who say burning it leaves the portal open and insist it must be cut up and buried. Yet more people claim it has to be weighted and dropped beneath running water. It seems the ways to dispose of it vary as widely as the opinions and stories surrounding the board itself.

Such debate and mystery leaves a writer’s options wide open, and would make anyone looking for a sincere option very confused. See the conflict this could provide for a character? What if option ‘A’ turned out to be the wrong one and after pitching said board, they discover it has somehow found its way home?

This is just one look at the many catalysts and options the horror genre provides. Like all things in life, the point of view taken on it is subjective to one’s own whims. I’m not here to argue or debate the board and its purpose, or the rumors surrounding it. I only know those rumors scare me silly! It’s not even the board itself that scares me. It’s the “what if” factor! This is just another example of where imagination can take us. Of what belief, or even a moment of suspended belief can do. For me, the results lasted a lifetime. I hope you found this information entertaining and, perhaps, a bit chilling. Most of all, I hope it provides a small glimmer of inspiration somewhere along the way.

~Best wishes and happy haunting!~

Monster: A Short Story

I wrote this story two years ago for a contest on Writing.com. Jason has always been one of my all-time favorite horror icons. Maybe it's because I have a thing for big, strong, strapping men who wear masks and never speak. Or maybe it's the psychological aspect of his story that fascinates me. I'll let you make your own assumptions. This short tale ties in with the remake and is written soley from his POV. It is cannon and was meant as a complimentary character study. Please feel free to let me know what you think.

Without further ado...here is Monster/

“Mama!”

The word screams through my brain, plays on my tongue, but leaves my throat in a strangled gurgle. Troubled eyes scan the darkened corners of my room, probing the comforting shadows that have become home. A cold trickle of sweat creeps down the back of my neck and the memory of my nightmare remains as vivid and haunting as that cursed day. My hands, still trembling, drop back to the mattress, no longer reaching for the ghostly specter of my mother. She is gone, taking with her the small shred of humanity that lingered in this hell.

The stench of death and decay permeates the air, though I am not sure if it is the labyrinth beneath the shack giving off such a putrid smell. My clothes are as filthy and tattered as my surroundings, a reflection of the stagnant recesses of my soul. Wounds, both internal and external, fester with raging infection that seeps through my veins. I am the embodiment of all that is dying. Like withered ivy clinging to the side of an abandoned building, I cling to the last remnants of life.

“Make them pay.”

Mama’s voice echoes in my mind. It lingers with the searing effects of a brand and spurs me out of bed. Leaden limbs protest as I make my way across the room. The grime covered mirror taunts me from the wall. I refuse to give in and let my gaze roam to where it never should be. Mama used to promise me I was not a monster. Her loving hands would glide across my skin, leaving tingling warmth in their wake as she told me how beautiful I was. However, the fear and disgust stamped onto the faces of others always told a different story.

Twisted and deformed, my face never resembled the porcelain beauty of my peers. They hated me. I was an outcast, an abhorrent beast, always taunted, teased, and tormented. I can still feel the bite of their words, the thud of their fists, or the hard crack of shoes against my flesh. I can still taste the blood and tears I shed as they spit on me. Most of all, I remember the fear I felt as they left me in the icy lake to drown, and the blistering inferno of rage that has consumed me since the day I watched my mother die.

The dull glint of moonlight reflecting off that machete doesn’t just haunt my dreams. It chases me well into the blinding sun where daylight burns. The memory of that moment stays with me always. It’s the demon residing in my soul, for in that moment, I lost everything. Mama was the only one to show kindness, my only source of love, a lone beacon of hope in a cruel world where nothing made sense.

They took her from me.

My fists clench into wrecking balls at my sides, nails biting deep into the fleshy mounds of my palms. Pivoting on heel, my boot collides with a rusty car battery, sending it flying. It smashes into the clouded mirror and glass shards tinkle to the floor in a shower of razors. Determination swells to clash in a full-blown battle with the pain. They may have stripped my world away once, but I won’t let it happen again. Fueled by vengeance and misery, my soul screams from the pit of its blackened depths that it will never happen again.

Slamming through the twisting corridors of dirt and wood, I make my way through the desolate tunnels beneath my home. I strike out, pummeling and kicking anything in my way, body straining. At last, salvation reaches my ears in the form of a whimper so faint, it might as well have been a reckless sigh from the wind. Relief floods my veins, bringing with it a blessed reprieve from all else.

Whitney sits coiled on the filthy mattress, her slender body arching as she attempts to press deeper into the wall behind her. Despite the fear and loathing reflected in her hazel eyes, I see a glimmer of my past. It doesn’t matter that her once vibrant copper tresses are now matted against her scalp in lank clumps. She’s covered in dirt, grime, and dried blood, but I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight in my life.

Head cocking to the side, I regard her from a distance. Breath coming in heavy pants, I struggle with an overwhelming surge of emotions. She looks so much like Mama. The mere sight of her floods me with longing and the same confusing mixture of fury and agony I have lived with for years. I cherish and loathe her all in the same heartbeat. Part of me wants to keep this woman and protect her. The other realizes this is not a second chance to do all the things I failed to do with Mama, and I ache to destroy her, to shatter all hints of the painful illusion she casts.

Her fingers curl around the locket clutched in her fist as if the tarnished heart is capable of banishing me to the depths of hell. It isn’t the golden locket that halts my steps, but fear she might destroy the picture it holds. This woman, this faint glimmer of hope and a reminder of all things past, holds in her hands the only tangible image left of Mama. My heart slows to a faint flutter in my chest and I take a step forward, only to be halted mid-stride.

“Jason.”

Her voice is soft, like the caress of a butterfly’s wings. It propels me back to another time and place. Uncertainty settles in my core, making me numb. A prickle of unease creeps up my spine. A name, once so familiar, now sounds foreign as it lingers in the air between us. No one has spoken to me or uttered that word for decades. It brings back faint memories of love, and much stronger ones of torment. Enraged, I grab my machete.

Shoulders bunched and coiled, I wait for the mocking words to come as tension hums through my frame. Whitney’s heels scrabble against the filthy mattress in a desperate bid for traction. She chokes back a sob and lifts an imploring hand, unsuccessful in her attempt to escape. Unmoved, I step forward, determined to smite her before she draws first blood.

“Jason! Jason, no!” Cornered against the wall, her fingers fumble across the latch and she flips the locket open.

My gaze settles on the picture and a floodgate of memories is torn open. Flashes of birthdays, kisses, the protective shadow Mama always cast, laughter, smiles, tears. I remember my father leaving and the long nights I spent waiting for him to return. He never did; he never loved me. I wasn’t his son, but a hideous and shameful blemish on his existence. The hell endured at camp that summer burns brighter. The embarrassment of always being pushed away, excluded, and tortured all returns, prompting the ongoing chant that echoes in my head.

“Jason, make them pay. Make them all pay, Jason!”

Mama’s last words hit with the force of a thunderbolt. Violent tremors run rampant through my core. Life and death, love and hate . . . all wage a war for precedence, for control. Destruction whispers in my ear, reminding me what a loyal and constant companion it has proven to be over the years.

Lifting the machete, I feel the familiar press of plastic within my grip. Fingers curled around the handle, it feels as if death will win. Red haze clouds my vision. The urge to annihilate anyone who dares to tread this sacred ground reigns supreme. My footsteps fall with a heavy thud, each one accentuated by fresh tears from Whitney.

I approach on swift feet, slicing the long blade through the air in a sinister arc. It makes an ominous whistling sound before Whitney’s scream drowns out all else. The steel collides with the metal grate behind her, sending a crippling wave of vibration up my arm into my hand. I struggle to maintain my grip as my shoulders heave with silent rage. Like the night I found her running through the woods, the desire to hunt this woman is there; yet I cannot bring myself to destroy her.

Whirling, I abandon myself to the rage. Boxes, chunks of rusted metal, and other debris goes flying as my wrath unfurls. Soft sobs convey Whitney’s relief. I hate her for finding comfort when I can find none. I know there are others out there, lurking and waiting, trespassing in the woods that have become my desolate cage of loneliness. They seek to destroy me, to rip away what remains of Mama, to take away the only thing capable of easing that void. The raw wound left when I watched her head tumble across the grass is eased by my pet. Sometimes, I can forget she is not Mama and slip into a comfortable world of make-believe where I am loved. No one will rip that away from me again.

“Don’t leave me here! Please! Jason!”

Whitney’s voice cracks with the raw force of her anguish. Her wailing fear of being left alone echoes the underlying terror I felt as a child. It follows me as I make my way outside, into the wilderness I know so well. Unlike Mama, I will return. But not until I’ve erased every last threat lurking in the world outside. Then . . . then we can be alone. She will remind my shadowed heart what it is like to be loved. I will pull the strings, and she will dance like a puppet to a symphony of our own making.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blood glistens against the dull sheen of steel. I revel in the crimson bath I have created, but my celebration is cut short. Gooseflesh erupts across my skin and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Body frozen, my eyes scan the rustling abyss around me, searching for the cause of such imminent unease. I haven’t felt so unsettled since the day that counselor murdered Mama as I hid nearby.

A familiar scent carries on the wind, the barest hint of sweetness, like the lilac bushes that used to bloom outside Mama’s kitchen window in the spring. I spot Whitney, my Whitney, slinking along the house where the others partake in a fit of debauchery and drugs. Panic sets in, threatening to cripple me in its vise-like grip. The fear of losing her is much stronger, spurring my leaden body to charge across the grass with the determination of a rampaging bull.

Before she can move, before she can make a sound, my arm snakes around her slender frame and my hand clamps over her mouth in a menacing press. Anger unlike anything I have ever known before boils within me. I drag Whitney backward with ease, away from the house, closer to where she belongs. Her kicking and bucking is no match for my size or strength. Before she brings the others with her protests, I lift her, flinging her in an effortless toss over my shoulder. We return home; me in silence, her kicking and screaming, begging for a salvation that will not come.

The woods don’t care. Dark and silent, they watch and listen, but never answer the calls of the desperate and forsaken.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Earth quenches her thirst with the crimson offerings I leave. I feed her as no one fed me when I was a child, alone and afraid in these woods. I am at home here, and only wish to be left in peace. It is all I have ever wanted. Here is where I hid, when the world thought me dead. Within the folds of trees and thickets, I remained invisible as my mother went on her rampage, avenging a son the world hated. They will meet their death, just as she met hers. Two got away, but they cannot hide. Not here.

I make my way back to the crumbling remains of my shack, knowing they will be there. They hunt for Whitney, just as I hunt for them. Anger and hurt swell within until the pressure inside my chest grows so intense, I fear I will burst. Why can they not just leave me in peace? Why do they have to trespass in my life . . . in my home?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They found her, my Whitney, and tore her free of the shackles and chains I used to bind her. If only the ones placed on me at birth were as easy to break. Three is now two, and I fight tears, yearning to release the howl of rage burgeoning in my chest as she runs off with another. A perfect man whose face is not hideous and deformed like mine; a man who does not belong here in our world. She leaves me no choice but to follow in pursuit.

I chase them through the tunnels and into the old storage shed. Whitney lashes out at me, screaming my name, as I break through the doors, and, in full attack mode, start to tear the male intruder apart. With fists of iron, I pummel the thief, throwing him with ease across the shed where I cornered them. My ire will not die until he draws his last shaky breath, until he pays for all that he has done . . . for everything that they all have done. I am the avenger, and the day of reckoning has come.

The fight presents little challenge. The man was weak, pathetic in his attempts to live, to rise above the fate waiting for him. He no longer struggles, but hangs limp and bloody in my grip. Churning spikes of metal grind, the noise echoes in my ears as I push his head closer to the gaping maw of gnashing teeth. The burning in my chest increases as Whitney continues to cry and scream for me. The raw pain in her voice gives me pause at the last second, and I turn to confront her.

Through the holes in my newfound mask, I stare back at this discordant angel. With my eyes, I beseech her to tell me why. Why did she leave me? What did I do wrong? For weeks, I fed her and treated her with kindness and love, just as Mama had always shown me. I don’t understand this outburst of anger and pain when I am only trying to keep her safe.

My gaze drops to the locket she holds out. Mama’s face stares back at me, so soft and beautiful. If my eyes were capable of shedding tears, they would, for I feel my heart breaking all over again. My head tilts and I shift my attention back to Whitney, more confused than ever. I beg her with all that I have to ease my pain, to end this vicious cycle of anguish.

She seems to hear. Her face becomes gentle again, and when she speaks my name, it is as if she sings to me the most beautiful song ever heard. Nothing else matters. The rest of the world fades away, like we are the only two people that exist. She smiles through her tears, exuding a magnetic pull. I step forward, eager to feel her embrace, to once again feel the arms of love, and return home.

Then, the world spins. It collides with darkness yet again and spirals completely off axis. She turns on me in an instant, before I can register the pain, the betrayal, and the scorching rise of fury. The metal blade of an axe pierces my skull and blood seeps beneath my mask, blinding me once again to the world I sought in vain. I struggle against the chains around my neck, caught in the whirl of grinding metal of the wood chipper behind me. Desperate, I reach for her, screaming inside, begging her to help me, not to leave me . . . and then the world turns black.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Weightless and floating, I stare through a rippling haze at the dim shaft of light filtering down from above. Bitter, icy cold engulfs me and water fills my lungs as it did so many years ago. The world dances above as I listen to the muffled sound of Whitney’s sobs, but my heart no longer cares.

Rejected and spurned by the world once again, I feed on the hatred seething in my soul. Twisting and turning, I fight my way to the surface, determined to grab that lying, deceitful bitch and drag her back down to the depths of hell with me. Oh, I once had a dream of being loved. But that was then, and this is now. Dreams fade, and over time, become replaced by the bitter pangs of reality.

I will crush and destroy the world, making it as ugly as my soul. I will kill all who set foot in my woods, showing them the true depths of darkness and despair in which I linger. I will show them a rampage of vengeance and violence unlike that of which the world has ever seen. I’m no longer a weak little boy fighting for air, crying, and begging for someone to save him.

I am what the world has made me; I am a monster.

WC~2911
© Copyright 2009 Adriana Noir. All rights reserved.

Review of Fear in Words Volume One - The Stories

Jason Darrick’s collection of short stories is a horror debut chalk full of visceral gore and violence. But there’s more. Not only is the author willing to test your claims that your stomach lining is made of steel and put those bragging rights to shame, but he will push the envelope and terrorize your mind as well. These tales are short, but full of action and bloody suspense.

I admit self-published fiction makes me wary. It’s too often filled with sloppy, amateur mistakes that make seasoned readers cringe—not to mention my sadistic internal editor. Darrick’s book was a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect the level of writing that I found, or the extreme levels to which he was willing to take the reader. I cringed, and as much as it pains me to admit, I turned green around those proverbial gills.

The first offering, Drip, is a staggering piece of flash fiction that clouts the reader upside the head and demands they take notice. This is your wake-up call folks, and only a small hint of what lurks ahead. Darrick comes out swinging.

The Figure slows things down, giving the reader time to submerge into setting and character. After reading this chilling tale, you’ll probably never look at the harmless flecks of ash drifting from a fire the same way again. It invites the audience into a twisted realm where nothing is quite as it seems. We’re forced to remember why shadows terrified us as kids and why, perhaps, we should still fear them as adults. Bad things happen to good people. They really do.

The devious twist at the end garnered a measure of respect from this reader. I love the unexpected, and anytime something makes me sit up and take notice, let alone giggle with manic glee, I must defer.

The Forest is a darkly savage tale, truly not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. Here, I discovered Jason Darrick is not afraid to push the envelope. He’ll ball that thing up and shove it down your throat. This story follows a group of stranded people as they disappear one by one, hunted down by crazies. It’s like Survivor meets Wrong Turn, but with the author’s own brand of in your face horror.

I found this to be the most versatile story when it came to showcasing ability. It reaches beyond the usual elements one would expect to find. When the protagonist, a loving husband, discovers what happened to his wife, Darrick pulls all punches. He tugs those heartstrings tight, lets them snap like a rubber band, and laughs while he does it. The choices this man must make are brutal. I didn’t know whether to cringe or cry, so I did both.

The only complaint I had about The Forest was the end. After all the suspense and heartrending drama, I guess I expected something a little more climatic. Though, in all fairness, some may like the gentle approach after such a mind-numbing ride.

Hanna was a sordid, gripping tale of power struggles and revenge. Here, I thought Darrick shined the brightest. It explores the dark underworld of BDSM and what happens when one woman decides she’s had enough. He was fearless in this endeavor, taking the violence to an entirely new level. Hannah should not be judged by topic alone. It’s an intense ride. Think War of the Roses for the depraved, full of psychological and physical warfare that will leave your mind spinning. The twist at the end = brilliant. Once again, I smothered a demented peal of laughter.

The final offering in this collection, Mr. Vore, places the reader within a comfortable frame of mind, lending a false sense of security before ripping them out in a savage chokehold. You will never look at weight loss or infomercials the same way again. I guarantee it. Mr. Vore saturates the last pages in this book with blood and bodily harm.

Overall, the editing wasn’t bad. Only a few repetitive words snuck in there. The style was crisp—easy to read. It’s a refreshing twist for a newcomer. Thank you, Mr. Darrick, for not dousing us with adverbs and tired clichés before striking the proverbial match! My biggest complaint was not with the wording or telling, but with punctuation. It’s nothing an extra pair of eyes or two before publishing wouldn’t fix.

Fear in Words Volume One – The Stories left me with several impressions. I see a lot of potential within this author. It was an impressive debut and the collection, intense and original. If this was any indication of what might be in store, Jason Darrick is one writer I’ll be keeping my eye on. He entertains.

Visit the author’s website, Twitter, and Facebook if you dare!

His work can be purchased here Amazon.

~Best wishes and happy writing!~

Adriana

A Tale of Caution...in Rhyme

It's not often I dabble outside of the storytelling realm, but this is one of the few err... poems I've penned over the years. It's dark, depraved, and riddled with horror. Come on. Why so surprised? You weren't expecting fluffy bunnies and sunshine here, were you?

The Hunter
Slinking through the shadows, the wakened beast starts to rage.
Cursed and bound to endless dark, he hates his moonlit cage.
Longing for a taste of light, the hunger swells within.
Lips pulled taut across his fangs, he dons a feral grin.

Corded muscle starts to quiver with the song of night.
Snout turned up to sniff the air, he tracks his victim’s flight.
Yellow parchment wings expand with a muted rustle.
Deadened twigs crack in the woods ‘neath his victim’s hustle.

Her pounding heart provides the song pulsing in his ears.
Flee and chase, a pointless game, performed throughout the years.
Razor talons glint beneath the silver glow of moon.
Eyes slit with enraptured bliss, he knows it will be soon.

Caught up in the thrill of hunt, the demon gives a howl.
Withered leaves fall below; he emits a smell most foul.
Pungent sulfur fills the air; his victim starts to cry.
Blinded by a veil of tears, she knows that she will die.

Sprawled in savage tumble, they go crashing to the ground.
His amber eyes dance with glee; she begs without a sound.
With an ominous rumble, he claims his frightened bride.
Wings pressed flat against his back, he thrusts his fist inside.

Prize in hand and bathed in blood, he holds her stilling heart.
Depraved, he licks it clean and beholds the Devil’s art.
Coiled over crimson form, he eats his fallen foe.
Take heed when in shadow, or this hunter you will know.

© Copyright 2009 Adriana Noir. All rights reserved.

Cross-genre Frenzy: How Has it Impacted Horror

Let’s face it, there’s a definite trend in the publishing industry. Paranormal romances are hot, hot, hot! But what does that mean for the horror genre as a whole? In the wake of best-sellers and billion dollar franchises such as The Twilight Saga, Fallen, The Vampire Diaries, and less so, True Blood, many of us are left scratching our heads in wonder. Once vampires, demons, and werewolves were fearsome creatures that inspired nightmares and sleepless nights. They embodied the things we feared, the reasons we hid under the covers at night.

Now, they seem more apt to make you swoon and giggle. Don’t get me wrong, I’m guilty of enabling. I like the paranormal trend. There IS something exciting about monsters and the forbidden aspect of it all makes me giddy as a schoolgirl. I’ve read Twilight, and honestly, I can’t say anything bad about the books. (The movies are an entirely different matter.) They were geared toward a specific audience and it worked. Fans fell in love. I found myself rooting for the characters. To me, that equates success, no matter what the varying opinions of the books may be.

On the other hand, my heart breaks just a little. It hurts to see villains, terrible creatures that I grew up both loving and fearing . . . well . . . all sparkly and pretty. To see them shimmer in the sun. It takes all of the horror, all of the danger, right out of the equation. I guess that’s why I love prefer the True Blood series. Eric is still pretty nasty when he wants to be. There are still gruesome, despicable acts that terrify, and not too nice creatures lying in wait. The vampires are still vampires, and yes, they do burn.

*sniff* Goodbye, Godric.

Because of these ever popular trends, many horror writers today face an even greater challenge. We have to recreate the monster and abolish much of the sunshiny goodness and loveable stigmata now attached to our protagonists. We have to find a way to make them loathsome and inspire fear. It takes more work than ever to build that atmosphere of terror and establish a truly horrific character.

 Nothing has been untouched. That’s not to say it’s impossible. Show us, the audience, all of the sinister deeds it commits along the way. Allow us a glimpse into the dark workings of your monster’s mind. Reinforce the fact that this is not some teen heartthrob, but a vile force to be reckoned with. I don’t want to be told I should fear this beast because of what it is, I want to feel that terror firsthand. I want reasons to be afraid . . . and I want this atrocity you create to feel like a very real threat.

They say everything has already been done. Idea-wise, that is probably true. What will make your story unique is the fresh perspective you bring, the unique thoughts and stance your characters take throughout the story. Their individual voices and the experiences they bring.
 Don’t shy away from these new challenges. Embrace them. Force the industry to evolve.

I know without a doubt, I will enjoy following where both these roads lead. What about you? What are your thoughts on the impact and possible solutions?
 
~Best wishes and happy writing!~
Adriana

Tuesday Tidbit:

The following is an excerpt from Whispering Hollow, a short story in the works.

The poets of the world will tell you true love is a blessing; the greatest gift man can ever receive. But let me tell you that’s a lie, a cruel and vicious web of deceit the romantic-at-heart weave. No amount of sirens’ songs or pretty words can cover the truth: Love, true love especially, is a curse. It will pull you under its churning waves and strip you of all your senses—both physical and mental. Love robs a man of all he has and leaves him bereft, abandoned on some isolated shore from which there is no escape.


I buried my beloved Chloe a mere month ago along with the broken and desolate shards of my sanity. My heart lay as cold and dead as she, and as I watched the last clumps of dirt rain over her casket, I didn’t know if I should weep with bitter relief or cave beneath the immense burden of grief and guilt. I had watched her hang for her sins, knowing her crimes were no worse than mine. I had watched, and in those moments that ticked by like an unspent eternity, I had felt glee. Even as her tongue lolled and her body twitched in the final throes of death, I rejoiced.

Today, she came back . . .