The Horror Writing Challenge

So, I’ve been trying to write more. I’m working more on my pirate story. I plan on starting to outline two different plots for my Nanowrimo. To finish my current novel or start a new one?

However, my sister-in-law has challenged me to write some horror and work on my villain. Ah well. Here it goes. Using the featured image, I’m going to pick a number… 12.

“I can’t sleep.” she whispered, crawling into bed with me. I woke up clutching the dress she was buried in. I froze, and held my breath.  The dress… I recognized that dress.  I slowly moved my hand, until I felt the body next to me.  The skin felt like sandpaper, and the I could not tell if the body was ice, or if that was just me. I felt like ice.

The lamp was still on in the corner, so I could see. Barely.  I started to ease back away from her.  There was no way. No way. I pinched my arm. Nothing. Shit.

I was off the bed and in the corner in a flash.  I tried to keep my eyes on her.  She wasn’t moving. Would she move? How did she get here? I just wanted to curl into a ball and ignore all the questions floating through my mind. The door! Where was the door?

I took my eyes off of her. And that was when she moved.  My gaze came back to her, and instead of facing the other way, her eyes were looking directly at me.  Unlike the rest of her, her eyes were the same. Pure. Blue. Whole.  The dress seemed to be tearing, her skin wasting away.  She raised her hand and pointed at me.

“This is your fault.”

If I thought I was scared before that was nothing compared to this.

“Come on guys. Come out. I know someone is having a majorly good prank on me here.”

Nothing. Shit. Nothing.

She was now sitting up.  “I know it was your fault.”

“How are you talking? Your dead. I saw you buried. Your rotting. You cannot talk. Frick, you shouldn’t move either.”

She walked towards me. I had no where to go. I could go around. Her movements were not the shambles of a movie. Oh I wish they had been. But how graceful was she? Crap crap crap crap crap

“Who says I am dead?”

She stopped at that. Maybe she was confused. Isn’t that a thing? Confusion? I looked toward the door. Why didn’t I run to the door in the first place?

“I… do. Your dead.  You died. Bam. You were hit by a car.  Was in a coma for three days.  But your dead. Your funeral was months ago.”

“Then why am I here? It is your fault.”

“it was not my fault”

“Was it not?”

“NO DAMMIT”

I shook my head. It was not my fault. Not my fault. I did not cause this. I did not do this. She walked with out looking. I didn’t have time to grab her. Not my fault.

I realized I had sat down. That wasn’t going to get me to the door. She had started walking again.  “Your fault”

“Not my fault, not my fault” I started to make a running leap for it.

And in that instant, I was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

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