Adec - with his blood red hair, aqua eyes and freckle strewn face - loved Aokigahara Forest at this time of year; the warmly humid, moist air; the clouds engulfing the entire path for hours on end; the majestic animals that stared at him with an apathetic curiosity.
Yes, with nothing more than a bag full of Rice Wine and dumplings; a sword swinging from his hip, perfectly aligned to his hands, life was good. The great mountains stretched up into the sky as if to touch the heavens; the water was always beyond crisp; the never ending and ever bustling plant and animal life brought an exhilaratingly, orchestral atmosphere to the whole place. Frogs croaking, Pandas yawning, Elk galloping through the trees; Adec reflects upon the beauty of his road and deems it fitting, that this place be one of the most famous suicide hotspots in the entire world.
The high pitched wail of pain sort of smashed that atmosphere.
Showing posts with label The Fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Fear. Show all posts
Friday, 17 May 2013
Thursday, 16 May 2013
The Fear by James D. Irwin
Danny joined a support group to confront his crippling phobia, but suffered a panic-induced heart attack as soon as the group leader spoke to him. 'Welcome to Hippopotomonstrosesquipedialophobia Anonymous' was the last phrase he ever heard.
The Fear by Sara Travis
“Smell it. Feel it. Touch it. Taste it.
You know what that is? It’s fear. It hangs from the cobwebs on the walls. It loiters in the shadows in the corners. It’s in the rusty stains on the carpet, the blood spatter up the curtains, the putrid stench in the stale air.
We don’t know what happened here. Not for sure. Some say he killed her. Chopped her up into little pieces and hid her in the pipes in the walls. Others say she fell asleep in the rocking chair next to the fire and went unnoticed for months and months and months. That when they eventually found her, she’d rotted to dust. Some say she didn’t die here at all – she just disappeared. All I know is this; there’s a chill in the rooms at Lewisham House. It’s not natural. I’ve seen things. Books that vanish from one room only to turn up in another. The creak from the rocking chair echoing round the house. Mirrors that fall from the walls. Plates smashed to bits on the kitchen floor. And writing … writing all over the skirting boards. I won’t lie to you, the place needs some work. But with the right touch, I think you could turn this into a lovely family home. Would you like to see the garden? It’s got a veranda to die for, and a gorgeous cherry blossom right at the far end. Plenty of room for a swing set or two! Shall we?”
You know what that is? It’s fear. It hangs from the cobwebs on the walls. It loiters in the shadows in the corners. It’s in the rusty stains on the carpet, the blood spatter up the curtains, the putrid stench in the stale air.
We don’t know what happened here. Not for sure. Some say he killed her. Chopped her up into little pieces and hid her in the pipes in the walls. Others say she fell asleep in the rocking chair next to the fire and went unnoticed for months and months and months. That when they eventually found her, she’d rotted to dust. Some say she didn’t die here at all – she just disappeared. All I know is this; there’s a chill in the rooms at Lewisham House. It’s not natural. I’ve seen things. Books that vanish from one room only to turn up in another. The creak from the rocking chair echoing round the house. Mirrors that fall from the walls. Plates smashed to bits on the kitchen floor. And writing … writing all over the skirting boards. I won’t lie to you, the place needs some work. But with the right touch, I think you could turn this into a lovely family home. Would you like to see the garden? It’s got a veranda to die for, and a gorgeous cherry blossom right at the far end. Plenty of room for a swing set or two! Shall we?”
The Fear by Lesley Whyte
It stalks through the house like a panther. It creeps over the walls, chilling them like a cave. It sneaks up the stairs, making not a sound.
It is coming.
It is not alone.
In this house, this old house, the dark is a tangible thing. A constant presence. An endless nightmare.
It is coming.
It is not alone.
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