Visions - Part Four: Beth

I don't think I'll ever stop screaming. I had almost forgotten Mike was in the room. Why did he do that to Jack? Why is this happening? Who's hammering on the door?

Oh no…oh fuck no, Mike's looking at me. Is Jack…? Mike's standing up, he looks confused, angry. Oh God, no. I've gotta get out of here.

I scrabble at the lock. The knocking from outside stops. They're waiting; waiting for me to open the door. What am I doing, what am I doing? Finally it unlocks. I wrench the door open as fast as I can just as Mike leaps. My arm jars painfully as the door strikes him right in the face. There's blood but I see nothing more as I charge out of the room. My shoulder strikes something heavy, someone, knocking them off balance. As they fall they try and fail to grab me. I realise with mild surprise that I'm still screaming.

As I reach the lounge door I try to focus. Cassandra, she'll know what to do, and maybe David will be with her. I call to her as I enter the hallway, but her name is swallowed in another scream as I see Ralph hung against the stairs. Dead.

A noise from the lounge serves to remind me that I've stopped in front of Ralph and, with a yelp, I spin past him and up the stairs. I fall on the second step, scramble to my feet and fall again on the fifth. Through the banisters I see a figure emerge from the lounge. It tries to speak to me I think. I can't hear it. I've stopped screaming but now it sounds like my heart is beating in my ears. Like I'm drowning in my own fear.

I scramble on up the stairs on my hands and knees, halfway between trying to stand and trying to reach the landing. I'm near the top when something grabs my ankle. I flail backwards with my other foot and hit home soundly. The grip on my ankle disappears and through the stairs I feel something tumbling. I don't look back.

At the landing I stand and look around calling desperately for Cassandra through my breathless sobs. I can't hear a response but there’s a light on in one of the rooms. I charge through the door and there she is, stood in front of the window.

"Cassandra, come on" I shout, "we've got to get out of here." I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, a slow and regular thud. I remain in the doorway eager to move on, beckoning Cassie out of the room. She doesn't even turn around.

"Cass!" I scream. I can hear the shrill note of panic in my voice, "What are you doing? We've got to go. Come on!" Still nothing, her blond curls don't so much as move an inch. It's as if she can't hear me. The footsteps are getting closer, I don't even want to look. I run into the room.

"Cass, we're leaving. Now." I spin her around. A sudden feeling of indescribable pain runs through me from my stomach. I look down. The black handle of a chrome kitchen knife in Cassandra’s hand protrudes from my stomach, just above my belly button. It's bunching and pulling my shirt oddly around it.

I watch as hot blood seeps slowly, almost gracefully, into the shirt's material before it starts to pulse in throbs across the handle and Cassie's pale hand. A sudden silence rings through my head as my mind filters out everything but the sound of her oddly rasping and excited breathing.

I look up into a macabre doll-like face that I don't fully recognise, with a snarling black and rotten smile and glowing red eyes.

"As long as you're sure." it hisses.

Read Part One here

Not watching you sleep...

The early morning light seeped gently into the room granting the scene a dappled luminescence that seemed almost magical to him.

He hadn't been able to sleep, which was unusual for him. He usually slept like a rock for a solid eight hours a night. But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had felt happier than he could ever remember and had lain awake willing time to stop, listening to the deep regular breaths beside him.

In a slow and controlled movement, keen not to wake her, he turned and raised himself slightly to look at her.

All that was visible, burrowed into the duvet as she was, was her nose, mouth and her right eye. Even this much was partially obscured by rogue strands of her shoulder-length brown hair.

He reached out a hand and delicately brushed her hair from her face. She flinched slightly and retreated further into her sleep-hollow.

'You're not watching me sleep are you?' she asked without opening her eyes. Her voice had only the slightest trace of grogginess and he could only assume she had been awake for a while. He grinned widely even as his cheeks flushed red.

'No' he replied with mock indignation, 'don't be stupid. Why would I do that?'

She opened one eye and fixed him with a curled half smile. God, he loved seeing that little smile. 'Because you're a certifiable psycho and I should throw you out of my room?' she suggested. He snorted dramatically.

'Right, first off,' he began, brushing her hair from her face, 'this is my room, and if anyone's drifting a few miles south of sanity, it's you, you crazy bitch.' he bent down to kiss her and was rewarded with another curled half-smile. Even lying in bed, his knees felt a little weak.

The light in the room flickered for a moment. The colour drained from his face.

'No,' he whispered hoarsely as the scene started to fade, 'No, it's too soon. It's not enough time.' Surprised, she rose from the pillow and reached to touch his cheek, to calm him. He felt the feathery touch of her fingers as she drifted out of reality.

'It's not enough time! Bring her back!' he roared, transfixed on her face, willing her back into existence with every ounce of his being. He reached up to his cheek where he could still feel the ghostly touch of her hand. His fingers hung there for a moment before he slumped to the bed.

'Adam.' the voice was familiar, gentle and concerned but had a touch of steel to it. Adam looked up at where his friend Joseph stood, hand resting on the now-inactive adaptive simulator.

'Adam,' Joseph sighed, 'please, you can't keep doing this. She's gone man. You can't keep bringing her back like this. Plus, you,' Joe raised his hand to forms speech marks with his fingers, 'borrowed this like two weeks ago dude. I've got shit I wanna watch too.'

Adam heard but didn't respond. He lay on the bed gently shaking with grief. Joseph sighed again, unhooked the device, and tucked it under his arm.

'I'm taking it back now, ok?' he waited a moment for a reply before leaving and softly closing the door.

He stood in the hallway outside the room for a moment with his AS player before heaving a despairing sigh.

'Jesus,' he swore, rolling his eyes, 'some guys just can't get dumped.'

Visions - Part Three: Mike

I’m awake. My mind ripped back to consciousness by Beth’s shrilly-screamed words.

I don’t know quite what’s going on, or how I managed to drift off. My pulse quickens as memories gradually return. Shit. I almost wish that they’d stayed where they were. Hazy and indistinct, they leave only questions and the rancid aura of terror. I’m no more aware now than I was before of what to do. Did I pass out before?

Jack and Beth provide no answers. They’re just sitting staring at the door. The Planchette lies on the floor by my foot. As I glance at it two small points of red light pulse dimly from the glass lens. I suddenly feel very light headed.

A curious frown. Idly I remember light-headedness as a symptom of anaemia. I wonder whether I may have developed anaemia. Can you just suddenly develop it? How much iron have I had today? I’m dimly aware of a noise in the room but I can’t seem to focus.

The candlelight is beautiful and the room warm and intimate. Someone’s knocking, they want to come in and join us. Jack and Beth look worried. Another wave of drowsiness sweeps over me. I remember being frightened before. That makes me nervous. I feel like I’m drowning somehow. I can still hear knocking, growing insistent, violent. Voices raised.

All is muffled, the air thick with what smells like incense. I’m confused. I fight for breath, for clarity. Then a voice rasps in my ear with unnerving familiarity.

“You dropped the Planchette,” my hand is already reaching towards it, “How silly," the voice continues, "do pick it up before somebody trips on it.”

I’m confused, can’t think straight, this seems wrong. The voice rasps again with an insistence that sends a ripple of fear along my spine,

“Do pick it up.”

My fingers close around the wooden tool.

I slump back in my chair as a wave of lethargy sweeps me under. I stare dumbly into the glass as the voice continues to speak quietly, softly hissing insipid words laced with malice, venom. I try to understand. The words linger tantalisingly close to recognition. My head throbs while hideous and inexplicable images flash across my mind’s eye.

Something’s wrong. I’m told to ignore it. The chair hurts. The knocking has stopped. Again I try to focus.

Red eyes glow.

I’m scared now, so scared. Who is talking to me? Why is it saying these things? Where is it? I want this to stop, I don't know how much longer I can cope.

But slowly focus returns. I can see the red lights still shining softly from the glass but the glow has no power over me now. I’m fighting back. I feel like I’m swimming up through tar and, terrifying as it is, at least I’m going up.

My breath comes easier and a glow of relief serves to revive me further. I start to see the room again. At first it's hazy and indistinct. I try to shake my head clear.

Beth. I see her. I stare at her, clinging to her image, fighting whatever force it is that seeks to suck me back under. She is my anchor against the lethargy, but she's not looking at me. It takes me a few moments to see and then understand. I turn my head slowly, following her limpid eyes. The Voice.

Panic strikes me like a sledge to the chest.

The Voice is right there. Its inhuman eyes glow red as it scowls at me, roars. It's angry that I am free. It wants to control me again, but that's not going to happen. It will never control me again.

I launch forward and bring the point of the Planchette down on its head; once, twice, three times. Beth cheers me on as the red eyes scream.

Start from the beginning with Part One
Read on in Part Four

Visions - Part Two: Jack

It can’t be, I can’t have heard…

I look to Beth and Mike. Beth sits on her bed with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. Her breath is hissing out in a high-pitched yet barely audible squeal, like a stove kettle just starting to boil. Her jaw is locked tense.

Mike gets to his feet and starts to pace. He’s muttering to himself,

“No, no, no, no, no.”

He just keeps on like that. He’s still holding the seeking glass or Planchette or whatever the hell it’s called. I stay where I am with my back braced against the door.

A breeze whips through the room causing the light from the now stubby candles to flicker momentarily. A few go out. I pull my lighter from my pocket and move to relight them.

“Don’t you move from that door!”

The sudden screech rips through the silence, quite frankly scaring the shit out of me. Beth has burst into life, her voice cracked and pitched with the hysteria apparent in her eyes. Mike sits back down at the desk with his arms around his head. I lean back against the door holding my hands up to Beth. I tell her that the door is locked and that she should calm down.

“Calm down?” she cries incredulously, “How can I be calm? It got David! You heard him. We all heard him.” She wants to say more but her tears choke her words. I want to comfort her but she won’t come near the door and neither will she let me move away from it.

She’s silent for a moment, bent double with her head between her knees before she rises suddenly in a fit of gasping sobs. Comforting platitudes run through my head like a top-ten run down of what not to say. This, coupled with the fact that my silence is equally unhelpful, well, to be honest, it’s fucking annoying. As if I didn’t feel powerless enough. I can’t protect myself, my friends, or even try and raise our rapidly flagging morale. Mike starts to cry.

There it is.

Fan-fucking-tastic; now I’ve got two sob-sacks on my hands while I’m sitting here bracing the only thing between whatever the hell is happening and us. I’m starting to feel a little under-appreciated, a little scared, and more than a little guilty that I know that David always sticks with his first choice in a Rock-Paper-Scissors best of three.

A sobering thought occurs as I realise that that is probably a mistake he’ll never make again. Not the best time for revelations. Stomach churns. This heady cocktail of sorrow and terror brings with it a fog of deep, dark despair. I shake my head and draw in a deep breath, angrily brushing water from my eye. We’re all tired, we’re all scared. I tell myself to focus.

With one last sniff I look up. They’re both still crying. Beth has retreated further into the corner.

Mike is muttering.

I call softly to Beth. She glances my way. I toss my lighter across the floor towards the bed. She stares first at the lighter and then at me blankly and with the slightest of shrugs. I tell her to light the candles that went out. She continues to stare at me.

Mike’s still muttering between sobs.

I tell her that it’ll be safer if all the candles are lit. Her eyes widen, somehow even further than they were, and she scrambles gracelessly off the bed. I sit back against the door, relieved that she’s got something, however menial, to take her mind off this. I fish out my cigarettes and reach for a nearby candle.

I’m taking my first draw when I notice that Beth has stopped and is kneeling slumped before Mike who’s still muttering and rocking gently. I call to her to see what’s wrong, why she has stopped. She turns to me with tears streaming down her face and, in a quiet, broken voice says,

“Make him stop.”

I’m surprised. I look again at Mike. He’s rocking still but…suddenly I begin to tune in to the muttering.

“…coming. He’s coming. He’s coming.” I tell Mike to knock it off. He carries on.

“He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s coming.” Beth scrambles across to me and grabs hold of my shirt with a frantic urgency. She speaks from between gritted teeth.

“Please Jack, make him stop.” I tell Mike to shut up. I tell him I mean it. He carries on.

“He’s coming. He’s coming. He’s here.”

“Shut up!” Beth screams. The room falls silent.

The Planchette falls. The door handle turns.

Start from the beginning with Part One
Read on in Part Three

Raven Hall

A darkness unmoved by the breeze,

a mansion half-seen through the trees,
gnarled fingers claw,
as icy winds roar,
through darkness and whispering leaves.


The wind wails and pulls at the doors,
and lighting brings rumbling roars.
A heart-stopping flash
preceeding the crash
of thunder as heavy rain pours.


A black skull glares forth from the mantle
hollow eyes horrify; rankle.
The darkness inside,
brings the fear of demise,
as hollow eyes glare from the mantle.


Fire swiftly burns through the fuel
in the fireplace, flickering, cruel.
Like the horror within,
the darkness, the sin,
the tongues of flame dance like a ghoul.


Darkness extends through the room,
where a man sits alone in the gloom;
with barely a breath,
a whisper from death,
his withered soul contemplates doom.

Visions - Part One: David

This is a nightmare.


At least that’s what I keep calling it. I keep hoping to wake up and laugh it off but I know that's not going to happen. Instead I find that I can hardly breathe with the panic and my heart feels like it’s wringing itself dry. The torch beam jitters manically as it cuts through the darkness.


It's night. I’m in the front room of a house. I don’t know which one. I used to know. It’s not mine.


My mind has almost completely ceased to function, as if the waves of terror have fried my rational mind. Right now I'm fixed only on my two objectives; staying alive and finding Cassandra. I know she’s upstairs, I remember hearing her scream. We all did. I hope to God that I’m not too late. My stomach knots tighter at the thought. I come close to vomiting.


I don’t know what’s going on. I flash the torch around the room as I edge forwards. I hear the door click and thump-lock shut behind me. Even though expected, the noise causes a further flutter of panic.


I edge forwards. A window in front of me reveals a dark, dark purple sky slightly lighter than the darkness within. With momentary confusion I remember there having been streetlights out there before. The torchlight flicks across a stereo, sofa, TV, indistinct pictures, a piano to my right and beyond that the door.


I’m hyperventilating; trying to creep silently while gasping for air in short bursts. My foot catches on a rug. I trip and land heavily. The torch escapes my grasp. I scramble after it, almost in tears. As I reach it I see two red eyes glowing in the darkness right in front of me. I screech and flash the beam to the spot.


Nothing. Nothing at all. I get to my feet and turn full-circle. Somewhere in the room a clock ticks. It ticks slightly too fast.


I reach the door and twist its bulb handle as gently as I possibly can. I look back into the room and scan it once more with the flashlight. More pictures, framed documents, a painting, the clock. My heart stops as a groan rips torturously forth from the door hinges. I stop the door and wait.


The still, ominous silence is broken only by the ticking of that clock, the snapping creaks of the settling house, and the drumming of blood in my ears. I feel tears in my eyes. I gulp and slip through, pulling the door quickly to. It screams sharp, high, and loud.


I turn from the lounge to the front door, with a quiet growl of frustration. The narrow corridor appears even gloomier than the front room despite my developing night-vision. In the darkness the dimensions of the corridor are distorted, elongated like a gothic colonnade.


The dimly distinct windows in the front door leer at me through the darkness like a predator half-seen. The stairs face the front door. I’ll need a weapon before I go up there. I turn for the kitchen.


Ralph's standing in my way.


I fall backwards in shock, barely managing to choke back a scream. He appears to be leaning nonchalantly against the staircase. The situation, despite everything, brings a smile to my face; I wonder why he hasn’t spoken. As I rise I notice something that makes my stomach lurch once more.


Ralph’s hands are locked on a rope that hangs from the landing above ending in a noose pulled tight around his throat. His knees are bent and his head is hung forward. I reach forward hesitantly and lift his head. Glazed eyes bulge from a purple face and his swollen tongue protrudes from his rictus howl. Ralph is dead.


Stumbling, I run past him into the kitchen, banging painfully into a wooden chair before I reach the sink. I throw up with excruciating self-restraint, desperate not to be heard. My entire body aches with the tension of it.


After a minute I step back from the counter and, breathing deeply, wipe my mouth with my sleeve. I glance out of the back window. Not a speck of light to be seen. I return to the sink, spit and then gulp. My throat burns, my body cries out for me to cough but I force it down.


I scan the counter and discover a full knife block. I draw the largest of the set with a steely hiss and not a small amount of relish. I weigh it up in my hand. It's got a good heft to it. I feel slightly better.


I make my way back into the hallway, careful not to look at Ralph as I pass. The first step of the stairs takes my gingerly placed weight with a heart-stopping creak. But, wait, something…something wasn’t right.


I turn back to the hall and return to Ralph’s body. The noose is no longer around his neck.


His eyes open glowing red.

Read Part Two here

My Faults

Mea culpa,
everything and anything you deem
a sin or crime against your will.


Could I only beat upon my chest
until this rancid dirt be shook
loose by will and word, it would
purge the filth that stains my mind
and bathe my reeking soul in light.


Mea Culpa
even if my heart should rail
against such blame and guilt.


Can you see my simmering thoughts
under my obedient façade? Lies
like noxious gas, rise through
purifying, cleansing, repressing
all that I have done and all that I have failed to do.


Mea Culpa
every time I felt dirty or
ashamed in your name. I


Cannot, will not, bear the guilt,
unworthy of this toxic blame; nor
live with this hate, this
pain, and wretched anger
against your, preaching, pious, pomposity.