Category: Horror

Her Unburdening

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Dark Realism, Horror, Submitted Stories (Guest Posts)1 Comment
GUEST POST BY PENNY LONG

It arose from her. It uncoiled itself from her bowels, shrugged itself off from her heart. She sighed a long, world-weary sigh and breathed it out with the vapour of the wine she had drunk, exhaled all the disappointment that she had tucked away in her being, not to be seen by others. Her sins, her opinions, the unredeemed monologue of her suffering, all these loosened themselves from her, like the button of her jeans that she had undone before sitting down. Some sought company with her other secrets – the cravings crawling into empty bowls in the sink, frustrated longings creeping under the bed. Unkind thoughts formed themselves into a film on the window behind her, making the room just a little bit darker. And the howling, lamenting unforgiveness oozed across the floor and sat erect in the chair opposite her. All these unacceptable things once settled, the sad loneliness finally found itself a place next to her on the couch, the last and most deeply hidden, stowed away in the lining of her nervous system, hiding in the hooded lids of her eyes, peering out always from its hiding place, observing the lives of others. Relieved of the need to carry her secrets inside her, lighter now, she breathed in the air of her home, the lingering aromas of stew and sadness.

Sitting alone, yet not alone, she stared at the screen in front of her and pretended not to see all the things that slithered and scuttled around her. All the bits of lies, the sarcastic remarks she had uttered that evening, the unintended wounds she had received gradually found their way into the dust on the cushions, each showing itself in her peripheral vision on its way. Occasionally one distracted her from the story she was watching, forcing her to relive an uncomfortable moment before it wheeled its way to the ceiling to join the heavy canopy of regrets. She populated her solitude. She allowed her consciousness to fill the apartment. Her thoughts and ideas, repentance and lamentations found their usual homes in the empty chairs, on the unused side of the bed. When at last they had all been released, she looked around her. Ignoring the darting and glaring of that troupe of transgressions, she perused the familiar furnishings, her eyes sliding past the carpet stain and the regret, affirming her condition: Home. Alone.

Penny Long ©

pennylong62 (at) yahoo (dot) com

Antic

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

He stood in front of the oblong mirror. It was just tall enough to reveal more of himself than he cared to see. That’s how the meticulous process always began.

With wet, eager hands, he pushed the few inches of hair he had off of his forehead. The curls recoiled at his stubby-fingered touch. His nicotine-stained nails scraped the strands, determined to keep them flat. Once he was pleased with their placement, he submerged his hands in green slime with which to suffocate the follicles atop his head. Gingerly, he stroked and stroked, until not a visible hair remained brown.

Then came his favourite part: the whiting. He splattered the powder over his face and neck, excitedly. Absence became him. Absence of light; absence of colour; absence of life. The blood that coursed beneath his cheeks on the hottest of summer days simply disappeared behind the mask.

Next he buried his fingers in the mud he would use to blacken his eyes. He smeared the substance over his eye lids, up to his brow and down to his cheekbones. The silt felt heavy; to shift his sight was now an effort that matched his usual galumph. As he blinked, his top eye lashes ripped apart from their bottom counterparts, revealing the slit that would expose his irises. The sound tore through his ears like the swift extraction of a triage stitch; the holding together of bits of damaged skin with glue.

He was shaking now. His chest heaved as his heavy breath rapidly filled and emptied the cavity. It was time to redden his lips. He plunged two fingers into the crimson mucilage and smudged the thickness of it across his lips and spread it every which way. It was thicker and brighter than the blood that had flowed from his nose earlier. His lips stuck together now; cemented. Just the way he liked them.

The transformation was complete.

He stood in front of the oblong mirror. It was just clean enough to expose more of himself than he cared to share. That’s how the meticulous process always began.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

Creating Genesis

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Horror, Sci Fi, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

“The implantation process was simple. I’m just not sure it’s going to take. She’s heavily sedated.”

Lewis nodded to acknowledge his colleague’s concerns, then entered the adjoining room. The two-way mirror that now separated the two doctors served only to represent the dissolving border between theoretical science, and the monstrosity of creation.

“What’s Lewis doing in there?”

Sierra looked up at Charlie, who seemed to materialize from thin air. Since he had launched the Genesis project he had lost several pounds, become irritable and, at times, unresponsive. He was approaching his 50th year now, and the result of his stress was sunken cheeks and drooping eyes, which only served to age him quicker. Together, he and Sierra watched Lewis curiously lean over their test subject. She seemed not to notice he was there, even when he stroked her hair, and then her stomach. It was only starting to protrude. Sweat rolled down her forehead, and shoulders. Her chest heaved, and her limbs twitched. The doctors had resorted to sedation when they caught her trying to escape. Now, she was only a shell of a person – no will; no desire.

“He’s pleading with her, I suppose,” Sierra whispered.

Charlie grunted his approval. All three of them knew this was their last shot. No other test subject had ever carried to term, but Marcy had come the furthest. This fourth try might very well be all her body would take. The anticipation filled the lab like a thick fog of impending doom.

“Fourteen more weeks to go,” Charlie sighed. With that, he disappeared into the back room.

*****

“How are you feeling today, Marcy?”

Marcy heard the voice, but it seemed so distant she feared her reply would not reach it. She mumbled incoherently and tried to raise her arms. She could not.

“We had to tie you down, I’m afraid. You got a little out of control, but you’re going to be fine.”

The voice was calm, and although she identified it as male, there was something inherently feminine about it. Marcy pulled her head up as high as she could, hoping to catch a glimpse of her surroundings. All she saw was her own belly, high and mountainous. Her cries were muffled by her own lack of energy, but Lewis could see the fear in her eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he speciously reassured her. “You’re going to have a daughter, Marcy. I really believe so. If you can just hold on a little longer.” He smiled, nodding frantically – his nerves having finally got the best of him. His eyes were beginning to flood. “She’ll be our little Genesis.”

Lewis stroked Marcy’s head paternally as she struggled to remove herself from his touch. The air smelled repugnant to her, and she associated it with the mysterious man who had strapped her down and put a person inside of her without her permission. Quickly, Marcy surveyed her memories to assess her whereabouts, and the date. Most of it came back in flashes:

There had been a raid in her sector.

All the women wearing numbers were identified as fertile and taken away.

She had kicked and screamed.

She saw men in riot gear beat her father when he tried to pull them off of her.

She had been so hot, secluded in a bare, metal, space.

There had been blood tests; they had taken blood. But they had also injected something… what was it?

A cage.

Women caged.

Women bleeding.

Women losing consciousness while having monsters ripped from their bodies.

Herself in pain. So much pain she could not think, swallow, or fight.

There had been so many needles.

The doctors all had fire in their eyes.

As the flashes converged, Marcy tried to process what had happened to her body. Her thoughts still lacked linearity, and the more she forced it, the weaker she became. Eventually, Lewis’ sobbing faded to black with the rest of it.

*****

“They’ve discontinued the research on cloning in Sector 8,” Sierra offered as small talk as she and Lewis prepped for surgery.

“I know,” he replied solemnly.

“It’s a good thing. It means there’s more funding for us. More faith.”

“Faith? We’re creating monsters, here.”

Sierra’s glare manifested a gravitational pull that kept Lewis’ eyes glued to hers. “We’re creating people. A population,” she exacted. “There are no monsters in science.”

Lewis frowned, not knowing what he believed anymore. It had been eleven years since he had agreed to Genesis, motivated by a sense of supremacy. It had been naïve to think three scientists could save the world. The world had been relinquished long ago. Still, he couldn’t let go of the feeling that something big was going to happen; that Marcy was the key. It would be foolish to give up just yet.

*****

Screeching; whimpering; gurgling.

The sounds were nearly incomprehensible.

They were certainly undecipherable.

Marcy coerced her eyes open, unsure that she even wanted to see anything. The room was in utter commotion. Everyone seemed to be in hysterics. Finally, Marcy saw what all the fuss was about: a baby lie sprawled on a metal table beside her own. It was swaddled only in wires and tubes; liquids pumped in and out of her tiny body. It was a grotesque and morbid picture. And yet, all Marcy could think was that she had somehow done it.

An easy wave of calm fell over her. Yes, she had done it. Tomorrow, she might awaken to a whole new world. That is, if she were to awaken at all.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©

One Hundred, Ninety Nine, Ninety Eight

On By Shyla FairfaxIn Horror, Shyla's StoriesLeave a comment

Enervation was setting in. Colors became opaque, and sounds became feeble.

“You should stop visiting. It takes too much out of you.”

“I can’t help it. I miss you.”

The fog was enveloping me, and a layer of frost was forming on my lips. I was so cold I could no longer feel his touch; ironic, since all I ever came for was his touch. I closed my eyes and directed all of my energy to that one essential sense. Time was unperceivable, except for the dulling of sight, sound, and touch. Scents never dissipated, but that didn’t mean anything to me. I couldn’t smell his warmth, I couldn’t catch a whiff of his fingertips digging into my waist or caressing my shoulders. But, if I could just hold on to his touch a little longer, the arduous journey would be worthwhile.

“I know,” he whispered solemnly, pulling back his hand. He knew there was nothing left for me.

“How long has it been?” I asked. The concept of time passing still meant something to me, even if I could not sense it  myself. Numbers seemed instinctively (or, habitually) important to me. I had to find ways to keep track – superfluous as I knew it was.

“Six months.” He sighed and shrank back. His shape was blending into the fog now.

Six months was good. It was half of a year. It was more than one season. It was enough time to build memories, if I could figure out how to do that. Up to this point, I had only mastered the ability to retain knowledge. I knew him, and was comforted by his familiarity. I missed it when it went away. But I couldn’t remember anything. As it was, the six months had already faded; buried in the crevice of my mind that was once reserved for memory and time. Now it seemed the only parts of me that still worked were the parts that yearned for his presence.

“You should go. It’s time.”

“I know,” I whispered, not willing to admit that I was already gone.

The fog grew heavier; darker even. He was only a shadow now and his voice was surreal. I was no longer hearing it with my ears, but rather recognizing it somewhere in my mind. I knew he was saying words, and I let that be enough as I drifted away.

“What is time?” I mumbled in half awareness.

I knew the answer: just a number of minutes until I could feel him again.

I just needed my strength back; I needed to become whole again, and then I’d be back. And we would be happy, again. And the monsters would sit at bay, so far from us that they would be virtually inconsequential. And no one would control my fate, or take me away, or take him away.

“Just a number…” I groaned.

The air wrapped itself around me and dragged me through the blurry darkness. I would be back, in time; whatever that was.

My brain swelled, my fingers shrivelled, my eyes fluttered shut. I exhaled without will. Slow and steady, the release came. I gave in wholly, eased by the calm it brought. But soon, that quiet non-existence would be awoken to awareness again. Awareness of his absence would ignite all of my senses, and send me back to him – until we ran out of minutes, again.

Somewhere, deep inside, I knew I was counting down those precious numbers.

Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©