October 2011 theme and competition entries

[Tallyman 10]

October theme & competition: Horror!

Set by FatDave

 

This month brings Halloween, so expect the cinemas to be filled with cheesy modern horror films filled with soulless characters that nobody cares about who have been written purely to be killed.

 

This month I want you to revisit your golden days of horror; whether it be creaking doors and lightning-illuminated stately homes, or sexy teens running terrified from another movie cliche.

 

This exercise is all about scene setting, please do not be afraid of cheesiness, cornyness, or well worn themes, flaming torch and pitch fork carrying villiagers arer more than welcome this month.

 

Best of luck.

 

TO ENTER: Competition entries of 500 words or less should be posted on this thread. If you prefer to write a longer story, outside of the competition, then please post it in a new thread with both the title and 'October 2011' in the heading.

 

JUDGING: FatDave will judge the entries, and will announce the winner in early November.

 

THE PRIZE: The prestige of becoming the SFWG Competition Winner AND the opportunity to choose the writing theme for December 2011.

 

COMPETITION PROTOCOL: All writers enjoy receiving feedback, be it high praise or constructive criticism, but in the interests of competition decorum, please could we ask you not to post your comments on individual entries until after the winner has been announced. After that, please feel free to let rip with as much feedback as you like!

 

Any problems posting/uploading your piece, please consult the guidance 'stickies' at the top of the Forum page. If you still have problems, please contact either Tallyman or Ron Blanco.

 

Have fun!

 

Tallyman

[Lady Agatha 10]

The Winged Hall

Norton Nuffield Hall is an empty shell of a house. It lies in a steep valley bottom and is prone to mist patches on cold days. I think that this natural phenomenon is the main reason why it was chosen as the location for “The Lost Ladies of our Doom”. But there is also something quite sinister-looking about those blank windows and the low, squatting wings of the house which reach out and gather you in.

 

I arrived at Norton Nuffield at dusk. I knew I’d left it a little late, but this was the final location that I needed to visit. After a look round and a few photographs, I would be able to return home and finally complete my book. I’d been working on my “Great Horror Film Locations” for almost three years.

 

During the course of my visit, a mist obligingly filtered through the window spaces. I was the only person around, so I was able to take my camera out and begin shooting photographs without having to work around other visitors. Dusk had maybe been a good choice.

 

Daylight had all but gone when I returned to my car. I checked though my photographs, and, satisfied with the result I turned the ignition. Nothing. The battery was completely, inexplicably, dead. I took out my phone. This was also drained of any power. I had only charged it up that morning.

 

I got out of the car and prepared myself for a walk to the village that I had passed through about two miles back. The unlit country roads didn’t appeal to me at all. So when I saw a light moving inside the ruin I was quite relieved. A warden, I reasoned to myself, checking the site over. They might have a Land Rover and jump leads somewhere nearby. I edged back into the dark hall and tried to track the source of the light. It flitted about erratically, the warden must be swinging their torch about to check all those crevices. I called out “Hello! Can you help me?”

A woman’s light bird-like voice sung back at me “Oh! But can you help me?”

It seemed doubtful that the owner of this voice would be of any use to me. “What is it? Where are you?”

“I’m looking for someone!” This time, the voice came from somewhere behind me, where before it had seemed to come from, well, from above. But there was no second floor. “I’m looking for someone!” She repeated her call. She seemed so close now that I turned. I saw a hooded figure feeling her way along the wall.

“Here” I held out my hand to her “let’s get outside.” The figure was so small and dainty that I forgot my chagrin. But she clutched my wrist with a grip that belied her stature. I wondered just who was leading our shuffle to the main entrance. We emerged into the courtyard just as the clouds revealed a low harvest moon. I saw her face. It was a face with no eyes. She smiled and called out coquettishly “But now I’ve found you!” Her arms stretched out and enveloped me just as those of the house gathered in the courtyard where we stood.

 

That’s where they found me the next morning, laying on the cold, worn stone. I didn’t have mark on me apparently. I wouldn’t know, I’ve not been able to see anything since then. I’m completely blind.

[LFT1 10]

Difficult Conversation

 

It seemed such a friendly place. The sun shone through the hazy wintered trees spreading beams of light through the curtained windows. The living room was homely, the chintzy sofas covered with soft fleecy throws and more than a handful of scatter cushions. The last thing I expected to see, as I sat watching the dust motes dancing to the Chopin emanating from the classical upright at which my brother sat under the kindly eye of Mrs Eaves, was the arrival of Death.

 

I don’t mean I died, or at least I didn’t think I had at that moment. Not your first thought at the age of 14. I mean the appearance of the classical apparition. The scythe holding, black shrouded, sunken headed, bony fingured creature.

 

Naturally my first thought was that I’d drifted off to some macabre day dream land, but the cold sensation which chilled me to the bone and the clearly visible raised hairs on the back of my arms lent credence to the reality.

 

I went to turn my head away, to see how my bro’ & Mrs Eaves had reacted, but the motion of the excessively long finger bones stopped me and I found I could not tear my eyes from the hooded head. Such a bizarre physical feeling of being held in position by a dark nothingness, by an absence.

 

Without consciously audibly hearing any words I was aware of the voice in my head. The voice of Death. It was a surprisingly pleasant tone. A mellifluous baritone, easy to listen to. The content of the speech was non-negotiable. It was not a conversation. The content was hard to hear.

 

“Before this day is out, one of you will be mine. You choose which one.”

 

I blinked, that could not be.

 

I must’ve made a peculiar sound as suddenly both Mrs Eaves and my bro’ were stood over, looking down at me.

 

“What’s the matter Dear?”

“What’s up? You look weird.”

 

I pointed to where Death had been, except all that was visible was the dust motes in the late winter sunrays peeping through the curtains.

 

What could I do? How do you introduce the topic of the imminent death of one of the three of you to your baby Bro’ and a kindly middle aged piano teacher?

 

Lft

[Ron Blanco 10]

The Girl Who Knew Too Much

 

“Did you see that, Liz?” I gripped my sister’s hand. “It moved. The cup moved.”

“I saw it, Esme,” she whispered.

We looked towards our host. But Madame Rose remained focused on the cup.

“Your mother held this cup. Her lips kissed it. A part of her, remains.”

The blood-red candle cast a hellish light on her face. A few strands of raven hair created flickering shadows across her unblinking eyes. When she eventually looked up, her limp face was weighed down by sadness.

“She is with us now.”

My sister’s hand trembled. I was nervous, too, though my intuition divined that my younger twin was feeling more than ordinary nerves. But she was as determined as I to solve the mystery that had brought us to this ghoulish woman.

“Shall I read from the diary?” she asked.

Madame Rose nodded, gravely. My sister gripped my hand tighter, as though clinging for dear life, and began reading from our deceased mother’s journal. The page was uneven and brittle.

 

27th April

Little E has recovered, thank God, but for how long? The doctors have no answers. Tests showed nothing wrong. But her coma suggested otherwise.

I resorted to a spiritual healer today. She was blind as a bat, and yet, she seemed to see right inside little E. I wish I could call her a fraud, but she is unquestionably sincere. Her words terrified me and will haunt me forever. My poor little E. She must never find out. Never!

 

Then followed, if my recording of the event is reliable, fully two minutes without a word being spoken. There was, however, a strange, throbbing hum, similar to that produced by a powerful electricity source. Eventually Madame Rose spoke. But the voice emanating from her was deep and rough. I knew at once it was the spiritual woman alluded to in the diary.

“I have examined your daughter,” said the voice. “Her brain is abnormally large. It is my view that her coma was self-inflicted.”

Astonishingly, and without conscious awareness of it at the time, I replied, also with a different voice. It was softer and more feminine than my own. It was our mother.

“But why?” my voice asked. “Why would a little girl inflict such a punishment on herself?”

The spiritual healer’s reply reverberated, in our ears, and through our bodies.

“An act of sabotage. To destroy the knowledge that no earthly being should possess.”

Our mother stuttered her reply.

“I, I don’t understand. It sounds so incredible. Will she be okay?”

“She has destroyed part of her mind, and the remainder is fragile. Her nerves hang by a thread. You must never reveal her condition, or the shock may kill her.”

The conversation was interrupted by a piercing scream. My senses returned, and my eyes opened to pitch darkness. I could feel Elizabeth’s hand limp within mine and I knew at that moment that I had lost my better half.

[De Batz 10]

I had bought the bundle of papers from a merchant at Greenwich, who I think was called Gilbert, and I was sitting in my room in the shadows of Eastcheap, leafing through them. Not grand, I grant, but suitable for a man of my profession. There were several handwritten documents that seemed old but were written in the same hand. Their subjects were ancient warriors and devils, and I remember seeing one that had been initialled 'ES', with the date 1544. Several of the manuscripts were in foreign languages that I did not understand, and a couple were in Latin and Greek, though I did not have time to construe them accurately.

I had been reading by candlelight for half an hour or so when I noticed that the bustle of the city outside seemed to have been quietened, somehow. The flickering lights from houses across the way were still visible. I rose, and walked across the room to the window that looked out into the street. There were none of the usual denizens of the night about. Notable, thought I, and resolved to comment on the fact when I took up my journal for the night.

As I turned back into the room, I noticed that my candle had gone out. I made my way to my desk in the low light from outside, and I remember that I cried out in surprise and alarm when I noticed that my chair was occupied.

The figure that sat there was swaddled in a fine hooded cloak such that I could not see his face at all. I hesitated, trying to find my voice to ask the obvious question.

After a moment, I managed, stuttering and unsure. “Who are you?” Almost as an afterthought, I added, “What are you doing here?”

The figure shifted in the chair. I realised that he was holding the papers I had been reading.

“What interests you in this?” He shook the bundle. His voice was deep, with a trace of a foreign accent.

“I bought them today-” He held up his hand.

“I know that. Why?”

“Their age. Their appearance... and content.”

“They belong to me.”

“Were they stolen?” I asked, with genuine curiosity.

“In a manner of speaking.” He rose, still clutching the bundle of papers. As he did so, I caught the merest glimpse of his face beneath his hood. He spoke again. “I had hoped I could recover them before you had the... misfortune to read them. Alas, I was too late.” I heard the sound of liquid glugging and splashing on the wooden floor.

“What are you doing?” I shouted, but by then he had cast a burning match from his left hand onto the floor, which erupted in blue flame, instantly fiercely hot.

I threw myself through the window, then ran. As I write this, I hear the hellish fire. It is coming for me.

 

London, 2nd Sept 1666.

Edited November 1, 2011 by De Batz
Pointed up typographical / brianache type error, corrected! (Thanks FatDave)

[greg2 10]

THE PASSENGER FROM THE ZOO

It was a long journey home across Berlin on the U Bahn, and it began ominously, as the train slowed down for the ghost station of Unter den Linden, crawling but not stopping past the dimly lit platform, watched by the Vopos with their automatic weapons at the ready to deal summarily with any East German intent on fleeing to the West by jumping on to a train. But with Unter den Linden behind him, Konrad changed to a line passing under the Kurfurstendamm, with bright well-lit stations used by bright well-fed shoppers. Standing at the end of the compartment Konrad would catch a glimpse of well dressed couples, hear a snatch of laughter as the doors opened.

As the train moved on towards the Zoo station Konrad noticed a red headed girl sitting on the right, further down the carriage. She seemed to be reading a letter. When he looked again a few seconds later she was blushing slightly, and putting the letter back in her bag. She was pretty, and very pretty when blushing. But then the train arrived at the Zoo station, and an elderly couple got on, partially blocking his line of vision. The train seemed to dip slightly on the side beside the platform, then the doors closed.

As the train began to move Konrad thought he heard a muffled sound, and looked at the elderly couple. The man was looking straight ahead with the non-specific smile of someone enjoying deafness. But the woman seemed to have slid down in her seat and as he watched, slid further, out of sight. He began to move towards them, in case she was in some kind of difficulty. He had taken a few steps when he saw something roll out from under the elderly couple’s seat on to the central corridor. It was an eye.

He broke into a run. The elderly man began to move a little lower in his seat. The train rounded a bend, and the elderly woman’s body toppled from her seat into the corridor.

“Something’s wrong. We need to help them” Konrad called to the red headed girl. She put down her newspaper and he looked into the two empty sockets where her eyes had been only minutes earlier. He shrieked, and turned to run away. An overpowering smell hit him as something damp seized his ankle and at the same time felt for his head.

[Ian Rivedon 10]

Sentinel

 

James had tried as hard as he could to organise his workload to leave him adequate time to do what he had planned on the drive east back to London. However, things did not go well, and the sun had already set by the time he reached Sutton Courteney churchyard. He looked at his watch—4:30pm—‘Now,’ he thought, ‘where is it?’

The notice on the church door gave clear instructions on where the grave could be found, and James peered into the twilight to try to identify the three yew trees, as directed.

‘Am I actually in the southwest corner of the Churchyard?’ he thought, as he tried to establish his bearings. Then he saw them, three squat trees in a line. ‘They're the ones,’ he said to himself.

Several gravestones surrounded the trees and James found it hard to read the inscriptions on the more ancient ones. He looked from stone to stone, and then bent his knees to read the inscription on one. He scrutinised the carving.

‘This will be what you’re after.”

James jumped up in fright, and turned to find a tall, middle-aged man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere. James tried to focus upon his face in the gloom, but his eyes were drawn only to his smile.

The man moved his arm outwards and extended a long index finger towards a gravestone to James’s right, ‘You’re standing on it,’ he said.

James instinctively jumped to one side.

The man snorted, and laughed slightly. ‘Don’t worry, no harm done.’

James rolled his eyes, and then looked at the gravestone. The inscription read, “Here Lies Eric Arthur Blair”. James gasped, ‘Oh—my goodness.’

The man sighed, wistfully, ‘It is fifty years today.’

‘I know, that’s why I’m here.’

The man nodded, ‘Yes, I’ve been here every year; since the burial.’

They both gazed at the gravestone for a few moments, and then the man turned to James. “The churchyard is about to close now, I think we should…’

James took the hint, following the man towards the gate. As they reached the church, the man stopped.

‘There’s something I need to do.’ and he turned towards the door where James had read the notice.

James waited a few minutes, but the man did not re-appear. James made his way home, but has visited Orwell’s grave on the 21st January every year since.

He thinks about the man a lot, and remains puzzled. Particularly as the man said that he had visited the grave for each of the fifty anniversaries of Orwell’s death, but he looked barely fifty years old, or so. He also found in due course, that though churches are often locked at night, church graveyards never are. Nevertheless, James made a solemn promise to himself to perform a vigil at the grave each year, and religiously keeps it. He finds it strange that he has never seen the man again, but stranger still, in eleven years he has met no one else at the grave either.

 

IR Oct 2011

Edited October 31, 2011 by Ian Rivedon
Re-Format & minor textual revision.

[fraggledance 10]

Dead or alive?

 

“Oh my god,” Sophie shook uncontrollably, “oh my god, oh my god,”

Jo grabbed Sophie tightly by the shoulders and forced her friend to look at her. “Come on Soph, we can do this, we can get out of here.” Her voice was urgent, raised above the lashing rain. Above them, branches of the oak tree creaked and groaned as the wind whipped through them.

“Come ON!” Jo shook her friend. “We HAVE to get out of here and we WILL.”

Sophie shook her head. “Jo, they were zombies. Oh god, we’re done for”

“We are NOT done for, we’ve got this far haven’t we? And we’re fast and they’re slow.”

Sophie looked at her doubtfully.

“Look, as long as we keep out of their reach we’re fine. We can out-run them. It was only when they got hold of someone that they turned all….. strong.”

Still shaking, Sophie made no effort to wipe away her tears. “We’re the only ones left.”

“Yes, and we’re going to stay left. As soon as the rain clears enough to see, we run again.”

“It’s no use, we can’t get out.”

“Of course we can,” Jo said, exasperated. “As soon as we can see where the house is, we run away from it until we hit the fence. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble climbing it.”

In a crack of lightening Jo saw Sophie’s lips moving, her words drowned out by the roar of thunder.

“WHAT?”

“I SAID,” the noise abated, “the fence is electric. Eight foot high, electric. No way we can get over without killing ourselves.” Resigned, she sank into the mud, resting her back against the trunk of the tree. After a pause Jo joined her.

“The gates-”

“Eight foot high, solid metal, not a crack to get your foot in.” Then very quietly “we’re dead.”

Jo put her head in her hands, momentarily defeated, then brightened. “The car.”

“What?”

“The car. It’s got the zapper to open the gates. If I can get the car, we can get out.” She stood up.

Sophie scrambled up, panicking. “No, you can’t go back there, the zombies Jo, they ate Henry! No!” she pled, tears welling up again.

“It’s the only way. Just stay here, and when you see the headlights, run for it.”

“Oh god!”

Another crack of lightening illuminated the long expanse of lawn to the deserted mansion house. “All clear!” yelled Jo, sprinting.

Sophie strained to keep her friend in sight, but she was soon lost in the dark. Sobbing, she hugged herself, shivering in her sodden clothes.

The rain lessened and wind dropped. Eventually Sophie made out headlights. Her heart leapt, then she saw the figure clinging to the roof.

In the car Jo scanned the grounds, found their tree and saw Sophie underneath. She breathed relief, then looked again. Sophie’s shape underneath, five others in the branches. As she slammed her foot to the floor, the first one dropped to the ground.

“Uuuuuuuurrgghhhhh”

“AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHH!”

[FatDave 11]

Thanks for all the great replies, here are the results:

 

 

Lady Agatha – The Winged Hall (577)

A strong story with nice early scene setting.

I loved “…those blank windows and the low, squatting wings of the house which reach out and gather you in.”

Good back story for the character summed up nicely in only a few words.

“I wondered just who was leading our shuffle to the main entrance.” Brilliantly made clear in a single sentence that there was real danger.

I loved the almost closing sentence, referencing the ruin once more: “Her arms stretched out and enveloped me just as those of the house gathered in the courtyard where we stood.”

The only criticism I could possibly make would be that the closing three sentences seemed a bit clinical and anti-climatic.

A great story though, which set the pace well.

 

 

LFT1 - Difficult Conversation (384)

 

A good opening, I can easily visualise those “…hazy wintered trees spreading beams of light through the curtained windows.”

I love your use of Death in the classic sense.

I thought the use of the went in “I went to turn my head away…” felt to me a little clunky, I thought that perhaps tried, attempted, felt the need, etc would have been better placed.

I also couldn’t reconcile the use of bro’ instead of brother, I feel it brought me back into the land of gangs outside shops with baggy jeans and staffies, when I wanted to be in your beautifully woven room.

I liked the story a lot, and would have like to have read more, and I feel that as you had 116 words left before busting, you might have extended it a little further.

 

 

Ron Blanco – The Girl Who Knew Too Much (491)

“The blood-red candle cast a hellish light on her face. A few strands of raven hair created flickering shadows across her unblinking eyes. When she eventually looked up, her limp face was weighed down by sadness.” Brilliantly written piece, the imagery paints a fantastic picture, I could almost hear the hammer horror music and see the face of the fortune teller. Is this part of a bigger story? I feel there could be more yet to tell.

 

De Batz – Untitled (489)

I love reading your work, it always leaves me wanting more. I enjoyed this piece particularly because I love the era and customs of olde London. I feel like you’ve written a short piece for which 500 words does it no justice whatsoever, this story deserves length and time, and I’d love to see where it went.

“I threw myself through the window, then ran. As I write this, I hear the hellish fire. It is coming for me.” A brilliant ending to a brilliant story.

As a footnote, wasn’t the great fire started 2nd Sept 1666, not 1665?

 

 

Greg2 – The Passenger From The Zoo (404)

Very moody piece, well written and as terrifying as a recurring dream.

“…bright well-lit stations used by bright well-fed shoppers.” A great line which sets the scene well and drags the reader’s imagination into the tale.

The only complaint I would have is that whereas in many cases of flash fiction I feel like there’s much more to the story than the harsh word limit allows to be written, in this case I feel like not enough of the story has been revealed to allow full admiration of the plot.

The events described are in themselves scary, but the fear is elevated to terror for me by the setting; strange uncaring customs and laws make the situation seem so much worse. I feel like this would make a great prologue for a novel.

 

 

Ian Rivedon – Sentinel (503)

Though this piece is not strictly horror, more horror/mystery, I think it fits the theme very well. I love the pilgrimage idea, especially when it allows the protagonist to meet his hero (I am of course assuming the middle-aged man with the drawing smile is George Orwell).

“The man nodded, ‘Yes, I’ve been here every year; since the burial.’” Brilliantly put, a nice hidden sentence which has the entire plot tied into it.

A couple of long sentences early on could have done with a little trimming I think, which would have led to a smoother flow.

By the way, I’d love to know… what was it the man had to do, and why didn’t he return?

 

 

Fraggledance – Dead or Alive (500)

A subject close to my heart; I begin my second novel for the NaNoWriMo today; the subject is the zombie apocalypse. This piece certainly brought back memories of sleepless nights as a kid, unable to get George Romero’s creations out of my mind.

I loved the weather, a storm in classic horror is such a great mood setter that it’s almost under the control of the villain; I could clearly see the giant deserted mansion in the momentary illumination of the lightning crack.

I would suggest that some of the dialogue could be lost at no expense to the story. I feel the desperation of the situation could be better expressed by action rather than words.

A good piece, well structured, and easy to read.

 

 

 

And now onto the winner.

This one left me feeling genuinely uneasy. I felt the lack of understanding I usually feel when I wake up from a terrifying dream, and this only added to the discomfort. There were a few strong contenders this month, and I enjoyed reading every one of them, but congratulations go to greg2 for The Passenger From The Zoo.

My advice greg2, is work on this story, it’s deffinately wasted on 500 words and would lead to a great novella.

[Ron Blanco 10]

Congratulations, greg2, on the eye-popping success of your story. And thanks, FatDave, for supervising a hugely enjoyable competition.

[greg2 10]

Thanks - I am honoured and rather surprised, as this seemed a particularly strong field and there were several other entries I wished I'd written.

I will try to think of a theme for December which is better than my woefully uninspiring September theme!