So, in this thread, I am just going to posting short stories that I have written. I honestly have no schedule or deadlines for when I want stuff posted, it just gets posted when a story comes to mind.
Most of the time, I won't be splitting any of my writing in half, unless I want to create suspense for the story, as I am doing with Survival Of The Fittest (a short story which I wrote for school this past year and was well received).
1. One Snowy Night (below)
2. Survival Of The Fittest Part 1
3. Survival Of The Fittest Part 2 (with Epilogue)
4. Lost Chance
5. The Midnight Man- Prologue
6. The Midnight Man- Chapter One: October 30th
7. The Midnight Man- Chapter Two: Halloween
8. The Midnight Man- Chapter Three: Car Ride to the House
9. The Midnight Man- Chapter Four: The House
10. The Midnight Man- Chapter Five: The First Summoning
11. The Midnight Man- Chapter Six: Dreams and Thoughts
12. The Midnight Man- Chapter Seven: The Summoning
13. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eight: A Failed Circle Of Salt
14. The Midnight Man- Chapter Nine: The Exorcism
15. The Midnight Man- Chapter Ten: Trapped
16. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eleven: Sacrifice
17. The Midnight Man- Chapter Twelve: The Final Hour
18.The Midnight Man- Chapter Thirteen: Departure
19. The Midnight Man- Chapter Fourteen: The Plan
20. The Midnight Man- Chapter Fifteen: The Last Afternoon
21. The Midnight Man- Chapter Sixteen: Memories Surround Me
22. The Midnight Man- Chapter Seventeen: Escape
23. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eighteen: Passing The Hours
24. The Midnight Man- Chapter Nineteen: The Final Summoning
25. The Midnight Man- Chapter Twenty: Return
26. The Midnight Man- Epilogue
27. Strung Out
===================================
Most of the time, I won't be splitting any of my writing in half, unless I want to create suspense for the story, as I am doing with Survival Of The Fittest (a short story which I wrote for school this past year and was well received).
1. One Snowy Night (below)
2. Survival Of The Fittest Part 1
3. Survival Of The Fittest Part 2 (with Epilogue)
4. Lost Chance
5. The Midnight Man- Prologue
6. The Midnight Man- Chapter One: October 30th
7. The Midnight Man- Chapter Two: Halloween
8. The Midnight Man- Chapter Three: Car Ride to the House
9. The Midnight Man- Chapter Four: The House
10. The Midnight Man- Chapter Five: The First Summoning
11. The Midnight Man- Chapter Six: Dreams and Thoughts
12. The Midnight Man- Chapter Seven: The Summoning
13. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eight: A Failed Circle Of Salt
14. The Midnight Man- Chapter Nine: The Exorcism
15. The Midnight Man- Chapter Ten: Trapped
16. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eleven: Sacrifice
17. The Midnight Man- Chapter Twelve: The Final Hour
18.The Midnight Man- Chapter Thirteen: Departure
19. The Midnight Man- Chapter Fourteen: The Plan
20. The Midnight Man- Chapter Fifteen: The Last Afternoon
21. The Midnight Man- Chapter Sixteen: Memories Surround Me
22. The Midnight Man- Chapter Seventeen: Escape
23. The Midnight Man- Chapter Eighteen: Passing The Hours
24. The Midnight Man- Chapter Nineteen: The Final Summoning
25. The Midnight Man- Chapter Twenty: Return
26. The Midnight Man- Epilogue
27. Strung Out
===================================
One Snowy Night
It was winter and no one was traveling by road for fear of catching their death in the blizzard that swept across the countryside. Inch after inch was piling up outside the inn as the family that owned it sat inside, huddled around the fire, wishing that spring would soon arrive. Business had been mediocre at best over the past month or so because no one would even consider venturing out into the wintry hell. Money was scarce, but food was plentiful at the inn. The owner, a middle aged man who had recently lost his father, had amassed a rather large winter store this year.
So there the family - the owner, his wife, and their daughter - sat on wooden stools around the fire, each with several layers of cloaks and blankets piled on their shoulders. The inn itself was decent compared to others. It was not exactly clean, but was not dirty either. Occasionally, a mouse or two would attempt to warm themselves by the hearth, only to be chased off by the cat.
The moisture on the windows had long frozen and skewed the view the family had of the outside world. Snow drifts were almost as high as the window sill, but did not come any higher due to the wind constantly shifting the snow around. The wind continuously howled like the hounds of hell and beat against the inn constantly, like a battering ram attempting to penetrate a fortress without success. The walls of the in refused to collapse under its might.
And so the family sat, praying that the blizzard would soon come to an end. Just when it was beginning to grow darker outside (it was always dark as the blowing snow refused to let all the sunlight into the inn), there came a knock at the door. In stepped a soldier stating that he needed a place to stay for the night as he had been separated from the other soldiers and his horse had gotten frostbite from the nipping cold. He had no money to pay, but promised to return in the spring once he had received his meager pay. The owner, in desperate need of the man's money, allowed him to enter.
The soldier ventured over to the fire, pulling his snow-wettened cloak close. The daughter rose, removed it, and hung it over the hearth. The wife took her cloaks and blankets and combined them with the daughters and the pile the owner had left on the ground when he answered the knock at the door. She then distributed them into piles of four and passed them out to the four of them.
After a little bit of time had gone by, the wife rose and walked to the kitchen to prepare some stew for supper. After it was done, and ale was poured into worn wooden mugs, the four of them sat around the rectangular table, with the owner and soldier at opposite heads of the table and the wife and daughter on each side, prepared to say grace. Right as the owner had said, “Dear Lord, thank you-,” there came a pounding at the door.
It was not quiet. It thundered across the room and caused the ale to rattle in the mugs. The owner, clearly insulted, rose and stomped over to the door, ready to give a rather loud scolding to whomever had interrupted his family's dinner prayer. He flung open the door and froze. The color drained from his face and his eyes grew wide.
Trying to recover, the owner stepped back and beckoned the visitor come in. His wife gave a confused look to the daughter who simply shrugged. Seeing that the owner was in shock, for whatever reason, the soldier rose and politely offered to remove the man's cloak. The man shook his head. The owner showed him to the table.
The man appeared to be chilled to the bone. Snow clung to not only the hood of his cloak but also in his silvery white hair which came to about shoulder length. In the firelight, the soldier could have sworn the man's eyes glowed a satanic red.
The owner sat down again and took a long swig from his mug. The prayer was forgotten and they sat in silence for a few moments. The daughter rose and brought the man a steaming bowl of stew which he promptly held up his hand in refusal. He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out an obviously aged coin purse. He reached in and placed the correct amount for one night on the table and withdrew to his room. As he walked down the hallway, the family cat was heard hissing. The sound was quickly muffled and heard no more.
The wife turned to her husband and asked what had startled him. The owner, still a tad shaken, replied that he believed the man to be his father, 5 months dead now. The soldier shook his head and said that there was no truth in that. “That's the way pagans think,” he stated. The daughter, not knowing what to do, commented on the large hole in the left side of the man's cloak.
Clearly emotionally drained, the family and the soldier soon retired to bed. The fire soon burned down to a few embers in the hearth, scattered amongst the remains of the firewood. At one point, the wife rose from her and her husband's quarters to walk outside and restart the fire. She noticed that the blizzard has finally broken and a full moon shown down on the road. She stopped to admire the first clear night sky she had seen in a week or two, she couldn't quite remember.
After some time, she returned to the warmth of her bed. When she arose in the morning, the soldier and the daughter were talking nearby the hearth. She sent the soldier to arouse the man, but he returned saying that he was gone, the bed never slept in. The wife yelled for her husband, but received no reply.
Suddenly her face, beaten and wrinkled over the years of keeping the inn running with her husband, grew very pale. She remembered what he had said the night before about the stranger looking like his late father. “GEORGE!” she shrieked. There was no reply.
She sprinted upstairs and into the bedroom, close followed by the daughter and the soldier. The owner, on the left side of the bed, was laying slightly askew. Upon closer inspection, it was noticed that there was a small dried pool of blood on the pillow casing. The daughter screamed, seeing two small puncture wounds on her father's neck.
The soldier drew his knife out of its sheath on his belt and took the man's wrist. He slit it, but nothing came out. The owner was dead. The soldier sprinted outside and returned with a stake of wood and a hammer. He drove it through the heart of the owner while the wife and daughter sobbed in the corner.
That same day, just as dusk was setting in, the soldier ventured into a nearby village to organize a group of villagers to march to the cemetery. They all hung the most pungent garlic they could find around their necks. Some carried freshly sharpened pitchforks, others torches, and the rest shovels. The soldier, leading the way, had a hammer and a stake, so sharp that an accidental prick of the flesh could draw blood.
When they reached the cemetery, the sun had disappeared over the horizon and the only right came from the mob's torches. It danced around the shadows of the tombstones, and a few began to turn back, only to be stopped by the soldier's booming, echoing voice. He instructed villagers to guard every tombstone. He then reached into the pocket of his trousers and removed a scrap of paper with the name of the owner's father written on it.
He found the grave under a lifeless oak tree. A dirt mound lay in front of the marker. Fresh, thought the price, from reburying himself after he drank from the inn owner. He began and a few others began to dig. After what seemed like an eternity, they hit wood. The soldier, with extra garlic around his neck, pried the lid off of the freshly buried coffin.
As soon as the lid was removed, the soldier dropped his stake. A look of horror appeared on his face. It spread to the men surrounding the grave, and all of a sudden there was a yell from one of the far corner's of the cemetery. A couple of the men ran off into the distance, lanterns slapping their sides.
Another group of men stepped forward to see what had frightened the soldier. In the coffin lay only a cloak with a hole in the left side. The soldier climbed up from the grave and ran in the direction of the scream. There lay a pale lifeless villager with the man's son desperately trying to revive. The soldier threw the teenager aside and jammed the stake into the man's heart. No blood came out.
It was then that a note was noticed to be lying at the dead man's feet. The soldier picked it up. The handwriting was messy, as if written in a hurry.
I know that you seek to destroy me, but my fun has just begun. I hate to have to kill this man, but he spotted me and I had no choice. As for my son, he betrayed my will and I felt the need to punish him. Now that he is gone, all that remains is his wife, daughter, and a soldier, all of whom know too much. To the three of them, watch your backs.
It was not signed. The prince dropped the note, and looked off into the distance only to see a cloak-less figure disappearing into the forest beyond the cemetery.
A week passed, and both the wife and daughter were found dead at the inn. The soldier avoided death for several years, but only by sheer dumb luck. He would appear and vanish just as quickly as he had arrived in a village. He would stay long enough to drink himself into a stupor. The man with the silver hair caught up to him in an inn one night when the soldier failed to leave quickly enough.
So readers, take care, and be weary of anyone knocking at your door late in the evening, for it could just be a man with satanic red eyes and silver hair, hungry for the warm blood coursing through your veins.
So there the family - the owner, his wife, and their daughter - sat on wooden stools around the fire, each with several layers of cloaks and blankets piled on their shoulders. The inn itself was decent compared to others. It was not exactly clean, but was not dirty either. Occasionally, a mouse or two would attempt to warm themselves by the hearth, only to be chased off by the cat.
The moisture on the windows had long frozen and skewed the view the family had of the outside world. Snow drifts were almost as high as the window sill, but did not come any higher due to the wind constantly shifting the snow around. The wind continuously howled like the hounds of hell and beat against the inn constantly, like a battering ram attempting to penetrate a fortress without success. The walls of the in refused to collapse under its might.
And so the family sat, praying that the blizzard would soon come to an end. Just when it was beginning to grow darker outside (it was always dark as the blowing snow refused to let all the sunlight into the inn), there came a knock at the door. In stepped a soldier stating that he needed a place to stay for the night as he had been separated from the other soldiers and his horse had gotten frostbite from the nipping cold. He had no money to pay, but promised to return in the spring once he had received his meager pay. The owner, in desperate need of the man's money, allowed him to enter.
The soldier ventured over to the fire, pulling his snow-wettened cloak close. The daughter rose, removed it, and hung it over the hearth. The wife took her cloaks and blankets and combined them with the daughters and the pile the owner had left on the ground when he answered the knock at the door. She then distributed them into piles of four and passed them out to the four of them.
After a little bit of time had gone by, the wife rose and walked to the kitchen to prepare some stew for supper. After it was done, and ale was poured into worn wooden mugs, the four of them sat around the rectangular table, with the owner and soldier at opposite heads of the table and the wife and daughter on each side, prepared to say grace. Right as the owner had said, “Dear Lord, thank you-,” there came a pounding at the door.
It was not quiet. It thundered across the room and caused the ale to rattle in the mugs. The owner, clearly insulted, rose and stomped over to the door, ready to give a rather loud scolding to whomever had interrupted his family's dinner prayer. He flung open the door and froze. The color drained from his face and his eyes grew wide.
Trying to recover, the owner stepped back and beckoned the visitor come in. His wife gave a confused look to the daughter who simply shrugged. Seeing that the owner was in shock, for whatever reason, the soldier rose and politely offered to remove the man's cloak. The man shook his head. The owner showed him to the table.
The man appeared to be chilled to the bone. Snow clung to not only the hood of his cloak but also in his silvery white hair which came to about shoulder length. In the firelight, the soldier could have sworn the man's eyes glowed a satanic red.
The owner sat down again and took a long swig from his mug. The prayer was forgotten and they sat in silence for a few moments. The daughter rose and brought the man a steaming bowl of stew which he promptly held up his hand in refusal. He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out an obviously aged coin purse. He reached in and placed the correct amount for one night on the table and withdrew to his room. As he walked down the hallway, the family cat was heard hissing. The sound was quickly muffled and heard no more.
The wife turned to her husband and asked what had startled him. The owner, still a tad shaken, replied that he believed the man to be his father, 5 months dead now. The soldier shook his head and said that there was no truth in that. “That's the way pagans think,” he stated. The daughter, not knowing what to do, commented on the large hole in the left side of the man's cloak.
Clearly emotionally drained, the family and the soldier soon retired to bed. The fire soon burned down to a few embers in the hearth, scattered amongst the remains of the firewood. At one point, the wife rose from her and her husband's quarters to walk outside and restart the fire. She noticed that the blizzard has finally broken and a full moon shown down on the road. She stopped to admire the first clear night sky she had seen in a week or two, she couldn't quite remember.
After some time, she returned to the warmth of her bed. When she arose in the morning, the soldier and the daughter were talking nearby the hearth. She sent the soldier to arouse the man, but he returned saying that he was gone, the bed never slept in. The wife yelled for her husband, but received no reply.
Suddenly her face, beaten and wrinkled over the years of keeping the inn running with her husband, grew very pale. She remembered what he had said the night before about the stranger looking like his late father. “GEORGE!” she shrieked. There was no reply.
She sprinted upstairs and into the bedroom, close followed by the daughter and the soldier. The owner, on the left side of the bed, was laying slightly askew. Upon closer inspection, it was noticed that there was a small dried pool of blood on the pillow casing. The daughter screamed, seeing two small puncture wounds on her father's neck.
The soldier drew his knife out of its sheath on his belt and took the man's wrist. He slit it, but nothing came out. The owner was dead. The soldier sprinted outside and returned with a stake of wood and a hammer. He drove it through the heart of the owner while the wife and daughter sobbed in the corner.
* * *
That same day, just as dusk was setting in, the soldier ventured into a nearby village to organize a group of villagers to march to the cemetery. They all hung the most pungent garlic they could find around their necks. Some carried freshly sharpened pitchforks, others torches, and the rest shovels. The soldier, leading the way, had a hammer and a stake, so sharp that an accidental prick of the flesh could draw blood.
When they reached the cemetery, the sun had disappeared over the horizon and the only right came from the mob's torches. It danced around the shadows of the tombstones, and a few began to turn back, only to be stopped by the soldier's booming, echoing voice. He instructed villagers to guard every tombstone. He then reached into the pocket of his trousers and removed a scrap of paper with the name of the owner's father written on it.
He found the grave under a lifeless oak tree. A dirt mound lay in front of the marker. Fresh, thought the price, from reburying himself after he drank from the inn owner. He began and a few others began to dig. After what seemed like an eternity, they hit wood. The soldier, with extra garlic around his neck, pried the lid off of the freshly buried coffin.
As soon as the lid was removed, the soldier dropped his stake. A look of horror appeared on his face. It spread to the men surrounding the grave, and all of a sudden there was a yell from one of the far corner's of the cemetery. A couple of the men ran off into the distance, lanterns slapping their sides.
Another group of men stepped forward to see what had frightened the soldier. In the coffin lay only a cloak with a hole in the left side. The soldier climbed up from the grave and ran in the direction of the scream. There lay a pale lifeless villager with the man's son desperately trying to revive. The soldier threw the teenager aside and jammed the stake into the man's heart. No blood came out.
It was then that a note was noticed to be lying at the dead man's feet. The soldier picked it up. The handwriting was messy, as if written in a hurry.
I know that you seek to destroy me, but my fun has just begun. I hate to have to kill this man, but he spotted me and I had no choice. As for my son, he betrayed my will and I felt the need to punish him. Now that he is gone, all that remains is his wife, daughter, and a soldier, all of whom know too much. To the three of them, watch your backs.
It was not signed. The prince dropped the note, and looked off into the distance only to see a cloak-less figure disappearing into the forest beyond the cemetery.
* * *
A week passed, and both the wife and daughter were found dead at the inn. The soldier avoided death for several years, but only by sheer dumb luck. He would appear and vanish just as quickly as he had arrived in a village. He would stay long enough to drink himself into a stupor. The man with the silver hair caught up to him in an inn one night when the soldier failed to leave quickly enough.
So readers, take care, and be weary of anyone knocking at your door late in the evening, for it could just be a man with satanic red eyes and silver hair, hungry for the warm blood coursing through your veins.