So we had a contest in our office to write a scary story. My boss wrote a begining and sent it out via email and we were supposed to finish it. I chatted with Gabe about it and got good ideas and tried to write it, but I put this off until 2 hours before it was due -- I guess I like to work under pressure. I didn't expect much responce since all authors feel their work is crap until someone tells them they are wrong. Below is the story, the begining is in bold Georgia font, my completion is in regular Arial.
The Night That Dripped Blood
It was late Sunday night in Oregon, twenty miles from Portland, and the rain had been beating with savage satanic fury upon the tiny isolated century-old log cabin. The storm reminded Garth of Noah’s flood—a tale his father, a died-in-the-wool fundamentalist, liked to tell in order to scare the hell out of his sons right up through their college years--and brought to mind the image of an angry, avenging God. Garth wondered if God were unhappy with him.
Now, wide awake, heart thumping wildly, Garth lay in bed, tossing and turning in the sweaty sheets, listening keenly to the sounds behind the rain. The sounds, he knew, came from somewhere in the thick forest surrounding the old family log cabin; they had been constant for the last three nights.
If he listened hard enough, behind the rain pounding on the cabin’s tin roof Garth could even hear a reverberating empty wooden sound, like two hollow wooden sticks being struck against each other, at regular intervals; it was as if someone were trying to send him a message through the chill wet October darkness. Occasionally, straining to listen, head exploding with migraine pain, he was certain that he could detect voices, sometimes a man’s but most often a woman’s. Once last night, Saturday, he had even heard someone shriek.
Now, Sunday night, the hollow wooden thuds came about every thirty seconds, and as he listened Garth tried to rationally construct a picture of the noise’s source. If the noises had come during the day, he concluded, they might be caused a woodsman, but at night no one would be working in the forest, especially during a furious October rainstorm. Maybe, he thought, it was an animal, but an animal couldn’t maintain the steady, rhythmic beat all night long.
Then, as he heard a beast’s low howl, he sat bolt upright in bed; he remembered a story he had known about since childhood and had heard as recently as last year in one of the bars just down the road. There was a legend that haunted this small logging town, one that made children’s eye grows wide and adults speak in hushed tones. But surely it couldn’t be real!
The sweat glistened on his forehead as his ears strained to hear what lurk in the night; he was greeted by the thin wail of his own infant in the next room. He got up to check on the child, careful not to wake his still sleeping wife. How she could sleep in this kind of weather never ceased to amaze him. As he held and rocked his newborn, his mind went to the story that had scared him since childhood.
It is said that a legacy of men live deep in the woods beyond the mountain pass. Those who have claimed to see these men say that they are of mixed ages and the number over time has increased in number. Garth chalked this up to imagination making the story larger each time it is told, but there was a reason why their numbers grew and why they lurked where no man fear to wander.
It is said that 150 years ago a man in town who had his share of wealth was in fading health and desperate for a cure. The man was almost 90 years old and would need a miracle to extend his already impressive longevity. He sought that miracle from a traveling gypsy woman who came through town at his most desperate hour. “Heal ME!” he pleaded as she turned his hands over in hers, she studied every line in his palms and whispered that she could grant him eternal life. No more aging, no more illness. Without hearing the conditions of this offer, the old man agreed quickly and gave her his promise to do anything she wanted. She reached into an unseen place and retrieved a long needle, she jabbed her finger harshly and let three drops of blood fall on each of the man’s hands. She then took them into hers and let the blood dry. As she sat there with him, she began to chuckle; her grip intensified tighter and tighter as her chuckles grew into maniacal peals of laughter that was heard throughout the town and woke every soul with a chill in their heart.
She became quiet and still and looked deep into his eyes, “Yes old man, you will do what I say.”
He tore his hands free from hers and they were hot and glowing, like they had been forging in blacksmith’s fire.
“What is this?!” he bolted up and thrust his hands at the gypsy, “What have you done to me witch?!” he demanded.
Her lips spread into a feline grin, “what you have asked for, you shall now receive,” she replied. Her eyes began to radiate with the same fire that possessed his hands; the caravan interior grew dark until all he could see were her glowing eyes. “You will bring me your male heirs for all eternity, and their life-force will feed us both.” Her eyes grew dim, the caravan sank into complete darkness and no one heard from him again.
The story goes that this gypsy woman keeps him alive still to fulfill her own evil needs. They say his wish was granted, but that he lives eternal as a slave to her. They say she demands that he lay his hands on a strapping young man once a generation to drain his energy and turn him into her minion, but only after that man has had a male child to continue their lifeline. Living in a logging town, many young men don’t come home because of the dangerous work. Some townsfolk speculate who is related to this cursed man and who could be taken next. However, the majority of the people think it is just a story told to give a good scare.
Garth is part of the majority on most days, but in nights like tonight, he admits to himself that that damn story is getting the best of him. He rocked his baby gently and looked out the window, deep in the woods a branched snapped under the weight of something dark; he half expected to see the ghostly mob emerge from the forest led by an elder with glowing hands. But he knew his grandfather, he lived in the retirement home on the other side of town and he had only known kindness from him; his grandfather actually had severe arthritis and despite his finger’s claw-like appearance – he quietly chuckled – he had certainly never seen those crooked fingers glow!
He turned and laid the infant back to rest in the crib, then he saw movement in the corner of his eye; he snapped his head to see what was in the room with him and all he could see was two flame-glowing eyes. He gasped and blinked hard to make sure it wasn’t his vivid imagination. It couldn’t be! The room went dark as pitch and the gypsy witch appeared eight feet away from him and grinning like a cat.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone Garth,” her voice was a whisper of evil delight. She stepped aside to reveal a gaunt, ashen man in his twenties. What was this? This man didn’t have the red-hot hands that all the stories spoke of, but this man looked very much like Garth.
“What do you want?!” he hissed at her, trying to sound brave and trying to not wake the sleeping child.
“I want you to say hello to your father.” The edges of her smile curled higher and transformed her eyes into bright slits. He looked at the man again, this was not his father. The resemblance was amazing, but his father was alive and well.
“This is not my father,” he told her, “my father lives up the mountain with my mother and has done so for 26 years.”
“You are wrong Garth, he has lived with her for 25 years, and your mother married him one year after your father disappeared when you were an infant.”
His blood chilled in his veins as his heart pounded. He looked again at the soulless form next to her and saw his own eyes, his dimpled chin, his large-knuckled hands – he knew in an instant that she was telling him the truth, this shell of a man was his father.
“Why have you brought him here? What do you want?” he begged, he was now trembling with fear.
“You know why we are here,” she hissed and pointed a long, boney finger at him.
Her eyes blazed and a third figure stepped out of the shadows with hands that flashed a blinding orange. They illuminated the path towards Garth as the cursed man drew closer to him with arms outstretched. Garth tried to steady himself on his own trembling legs. This could not be happening! This was just a story, JUST A STORY! He stepped back as the man approached and he bumped into the crib, the infant began crying. He dipped into the crib and held his infant tight. The dreaded hands reached for him and missed, hitting the corner of the crib. Garth stood up and whipped around to face them, he had a twinkle in his eye.
“I would like to introduce you to someone!” he shouted at the gypsy witch over the baby’s cries, “I would like you to meet my DAUGHTER!”
He held her up for all to see and the woman shrieked back and the man stopped his approach. The gypsy witch vanished with her slaves in a swirling cloud of putrid smoke. He opened the window to let the rain-fresh breeze sweep the room of any foul air. The room returned to normal and the smoke cleared.
As everything edged back to how he found it, he stood there holding his daughter and wondered for a second if the whole thing wasn’t all a nightmare. He laid her back down after she had quieted and noticed that the edge of the crib had a man’s palm print scorched into its rail. A shiver went down his spine as he stood there.
Thank God for daddy’s little girl.
###
There you go, $40 for 90 minutes of panick :)
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
The Night That Dripped Blood
It was late Sunday night in Oregon, twenty miles from Portland, and the rain had been beating with savage satanic fury upon the tiny isolated century-old log cabin. The storm reminded Garth of Noah’s flood—a tale his father, a died-in-the-wool fundamentalist, liked to tell in order to scare the hell out of his sons right up through their college years--and brought to mind the image of an angry, avenging God. Garth wondered if God were unhappy with him.
Now, wide awake, heart thumping wildly, Garth lay in bed, tossing and turning in the sweaty sheets, listening keenly to the sounds behind the rain. The sounds, he knew, came from somewhere in the thick forest surrounding the old family log cabin; they had been constant for the last three nights.
If he listened hard enough, behind the rain pounding on the cabin’s tin roof Garth could even hear a reverberating empty wooden sound, like two hollow wooden sticks being struck against each other, at regular intervals; it was as if someone were trying to send him a message through the chill wet October darkness. Occasionally, straining to listen, head exploding with migraine pain, he was certain that he could detect voices, sometimes a man’s but most often a woman’s. Once last night, Saturday, he had even heard someone shriek.
Now, Sunday night, the hollow wooden thuds came about every thirty seconds, and as he listened Garth tried to rationally construct a picture of the noise’s source. If the noises had come during the day, he concluded, they might be caused a woodsman, but at night no one would be working in the forest, especially during a furious October rainstorm. Maybe, he thought, it was an animal, but an animal couldn’t maintain the steady, rhythmic beat all night long.
Then, as he heard a beast’s low howl, he sat bolt upright in bed; he remembered a story he had known about since childhood and had heard as recently as last year in one of the bars just down the road. There was a legend that haunted this small logging town, one that made children’s eye grows wide and adults speak in hushed tones. But surely it couldn’t be real!
The sweat glistened on his forehead as his ears strained to hear what lurk in the night; he was greeted by the thin wail of his own infant in the next room. He got up to check on the child, careful not to wake his still sleeping wife. How she could sleep in this kind of weather never ceased to amaze him. As he held and rocked his newborn, his mind went to the story that had scared him since childhood.
It is said that a legacy of men live deep in the woods beyond the mountain pass. Those who have claimed to see these men say that they are of mixed ages and the number over time has increased in number. Garth chalked this up to imagination making the story larger each time it is told, but there was a reason why their numbers grew and why they lurked where no man fear to wander.
It is said that 150 years ago a man in town who had his share of wealth was in fading health and desperate for a cure. The man was almost 90 years old and would need a miracle to extend his already impressive longevity. He sought that miracle from a traveling gypsy woman who came through town at his most desperate hour. “Heal ME!” he pleaded as she turned his hands over in hers, she studied every line in his palms and whispered that she could grant him eternal life. No more aging, no more illness. Without hearing the conditions of this offer, the old man agreed quickly and gave her his promise to do anything she wanted. She reached into an unseen place and retrieved a long needle, she jabbed her finger harshly and let three drops of blood fall on each of the man’s hands. She then took them into hers and let the blood dry. As she sat there with him, she began to chuckle; her grip intensified tighter and tighter as her chuckles grew into maniacal peals of laughter that was heard throughout the town and woke every soul with a chill in their heart.
She became quiet and still and looked deep into his eyes, “Yes old man, you will do what I say.”
He tore his hands free from hers and they were hot and glowing, like they had been forging in blacksmith’s fire.
“What is this?!” he bolted up and thrust his hands at the gypsy, “What have you done to me witch?!” he demanded.
Her lips spread into a feline grin, “what you have asked for, you shall now receive,” she replied. Her eyes began to radiate with the same fire that possessed his hands; the caravan interior grew dark until all he could see were her glowing eyes. “You will bring me your male heirs for all eternity, and their life-force will feed us both.” Her eyes grew dim, the caravan sank into complete darkness and no one heard from him again.
The story goes that this gypsy woman keeps him alive still to fulfill her own evil needs. They say his wish was granted, but that he lives eternal as a slave to her. They say she demands that he lay his hands on a strapping young man once a generation to drain his energy and turn him into her minion, but only after that man has had a male child to continue their lifeline. Living in a logging town, many young men don’t come home because of the dangerous work. Some townsfolk speculate who is related to this cursed man and who could be taken next. However, the majority of the people think it is just a story told to give a good scare.
Garth is part of the majority on most days, but in nights like tonight, he admits to himself that that damn story is getting the best of him. He rocked his baby gently and looked out the window, deep in the woods a branched snapped under the weight of something dark; he half expected to see the ghostly mob emerge from the forest led by an elder with glowing hands. But he knew his grandfather, he lived in the retirement home on the other side of town and he had only known kindness from him; his grandfather actually had severe arthritis and despite his finger’s claw-like appearance – he quietly chuckled – he had certainly never seen those crooked fingers glow!
He turned and laid the infant back to rest in the crib, then he saw movement in the corner of his eye; he snapped his head to see what was in the room with him and all he could see was two flame-glowing eyes. He gasped and blinked hard to make sure it wasn’t his vivid imagination. It couldn’t be! The room went dark as pitch and the gypsy witch appeared eight feet away from him and grinning like a cat.
“I’d like to introduce you to someone Garth,” her voice was a whisper of evil delight. She stepped aside to reveal a gaunt, ashen man in his twenties. What was this? This man didn’t have the red-hot hands that all the stories spoke of, but this man looked very much like Garth.
“What do you want?!” he hissed at her, trying to sound brave and trying to not wake the sleeping child.
“I want you to say hello to your father.” The edges of her smile curled higher and transformed her eyes into bright slits. He looked at the man again, this was not his father. The resemblance was amazing, but his father was alive and well.
“This is not my father,” he told her, “my father lives up the mountain with my mother and has done so for 26 years.”
“You are wrong Garth, he has lived with her for 25 years, and your mother married him one year after your father disappeared when you were an infant.”
His blood chilled in his veins as his heart pounded. He looked again at the soulless form next to her and saw his own eyes, his dimpled chin, his large-knuckled hands – he knew in an instant that she was telling him the truth, this shell of a man was his father.
“Why have you brought him here? What do you want?” he begged, he was now trembling with fear.
“You know why we are here,” she hissed and pointed a long, boney finger at him.
Her eyes blazed and a third figure stepped out of the shadows with hands that flashed a blinding orange. They illuminated the path towards Garth as the cursed man drew closer to him with arms outstretched. Garth tried to steady himself on his own trembling legs. This could not be happening! This was just a story, JUST A STORY! He stepped back as the man approached and he bumped into the crib, the infant began crying. He dipped into the crib and held his infant tight. The dreaded hands reached for him and missed, hitting the corner of the crib. Garth stood up and whipped around to face them, he had a twinkle in his eye.
“I would like to introduce you to someone!” he shouted at the gypsy witch over the baby’s cries, “I would like you to meet my DAUGHTER!”
He held her up for all to see and the woman shrieked back and the man stopped his approach. The gypsy witch vanished with her slaves in a swirling cloud of putrid smoke. He opened the window to let the rain-fresh breeze sweep the room of any foul air. The room returned to normal and the smoke cleared.
As everything edged back to how he found it, he stood there holding his daughter and wondered for a second if the whole thing wasn’t all a nightmare. He laid her back down after she had quieted and noticed that the edge of the crib had a man’s palm print scorched into its rail. A shiver went down his spine as he stood there.
Thank God for daddy’s little girl.
###
There you go, $40 for 90 minutes of panick :)
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
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