Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 36

Baked Scribe Flashback : Manananggal

There were no words, nothing that they could think of to do or say, not even awkward laughter which the alcohol would have normally provoked. They stared at the legs sticking out of the ground, as if someone had been planted there in the dirt up to their knees and then severed at the waist, leaving the lower half behind. Blood and other matter oozed out from a cutting blow that looked fresh.

They took another simultaneous step forward when a scream ripped through the silence, vocalized rage that rained down on them from above. A woman descended from the darkened sky, a beautiful woman at that. Beautiful, save for the horrific row of teeth that were now visible from behind lips, peeling back into a snarl. Beautiful, if you didn’t notice the large, leathery wings sprouting out from behind her.

Beautiful, if you didn’t pick up on the fact that she was missing the bottom half of her body.

They turned to run but immediately were taken up in her grasp. She hurled Freddie across the clearing, where he landed roughly on his neck and went limp, showing no sign of movement. Her wings beat the air as she lifted David straight up with her, teeth sinking into his chest as she did so. He cried out but was already starting to drift away as his blood was drawn out into her in long, deep drinks. The world around him began to spin crazily, and he vaguely realized that she had released him as the ground rushed back up at him.

As he lay there, lacking the strength to move any part of his broken frame, he watched her take Freddie apart before returning to the other half of her body, which was still standing tethered to the ground. The last thing he saw was her hovering in the air over her other half before settling down, reattaching and stepping out of the ground. With her newly regained limbs, she quietly moved onto the walking path where she strolled off into the swelling darkness of the woods around them.

Baked Scribe Halloween Special

Robin looked up into the last little bits of sunlight as they departed away from him, down the far edge of the world. He had hoped that it wouldn’t prove necessary to sleep out here, in the woods, but he had also tried to be ready for the possibility. Rubbing his arms to try and increase the blood flow, he began looking around for wood he could use to build a fire. It was already cold and it was only going to get worse as the night drew on. Somewhere in the far distance, he picked up the sound of an animal howling, carried on the wind and he began to wonder if he should have better prepared for the unpredictability of the wildlife. Regardless, it was too late to do anything except cast his lot into the arena of stupid, blind luck. He hadn’t even thought to bring a rifle with him, not that he would even have the vaguest idea of what to do with it, if he had one.

It took close to thirty minutes before he had a fire, crackling and forking up into the night sky. Reaching into his bag, he withdrew a can of food and opened it up, setting it down by the fire to try and at least warm it up a little. He pulled a blanket around him and huddled up closer to the fire to try and push away the cold that had started to drill down into his deepest core. He should have brought warmer clothes, but it was still early fall, it shouldn’t have been this cold. As his mind started to drift, his hand wandered a little too close to the flames and he jerked it back, hissing in pain as he did so. He shook the hand and tried to ignore the burning and already, the hand felt cold, as the temperature seemed to dip even lower. Rubbing his arms, he began rocking back and forth and tried to contemplate the possibility of sleep out here, in the midst of one of the most ill-conceived ideas he had ever had.

Morning came quickly, but he was slow to rise. He couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so cold, and all he wanted to do was crawl back to the car, to the heat. But his friend was out here somewhere, and needed help. He had never been as sure of something as he was of this. Darian had failed to return from his camping trip, and everyone seemed convinced that he had simply taken a detour on his drive home. Robin knew better. His friend needed his help.

He gathered his things and returned them to the backpack. Before leaving, he rekindled the pathetic remains of his fire and let it burn high, sitting there and luxuriating in the brief warmth before snuffing it out altogether. He set out again, keeping to his direction of due west, convinced that it was the correct way. He had always prided himself at being able to figure out what Darian was thinking at any given moment, he would need that skill now.

Reaching a tightly spaced row of trees, he looked down into a valley below. He was detecting an unusual smell, like cooking but not anything that he imagined he would want to eat. There was a thin trail of smoke wafting up from the thick underbrush and as it was the best possibility he had seen since coming out here, Robin carefully sat down, starting to edge his way down the steep hill as he did so.

The way down was rough, and he nearly lost his grip several times. By some fluke, there always happened to be some piece of stray vegetation for him to grab and prevent his fall. He heard what sounded like stomping of leaves, as if someone was marching around, just out of sight. Picking up the pace, he began letting himself down the hill faster, knowing that he had to be getting closer to his friend. Just as he was starting to lose control, and roll down the hill, he was at the bottom, pushing through several heavy bushes and into the clearing beyond.

There was no one.

He looked up and down the stretch of felled trees, not understanding how he could have heard something so clearly that wasn’t actually there. He had heard all the stories about these woods and what happened here, for as long as he had lived in this area, but this was the first time that he was starting to see it as anything other than bullshit. People whispered about seeing things, and how campers and hunters would just disappear. Sometimes a body would be found, sometimes not. His sister had lived with a nurse who had sworn, up and down, that a man had been brought into the ER, near death. Campers found him out in the woods and brought him in. The patient died and upon an autopsy, they discovered that most of his major organs had been replaced with large rocks. The girl had been a certifiable nut-job, but he had to admit that, standing out here, all by himself, it was hard to deny the unpleasant taint of something watching him. It was a cold draft on the back of his neck, a tingling in his feet that told him he needed to put some distance between him and this place.

But still, there was Darian. He still hadn’t found his friend. Could he leave, and abandon him to whatever it was he was sensing out here? It was what he wanted to do, wanted to get clear and let Darian’s fate be his own. If something had happened to him, there was likely nothing he could do anyway. Still, some fundamental part of his being told him that he couldn’t just leave. He had to see this out, to whatever end it was leading to.

He noticed something brightly colored, partially exposed underneath a pile of leaves and ran to it, immediately recognizing Darian’s backpack as he held it up in the light.

“Darian!” he called out, just wanting his friend to show up, to answer him somehow.

Robin un-shouldered his pack and let it drop to the ground. This place would be where he would find out what had happened. He could wander around in circles for a few more hours, but he was sure that this place would be the key. He would stay put, and be there whenever Darian made his way back to his campsite.

He would wait.

Night came neither quickly or slowly for him. It simply was. He poked at the pathetic fire he had managed to get started, wishing he had brought more food, wishing he hadn’t come out here in the first place. There had been no sign of Darian and nothing to make him feel like the was getting any closer. He was going to give it until the next day before he had to give up. Early afternoon would give him enough time to make it back to the car before dark and he could only hope at this point that it hadn’t been towed. Even if it had, though, it would be preferable to sleep alongside the road than out here, in the woods. He huddled down, closer to the flames and reached into the nearly empty bag of chips.

As he was lifting the crumbs to his mouth, a shriek cut through the air, filling the space around him. He jerked his hand up in surprise, and lofted the chips up, into the air. As they showered down around him, he got to his feet and began scrutinizing the woods all around, trying to detect the source. The scream rang out again and this time, he took several steps back, stumbling over some debris on the ground as he did so.

There was something ahead of him, just barely obscured by the trees.

Robin jumped to his feet and moved forward, reaching down for the flashlight as he tried to keep his steps light, making as little noise as possible. There was a sound that he could detect, but not quite identify, something wet. It was a crunching sound. He drew close enough to see more clearly, two shapes, with one huddled down over the other. Drawing in an unsteady breath, he lifted the light. The screams resumed shortly after, but it took several moments before he realized that this time, the cries were his own.

On the ground, he could just make out Darian’s face or rather, what was left of it. He was covered with severe bruising and lacerations, wounds with blood that looked like it had long since gone dry. He looked like he had been dead for some time. There were a few seconds to take this in before his attention shifted to the person huddled over the body, bent over and scrabbling at Darian’s midsection, ripping and pulling and that sound, the crunching, the wet sound that he finally connected with what he was seeing.

It was the sound of chewing.

Before he could move closer or retreat, the figure spun to face him and stood up. The first thing Robin saw was the pinpoints of bright red light, where the things eyes should have been. They cast out at him like savage searchlights as he took in the rest of the thing’s form, human in the sense that it had arms and legs, but beyond that it was hardly recognizable. He saw the barest sinews of flesh hanging off of stark white bones that somehow glowed in the darkness. The bones flexed and twisted as it moved, the scowl burned into the bare skull evident as it took in Robin’s presence.

“Jesus Christ.” It was all he could say, the only words that came to mind as the thing began to move towards him. He saw for the first time that it was taking a bow from its shoulders and although it appeared to be notching the string, there was no arrow that he could see. Still, his paralysis broke and he turned to sprint away, yearning for the protection of the trees ahead of him. He heard a twang from behind him and in an instant, he felt a burning pain sear through his shoulder and he was on the ground, feeling like the entire left side of his body was on fire. The sound of the thing walking up behind him was clear, but as he tried to push himself up off the ground, he found his arms already failing to cooperate, collapsing underneath him and all he could do was lie there, face down in the dirt as the scraping sound behind him drew to a halt.

Robin looked to his left, and saw the end of a rough club come down to rest on the ground next to him. He heard a rasping breath above him, slowly becoming faster and more agitated. After a few moments, he wasn’t even able to move his eyes, could only lie there as the club was lifted up, and in that waning moment, the only thought he could articulate was simply to hope that the first blow would be enough to also be the last.

Issue # 124

“Shhhh!”

Shelton spun around in his crouched position, and glared back at Tyler. They needed to keep quiet, but the one thing he hated was to be shushed. He put a hand up, jabbing one finger through the air at his friend, close to smacking him in the process.

“Shut up!” he hissed at him. “You’re making more noise than I was. Keep it the fuck down!”

Likely, he was being too harsh, but he wasn’t going to to put up with that kind of crap all night long.

The Kittridge house was silent that night, the moonlight casting long shadows. Shelton tried, but couldn’t even articulate in his head why his stomach felt so unsettled. He was just nervous, had to let it work its way through his system and focus on the task at hand. The Kittridges were out of town for the weekend, the painting would be there, all alone, nobody around to stop them.

As they emerged from the hallway, into the private gallery, light was creeping in through the windows, where it struck the floor and washed up onto the toes of the furniture throughout the room. The painting itself was bathed in an incandescent light that seemed to come both from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The subject in the portrait sat there, obscured in darkness. Shelton could see the vague outline of someone hunched over, leaning on something out of the frame for support. He had no idea who was being depicted in the portrait, but in his minds eye he somehow made out the vivid image of an old woman, glaring out at the viewer, disdain mixing with disgust.

“What are we doing here anyway?”

Shelton took in a long breath as he tried to bring his irritation back under control.

“I told you before we came in here, you idiot. We’re taking this thing out of here to show old Kittridge how easy it is to get to him. He calls the cops, a few days go by, he freaks out over his stupid painting and then magically, someone finds it when an anonymous tip is called in.”

There was a pause at the other end of the moron hotline before Tyler responded. “Okay…it just seems like a lot of work to get back at a guy for pissing you off.”

Shelton shook his head, but didn’t answer. He couldn’t explain it to Tyler, how the painting had drawn him, pulled him with a kind of tidal force from the moment he had seen it during a tour of the house the week before. It had gotten to the point where his daily routines were filled with the thought of it, and the person depicted, who she might be and why the image had been obscured by such harsh shadows. In truth, he wasn’t sure if he ever would give up the painting. Maybe he would just leave it in his basement where he could visit it and contemplate it until the day when he finally unraveled the mystery of the thing.

“Just help me,” he said and moved forward to take the frame down off the wall.

His mind blurred from that moment, and he found himself sitting on the sofa, in his basement, staring at the painting and wondering how long he had been here. A part of his subconscious suggested that he should be asking how long he had been sitting here this time. It had been so long since stealing the thing, the weeks that had passed since had seemed like one blink of an eye, sitting on this couch.

The shadows in the painting started to move.

Shelton sat forward with a start, positive that he had seen it, and at the same time sure that it couldn’t have been possible. How could the painting really have moved? It wasn’t possible but what else could it have been? Had it been the person seated in the painting, twisting around to get a better look at him? Was that a tendril of darkness now emerging from the canvas, or was it just a trick of the light, something to go through the machinations of his mania, and flower into something menacing and beautiful?

The darkness touched him and darkness he became.

Shelton didn’t know how much time had passed. He was hunched over on some kind of bench, looking down at the floor which was bathed in darkness. Everything around him was dark, impossible for his eyes to penetrate despite his best efforts. He tried to wave his arms around,  but did not detect the sensation of movement from them. Likewise, his legs refused to function as he tried in vain to stand up. He tried to scream, to call out for anyone that might be able to help him but of course no sound emerged. It was like he was trapped inside of a shell, trapped in darkness.

Then, light began to form in front of him. It was like a window that had been fogged up and was now starting to clear. He was looking out into some kind of private residence, a room that looked strangely familiar. He heard hushed voices as vague human forms began to clarify before him. He was looking out into the gallery from which they had stolen the painting in the first place. The man standing there, staring in at Shelton, was also unmistakable.

He was looking into the face of Mr. Kittridge.

Shelton tried to twist and turn, to wave and yell to get the man’s attention, but he was stuck, fixed in this hunched-over position, stuck in profile, most of the room out there lost in his periphery. The same position she had been in.

He was stuck inside the painting.

Somehow his obsession had become his being. He railed on the inside, trying to kick, to scream and rip his way out of this impossibility. It was hard to breathe, getting harder as if his lungs were starting to freeze.

Like paint, drying on a canvas.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Luison

The iron gate into the cemetery clanked loudly in the wind as they hurried past. Even though nothing was spoken, they all seemed to pick up their pace, not wanting to linger, so close to this eternal place of rest. This was why Elaine hated going to the late night showings, but Kim, Caroline and Rhyanna had all insisted.

There was a tiny building located on the edge of the cemetery, presumably for the caretaker, and for some reason, she found it almost as unnerving as the bone-yard itself. It was built out of heavy iron, with no windows and no visible utility lines going to it, but there was always a line of bright light emanating from underneath the heavy door. The wind picked up just as they passed, and it carried with it the smell of death and rot.

They had almost made it to the end of the block, where she would be able to see their condo, when the door to the building was thrown open and a man came staggering out. She couldn’t help but clamp a hand over her mouth at the sight. He weaved from side to side, as if drunk. The long black coat and pants he wore were covered in slimy, foul smelling earth and his hair hung all around, mostly obscuring his face behind long, greasy strands. All she could see was his eyes, which blazed out at them with an unholy rage.

None of them were able to move as he stumbled up to them, scrutinizing each as if judging a contest of some kind. He lifted up one hand, flinging disgusting moisture all over them and reached out. Every instinct told her to run, but her feet remained immobile. The man took another step forward and placed a hand carefully on Kim’s forehead. With the other hand, he reached over and did the same to Caroline. They stood like that for several moments before the man let out a long sigh and dropped his hands. He looked them all over again before shaking his head and shambling back to the iron building, slamming the door behind him.

The nervous laughter that followed was interrupted by the screaming of brakes and the thud of a sub-woofer as the sports car came flying around the corner, hitting all of them in the process.

It was a week before Elaine woke up in the hospital. She was recovering from massive internal injuries and several broken bones and as for Rhyanna, it would be several weeks before the doctors would be able to bring her out of the induced coma. Elaine would likely walk with a cane for the rest of her life, but at least she was alive. She found her thoughts constantly occupied by those few minutes before the accident, how he had laid his hands on only two of them, as if he had been choosing.

It had to be a coincidence that Kim and Caroline were the two who had not survived.

Issue # 123

Frank set his glasses down on the table and tried to call upon the powers of his patience and maturity. “Joe, what is your problem, you have been acting pissy all afternoon.”

“What difference could it possibly make?” Joe responded without actually looking at him, a habit that had driven Frank insane, since as far back as when they were in high school.

“Was it the letter?”

Joe turned away but didn’t answer, pacing back and forth as he swept the floor around the rug for the tenth time.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset, it’s clearly meant for the both of us.”

“How do you know that?” Joe finally spun around to ask. “The letter was addressed to you. All I am is ‘and brother.’ We’d like to thank you, Frank and, ‘your brother’ for services performed for the—”

“What do you honestly expect? I can’t believe we got this much. It’s been twenty years since we worked a case, I don’t even know anyone in the mayor’s office who remembers us.”

“Clearly someone remembers you.”

“For crying out loud, stop being such a drama—”

“Of course you don’t understand! You’re Frank, you’re everyone’s favorite.”

“Joe—”

“You’re the smart one and I’m just the handsome one. You’re the one who does all the hard thinking and I’m the one who just runs in and punches people. I am so fucking tired of everyone on the planet thinking that you’re the great, wonderful golden boy and I’m just the meat-head.”

“Nobody thinks that.”

“Really? I can think of at least one person off the top of my head who thinks that.”

“Are you…are you talking about Nancy? Would you let it go? It’s over and done with. She fucked you, and then she fucked me and moved on. Get over it.”

“Well maybe it’s easier for you.”

“Or maybe you’re just making it too difficult.”

“Sure, it’s all my fault. It couldn’t possibly be anything you did to cause this.”

“Well seriously, what do you expect me to do? I can’t change anything.”

“How do you know? It isn’t like you’ve ever really tried.”

“You’ve never said anything about it.”

“I shouldn’t have to! I shouldn’t have to beg for people to pay attention, and maybe show a little bit of fucking gratitude for the things that I do instead of being seen as a perpetual man-child. That is, assuming I know what the word ‘perpetual’ means.”

“Right, and the Academy Award for biggest baby goes to—”

“You know, it’s easy for you to make fun of me, you aren’t the one who’s been a plus-one for your entire life.”

“Joe, what’s the point of all of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like you’re building up to some dramatic declaration that you want me to hear.”

“Oh. Well I suppose now is as good a time as any. I’ve decided that I’m going to start working cases again.”

“Working cases?”

“Working cases. Solving mysteries. Catching bad guys. Like the good old days. It’s the only time in my life that I’ve ever felt alive, and I can’t think of any better thing to do now.”

“Joe, I can’t just drop everything I’m doing just so I can—”

“Of course that’s how you respond. I didn’t say anything about asking you to help. I’m going to start working cases again. Me. Without you.”

“But…I don’t understand, we’ve always been a team. And you’ve never said anything to make me think you were upset about our arrangement before. I always though we played well off of each others strengths.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did think that. But I think maybe you were holding me back.”

“Come on, Joe, that’s absurd. And think about it. You’re…’

“…I’m what?”

“Joe, you’re fifty years old! You aren’t exactly in the greatest shape right now, are you sure you’re even up to—”

“Oh, here we go. Right, because I couldn’t get the big fancy job like you, Mr. bank assistant manager? Is it that hard to imagine that a poor, dumb little car mechanic like me could possibly have something positive to contribute to the world?”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that the cases we worked got a little physical at times, a little dangerous. I want to make sure you don’t get hurt. The kids really look up to you, it would break their hearts if something happened.”

“Is that it? Because I was kind of liking the idea that you would be upset if something happened to your brother but if the issue is more of your kids losing their favorite mascot…”

“That’s not it.”

“I think it is. And I think that your giant ego just couldn’t handle the sight of little old me, solving cases without you. And that’s not my fault. You’re the one who decided to get married and go off and have a life. I should have gone solo a long time before this.”

“Look, will you please just reconsider? Talk to some people about this, talk to the police. I mean, after all the world is a lot different than it was when we were teenagers.”

“Yeah well we were teenagers for like fifty years, and we never seemed to have any problems with it.”

“Joe…”

“Just forget it, okay? Just put it out of your damn mind. I’m so tired of having to beg and plead for everything in my life from perfect Frank. You think you’re so great that I can’t do anything without you?”

“No, of course not, calm—”

“Do not tell me to calm down you arrogant asshole, I am tired of you always telling me what to—”

“Joe please, this is not going in a good direction.”

“Right, because you have to dictate that also, don’t you? Everything according to your stupid little plans.”

“Wait, what the hell are you doing?”

“Didn’t see this as part of the plan, did you? Think your way around this one professor.”

“Joe, for the love of God, put the knife—”

“Put the knife where, Frank? Where do you think I should put the knife, Frank? What should I do with the knife, Frank?”

“Please. We can’t end up like this. Not like this.”

“What are you saying Frank? END UP LIKE WHAT, FRANK?”

“No! Stop, don’t—”

Frank pushed away from the table, but was to late to avoid his brother as he sprang across the table, light flashing on steel as he swooped in.

Joe stood over him for a minute before letting the knife slip from his fingers. He bent down over Frank’s prone figure and opened his mouth to scream.

“YOU DON”T GET TO CONTROL ME ANYMORE!”

Baked Scribe Flashback : Kraken

Ricky steered the ship towards the small island and started to power down the motor. When they had drawn close enough, he cut the engines entirely, and let the boat’s momentum carry them the rest of the way in. It was possibly the smallest island he had ever seen, not even worthy of stopping but for the fact that one of the men had spotted the body of the castaway on its shore. There was no way to tell if the man was alive, but it wouldn’t be right to move on without at least checking.

“Get one of the rafts ready and get over there.”

He watched two of the crew as they pulled the tarp loose and began moving the excursion craft over the water, when something from the corner of his eye grabbed his attention. What he was seeing wasn’t even remotely possible, but it was happening regardless. He blinked to try and focus, and turned to look directly.

The island was sinking.

Slowly and nearly imperceptibly, but it was definitely sinking. Already, the castaway was nearly a third closer to the waterline than he had been originally. As the island continued to sink, it began to turn as well and before he could say anything to alert the crew, the castaway had slid off and into the water. The island continued to turn as the crew were all now watching, equally speechless. Just before it dropped down under the water, Ricky saw something else that shouldn’t have been there.

Eyes.

Ricky spun back to the boat where the men still stood there dumbly, with the raft hovering over the water waiting to be dropped.

“Leave it!” They looked up at him blankly. “Release the—”

He was interrupted, as eight tentacles, each as thick as the boat itself shot up out of the water. They extended straight up into the air and hovered there, teetering back and forth, before coming back down, crashing onto the deck and reducing it to cinders.

The next seconds passed in a blur. Suddenly, he was paddling through the floating remains of his ship, swimming through blood and seawater, mixed with the sounds of screaming. The men reached for each other in vain as they were pulled down into a massive whirlpool. He kicked to try and get clear of the vortex and his feet struck something solid underneath him. Ricky looked down at the massive black shadow, but before he could react, something sharp bit into his lower torso. He screamed and tried to push off, but the strength in his arms was quickly fading. The burning pain in his legs soon matched the taste of the saltwater in his mouth as he was jerked down, pulled into the infinite depths of Davey Jones’ Locker.

Issue #122

It began at home with the pain. Hot, searing pain as if there was someone inside my head, jabbing out at the back of my eyes. It was enough to drop me to one knee on the spot, a headache suddenly worse than I would’ve ever thought possible. I don’t know how long I was lying there, but they had to call me from work, asking me why I hadn’t shown up yet.

My hands were covered in blood. I don’t know where it came from. My nose was bleeding a little, but not enough to explain the amount of blood I saw around me. There were also scratches, up and down my arms, no idea how they happened.

Maybe when I fell.

I went to the doctor the first time this happened, the first time I “left myself”. I was so scared. He couldn’t find anything wrong, other than maybe my blood pressure issues had caused me to pass out. I think he was full of shit, but the moment came when he left to find a nurse to do a blood draw and I looked at myself in the mirror.

The person looking back wasn’t me.

It was like some kind of malevolent entity was wearing my body, like clothing. The eyes that were supposedly mine glared out at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much hate. It was like I was laughing at the sight of myself.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the middle of the hospital. The nurse had found me, curled up on the floor of a janitor’s closet, raving about something in the room.

“James, do you know why you’re here today?”

Right. I’m in the shrink’s office now. I looked up at him, the officious prick in a nice suit, with the clipboard and then down to my hands on the table, the blood isn’t there anymore.

“I…”

The prick had thrown me right out of the story I was trying to tell. How was I supposed to say anything that made any sense when he kept interrupting me?

“You were talking about being at the doctors office…” The idiot seemed to think that he needed to prompt me.

“I god-damned know what I was talking about, why don’t you just shut up for a minute.”

“James do you know why the court sent you here?” He asked.

“How the hell should I know that?” The guy just gets me so sidetracked. Fucking prick.

“Do you remember how you got the blood on your hands James? The blood you saw the doctors office, because it wasn’t your blood, was it?”

“You should go fuck yourself.”

“James—”

“No, right up the old Bomb bay doors, right up there. Fuck you, and the judge too.”

That put the prick back on his heels least. The guy leered, back in his chair, looking like he was trying to remember what his training had told him to do in this situation.

“James, I understand why you have this hostility.”

“You don’t understand shit.”

“James I think it would be easier if—”

“Stop saying my name!”

The guy blinked at me, shaking his idiotically sculpted forehead as he did so.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“My name! It isn’t going to get me to relate to you or calm down any faster. Just knock off the bullshit!?”

“Okay James, no bullshit. Can you tell me what you remember about that day? Do you know what you did?”

“Do you know what I did?”

Dr. Doctor didn’t even answer, and instead settled for clicking his pen and glancing at the clock, as of this whole charade was somehow more irritating to him, than it was to me.

The thing is, I can’t really remember for sure why I ended up here on this couch. It happens sometimes, blackouts and my memories get lost inside of blood red storm clouds. I can’t even piece together sequences of events in my head. I wake up. I eat. I sleep. I work. All of those things, but not necessarily in that order. When I try to hard to remember, all I get is the pain.

It’s like there’s some foreign army of that’s invaded my consciousness, trying to consume me from the inside out. Sometimes I think that this body is just a shell, worn by something made up of total darkness.

“James?”

I close my eyes and leaned back, trying to get the annoying sound of his voice out of my head. Maybe I could just wait out the session, killing him with silence until my time just runs out.

“James?”

I’m feeling it again. The pain, pressing out into my eyes, and even as I start to reach up to massage my forehead, I know where this is going. I see the doctor’s office, my hand streaked with blood. I feel the other presence, the one down deep in the dark that I can never quite succeed in eliminating.

And then I have the blackouts, my little mental vacations that, I think, give me the ability to do all these fun little nasty things that I want to do without realizing it.

Take this prick, the sheep in sheep’s clothing, this doctor of a man who thinks he’s going to find out what’s wrong with me. I’m going to bet he has no idea what’s barreling down the tracks at him. This is my chance, the only one that I’m likely going to get. There are cops out there in the hallway, but no one is keeping me from going out that window. No one but this doctor.

I’m starting to feel that pressure, pushing against the inside to my eyeballs. My eyelids are starting to droop a little. Time to take another one of those mental vacations. There’s a collection of vintage surgical tools in the display case back there. I can see them over this idiot’s shoulder.

I wonder how sharp they are.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Jenglot

They looked like fingers.

It was the only thought that ran through Braidon’s head as he bent down to examine the objects protruding up out of the ground, centered perfectly between two rows of corn. They weren’t any kind of weed or root that he had ever seen, nothing growing around them, or any sign that anything had been buried there recently. It looked like four fingertips, just breaking the surface of the ground, as if something was clawing its way out from underneath.

Whatever they were, he couldn’t leave them just sitting there, having no idea what they were doing to the soil quality. He dug down around the thing with his hand, grabbed it, and pulled.

He wasn’t even aware of falling down onto the ground from the shock of seeing the thing that crawled up, out of the ground. It was like a demonic garden gnome, the tiny hand was held tightly in his grip as it struggled to free itself. It screamed out, a high pitched sound that made his ears pop, and suddenly its other hand swept up and raked sharp claws across his arm. Braidon yelled out and released the thing. It tumbled to the ground, somehow landing on its feet, and he finally got a good look at what he had just extracted from his field.

It stood about two feet tall, with wild tufts of graying hair sprouting out of its head like some kind of rotting troll doll. The skin was pale and translucent, like brittle paper. Where the eyes should have been, there were black, empty sockets. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the sight of the thing when, from somewhere inside its ragged clothing, it produced a long dagger and charged.

Without giving himself time to think, Braidon kicked the thing like it was a football, lofting it about a dozen feet across the field where it crashed through some thick corn stalks and landed. It had managed to keep hold of the dagger but seemed disoriented from the impact. Braidon turned to run back to the house, already picturing the shotgun which hung over the fireplace. Before he could get more than a few feet, something grabbed his leg. He tripped, falling forward and bit down onto his tongue, causing stars to explode in front of him. He shook his head to look back at what was holding him.

More of the tiny hands were bursting up out of the ground, grabbing at him and clawing through his clothes. He yelled, trying to stand, and tripped again. As he fell, four more of the things leapt up onto him, daggers poised to strike. He tried to kick them off of him, but his legs stopped responding and he was left there, lying flat on his back, looking out over his own field under the repeated thrusts of child-like daggers.

Issue #121

I don’t know what it is that gives me the urge to run. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the meat cooking and wondering when the day will come that I’ll be next. Don’t know if it’s the storms, now so constant that you can almost feel the electricity in the air.

I don’t know why I feel the urge to run, mostly because there isn’t really anywhere else for me to go. It’s not like anyone would take me in, not the wandering packs of soldiers or any of the scattered villages who are too afraid to defy the soldiers. We’re out here on our own and it’s our responsibility to make things work out.

The camp was attacked again, late last night. Funny how the military seems to know if one of us dares to spend the night under a roof, or in a bed, but couldn’t care less if we try and kill each other out here in the waste.

I can look up from my perch in this tree and see the city, off in the horizon. I love watching the lights, imagining it to be more welcoming than it really is. It’s fun to imagine what life could be like, protected within those walls, but in the end, we have to live out, with what’s been given to us.

The supply of meat has increased over the past few days and I try not to dwell on the fact that this comes at the same time that we have had several deaths in the camps. Bodies just seem to disappear, tokens given up for the survival of those that are still here.

The children have started to ask what things were like, before the wars, and I don’t even know where to start. I suppose there was a time when people didn’t have to live in fear, had the resources they needed to survive and support each other. Now, the world is a graveyard with no memory. I don’t even remember which countries these armies once paid allegiance to, or who was waging war on whom. The world itself, at some point became one engorged battlefield, landscapes doused with the blood of the fallen.

This is what life has become for us, those not fortunate enough to have been born within those protective walls. We can go neither forward or back, merely exist until the moment of our inevitable death.

They’re signaling us again, someone spotted a scouting party headed our way. Another call to arms. Maybe I’ll ignore them and get myself killed for betrayal of my unit. Or, perhaps I can get cut down by whoever is on their way, and all this can end. Anything has to be better than this. Even if, when crossing the bridge from our mortality of life into death, we find nothing on the other side but darkness, it still seems preferable.

It may be my only escape.

Baked Scribe Flashback : Ittan Momen

Lillith hadn’t paid the thing any mind at first, just a piece of stray laundry, caught in the breeze that was floating her way. It looked like an elongated sheet, maybe a runner for an end table, something that had pulled free from the line it had been drying on.

The thought that froze her in her tracks was when it occurred to her that the sheet was floating against the wind.

She spun back around as the sound of rustling fabric behind her, and she was immediately wrapped up in a flurry of white.

As she threw her arms up to try and clear the thing away, she was lifted partially off the ground and spun around several times, until her head started to swim. Her arms dropped back down to their sides, and the thing quickly wrapped around, pinning them to her body while throwing her roughly to the ground. It was almost funny to think what this must look like to a passer-by, to see her writhing around hopelessly inside of someone’s lost bed linens.

Except that it wasn’t a sheet.

It had looked like white cotton as it flitted about through the air, but as it pulled tighter around her, it felt like flesh. She tried to rip through it with her nails, but couldn’t come even close to breaking through. She tried to scream out for help, but could no longer draw in enough breath to do so. The absurdity of the situation as she toppled over backwards was infuriating. Her legs were now fully tangled up in the thing as it seemed to have unlimited length. All she could feel was the mounting pressure around her body.

Every part of her was now covered, save for her face. She thought that she could hear whispers, spoken softly in her ear in a language that she could not understand. Then, the thing moved up and around her eyes, obscuring the world around her in a translucent fog of white. It continued wrapping around, covering her nose, and now forcing its way into her mouth, down her throat. In that final moment, her last thoughts were of struggling in vain for air that she would never taste again.