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sp-growingpains · 6 months ago

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Campfire Stories

Hey so real shit. I got an ask about my silly OC that turned into a quick short story! Ignore this if you want! I'm just getting the old writer brain working again.

TW: Blood, Horror, Body Horror, Mention of suicide. A horrible attempt at writing horror!

Tiny little chips of fire flicker off the roaring flame. That warmth translates into both temperature and color. Red and orange eating away at the smoking, dry firewood. How could one define a summer night quite like this?

A bunch of tipsy, high out-of-their-mind assholes sitting around a campfire. It was a good thing Stan lived so far away from town and that his dad was gone for the weekend at some farmers' market. The backyard of a farm was the perfect place to get away from it all. If you weren't Stan literally any other day of the year.

The lip of the cheaply bought gas station beer clicks against the twin black rings on her bottom lip. A familiar buzz runs down her spine, swirls to the front of her stomach, and settles there for the night. She tilts the bottle back until the liquid is all but a memory.

The flames light reflects off the bottle as it goes soaring through the air, shattering against the side of the trashcan. Jean quirks a brow at it, only a bit surprised she actually made it into the trashcan this time.

"That story was kinda lame, dude. How was that supposed to be scary? Jean-Bean! Tell them a real scary story!" Jean finally tunes back into the conversation going on around the fire. A slurred chores of murmurs followed by a light-hearted command to quiet down by Kenny.

"I was telling it fine!" Poor Clyde's face screams betrayal. He lets his hand fall down onto his leg in defeat.

"I know your 'and-then' headass isn't talking! Hush, chatty monkey!" Red is quick on the draw, shooting the brunette down before anyone else had a chance to. The rest of the group finds humor at his expense.

"What story am I telling?" She stretches out a hand, giving Clyde's shoulder a little squeeze as she sits up in the foldable chair. It creeks a bit under sudden shift, the four legs tip back to two, then back to four.

"That toy maker one!" Kenny grins that easy-going smile. His voice - just loud enough to create that tension that one could pluck out of the air.

Jean can feel her lips tug into a smile, mirroring her childhood friend. There's a glint of mischief in both their eyes, a silent conversation that comes from years of knowing one another.

"Ah... the toy maker. Yeah, I think I remember how that goes." There's a pause thrown in there so she can lean forward on her knees. Propping herself up on her elbows, she stares into the fire. The warmth helps her gather her thoughts, bringing her into the mindset.

"Every story starts with a rumor. Words on the wind - whispers in the ear of another. Over tea or coffee, little lunch dates with friends. This one is no different... well... aside from the fact there are no records of this tale. All of it is told by tongue." Jean clicks her tongue ring against the little metal rings on her lips. Her eyes dart from person to person in tempo with her tongue.

"In a little town, off the coast of the shores of South Carolina, lived a toy maker and his family. He didn't start off a toy maker. No, that came later in life. At first, he was an artist, a business man, and a doctor. Quite the established fellow, having achieved so much in life." She pauses again. This time so she can fish around in the bag of marshmallows resting near her black boots. The sugary puff sits between her fingers, already beginning to melt from how close she's sitting next to the fire. It creates a stringy sticky film around her digit.

"As such, his family was well off. His children and wife never wanted for anything. Neither did the town. They rejoiced in the parties the toy maker threw. Every night was something different. Food, drink, song! What more could a town ask for?" She pops the marshmallow in her mouth, chewing it without a care in the world. The only other sound is the laughter of the fire and Red shifting in her seat.

"So, of course, the toy maker grew restless. At the request of his darling little girl, he learned to craft toys! It started off with little toy trains and wooden dolls. Puppets on a string that would laugh simply because he willed it too!" Her body snaps up as if she had strings attached to her elbows and shoulders. Clyde jumps back a bit, his body finding comfort next to Kenny. The sudden shout coming from the raven haired woman pulls the attention of the others. "Now, not only was the toy maker supplying the town with his medical expertise and money, but now it was entertainment! The chileren of the town loved the toy maker!" She tilts her head, still moving as if someone were pulling her strings.

Red bites her lip, tucking the ruby red paint in between her teeth. She swallows back any urges to interrupt with a swig of her alcohol. The shallow gulp catches Jean's attention. She waits until the drink is down her throat before she starts tapping her tongue ring against her teeth.

Click. Click. Click

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Goes the passage of time. See, I may have lied to you. Not everyone loved the toy maker. The mayor of the town was a stern man, a spiteful man, a jealous man." Jean tuts softly. "Always looking for a way to buy back the love and admiration of his people. He simply couldn't stand that the toy maker was soaking up the spotlight. So when the time came for another party, he attended this one. With one goal in mind. He would simply...snip the strings of the toy maker. One.at.a.time." She emphasizes each word by dropping her limbs limp. The story cuts the invisible strings, keeping her arms up.

With her head hung low, her knuckles brushing against the cold earth, her long black braids dangling by her her, she murmurs. "First is starts with a little poison in his wife's drink. A glass of wine that hides the taste of the deadly concoction. The poor, poor toy maker spends his days trying to nurse his wife back to health. All the while, his children are being taken care of by the staff. Then goes the youngest son, who played a little too close to the shores of the Atlantic. The dark blue tides gobbled him up and spit him back out. When he came home, his skin was dark blue, and his skin was cold to the touch."

Her body begins to move and twitch again. Twisting her taller frame up so that way she could peer up at her friends. She catches the eyes of Tolkien, the fires light making the brown of her eyes shine like pools of honey.

"Oh, how kind the mayor had been to return the boys body to his father. Oh, how kind the mayor had been when he told the toy maker that it was his fault; after all, it was due to his negligence that his son died. Oh, how kind the mayor had been indeed."

Jean sits up fully now, slowly rising to her feet. She gestures for Jimmy to take her seat, practically walking on air that she's captured his attention. Having someone like Jimmy stop and listen to your story was like winning a medal of honor. She begins the slow walk around the fire, casting a tall shadow over the group.

"What was a man to do? His youngest passed away, and his wife still wasn't getting better. What could he do? Well...he could...lock himself in his workshop and his office? Yes! He could...shut the doors to his estate, letting only the staff in and out of the house! Brilliant! Oh, and of course he could...put that medicals degree and toy making skills to work!" Her hands suddenly snap over towards Kenny's shoulder, grabbing the material the orange parka like a lifeline.

Kenny only chuckles and lets her use his arm for the dramatic effect. He lets his body go limp so she can lift up his arm.

"His dear sweet wife only needed a tune-up! Just a few new parts, and she'd be good as new! The toy maker was a brilliant man, but even he knew better than to attempt anything without a little practice first." Her voice drops to something more smooth. She lifts Kenny's arm up and inspects it for a moment, pretending as if she were the man in the story. "So it starts with a servant. The poor old nanny was on her last leg anyway~! He was doing her a favor."

Jean hums quietly, stuffing Kenny's arm back into his jacket. Which, thankfully, he obliged and slipped his arm into his coat. She drops his sleeve and moves towards the other arm. Gingerly, plucking the glass bottle out of his hand and setting it aside. "The toy maker lured the old woman down into their basement. There, he sedates the woman, rendering her helpless to his twisted experiment. Unfortunately for her and him, the old woman's body just didn't take to the doll nearly as well as he hoped. It moved and talked, but it lacked the soul. But do the first attempts ever really work?"

Jean goes on to tell the group about how the toy maker slowly picks off servants and how it isn't until he attacks the head chef that it finally works. All the while, she's hiding pieces of Kenny's body in his coat. Each limb is another victim. When she gets to the chef, she's holding the sides of Kenny's head.

"Finally, he had done it! The chefs soul took to the robotic husk! He moved and talked like the beloved family chef, ever loyal and kind! Just in time, too, the bodies in the basement were beginning to pile up too high. The townsfolk were beginning to complain about the pungent smell. A meeting was held, where they begged the mayor to do something."

She grins down at Kenny, who was only pouting because she was tossing his head back and forth. Her fingers gently dig into his cheeks as she guides his face around. "The mayor was so happy to have his people back. They needed him. They loved him. Him, not that silly toy maker. Of course, he'd answer their calls!"

Her hands stop their playful movements. She moves her fingers down towards Kenny's chin, tilting his head up so he's looking at the people surrounded by the campfire. More of the people they grew up with have stopped to listen to the silly tale. She wasn't sure if it was really scaring anyone, but it was nice to be so entertaining. Kenny didn't seem to mind the attention either. He was trying, so hard not to grin. The next part of the story required him to focus.

"So, the mayor rounds up some brave folk, and they march straight up to the manor. They bang on the doors of the once beloved home. Their voices ring out into the night, demanding the toy maker meet them! Tick. Tick. Tick. They can hear the sound of a clock ticking... but it's not a clock. It's the maid. She opens the door."

Another pause.

"Where there should be flesh is porcelain. Where there should be a steady heartbeat is a ticking of a clock. Glassy eyes greet them, then the broken voice of a woman long gone." Jean mimics a bow, gesturing for some invisible town folk to walk inside a manor that is not there. "Oh won't you come inside. The master is busy at the moment, but the least I can do is get you refreshments."

It would be comical the way her voice pitches up an octave. It doesn't fit right on her tongue, she made a mental note to work on that later.

"The townsfolk reel back in horror. What was the abomination that just opened the door?! How did it move so fluidly. Immediately, they knew they had reached the doors to hell. The smell of decay and rot assaulted their scenses. It churns their stomachs and sets off that part of their mind that tells them to run. Unfortunately, they don't get the chance to."

Jean smirks, her lips twist across her face showing off those sharp canines. "So it starts with the men in the back. The sound of a buzzing, fleshing being torn apart. Screams of agony and panic."

At that exact moment, the rev of a chainsaw comes out from the fields that surround the Marsh farm. The engine sputtering to life with a thick growl.

"Through the mist of blood, the townsfolk could see the failed experiments coming from the unkempt yard. Their twisted limbs and toy parts clawing and ripping through their loved ones! With no place to go but in the manor, they push their way in! The mayor scrambles inside, screaming, begging, pleading to whoever will hear his prayer until he's down to his last four men. Just him and these poor souls, trapped in the deep dark corners of this once great home."

The sounds grow louder, as if the chainsaw was getting closer. If it wasn't for the grin on her face, maybe someone in the group would suggest they leave. Clyde, who was trying to enjoy the night, looked as if he was about to pass out. He clung to the expensive material of Tolkien's shirt for dear life. Red had Bebe tightly secured in her arms, a relaxed look on her face through the whole thing. Butters was on the edge of his seat, watching with those soft baby blues.

"Hands of all shapes and sizes reach out from the darkness. They grab onto the men's legs, pulling them away. Their finger nails scrape and leave marks into the wooden floor boards. The buzzing sound hasn't stopped. It's just the mayor now. All alone in this hellscape, he helped create. Just as he thinks he's going to get pulled in, his mind racing with all the horrible things the toy maker would do to him, the lights flicker on. He's sitting in the corner of the ballroom. In a room with people dressed so neatly and perfectly. Music kicks on, and a heavy waltz begins. The stone cold faces of people - no...dolls begin to move past him."

Jean starts to hum the gentle tune of what the waltz might have been. It's a little difficult over the sound of the chainsaw, but somehow, they make due. Just as she reaches the crescendo, a blur of another human moves out from the shadows.

Flashes of red curly hair illuminating from the fire, a chainsaw raised above his head. Kyle revs it once more over the chorus of screams and laughter. It wasn't often Broflovski joined in on things like this, but the chance to scare a few of his classmates was one he couldn't pass up on. Especially if it meant getting to bust out the old chainsaw he used on Halloween that one year.

Once everything has calmed down, Jean continues the story. "They say that if you go to that small town, on nights that are calm and warm...you can hear the whole town gathering at the manor. Their immortal doll husks danced the night away. All except the toy maker, of course. Poor man never succeeded in keeping his family together. The wife, his children, the servants, even the mayor. They all live an eternity with each other... but he had to live with what he had done. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore...and just -"

Jean turns Kenny's head with a quick push of her hands. The blonde goes limp and falls forward with a heavy thud. He lands next to Bebe, who lets out a blood curdling scream.

"Oh my god!"

"Jean what the fuck?!"

"Dude!"

Again, it isn't until both Kyle and Jean fall into a fit of laughter that the group stops. Under their laughter, they could hear Kenny's raspy laugh under it. He slowly sits up and pops his neck back into place, creating a moment of silence.

"Oh, the things we do to make ourselves look like assholes~." Kenny coos, sitting up with the help of Butters. The sweet man is quietly praising Kenny.

For the rest of the night, Jean has a smile on her face that's a mile wide. She could handle the name calling and people half-assed bullying her. It was all worth it for this, Clyde was crying and Bebe was scolding her.

She'd pay her dues later that night when Jimmy took his turn. Curled up in her seat, holding onto Bebe and Red both as if they were nothing more than a stuffed animal, letting Clyde hide his face into her back.

Summer nights never felt so warm.

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inkskinned · 10 months ago

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we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."