katisawriter - Tumblr blog

katisawriter · 2 years

Text

No Fear Up Here

No Fear Up Here or The Dental Collector I have no fear up here. On my enclosed balcony, three stories from the ground and windows latched. I can lay back with a drink in my hand while being lovingly swaddled by knit quilts, my back supported by comfortable cushions.

Up here on my balcony, all is well and calm. The soft breeze squeezes through seams in the walls and the windows give me a wonderful view of the forest to my left, the bright city in front of me, and the house across the street. I watch my neighbor’s walking past their windows, birds flying across the skyline in front of me, and I watch the small animals skitter out of the woods. As the sun sinks below the silhouettes of the tall buildings in the city, my eye lids grow heavy and my consciousness floats away. Down, down, down...Until I fall into a dream. In my dream, I am still on my balcony. But the walls are gone and so is the city, the neighbor’s house- replaced by a deep, black void. My seat is of stone, cold and uncomfortable. The windows and walls are gone and I realize that the forest is still there.

And something is coming from it. I don’t know what. I can’t see it. But I hear it. The sound of the leaves under its feet as it makes its way across the lawn. The scraping and creaking and scratching as it crawls its way up the building, tiles falling as it does. I almost see it and that is when I wake up.

My heart is beating wildly and I jerk upwards in my seat. Looking around, my windows are still there. It is dark now, but the light from the city gives me comfort. I allow myself to calm down, until I hear something creaking. My body freezes and the familiar sound of the window- the left one, the forest facing one -sliding open with a soft squeak breaks the silence. My mind seems to function itself, limbs ignoring my commands. I dread it, the turning of my head, a pit forming in my stomach as I finally see it, the thing entering my safe haven. Its fingers, long and grey, curl around the window frame and its slimy bald head slowly emerges from its concealment behind the wall below the window. The eyes upon its face are close together, predatory. Like a cat’s when its picture is taken. Glowing and piercing. Pin prick nostrils are below its eyes, a wide mouth below it, crooked and sharp teeth poking out from its maw and stabbing into its thin lips. Scabs and scars surround its mouth, as if the teeth the thing had were not its own, not meant to be inside of its mouth. The thing pulls itself onto the balcony, its abdomen dragging across the window frame- I can hear its skin tear and smell the rot inside of it -its legs twisting upward behind it as it slides onto the floor, bones cracking and clicking as the thing attempts to somehow right itself, standing up as much as the ceiling allows. I feel warmth spread down my legs and hear something dribble onto the floor as the thing moves toward me, but I don’t think about it. The thing uses its long arms to pull itself to me, a black something pouring from the tear in its abdomen and trailing across the floor. Its face becomes so close to mine and I become vaguely aware that I wet myself, though that is far from a concern for me. What is important is the thing grinning, the teeth in its mouth appearing stolen from different animals, canines and molars scattered about in wrong, wrong places. Its nostrils flare and its eyes dart down to the sight of my urine pooling on the ground, but it is not interested. It brings a long fingered, grey hand up to my face, my mouth and begins to pry open my mouth. I flinch and try to pull away, my instinct to survive finally kicking in. But its too late. The thing has me and uses its other hand to keep me still. My breath is shaky, heart thudding in my ribcage as I feel its fingers crawl into my mouth, pointer and thumb grasping my molar.

Then it occurs to me, what it wants. Its mouth full of teeth, teeth that didn’t quite fit. I feel the thing pulling, the flesh of my gums tearing away from my molar. I taste the iron flavor of my blood and a part of me hears myself scream in pain as the thing smiles, excitement in its predatory eyes as its hand pulls back from my mouth. Grasped between the thing’s fingers is my tooth and my eyes are wide, fearful, as I watch its wide mouth open, a gap in its collection of teeth, a decayed gray-pink space. Perfectly sized for a human molar. Bile rises in my throat as I smell the thing’s breath, rot and swill causing my eyes to burn. I can’t look away as it still has a hold of my head. I’m forced to watch as it inserts my bloodied tooth into its maw, a squelching gross sound made as it slots the molar fully inside of the space. Once the thing is done, it apparently feels safe enough to release my head. Its hands leave me and I watch its awful body retreat back, but it does not leave until I hear it whisper in crackling, broken voice, “Thank...You” With that it leaves in the same twisted, mangled way it arrived, leaving me frozen, my breath heaving and sitting in my own mess. I was safe, up high. There was no fear in my little hiding place. But now, as I sit here, watching the night pass by, I know the truth.

There is a reason to fear up here.

#urine #blood warning #scary story #short story #writers on tumblr #original writing #original story #unsettling #not safe

0 notes

katisawriter · 2 years

Text

Parasitic

I can hear them.

Their legs crawling against the floorboards, their hair heads poking through cracks and making their way toward. Oh god that chittering, jittering sound. The tap, tap, taps quickly scattering about, a slimy clack of a sound.

I can smell them.

Their scents are of must and rot, like sour produce or even a dead pet, left too long. It smells so bad, oh lord it does… Money wasted on air fresheners that don’t work at all leaves my pockets empty and pain killers for the headaches the scents cause are starting not to work anymore. I can’t sleep anymore.

I can feel them.

Crawling across my skin, laying eggs beneath my skin. When I try to close my eyes they slip beneath the lids and I must wake up. Hours spent looking at that mirror, watching something crawl beneath the skin of my cheek, somehow not causing pain. The only pain I feel is from my own nails, scratching desperately. So badly wanting to get these things out of me.

The feeling of those eggs hatching, millions of them crawling through my stomach, my skin, my mind. I ran out of options.

I can’t see them.

But I can see a solution.

The solution, long and silver, with a sleek black handle. It is incredibly smooth when I sink it into my skin, using it to peel back layers. I get my hands, but there’s nothing. My legs, once uncovered, red exposed, do not show those things. I need to see them. See them crawling out.

Then I get my arms, pulling the skin bag and tearing at veins. I feel so fuzzy and that’s when I see them, bloody black spiders spilling through the crevices of my flesh and onto the floor.

I can hear my laughter.

It’s relieving. They’re pouring out, red eight-legged things finally freed from my body. I, finally freed from them, let myself relax. My vision is clouding, tunneling, fading.

I can’t hear anything anymore.

But I don’t mind.

#gore mention #spider #writing #gore story #scary story #original story #original writing #unsettling #insect #blood #shorty scary story

3 notes · View notes

katisawriter · 2 years

Text

A Sour, Cold Day

Warning: Contains violence involving minors. Discretion advised.

It was one of those sour, cold days. Those days at the school when they wouldn't warn you of the weather before letting you out to play. So, now I am sitting on the stone steps of the school, in shorts and my summer shirt, freezing to death.

On days like these, the gargoyles stationed at the entrances and on the tippy tops of the towers of this school look like they're laughing. Shivering and holding my knees close to myself, I often imagine a conversation with the gargoyles.

I'd ask:

"Why're you laughing?"

And they would say in scary, rocky voices:

"Because, you're all wrapped up in the cold we were born in, shiverin' and snifflin' and we're just fine. Just fine."

Today though, my imaginations were interrupted by a shout. A shout which came from the tower beside the building I was in front of. About twenty feet high the tower is, called “The Boy’s Tower” by the nuns. Mostly because we all played on it and pretended to be kings and the like. The boy I saw wasn’t playing though. He was standing at the window, a rectangular opening about six feet high, a small gargoyle statue above. An orange and yellow striped scarf was wrapped around his neck and grey-green mittens on his hands, which he had placed against the sides of the window.

He kept shouting and shrieking, incomprehensible. Though, after a while I could understand. The boy kept shouting,

“I can’t fly! I’m not a gargoyle, I can’t fly!”

Whilst shouting, it seemed someone was pushing him from behind, the friction of his mittens and the grip of his hands the only thing keeping him there.

Without thought I rushed to the tower, keeping a few feet back. The gargoyle statue, though it’s expression too far and small to see, seemed to be glaring at me as I began to yell.

“Don’t you fall from there! Don’t jump! It’ll hurt!”

I shout, again and again, various ways of telling him not to leave his place in that window. But the boy just kept repeating that phrase, pitch getting higher the more he said it, the more his fingers slipped off of the stone,

“I can’t fly! I’m not a gargoyle, I’m not a gargoyle! I can’t fly!”

He began shaking his head rapidly, trying to push himself back, but I saw his small black shoes sliding over the edge and all I could do was shout, “Please, please don’t push him!” When, suddenly, that push became full force and the boy was violently shoved out of that window, falling fast.

Until that point, when that boy was falling to the ground, I never thought someone could be hurt too bad falling from that height. I always imagined sprained ankles or broken bones but never the harsh crack I heard when the boy hit the ground. Never did I think that someone’s head could fall in like that and such a dark red could flood out beneath them. I was frozen, watching the blood flood from the boy and his scarf soaking up the pigment, yellow and orange disappearing beneath the color.

I could faintly hear screaming and the thumping of footsteps. Someone must’ve called one of the nuns or teachers, because it felt crowded. I could hardly notice, though. I was too stuck in looking at the boy, horrified by the sight. But it occurred to me that I should look up at the tower window. I slowly raise my head, eyes resting on the darkness in the window. I could see a faint grey, I swear I could feel someone grinning at me, and so I began to imagine again.

Imagine a conversation with the gargoyles.

“Why’re you laughing?”

“Because. We can fly, but he could not.”

THE END

#short story #scary story #original story #reader discretion advised #blood #gargoyles #writing

2 notes · View notes