#among us horror story

[trensu]

ETA: now on ao3 as Hawkins Halfway House for Homeless Horrors

ETA2: now with an additional snippet

okay, how's this for an AU

We know that Steve wants to be a dad. Like, his literal life dream is to have a minimum of six children. SIX. who wants that?? crazy people, that's who. but we forgive him his insanity because he's sweet and will actually probably be a really good dad and there's not enough of those in the world.

the downer is that it's the late 90s, he's a (still) single guy in his thirties, and every adoption agency on the planet would rather give their children to a heteronormative couple who don't even want kids than to a single dude who would dedicate his heart and soul to giving his kids a happy healthy home.

He's bemoaning his fate to Robin at a bar they recently discovered. It's a weird little joint, kinda tucked away on the outskirts where Steve could've sworn didn't exist just last week. The patrons were kinda weird too but neither he or Robin could put their finger on why or how. If Steve had been a little less miserable, and Robin a little less caught up in comforting him, they might've noticed how everyone else in the bar kept sneaking curious glances at them or how they somehow always kept most of their features hidden.

They didn't though. Even when they were interrupted by a handsome black gentleman who called himself Jeff. Jeff said that he couldn't help but overhear their dilemma and that he's actually part of an agency that is more open minded about potential foster or adoptive parents. Steve's a little deeper in his cups than he intended, and doesn't question that some random guy in a bar is offering him a chance of having children. Robin is not as far in her cups and finds it a bit suspicious.

She was going to say something about it but Jeff looked her in the eye and said, "Everything is fine. There's no reason to worry. I'm only trying to help."

"You're only trying to help," Robin murmured back blearily. "Everything is fine. Yeah. Yeah, 'm not worried."

Jeff gives Steve his card and tells him he can stop by the very next day if he'd like, since his schedule is open.

The next day, Steve is regretting having gotten so drunk. Not really because of the hangover (though holy shit, he is NOT twenty anymore he needs to stop drinking like one). No. It's because Jeff had just finished giving him a tour of the facility full of rambunctious children in need of a home.

Actually, that had been pretty okay even if the other adults in the facility startled at the sight of him and the children kept ducking into other rooms to hide from him.

No. It's because Jeff had just introduced him to a child named Dustin who sneezed unexpectedly and somehow turned into a kitten.

"Um," Steve said. Jeff sighed.

"Dustin hasn't gotten back control over his shapeshifting since his mother's passing, but I assure you he's been improving."

"...shapeshifting," Steve said, numbly.

"Yes. Dustin tends to go for cat shapes, like his mother did." Jeff bends down to pick up the loudly mewing tabby kitten. "We've managed to get him to shift mostly into a domestic shorthair, rather than a cougar cub."

"That's great," Steve squeaked as he tried to tamp down the growing hysteria in him. "Really, really great. Y'know what, Jeff, this whole thing's been great but I think I'm still kind of drunk so I'm just gonna go--"

"No, wait," Jeff says, quickly placing the Dustin kitten on his shoulder before reaching out to grab Steve by the elbow. "Please. Look, you seem like a good guy. I did a quick scan of you and everything, and I really think if you'd take a moment to sit down and--"

"JEFFORD BILLANY JONES."

Jeff's shoulders hunched, nearly dislodging Dustin from his shoulder. He sighed again and turned to face the man storming towards him and Steve.

"Eddy, you know none of that is my name."

"I'll call you whatever I want since for some unfathomable reason, you've brought a human into my sanctuary. Why is there a human in my home, Jeffamy."

"Eddy, let me explain."

"It's Eddie in front of the human," Eddie said.

Steve's brain was experiencing some sort of malfunction because Jeff had been calling this man Eddie, except if he concentrated, the way Jeff said Eddie and the way Eddie had said Eddie sounded very very different except it hadn't because they both sounded like Eddie except for how Jeff's Eddie sounded different from, the same as, different, just like--

A pair of ringed fingers snapped aggressively in front of his face, startling Steve from an impending aneurysm.

"You. Who are you, who sent you, what do you want."

Steve stuttered something incoherent. He's pretty sure he's had a mental break from reality. There was some sort of sentient black sludge creeping across the tiled floor, wrapping a tendril around Jeff's leg.

"What is that?" Steve squawked. Jeff beamed at him.

"Oh, this is El! She's a Monster Under the Bed. She hasn't decided on a form yet, but that's okay, we love her just as she is."

"Jeff," Eddie snapped. Jeff looked at Eddie stubbornly.

"You told me we needed all hands on deck."

"How dare you, I'd never stoop to using boat metaphors."

"Don't distract me with blatant lies. Eddy, you said we needed help. You said you'd take anyone at this point."

Steve has not been able to stop staring at the sludge creature (El?). He's beginning to realize that he can't quite remember what Jeff looked like, or any of the adults they had seen. He's noticing that some of the children that have been scampering about had looked off. Like the boy with the bowl-cut they had passed by earlier who had looked...frosty around the edges. Or the girl he thought had had red feathers in her hair but is now suspecting the feathers were something more than decorative.

Ringed fingers snap in front of his face again. Steve finally focused on the man named Eddie who was actually named Eddie which was different from Eddie somehow. Now that he's able to shove away the confusion that is this man's name, he's struck by the fact that Eddie was quite possibly the most gorgeous man Steve's ever seen. He had wide, dark eyes that made Steve think of seabeds in the deepest of waters. His hair was a riot of dark brown curls that for some reason brought to mind swirling schools of fish.

"Answer my questions," Eddie demanded. Steve blinked and, with some difficulty, remembered the previous interrogation.

"Uh, I'm Steve. Jeff invited me because I want to be a dad."

Eddie barked out a laugh.

"Oh, is that right? In that case, welcome to Hawkins' Halfway House for Homeless Horrors! I'm sure Jeff would love to finish introducing you to the rest of our children. Have you met Mike? He's a ghoul! Or Lucas! He's a werewolf and his dream is to become a basketball star. They both have very sharp teeth so watch out for their tantrums."

Jeff scowls at Eddie before turning back to Steve. Steve was starting to feel faint and he was no longer sure if he regretted drinking the night before or regretted not drinking more.

"Steve, it's okay. Eddy is making it sound scarier than it actually is. You said you wanted to be a dad, and we need foster parents that can help these kids learn how to blend in with humans. That's what the halfway house is for, but there's only so much they can learn while living in sanctuary. We need a way to have them experience the human world more directly while still keeping them safe, and I think you're the solution we've been looking for. What do you think?"

"I think I need to sit down," Steve said thinly. Eddie snorted derisively. Steve was slightly offended but honestly everything was a bit too much right now and he really would like to sit down for a moment just to process. Because monsters are real, apparently, and some of them need parents. Which was terrifying to think about but also not so much? Because all kids were little monsters some of the time right? If Steve could have a moment to get his bearings...

"This was a terrible idea, Jeffathan."

"I think it was a great idea, actually. I really think this could work."

"No. I forbid it. Don't do this again."

Then there was a sweet and beautiful humming. It made the edges of Steve's mind go fuzzy and soft. He blinked slowly and looked for the source of the sound. Eddie stared at him intently and when he spoke, his voice was like music.

"Steve," Eddie said. "Steve, do you want to make me happy?"

Steve nodded dumbly. He wanted that more than anything in the whole world. He wanted to make Eddie smile. He wanted Eddie to never stop singing.

"It would make me very happy if you went home and forgot everything you saw here today," Eddie continued.

Steve made a sad sound. He didn't want to forget. He didn't want to forget beautiful, gorgeous Eddie and this place that could make his dream come true.

"Please, Steve," Eddie's lyrical voice took on an aching mournful tone. "If you don't, you'll break my heart. I'll never be happy again."

The sadness in the song made Steve feel like the world was ending. Eddie couldn't be sad! Steve would rather die than make Eddie sad!

"I forget," Steve mumbled through the fog in his mind. "And you'll be happy?"

"So happy. I'd be the happiest man alive if you do that one little thing for me, my sweet Steve."

Steve nods again. "Okay."

"Good boy," Eddie croons. Steve felt like he swallowed the sun at those words. He followed Eddie as Eddie guided him through the halfway house. Eddie hummed his lovely song the entire way.

"Go home and forget," Eddie sang one last time as he helped Steve get behind the wheel of his car.

"Yeah," Steve replied dreamily and drove away.

--

The telephone rang shrilly through his apartment. Steve stumbled out of bed and picked up, only fumbling it a little bit.

"H'llo?"

"Steve, what the hell, I've been trying to get a hold of you all day! Where have you been?" Robin's voice rang out, making Steve flinch. He scrubbed his free hand over his face tiredly.

"Home? I just woke up," Steve said. It was weird that he was fully dressed, he thought dazedly, but it wouldn't be the first time he's passed out drunk in his street clothes. Was he wearing this shirt yesterday? He could've sworn he'd worn the navy one.

"What? Just now? It's like five in the evening!"

"Huh. That'd explain the weird dream," Steve mumbled.

"Was it the one where you get seduced by a giant squid? Because I don't need to know more about your weird tentacle fetish."

"I don't have a tentacle fetish! I had the dream ONE time, and I wasn't being seduced, I was getting drowned and it was terrifying!"

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

"Whatever, this one was weirder anyway."

"I find that hard to believe but now I'm morbidly curious. Hit me with it."

"...I don't remember."

"There goes my entertainment for the evening."

"Was there a reason you called, Robin?"

"Yes! I met this girl named Chrissy and I swear Steve, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen..."

Beautiful. Steve had the faint impression of dark eyes and silver rings, but it was quickly washed away like a child's sandcastle in the tide under the onslaught of Robin's ramblings. As he listened to his best friend, he couldn't help but feel there was something he'd forgotten. There was something he'd been planning on doing today, wasn't there...?

...oh, well. If it was really important, he'd remember eventually.

[chisanaboi]

First time uploading a video on here in Tumblr.

Hopefully ya'll check this out on Youtube as well!

Remember folks. Don't steal food.

[bmpmp3]

its important to watch a new movie or read a new book sometimes. largely because 1) its nice to experience all the art this world has to offer but also 2) you might be able to find new scenarios to imagine your OCs in

[solarisposting]

I just read a goodreads book review that made me angrier than any inconsequential thing has made me in a WHILE. I loved the book, and I'm not a good critic of novels (or anything); I'm decent at analysis to be fair, but I like a read or I don't (on a spectrum of course).

But good goddamn, this review reeked with pretension and was written like the most unbearable food or music critic's diatribes. Adult character is lost in life, makes stupid choices out of grief/running away from issues/thinking distance from community will help/doesn't act logically as a character in a horror plot? Childish and not very bright! A large bustling family coming together for a major cultural and spiritual threat and asking the same damn questions over and over again, repeating the same arguments, etc.? Tiresome and muddled! Bro is your family (bio or chosen) totally chill? Have you never at least seen (in media or in others' lives) annoying family members beating dead horses for days on end out of concern and love and lack of knowing how else to help???

Dude I dunno, it just felt like legitimate criticisms one might have if they dislike a book or parts of its structure, but then those criticisms were a molehill buried beneath a mountain of hating some super fuckin' flawed characters making wild and awful choices in a time of grief and isolation. Screaming!!!!

[thatonecrookedsmile]

More progress being made. I finished re-reading The Illusion of Living this past Friday. It's a nice book. 👍 This was the last of the Bendy books in this "marathon" that I'm doing which I had already read previously and now I'm rereading, meaning that I'm kind of up to date when it comes to rereading all the books that were released until December 2021. But the race is not over yet. Soon I'll start Fade To Black, and (technically) I'll finally be up to date.

Just to continue my chain of posting about the books I finished (at least, the main ones that I really wanted to read) here it is…something I did at the beginning of March, on the night when shit went down. (I hope you know what I'm talking about). I saw the tweets first hand, I was there! Right at the damn moment. And it was..something reading those tweets alright. If the image above doesn't show it, my mood that night and the next 1-2 days wasn't so… great. You might read this and think I'm exaggerating, but that night especially I, uuhhh, I didn't feel good! And this image (and maybe 2 more posts I made that night) are the results of that. (And to think that a week before this happened, I had finished rereading DCTL after a long time. Talk about better/worse timing than this)

At least, if you want the bright side of this, it's that even after that day, I decided to continue with my book marathon, and I don't regret it. I was down that day, but I wasn't out yet damn it!! and I'm still not. (I don't know if this sentence makes a lot of sense, but you get my point)

As a bonus, here's something I did the night I got to the part where Henry is first mentioned in the book (you can consider this as a representation of my reaction when he's first mentioned, both for when I read TIOL for the first time in 2021, as now in this rereading)

Feat. canon Henry design and my fanon design for him (I wanted to include him here + I still read this book with my fan-designs in mind)

[simcardiac-arrested]

was the social media site vk because h. hi I roleplayed warrior cats on vk when I was like 9🤝

oh no it was way worse than vk. it was ok (odnoklassniki)👍

[letsgethaunted]

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It’s almost the end of Szn 5, Haunties! Can you believe it??? I was looking back on the season and this was def the year of collaborations! All of our collabs were so much fun and we’re so honored to have worked with all these incredible pods this year! If you had to pick one that you liked the best, which collab would it be and why?? (from @letsgethaunted on instagram)

[screenpalettes]

American Horror Story: Freakshow “Monsters Among Us” S4E1 (2014)

[a-thousand-wasps-in-a-trenchcoat]

Rating: Mature

Archives Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death.

Summary:

The battle between mankind and the parasitic alien Impostors has raged on for nearly a century, and the only thing that stands between humanity and total destruction is the MIRA Corporation. Two years ago, MIRA's Impostor Research Department discovered a novel phenomenon know as "The Reluctant Impostor", in which an Impostor inexplicably develops a desire to protect, befriend, or coexist with humans rather than to maim, eat, or infect them. Recently, a team of five MIRA Crewmates, two researchers, two highly trained agents, and a clueless rookie have been assigned to an off-world MIRA base in order to study the behaviors of four carefully selected "Reluctant Impostors". It is highly likely none of the Crewmates will survive. The following are a compilation of reports, interviews, and journal entries from the research project MIRA lovingly refers to as it's "Boneyard Division". --- A revamp of my fic, "Tales From The Boneyard Division"

Hey guys! If you're into SCP inspired stories, eldritch alien horror with a conspiratorial twist, queer bands of mistfits, and some monster romance, I've just posted the first batch of chapters for the revamp of my Among Us fic, "Tales From The Boneyard Division"!

It'll be pretty slow to update since I have a pretty hectic schedule, but I'll try my best to be as frequent with updates as possible!

[charlemane]

it feels kind of dumb to complain about something as niche as bad prosopagnosia representation? but also every time i see this condition depicted in fiction they do it so, so stupidly

[absentmoon]

i finished severance, it was eerily relatable since the pandemic and also because of some of my personal experiences……. it was also SO much to digest & so heavy while simultaneously being fast paced and gripping. its a commentary on consumerism and on capitalism on work on race on immigration on the human condition……… amazing.

OMG YOU FINISHED ALREADY its so so so so goodddgfhbggfhfjfhfgdgdfd GOD. you UNDERSTAND. can you believe that was ling ma's debut novel

[t0rschlusspan1k]

Dear Diary, It was a Saturday, the 3rd of September, that the world as I had known was forever doomed. The shadows that had sheltered me were banished by the blinding light of scrutiny. I knew I was about to enter the gates of Hell. But like the inescapable pull of gravity, there was nothing I could do about it.

American Horror Story: Freak Show, 4x01, “Monsters Among Us” 

[agender-vampling]

🐙 What type of shows do you like while regressed?

Aaaah this is why I always say I'm such a bad Regression friend because I LOVE spooky scary horror when I'm little (and not just sleeping)

And not just baby horror like Coraline and Frankenweenie (tho those do slap and I do love to watch them), REAL horror movies! The rated R stuff! Everything other than the Saw Franchise and anything Zombies I am excited to watch!! Though I mostly like to watch Horror Game playthroughs (because horror games have less sex than movies) but that's not really a show I guess

I feel really weird interacting with most regressors as they talk about like MLP and Bluey and that's just not my Little Guy jam. I wanna experience The Horrors.

[the-marvelous-mabby]

Bluebeard's Manor

Date: November 13th, 1912

Brooklyn, New York

It was cold then. Too cold. The tips of my fingers turned red, my face felt nearly numb, having been exposed to the wind’s wicked embrace only moments before. Even with the tingle I felt in my throat, and the breeze traveling through my damp locks, nothing was enough to prevent the damp beads of sweat from climbing down my forehead once I laid my eyes upon the manor.

It was large, larger than the woman had described in her letter to me. The wife of the cold old man who resided here. When I received it in the mail, I hardly believed a word she said. In fact, even after all I experienced that night, I hardly trust my own eyes. Chalk it up to trauma, or plain disbelief. But that manor. There’s hardly a thing like it.

When I arrived at the large manor doors, and placed my hand against the heavy wood slab, it practically slid away from my hand with how slowly and easily it creaked open. My voice was hoarse, unbearably so, and as I called into the darkness, and it called back, for a moment I regretted my decision in answering the young wife’s pleas.

It was spring when they married, the young woman was no more than the year of 19, the man surpassing his late sixties. Many wondered at the time why a young girl of her appearance would be found next to this man, but not I. I quickly understood how easily one can make such decisions if their monetary needs grow large enough. I hardly judged her, I’d have done the same had I been born a gorgeous woman. And if I had been, I’d have been able to avoid that experience. I’d be home, a child on my hip, and a husband by my side. But instead, I, a lowly journalist, am writing down my sorrows.

I remember the color of the dress she wore, that young wife of his, an off white, the color of coffee milk, that contrasted against her gorgeous olive skin. Her eyes, captivating and striking, a deep color that resembled the warmness of teak wood. Her hair was pitch black, blacker than even the most suffocating of nights. I’d have fallen for her too, if I’d laid eyes on a face like that capturing joy. But on the day she was to be wed, she was anything but joyful. The sorrow in her eyes could drown a tetra, her lips quivered like leaves on a birch, and she squeezed her wrist so tight that even I could tell, far in the back as I was, she was causing herself to bruise. She wrote where her head had been in her letter to me. “My mother, all I could think was my mother, and how she mourned over my sister..”

That was the old man’s, nicknamed Bluebeard’s, sixth wife. This young woman had been the seventh. Shortly after the elder sister’s marriage, she began to talk rather fondly of him. She sang his praises like a nightingale does the night, condemning the many friends who judged him for his strange relationship with her. And soon after this, she stopped replying to her mother’s or her younger sister’s letter. I can only assume that the young woman’s choice to marry him stemmed from that loss. And with what I found there, it can only be that loss which kept her in those dreary halls.

She detailed his kindness, and his generosity, how easily he’d shower her with gifts. But when she asked of her sister’s whereabouts, he’d quickly change the subject. He’d grow cold, and angry. The bend in his brow, she said, felt as if it too would take on that strange blue shade that his beard had. Too scared to press him any further, she’d move on. And as though time had reversed, he’d return to that kind old man who’d spoil her.

We’d been going back and forth through letters such as this for many months, and I’d nearly shatter my door trying to get to the gossip the letters contained. One letter was a bit strange. In it, she detailed her husband’s trip away from home. To where she hardly knew, any questions warranted his same blue-browed reaction. He left the house, leaving her with one final message.

“You can roam these halls, and enter the rooms of every section in this manor…except the cellar. Never go into the cellar”

Even with his warning for her not to open it, he pressed a jagged, crooked key in her palm. The cellar key, she told me, and a test of her trustworthiness. He’d be back in 3 days, with something she’d ask for. But should she open the cellar door, he warned her that the consequences would be dire.

Seeing this, a journalist like myself only thought of one option. Enter this forbidden space, and document its contents. I believe it is my actions that caused the events in that manor.

I stepped foot first into those large doors, my eyes darting around to capture some remnants of light that could have peered in through the manor’s entrance. Giving up, I quickly lit my lantern, noting how dry the air in the manor felt in comparison to the damp, and humid outside.

I could tell that at one point, this place had been beautiful. The pristine columns, and wrapping double staircase that lead upstairs, the pictures of various folks across the walls, and the broken remnants of fine china labeling the floors gave me pause, the idea that a man so rich struggled to keep any wife would have confused me had I not received my final letter from the young wife.

She’d listened to me, taking my promise that whatever she’d found in this cellar would surely lead towards her sister’s whereabouts. To an extent, I was correct, though not for the reasons she’d hoped.

She claimed that the minute she click the cellar door open, and cracked it open only a moment for the airs to escape, that she knew of her sister’s fate. But hoping for the best case, she steeled her heart, and opened it further. 

Bodies. Her sister, the fifth wife, the fourth, and so on, all strewn in various situations. One hanged, the other seemingly drowned, another thrashed from behind until her body succumbed to her wounds, and most notably, her sister, her body fresher than the others, the mutilation of the corpse so severe that the only way her own sister could recognize her was through the beaded necklace, bloody and stained, that remained on her rotting neck.

I could tell through the jaggedness of her handwriting that she was terrified. Why she chose to contact me, I shall never truly know. But when I wrote a letter in return, begging for her to report her findings to the authorities, I did not receive any reply, seldom an invitation of sorts, a picture of the manor and its mailing address enclosed.

Against my better judgment, I’d decided to make the trip, my fears that I had caused the death of yet another young woman, one who’d entrusted me with her grief, driving me to that godforsaken doorstep. 

I traversed the halls, searching for any remnants of life, the young wife or that blue-bearded old man. But all I found was more examples of how strikingly rich the man was. I assumed the worst, that the old man had fled, either stealing the young woman away, or dealing her the same fate as her sister. I settled on the one place I knew I would find something of interest.

The cellar.

It took a while to find, that house was over ten times the size of my own, but the minute I did, I felt a cold sweat run down my spine as though it had been sent off to the races. The door, shut tight, with crimson prints resembling those of delicate hands lining the very edge of the opening, like she’d attempted to crawl herself free, the claw marks she’d left against that metal doorframe in her desperation for escape felt as though they were grasping against my own throat, I could only imagine how loud she’d screamed, and cried through the endeavor, praying that her mother, or even the father she’d lived her entire life without would come barrelling through to save her. But no one came. And I had caused her mother the loss of another child.

Even still, I needed proof. Proof that my calls for fame and adoration had caused the death of a young girl only doing right by her sister and mother. And so, much like the seventh wife had done before me, I clicked the cellar door open, the key unnecessary, and pushed it forth.

The smell, by god, the smell, I’ve hardly smelled anything like it. I felt my stomach churn , and my throat go completely hoarse. The wife was right, I could smell death, the heated air that rushed out to strangle me, the sharp whistle from the air’s releasing resembling that of tortured screams. A god fearing individual may have assumed it to be the souls of those seven wives escaping. And even I, agnostic as I was, could not deny the way my skin crawled with fear and disgust. However, as my eyes adjusted to the sight, as I turned away to ensure that I did not sully the scene with my own bile, I realized something strange. There were only six bodies.

For the first time, among the fear, disgust and bone chilling cold, I felt a true warmth. The heat that radiated from hope. The young wife may still be alive. With this in mind, I knew it best to contact the proper authorities, her life may be compromised should I wait a second longer.

Though, as suddenly as I had come to the conclusion, I heard a sound that shook me to my core. It came from above, a dense thud that pounded into the ground, the dust and dirt from the dilapidated floorboards above sprinkling into my hair like salt. The sound of something dragging behind followed it. I froze, my cooling to a temperature that not even the cold winds outside could have forced me to achieve. Then, there was another. Just as heavy, just as loud, however, this thud had moved towards the staircase on the farthest end of the hall. When the third came, then the fourth, I realized what I had been hearing.

Something was moving. Something large. I looked for an escape with a quickness, I knew not what walked along the top floor, and I’d hardly put up with it now. Those thuds had made it to the staircase, the sound of metal hitting the steps, chains clinking together. But what frightened me further than those sounds, what caused me great grief was the faint blue glow and the guttural groan that accompanied them.

With no clear way to escape, I did the only action I could, and backed into the cellar, blowing out my lantern, as whatever gasses that had been created in this room from the decay, consumed me. I cowered as far away from the cellar’s entrance as I possibly could, knowing the sound of me closing it would alert the source of those noises to my presence.

It stomped its way into the cellar, the glow growing brighter as it grew closer. And when I laid my eyes upon it, I felt my heart nearly stop.

It had to be over nine feet tall, even though it hunched over, the large yet bony hands hovering affront it as it walked. It’s eyes were pitch black, soulless and swallowing in nature, the skin around them a hollow gray. The cloth that hung from the large limbs dangled to the floor, the chains on its wrist dragging alongside them. It hardly meant anything when it was placed by the most odd part of its appearance. From the glow of his long, scraggly locks, to the shine in his coarse, flowing beard, to the bend in his brow..

I knew then that this man, with that unforgettable bluebeard of his, was the old man. The slayer of the women that had driven me here in the first place was now a hideous monster, properly searching for an intruder who’d awoken him from his slumber. 

I stayed silent, quiet as a mouse and didn’t open my mouth to utter a word, or a sigh. I knew that should he hear me, my fate would be no different from that of his wives. I prayed to a god I sully believe in that he would pass me over.

And much to my surprise, my prayers were answered, he stalked around, his head on a slow swivel as he searched. In my haze of fear, I tried to attach myself to reality by analyzing him further. That’s when I realized what those chains were attached to, and my hopes for the young wife were dashed.

I could not read how she had died. Starvation or thirst, even sleep deprivation, any of them could have claimed her. But I knew that she’d suffered greatly during that time, her body being dragged across the floor boards of this large manor for god knows how long. I knew that my fate would be worse if I failed to remain silent.

When he’d entered in completely, and his back was to me, I made the mistake of succumbing to my fear. I made a run for the only exit, and then for the manor entrance. He heard me. By god, he heard me, and I heard his low groans grow far louder, those heavy footsteps growing louder and faster as he pursued me. I couldn’t find that door, and I surely couldn’t open it. Not if I wanted to live for more than the few following seconds.

I knew I had to lose him, I knew it too well. So I quickly dashed to the top of one of the double staircases, running into the first room that gave in to my body pushing and pulling away at it, and closed it as quick as I’d opened it, the noise clapping shut just as the sound of those heavy footsteps drew closer. I stepped back away from the door, glancing around the bedroom I’d entered, and throwing myself beneath the bed as I heard the doors near this room begin crashing down. I clamped a hand over my mouth, that vile feeling climbing up my throat. I knew that anything let out, a cough, a sigh, or my lunch, would be the end of me. 

He was at my door quicker than I expected, though any time would have been too soon. In my haste, I hadn’t locked the door. Though, it hadn’t mattered, because he’d sent it toppling down the second his blue glow had made it towards the door. I knew my position would be compromised, he was no fool, no matter how much he lumbered and groaned. 

It was quiet for a while, and I believed myself to be safe. Reminiscing, I realize he may have been toying with my worries. It was almost as if he’d enjoyed my suffering, the not knowing when my life would be brought to a swift end.

I watched his unkempt feet hit the floorboards with heavy thuds slowly, the seconds turning into minutes in my mind. My heart slowed to a definite stop, almost as if every cell in my body feared the beating would give me away.

I know not what did, however, but when he large palm wrapped around the edge of the bed frame, nearly crushing it to meal as he lifted it off of my form, the sound of it breaking and fracturing as he effortlessly tossed it aside to grab for me, the body of the young wife’s corpse sliding forth when he leaned to lunge. I rolled out of the way, using the smaller form to my advantage, and dashing for the door, nearly tripping over the body of a woman I once knew. Her ankle caught mine, and as I stumbled out of the bedroom, I gripped the door knob and leaned back from the frame, the blue hairs of that disgusting beard seeming to reach for me. They were caught, and those lowly groans turned to roars, the hairs quickly retracting as the manor fell silent.

Having suffered through, and seen enough for one night, I opted on finding the exit with a quickness. I knew it was possible that he’d return, and in my haste to escape him, I’d lost my place.

That hellish building. Those large, although suffocating hallways caused the hairs on my brow to stand on end, my epidermis skittering with fear. I could hear my heart within my ears, my cells no longer caring if we were heard. The only thing they wanted was freedom.

I stumbled into the kitchen and lit the spare lantern for light, picking it up and glancing around the dingy kitchen. It was the cleanest room in the house, the cold opposite of the cellar. It was almost as if he hardly entered this room. Or possibly, that he couldn’t. So caught up in my escape, I had not taken a second to wonder why he’d stopped pursuing me in the first place, I hardly left him in a weakened state.

When I closed that door, and his beard was caught, the old man shrieked like a struck bird, the silence that followed it truly deafening. It did not take long for me to come to the conclusion that his beard was his weakness, as much as it was his strength. I knew that if I wanted to escape, I’d have to do what I thought impossible. I would have to kill that old bastard. I would kill Bluebeard.

Searching through the drawers for a weapon to assist me, I stumbled upon the young wife’s last letter. Unsent. And addressed to her mother.

It felt off to read it, or any of them. All those young women had written something and hid it within those drawers. Perhaps, in one of his only notes of kindness, the old man had allowed them to write their final goodbyes.

Perhaps, that was why this room remained empty. His final kindness to those he’d disgraced. A room without his necessary influence.

I took the letters, but did not scribe my own. I was going to escape this hellish manor, I was going to live.

I heard a thud from above, and knew it was time to send this old man to his final resting place, grabbing the shears from the kitchen knife, and stepping into the dangerous area of the manor halls. I knew he’d know where I was heading to, and any intelligent creature would stalk there until I arrived. But even with my weapon, my fears were immense, and in a last ditch attempt for quick freedom, I dashed for those doors, the way there from the kitchen far clearer.

Like clockwork, I heard those heavy footsteps behind me, I knew that he was close. But I knew I was closer, The handles were in my grasp, and as I flung them open, I felt those hairs snake around me. My throat was closed tight, orifices on my face from my mouth to my nose invaded, and his large bony hands grabbing tight for my stomach, almost as if they’d pry me in half with as much effort as it took to bend the bed frame. 

I could feel it.

 Death.

 The squeezing grew tighter and tighter, those chains rattling as my face became as blue as his beard. I was scared. I’ve never felt a fear so great, I had not been aware that such a fear had existed. I gripped at the hairs, feeling them slide between my fingers to continue choking me as I did my best to pry myself free. I was dying, But I refused death’s wicked embrace, not when I could feel that wondrous cool breeze against my face. I knew this knife would do little to assist in this hairy parasite invading my organs. 

So I risked it. 

I smashed the lantern against the floor, the dust of this house surely being enough to cause a large fire, it did more than I’d hoped. As the fire spread across his cloak, and caught my bag, I saw the flames kiss his beard like a lover long lost. He shrieked, his attention now on the flames, and freed me from the invasion. The minute my feet touched the ground, I ran. I dared not look back for him, fearing that doing so may extinguish the flames and send him barreling in my stead. But those heavy footsteps never came, and as the shrieking faded into the rest of the environmental noise, and I made it to my transport, I sighed in relief that whatever god that existed had answered me.

A week passed before the authorities listened to my pleas for them to return to the manor. They, of course, didn’t believe my story. I wouldn’t have either.

I’m told that their search came up with nothing. No bodies in the cellar, no broken china, not even scorched wood panels from the fire I’d set. The house was empty, the wives were gone, and with them, the man. The only thing that they noted. Was a strange blue thread, caught in the tiles. They believed it to be a stray off of my cloak, My deliriousness, they chalked to visions due to the cold. And my wounds? Self inflicted.

They patted my back, and sent me on my way. But I know better than those unwavering swine what it is I saw there. I still had the letters of the dead, I had no mailing addresses to send them to, and the swine had been of no real assistance. I will prove myself to be true, and find those poor young women’s bodies. I will bury Bluebeard. Along with the pain he has caused.

[jjspina]

An Angel Among Us - A Short Story Collection!

Do you love short stories? I do! Sometimes I just want to read something quick and entertaining and don’t have a lot of time to spend to get into a long story. Well, that is why I wrote this short story collection. Promo by AllAuthor.com I had some short stories set aside and didn’t know whether to publish each one separately or put them into a collection. I decided to put them into a…

[curiousorigins]

You just know those effs who describe beautiful bright lights have never had a migraine before.