Laaaaame review.
Horror / Remnants (Analysis)
“I’m not crazy”
His fingers clenched the side of the doorframe and he felt the throb of his heart in each one. It felt good; the discomfort made her real even as his mind whispered she was a dream; a nightmare wrapped in rags and pale skin.
Such a stark contrast. Beauty and horror. One existing along with the other and both driving him insane. What day was it? He couldn’t remember. A sharp breeze grazed his face. He blinked. Thursday…it was Thursday. October. The moon hung low and round in the sky. Air, crisp and tangy, carried the scent of burning leaves. Rays of silver light shimmered over the small pond across the street and winked off the hubcaps of his Dodge Ram that sat in the driveway. The glow hurt his eyes and felt cold.
Cold like her smile.
“You’re not real…”
His voice cracked as he said this; it hadn’t cracked since he was twelve. His cheeks warmed; his throat tightened as he struggled to breathe. Why did he speak to her? She existed only in his head; something he had imagined and brought to life with his fear and loneliness. How many days had it been? How many nights spent without sleep or plagued with nightmares? The dreams were always the same: moist corridors with paint peeling and stains on the walls, lights flickering and dying all around him, and where the shadows invaded he could see only eyes, watching, hungry and glazed.
And in this hall, stretching toward some distant point he could never reach, doors with faded numbers and tiny slots of thick, grimy glass lined both sides. He never looked inside; he didn’t have to. The screams alone painted a clear enough picture of what lay within.
“You’re only in my mind.”
He closed his eyes and counted to ten. It worked sometimes; he prayed that this time would be one of those lucky few. The wind ruffled his hair and he expelled a shaky sigh. The breeze kiss his throbbing fingers with icy lips. Silence drifted over him and cold air settled in his lungs. Just look past her, she isn’t real. He counted slowly, letting the sounds and smells of reality ground him. Then he took a breath and opened his eyes.
She was still there.
Frustration seized him like a spasm. He wanted to scream. What had he done to her? Nothing! He had every right to live here—-this was his home! Why did she torment him? She always looked the same. Always with that pale gown, torn, bloodstained, one sleeve falling off her bony shoulder. Her hair hung in matted tangles, so dirty that he couldn’t tell if it was brown or blond. She moved like a broken doll, jerking, lolling motions that were painful to watch.
She smiled at him.
He stared back. His fingers ached and his throat closed. She had smiled before, but not so wide, or so sweetly, like a shark greeting a fish before devouring it.
He forced a swallow, and she tilted her head—a rolling movement that made him wince. She took a step forward, and her body lurched to one side. She continued to smile, her eyes unblinking. Then her body shuddered and slumped. She sighed, and the wind carried it to him as a rasping whisper. Dead leaves grinding to dust in a clenched fist.
Then howling began.
Maddened voices and gibbering overlapped like a radio uncertain what station to play. They were far above, lost somewhere in the night sky, but then neared until they were right beside him. He flinched from a giggle by his ear, feeling the moist air and sour breath, but he kept his eyes on her—on her gleaming body thin and fragile. He didn’t dare turn away.
Babbles swirled around him like smoke; sighs and moans pressed against him like teasing lovers. He began to shake, hot tears forming in his eyes. She took another step, her flesh thinning and stretching over her scalp like dried parchment; lacerations appeared on her face as if an invisible blade slashed. The cuts oozed blood down her chin as she came closer, her flesh hanging from her bones, and the drab white shift she wore began staining red at her stomach. He watched the stain spread to her groin, and somewhere over his head, beneath the indifferent moon and riding the cold winds of late fall, a baby began crying. It was a distant echo of a sound, a cry at the end of a long, dark tunnel. Lonely and sad.
He could run. He could turn away from her and escape into the house, but then the Shadow People would follow. They would slip inside and rattle the windows with their whooping cries. They would break his dishes; they would ruin his furniture; they would leave brown, pungent stains on his floors. They would laugh and scream and leave hand prints on the walls that would linger for days.
But this isn’t real, remember…remember the tape, there was nothing on it.
And there wasn’t. There was no trace of the voices he had heard the first night he moved into this place and the subsequent (hellish) days after. Stonegate Pointe’s houses were cheap for a reason; his subdivision was built on the grounds of an old Asylum, and that this house, his house sat upon what remained of the ward for the criminally insane.
He could smell it now, the rancid, wet scent of walls covered in grime and floors tiled with earth. He always smelled it when she got this close, when she lifted her arms, flesh and muscle dissolving, and came teetering toward him like a two-year-old worried that she might fall. And he had to catch her if she did…He couldn’t let her fall because that would be cruel of him…He had to catch–
He recoiled as if struck and jerked his arms down. What was he doing? His arms had risen on their own, elbows spread wide and palms out as if eager to embrace the rotting thing limping toward him, limping now because her legs were meat and the bone of her shin gleamed in the moonlight like a dull pearl. The stain at her crotch looked black. The baby’s cries grew louder.
Something sniggered into his ear with the wheezing breath of an old man whispering endearments, and he felt something cold press itself against his back, nudging him forward into the yard. The Shadow People were here. They were always here, waiting for that exact moment when his mind filled with animal panic and his body coiled to flee. They would make it hard for him to run, but not impossible. They weren’t like the woman. They had no physical substance, no flesh to rot and stink and fall to pieces; whatever they were, they weren’t strong like her. Their voices rose like flies from a carcass, hitting him with their hissing wings and dry bodies. They made him feel dirty. They made him fear for his sanity.
But he wasn’t insane. He was a skeptic; he was also a journalist, constrained and molded to trust only in what he could touch and see and The Cold Hard Facts. To him, the world was a place of black and white and the grays in between could be explored, catalogued, and filed until no mystery would baffle humanity again. There were no such things as ghosts, ghoulies, and whatever else lurked beneath that part of the human psyche that still refused to walk under ladders, avoided black cats and the number thirteen with an uneasy sense of suspicion. He had fought with this part of himself for the last week, this frightened Neanderthal that had wanted to run screaming when the Woman and the Shadow People first came to visit.
And he remembered that day. He would never forget it. It had been late evening, after the last box had been brought inside and he had collapsed on his couch from the exhausting process of moving with no one but himself, his truck, and his twenty bottles of Mountain Dew. He had lain there, heaving, sweating and surveying with one blurry eye the mess that was to be his living room; but for that to happen he had to eradicate his cardboard enemies with cunning and precision. His calf muscles twitched and fluttered as if baby birds were trapped in his legs, and he sighed. Eradicate and destroy tomorrow. Now he would crawl upstairs and fall onto the mattress on the floor upstairs and hopefully into a blissful coma.
He rose, licked his lips and grimaced. Best though, if he chipped away the twenty bottles of Mountain Dew before they could do any more damage to his teeth.
He trudged over a platoon of boxes blocking the stairway and lumbered up the steps into the bathroom. Two smaller boxes sat on the counter, holding his shampoo and toiletries hostage while a bigger one on the floor hogged his towels. He freed all that he needed with little resistance, and after he peeled his sweat-sodden clothing off, he hopped into the shower. But ecstasy didn’t come right away; he had to tinker with the new faucets and shower knob (which took more time than he would admit to anyone), until the hot spray of water eased his aches down the drain.
After the best shower of the week, he wrapped a towel around his waist and rummaged in a box for his toothbrush. He wondered, as he ran the tap and began slathering some blue sparkle toothpaste that promised to taste like bubblegum, if his neighbors were decent. He had seen a barber-striped swing set in the backyard of the house to the right of his, and the left house had chain link fence with a Beware of Dog sign on the gate; this of course meant he was surrounded by whining, screaming children and a dog that would bark at all hours of the night. Yeah, welcome to his new home.
He rinsed, stared at himself in the mirror and frowned. It could be worse, he supposed; he could be living with his parents in Louisiana. They had moved down south this past summer, joining his cousins and other family that made the Child of the Mississippi their personal migration spot. He was the only one clinging to Michigan, being stubborn and refusing to play pigeon like the rest of them. But he liked being a loner; it suited his work and it suited his aching heart.
“I’m sorry babe, but if you don’t have room for me now, then you won’t have room for me when we’re married.”
He shoved Julia’s voice aside and spat into the sink. Sometimes the echos her snuck up on him when he least expected it. The memory of Julia and Gabe, smiling, laughing, kissing, would expel any lingering feelings, but of course, the promise of what-could-have-been never faded.
Great, now he was cranky. He went into the bedroom and managed to find an old pair of sweatpants in one of the top boxes. He slipped them on, all the while gazing at the mattress he would soon burrow into with the yearning of a lovesick boy.
And it was in that moment of impending bliss when something downstairs, thumped.
He did a half-step forward and turned sharply toward the door. It sounded as if it came from the living room. Probably just a box falling over. Relaxing, he eyed the mattress once again. There was no sense in getting worked up over a little noise; he had locked the doors and closed the wind–
Something rattled below, toward the couch piled high with boxes of his old Science Fiction books. He got an uneasy feeling from that noise, a sense of a presence and motion that was not the stack of books falling over or his boxes sliding onto the floor. There was purpose behind that sound, stealthy maneuvering. His imagination flashed like a lighting bolt and illuminated a tall, burly man with a black ski mask shuffling through his belongings and rattling the boxes like a kid at Christmas. It was a disturbing image, but one he couldn’t shake.
He looked around the room, his heart chugging along and chasing away his fatigue with a burst of adrenalin. The Fight or Flight instinct bobbed in his brain like a cork, and from a junk box next to the closet, he grabbed his old bat that said “Georgetown Little League” along its weathered side, and crept into the hallway.
Silver moonlight dappled the stairs in patterns of long and short squares, and his shadow fell upon the wall like a splotch of dark paint. He descended with his heart drumming in his throat and his eyes wide and searching for any sign of movement from below him. He was annoyed with himself for doing what most characters in horror movies are killed for. Yes, let’s investigate the strange noise in the dark, gloomy room, what a clever guy! If he were really smart, he would just hightail out the front door, jump into his truck and call the police from his cell stashed in the glove compartment.
But he didn’t. He continued down the stairs, and when he reached the landing, he flicked all the lights on taking the stance of when he hit that first home run of the season back in ‘95. Back then he had been twelve years old, short, skinny and wearing braces. Not much had changed; he was still skinny, still short, and his teeth were still crooked from not wearing his retainer properly. Minutes passed, and when no masked man appeared carrying arm-loads of his precious Star Trek books, he eased his body into Yellow Alert and started laughing at himself. He was being an idiot. Who would invade the home of someone who had just moved in? What would be the point? The bat bounced on the carpet as he loosened his grip. It was too bad in a way; this wooden piece of his history had earned him fifteen home runs and a kiss from Debbie Sue back in the eighth grade. It would have been nice to wack an intruder with it. He ran his hand through his hair. He vowed to never drink so much Mountain Dew again.
He was still laughing and shaking his head when he saw the shadow on the far wall. His amusement did a one-eighty and the bat was back in his hands again. The shadow was human shaped, in the exact spot where his entertainment center would be in two days. But that section of the wall was bare now save for a few boxes blocking the view of the crisp white paint. There was nothing that could cast the figure of a man much taller than he and with broader shoulders and stooped pose. He looked behind him, and saw the grinning skull lamp he had rescued from Spencer’s Gags and Gifts sitting on the end table. Several knick-knacks, too small to box up, littered its base. Those cast small shadows of their own on the lamp and floor, but nothing on the table or in front of it was the origin of that bigger, lumpier splotch on the wall.
After swallowing the huge knot in his throat, he looked around. All the lights were on in the living room: his lamp, the main overhead, and another overhead from the short hall that led to the kitchen. He stared at the shadow and tapped the bat against his leg. What was casting it? It didn’t move or sway with anything; no mottled holes or lighter areas diffused its solid mass. It was as if someone had decided to paint his wall a dark shade of lavender in the shape of a large, slouching man.
He came forward, waving his hand in front of the wall and saw no change in the figure. He wove around more boxes and a cedar trunk given to him by his mother; for your wedding pictures and Julia’s dress, she had said. It stood empty.
His frown was back as he stood in front of it. The shadow kept its Hunchback of Nortre Dame shape and remained immobile. His heart skipped as his hand tightened on the bat. He would laugh at himself in the morning, he would. Being afraid of a shadow was just silly. He craned his head to the side and reached his hand out, his index finger poking the wall where the shadow’s head would be. The Shadow pitched to the side.
He stumbled backwards with a cry, falling over his box of baseball cards and hitting the floor with a hard smack. The Shadow swooped to the other wall like a drunken ghost and moved in odd, jittery motions as it emitted the strangest sound he had ever heard. It was a cross between moaning and laughing, a baying call that outdid any spook in a horror movie. That sound raised every hair on his body, and all he could do for several moments was watch it weave around his living room, burbling in its maddened, gleeful way. It wove in and out of the walls, the stairs and into the floor, leaving red stains in its wake. It knocked a large pile of boxes over in a violent sideswipe, and then dove for him.
He rolled at the last second, but not quickly enough to avoid the potent scent of dirt and the whiff of something rotting. He gagged and tried to rise. The Shadow made a sharp tilt in its flight, and with a low-pitched giggle, knocked him into a box of photos by the end table. Smiley-the-Skull wobbled on his perch, but kept on grinning even when its light flickered out. The albums in the boxes tumbled onto the floor, and he scrambled over them, pausing only to stare at the picture of Julia under his right palm.
It had been taken on the ferry to Mackinac Island this past summer. The day had been mild, with clear skies and Lake Huron shimmering like sparkling confetti. Julia had her blue sundress on, the one that slit along the side of her tanned legs and hugged her waist and breasts. The seashell necklace he had bought her on their trip to Florida the previous year, glittered in the light of the sun. As the wind had blown her hair around Julia had laughed, saying she wanted to grow it longer so she could tie it back again. She had given up taming it eventually, and with her surrender, she had looped her arms around the white railing and gave him her best smile. Her Julia smile. Even now it still stunned him.
He blinked several times, and shook that day away from its sudden hold on his thoughts. He looked up, expecting to dodge another dive from the Shadow from Hell, but saw it was gone—just like that, poof, disappeared.
That smell still lingered, and he wrinkled his nose as he shakily stood. His living room was a mess and he saw that the red stains on the walls weren’t fading. He blinked again, slower and hoped that he was only dreaming or maybe hallucinating. Shadows didn’t make noises and swoop like birds, shadows didn’t act…alive. He stood there in the middle of his new home, dazed as a war victim and unable to snap himself out of it. Something moved to his left, and he spun, a startled scream stuck in his throat. He groped for his bat.
But nothing was beside him, and nothing was on his wall or the door beside it; however there was a large bay window by his door and through it, he could see someone standing in his front yard. A woman.
Had the neighbors heard the commotion? Was someone coming to check if he was okay? He took another look at the red stains on the wall. They appeared darker, and the one by the staircase was even oozing. It looked like blood, but he knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He was a journalist. He knew that walls don’t bleed–that was in the movies, not in the Real World.
He walked toward the door, stepping over his photos and glancing back at Julia’s best smile with a heavy heart. What would he say to them? Lie? Tell them he fell and bumped his head?
He opened the door, and unlatched the screen with a hollow click. It didn’t matter which excuse he chose, he just wanted an explanation that was normal, plausible, and as boring as can be.
White lies spun through his head as he walked down to the last step of his porch–and then stopped cold.
The Woman wasn’t solid.
He canted his head forward, and then tilted it to the side as the Woman shimmered in front of him much like Lake Huron did on that sunny afternoon when he took Julia’s picture. As she began walking toward him, her shimmers took on a muddy look and then went darker.
And then he saw the stains on her cotton shift; he saw her disheveled hair and gaunt cheeks; he watched the Woman rot before his eyes, her skin slipping from her bones and her face cracking open. The Shadow thing that had attacked him in the house was back, and it swooped around her like an excited dog—and then to his horror, more than one gibbering Shadow joined the circle. They screeched and moaned like a pack of hyenas, and somewhere beyond them he heard the soft crying of a baby. The Woman neared and reached one hand toward him; the flesh on her fingers curled as if burning and he saw gleaming bone beneath.
People don’t rot that fast. I’m a journalist and I know that people don’t rot before your eyes.
His paralysis broke and he gave a hoarse shriek and bolted for the house, slamming the door and locking it. He backed away and his chest heaved. Dizziness made him feel sick. Sweat glazed his body and the room swayed around him. He waited for the knock that he was sure to come—the shambling corpse knocking on his door and the Shadow People giggling behind her.
But no knock came.
He calmed down and braved a peek out the window. The yard was empty. No Woman falling apart and no Shadows dancing. Another frown furrowed his brow, and with a little hope flaring in his heart, he looked around his living room.
What he saw made him sag with relief. No red stains, no oozing walls; the Real World had shoved his delusions away and he was safe now. He heaved a big sigh and leaned against the wall. It was just new home jitters, nothing more. New home jitters, fatigue and too much Mountain Dew. He wouldn’t drink a drop of that shit again.
He trudged up the stairs and into his room, trying to dislodge the uneasy feeling that still clung to him. The mattress welcomed his falling body and as he drifted into an exhausted sleep, he wondered why, as the woman (who wasn’t real of course) had reached for him, she had looked so…sad. He could still hear that baby crying outside his window, but that was just the breeze…just the breeze.
When he woke the next morning, he had found several boxes of dishes broken. And to his dismay and growing fear, he saw scratch marks on the walls where the Shadow-who-was-not-real had swooped over. The front lawn had strange patches of dead grass where he swore the Woman-who-was-also-not-real had stood. His dealings with the Unreal were not over yet.
She had appeared again that night, and then the night after that, and then night after that. The siege on his home and sanity had officially begun. The Shadow People came when the Woman did, and when he would refuse to come out, or after fleeing when he found himself on the lawn, dew wetting his toes and waiting for the corpse to embrace him, they would invade his house with no mercy. It went from small attacks to full assault by week’s end. The first thing he wanted to do was leave, but every time he got into his truck he had the bizarre compulsion to go back inside the house. The desire was so strong that his body shook, his shirt soaked with sweat and it was hard to breathe. He had made it to the nearby Holiday Inn on the third day, but the nightmares and the anxiety became so nerve-wracking, that he had checked out less than five hours later.
He had tried recording their voices on the fourth day (not the Woman, because thankfully she never spoke), but had come away with dead air. He had told himself, as he sat in the bathtub, running his thumb over the inside of his wrists with gentle, methodical motions, that he shouldn’t have expected to hear anyone on that tape; this was the Real World and ghosts did not exist. This was all in his head, or he was having a breakdown over Julia. It had been a year since that day; a year since she had walked out of his life forever. Gabe and Julia sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…
He had stopped eating on the fifth day; every time he tried, and no matter how fresh the food was (and take out from Dominos Pizza was the freshest he could get), it was like eating moldy bread or spoiled meat. That smell suffocated him in different parts of the house: the kitchen had the stench of old, sweaty clothing; the bathroom downstairs smelled like wet dirt and had an undertone of something else that made him think of those oozing walls and red stains the Shadow had left.
He wandered his house, staring out the windows with unfocused eyes and wondering why everything looked so far away. He was encased in some sort of bubble: a thick, pressure-filled bubble that was slowly constricting. His phone didn’t work, the lights didn’t work, and his computer wouldn’t turn on. This had happened only after he researched the Clinton Valley Center in one of his saner moments, comparing the layout of the asylum to Stonegate’s new homes. This was when he realized his lovely Freeland model was built right above the ward for the worst patients, those that the staff had abused and experimented on back in the early years of the asylum’s operation. Knowing this did nothing; it only made his despair worse.
He had thought about killing himself. In fact, between the fourth day and the present it had been all he could think of. Yesterday, he had finally thrown his razors in the garbage after finding himself stroking one while bathing, and unable to remember when he had reached for it. Then last night, all he dreamt were those moist halls and dark rooms filled with eyes.
And now he was here, facing her, facing them. He couldn’t remember what day it was, and he couldn’t remember that morning or afternoon. And while reminiscing, he had wandered from the porch and into the yard. She stood only a few feet away. All that existed for him was this moment and the Shadow People bullying him forward, and the Woman coming to greet him. He wanted it to end, and he knew she would do it. This is what it came down to. He was being punished for what he did to Julia, for all the hurt he had caused her and had caused everyone in his life. They all had moved away from him; they all had left him alone. A sob wracked his body and he covered his eyes. The battle cry that ‘he was a journalist and none of this was real’ rose in his mind, but then it fell flat like a deflated balloon. He could feel the coldness emanating from her body, and the grass beneath her crunched as she staggered forward. He gave a deep, tired sigh and lowered his hands; he waited for those arms to enfold him with the resignation of one waiting for the noose to snap his neck.
But then the instinct to flee snarled to life inside him. It was the spark that never faded completely, no matter how much the Shadow People smothered him or how the Woman influenced his thoughts.
Like an animal caged for too long, he broke free in a violent flourish. He turned and fell to his knees and then stumbled toward the house. As he fled, he saw the grass had been brown beneath his feet. Dead. Dying. She had come too close this time.
“Alex.”
He froze, his heart jack-knifing in his chest. He did a slow, wondering turn and then gaped at her. She was talking to him? She knew his name? The Woman’s gown was black now from the waist down and blood trickled in rivers toward her feet. The baby wailed its haunting cry, and the sound seemed to float around the Woman like a wispy cloud. The Shadow People eased back, but he could still smell the halls, he could still see the dark rooms and he could still hear the screaming. She took another step forward; she was near enough now so he could see that her eyes were a powder blue instead of the black he always thought they were. How could he have thought they were black? They were untouched by the rot or corrosion. Perfect and beautiful. Tears began rolling down her cracking cheeks.
Pressure built around him; his heart galloped against his ribs and showed no signs of slowing; his breath was coming thready and shallow, and there was an ache in his chest that made him dizzy. She came closer, one hand out, imploring with bony fingers. That survival instinct thrashed from the inside, shrieking like a wild thing and demanding that he move now, go now, and don’t let her touch him! He ignored it and looked into her eyes again; he only wanted to see her eyes. And there, he saw her sorrow, her loneliness. Just like him. She was just like him. The grass browned beneath his body, and his heart shuddered in his chest. The air seemed thin and spun with cobwebs. He kept his eyes locked with hers, and soon those pale depths were all he could see.
The world fell away, and in its place was darkness; a darkness alive, heavy. His heart leaped forward like a deer struggling from a pit of deep, clinging mud, but then it sagged back with an exhausted shiver.
She bent forward, a hiss of air escaping her lips. A plaintive sigh. He smelled something bitter, something that made his eyes water and throat spasm. He forced a swallow and closed his eyes. Her cold breath drifted over his face.
The halls rose around him in a surging wave, and the darkness in the rooms flowed out and over him; the eyes watched in greedy hunger. But he wasn’t afraid. She wouldn’t let anything happen to him; she would protect him. After all, she had chosen him.
It’s all right…everything’s okay now.
“Alex,” she said, and kissed his last breath away.
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Reviews
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polkadot_princess reviewed Version 1 -
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This reads brilliantly I especially liked the line ‘The breeze kiss his throbbing fingers with icy lips’. You have a good way of putting things in to words and your narrative is really descriptive. Perhaps it would have been better if things were made a little clearer it is all a little bit sketchy but the detail you use to descrbe things in is really good.
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BAMBI reviewed Version 1 -
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Very fun to read, you captured insanity at the beginning exceptionally well. Keep it up this is very good.
Dragonfyre96 reviewed Version 1 -
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A deliciously horrific tale. You have captured the essence of fear. You gave great background as you went through the story and made it more believable. I could feel, smell and taste the horror filling this character. For the first time. I have read a story tha didn’t have a supposed “happy ending”, only to have it twisted in the end. This is excellent in a short story because it has to have a conclusion. Plus, the ending leaves enough of a cue that this will happen again whenever the ghostly apparition chooses another victim.
Kudos.
Daney reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a really good story, very well written. There are a few gramatical errors, but nothing major. You could probably find the errors just by reading over the story. Your strong point is obviously description. You are great at it. Your description pulls the reader in and wraps around them, making them feel as if they are actually in the story watching instead of actually reading about it. I’m usually not into horror (yours is probably the first I’ve read on Urbis) but after reading this, I think that it may actually be an interesting subject to get into.
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 1 -
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Good opening. Total hooked me with the first paragraph. Unless you’re withholding it for some effect, I’d get the character’s name out as soon as possible.
This story is written in a manner that discombobulates the reader, but in a good way. As the story follows the yet-to be named protagonist, the reader feels the same kind of vertigo, the sweet sickness that the main character is overcome by.
Your use of similes is excellent.
Not sure about the phrase “animal panic” though… Perhaps just “panic” would work better here.
“He had lain…” – laid
This is definitely eerie.
“The shadow kept its Hunchback…” This sentence contradicts itself. I’d suggest rewording it.
Have you ever considered using contractions? I think it would help the story flow much more smoothly. Like, instead of “he had” just use “he’d”.
I still think you’ve got great similes, but just don’t go overboard with them. You could probably rephrase the ”...much like Lake Huron did on that sunny…” I mean, it’s not bad, but it’s not great either.
Overall, I liked the story. This reads like a first draft, but a really good one at that. It’s loose in places as your sentences sometimes tend to be overly wordy. (A problem I have myself.) But, it seems like you know where the stories going in terms of the character’s fears, what motivates him, and the paranormal terrors that are lurking about. And I take back the thing about the guy not having a name. It’s kind of sad yet fitting that he dies unidentified. Good job! Thanks for sharing.
-Curt
Autumn_Sims reviewed Version 1 -
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On the horror aspect it is very compelling. I personally like the flashback-present fell, it adds to the fear. The loss of time adds to the hopelessness of his dilemma. I could only find one glitches. It isn’t until page 15 do you say Gabe, but on page 17 it is Alex.
jayne reviewed Version 1 -
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This was a fantastic Story, I feel you have worked hard on this due to how well its writen. I especially loved page four, nine,ten and the last page. Not that I am sayng the rest was no good, far from it, but those pages really got me, I read them again. Well done jayne sterne
paigemc reviewed Version 1 -
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spent without sleep or plagued with nightmares? This just sounds funny. Like the ‘or’ shouldn’t be there.
Okay- finished the whole thing. Very descriptive. Very detailed. But I wasn’t scared pee-less. I want a horror story to scare me. This could have had the ability to do so, but you gave too much too soon. I want it to build slowly, layer upon layer, until I’m afraid to go to sleep. This was such a quick data dump that it wasn’t scary- just matter of fact, despite the words
I think the part about the housing development being built on the ward for the criminally insane was sort of dumped. He is a journalist--why couldn’t that information have come more slowly--as he researched the area, found old newspaper columns, found where information had been supressed from the general public. it is hard to believe they could tear down anything that huge without leaving physical evidence. It would have had to be torn down long enough to allow trees to grow in the yards.
There is no real sense of foreboding—the Shadow People are almost a caricature, but I did feel sorry for the woman. I would find that sense of building horror is Alex was able to find out some of the stories about the patients from that ward, why they were there, what happened to them.
imara219 reviewed Version 1 -
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I feel as if this is missing something. I know that short stories are snap shots of an ongoing action, but I feel as if you just dropped me in the middle of the action. I understand what is going on but I wish there was more ground work before getting there. The descriptions of the imagery was obvious, with horror so much as been done before so it would be great if you could have been more original. The imagery though is wonderful. I really could visualize what you wrote. I think you used the flashback device well. Even though the imagery was great and the descriptions were wonderful I felt as if you were telling me the action instead of showing me.
TnD reviewed Version 1 -
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-Just in the first two pages, I noticed that you’re using ‘he’ a lot. May want to change that. For example, on the page 1 to page 2 transition, it is : “He closed his eyes and counted to ten.” Just to break the monotony, may want to change it to “Closing his eyes, counted to ten.”
-(Page 3) Babbles = bubbles? Not really clear.
-(Page 3) ”...closer, her flesh hanging from her bones…” – May want to change having three ‘her’s so close together. Maybe change to ‘the flesh…’?
-(Page 6) ”...resistance, and after he peeled his sweat-sodden…” – Again with the ‘he’s. Maybe change to ‘and after peeling off the sweat-sodden…’?
-(Page 6-7) “Sometimes the echos her snuck up on him…” – Not really clear. The echoes OF her?
-(Page 9) ”...the bat was back in his hands again.” – No need for ‘again’. “The bat was back in his hands” keeps the suspense going.
-(Page 13) Just noticing how many times the narrator says that he’s a journalist. It’s starting to be beaten to death. It’s as though it’s his justification for everything. May want to take that out in the re-write.
Okay. Overall, it’s a great story. It got me gripped in the first few paragraphs. My only issues are the ones above and I want to stress the seemingly overuse of ‘he’ throughout the whole story. It was a gripping story, but at times it seemed as though you were trying to make it longer (such as leaving the house). It didn’t seem feasible that he was going to leave the house. I mean, he was drawn to this woman and no matter what he did, it was pretty apparent that he wasn’t going to leave.
A little predictable, as I mentioned in the last paragraph. It was pretty obvious that he was going to end up with the woman. But, with a little tightening up, I think that this is definitely publishable.
Thanks for sharing and I look forward to more!
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