Monthly Archives: October 2024

Thirteen For Halloween: The Summer of Shattered Innocence

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

When it was Joanie Hayden’s turn, she strode proudly to the head of the classroom with her school writing assignment written neatly in cursive in blue ink on lined loose-leaf paper. Despite her confident posture, she looked a bit of a mess. She was noticeably thinner and paler since last semester, and her hair wasn’t quite as neat, her dress was on the rumpled side, and her patent leather shoes lacked their normal shine.

As she began to read, her voice echoed through the room, a haunting melody that spoke of unspeakable truths. “How I Spent My Summer Vacation,” she announced, the words dripping with a bitter irony that only she could fully comprehend.

Joanie moved through the open space, her steps measured and deliberate, each gesture a silent scream of the agony that had been etched into her very being. She spoke of the cellar, a dank and oppressive prison where she had been locked away, left to waste away in the shadows of her own despair.

The hunger had gnawed at her, a constant companion in her solitary confinement. She spoke of the cheese, stolen from rat traps in a desperate bid for survival, the taste of desperation and decay lingering on her tongue long after the last morsel had been consumed.

But it was the beatings that truly shattered her innocence, each blow a cruel reminder of the twisted love her mother had found in the arms of a monster. Joanie had endured in silence, her cries swallowed by the darkness, lest she incur the wrath of the man who had stolen her mother’s affection and shattered their once-happy home.

As she neared the end of her tale, Joanie held up the final page of her assignment, a splash of color amidst the monochromatic horror of her words. The map, meticulously crafted in vibrant hues, was a twisted treasure map, guiding the way to the remains of her tormentors.

The classroom fell silent, the weight of Joanie’s revelation settling upon them like a suffocating blanket. Her teacher and classmates, once so eager to hear of carefree summer adventures, now sat stunned, their faces etched with a mixture of shock, horror, and pity.

But Joanie stood tall, her eyes blazing with a fire that had been forged in the crucible of her suffering. She had endured the unimaginable, her innocence ripped away by the very people who were meant to protect her. And in the end, when the darkness had threatened to consume her entirely, she had found the strength to fight back, to reclaim her shattered soul from the abyss.

As the authorities descended upon the classroom, their sirens a discordant symphony outside the windows, Joanie felt a strange sense of peace wash over her. She had spoken her truth, laid bare the horrors of her summer, and in doing so, had finally set herself free.

In the years that followed, Joanie’s story would serve as a reminder of the monsters that lurk in the shadows of even the most idyllic homes. But for Joanie herself, the summer of her shattered innocence would forever be the defining moment of her unbreakable spirit, a reminder that even in the darkest of nights, a single spark of hope can illuminate the way to redemption.

And so, as she stepped down from the head of the classroom, her assignment clutched tightly to her chest, Joanie Hayden knew that she had not merely survived her summer vacation, but had emerged from the depths of hell itself, a phoenix rising from the ashes of her own destruction.

Thirteen tales of terror, woven in the night,
Guided by the flickering jack-o'-lantern's light.
From haunted playgrounds to twisted dreams,
We've explored the darkness, or so it seems.

Mad mothers and lost souls, a writer's deadly prose,
Innocence shattered, and secrets no one knows.
Each story a glimpse into the abyss,
Where horrors lurk, and shadows kiss.

But through it all, you've been by my side,
Brave readers, willing to take this eerie ride.
Your courage and curiosity, a guiding star,
Illuminating the path, both near and far.

As the veil grows thin, and the witching hour draws near,
I thank you for facing each tale without fear.
For delving deep into the macabre and grim,
And letting these stories seep beneath your skin.

Now, as the harvest moon hangs high above,
And the night is filled with a chilling sort of love,
I bid you a Happy All Hallow's Eve, my friends,
May your night be filled with spooks and delightful ends.

So light your candles, and carve your pumpkins with care,
For the spirits of Thirteen For Halloween are always there.
In the whispers of the wind, and the creaks of the floor,
Ready to haunt and thrill you, forevermore.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Thirteen For Halloween: The Eternal Lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Every city has its ghosts, but few linger like Wilhelmina Soames. She haunted Main Street with her empty pram, its wheels squeaking on the cracked pavement, her presence as constant as the rising sun. The locals knew her by a hundred cruel names—The Mad Mother, The Lady in Rags—but her true title was whispered only by the bravest and the most foolish: The Collector.

“Nelda, Farley, Aubrey…” Wilhelmina’s voice rasped, a croak that slid down the city’s alleys like smoke. The names flowed from her lips in a ceaseless chant, each one spoken with the reverence of a mother calling her child home. Yet there were no children. Only the pram, and her eyes—wide and fever-bright—scanning the empty streets.

“Vance, Giselle, Wesley…” She called out to names long forgotten, her cracked lips curling into a smile that unsettled anyone who dared to listen too long.

The city had become numb to her presence, indifferent to the sight of her skeletal frame and wild hair, matted with dirt and debris. It was easier that way, to pretend she didn’t exist, to step over her as they did the other broken things the city swallowed whole. But those who whispered behind her back never lingered long near the places Wilhelmina wandered after dark.

Because Wilhelmina didn’t just push an empty pram. She collected.

At dusk, she ventured beyond the crowds, beyond the reach of streetlights, into forgotten corners of the city, the places where the shadows lingered thickest. Those who had been desperate enough to follow—whether out of morbid curiosity or cruel delight—never spoke about what they saw. Some said she rummaged through dumpsters, sifting through filth as if seeking something precious among the discarded refuse. Others claimed to hear her speaking softly to things unseen, her voice a strange lullaby meant to soothe the dead. But always, they said, she found something—someone. And when she did, she would cradle it in her arms, rocking it gently as if it weighed more than air.

Those few who dared to peer too long into her pram swore they caught a glimpse of something terrible. Tiny, disfigured shadows, twisting and writhing inside the carriage as if desperate to escape.

The rumors spread fast, and the stories became more elaborate with each retelling. Some claimed Wilhelmina had once been a nanny to a wealthy family, that she’d lost her charge in a tragic accident—a baby slipping from her grasp and into traffic, her mind snapping in two with the sound of that child’s body beneath tires. Others whispered of ancient curses, that Wilhelmina was cursed to roam the city, forever collecting the souls of the young who died before their time. She wasn’t just a madwoman, they said. She was a harbinger. A guardian of lost souls, condemned to ferry them to a place no living eyes could see.

And so, every night, her eerie refrain echoed through the streets, searching.

But the stories were never enough to explain what happened next.

On the night of her death, Wilhelmina entered the vacant lot, the one space in the city untouched by developers—a place where the air always felt cold, no matter the season. There, among the rubble and weeds, she bent low, her fingers sifting through the earth, frantic, searching as though time itself was running out.

And then she found it. Something unseen yet tangible to her alone. A bundle, light as air, and in her joy, she lifted it high, cradling it to her chest. But in her haste, she didn’t notice the jagged brick half-buried in the dirt.

She tripped. Her skull met the brick with a sickening crack, and the last breath of air left her body in a wet, gurgling gasp. Blood oozed into the soil, darkening the ground beneath her.

But Wilhelmina didn’t die—not in the way most do.

She awoke standing over her own body, her lifeless shell sprawled on the cold earth. The sight didn’t startle her. In fact, it comforted her. The years of madness, the endless wandering, the voices of lost children—she finally understood. She had been preparing for this moment all along.

Around her, the shadows deepened. Small, pale hands reached for her, dozens of tiny figures emerging from the gloom. Children, their faces contorted in silent screams, their eyes hollow and unblinking. They had waited for her, lost in the dark, and now they were ready to be guided to wherever it was that the forgotten dead go.

Wilhelmina smiled, her lips parting to release a lullaby that no living ear could hear. She gathered the children to her, one by one, her touch soothing the fear in their eyes. Her pram was no longer empty—it brimmed with the restless spirits of the city’s lost.

And so, Wilhelmina Soames, the Mad Mother of Main Street, became what she was always meant to be. No longer bound by flesh, she pushed her pram through the vacant lot, her song rising with the wind, a lullaby for the dead. Her voice drifted through the city, a melody of grief and longing, chilling the blood of those who walked too close.

She was no longer just a madwoman; she was their keeper. And the children of the city—those lost and forgotten—would forever hear the eternal lullaby of Wilhelmina Soames, calling them home.

Thirteen For Halloween: Her First Time Redux

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Vanessa’s eyes locked onto the swinging pocket watch, its brass glinting in the low candlelight, the rhythmic ticking sinking deeper into her mind. Each pendulum swing seemed to pull her further from the present and hurl her back to that night—the one she’d buried beneath layers of false memory, beneath years of carefully constructed lies.

She had rewritten the story so many times. In her version, the ’67 Chevy Impala was a haven, its worn leather seats a cradle of budding romance, and Jimmy Erler, her first, was tender, patient. But as Doc Halley’s hypnotic voice probed deeper, the truth began to surface, a nightmare she had kept locked away in the darkest corners of her mind.

Her breath quickened. The rain. She could hear it again, hammering the car’s roof, relentless as the truth clawed its way out. The soft whispers Jimmy once murmured in her ear weren’t sweet at all—they were commands, demands, filled with malice, punctuated by the scrape of his teeth against her skin. He wasn’t patient. He wasn’t tender. He was hungry.

Vanessa felt herself spiraling, the fragile mask of memory shattering, each fragment revealing the brutal reality she had long denied. There were no stolen kisses beneath the rain-soaked windows, no shy fumblings of young love. Instead, there was pain—her pain—and Jimmy’s mocking laughter as he forced her against the seat. His hands, once remembered as gentle, had clawed at her clothes with savage urgency.

And then… something had broken inside her.

In the shifting candlelight of Doc Halley’s office, Vanessa’s hands clenched involuntarily, her nails digging into her palms. The image in her mind grew sharper, crueler. Jimmy’s face—twisted with something darker than desire, eyes gleaming with cruelty—blurred, then fractured. Her own hands—those hands—were the ones clawing at him now, tearing at his skin, his clothes, anything she could reach.

She could still hear his voice, the smug bravado crumbling into panic as her fingernails raked his face, drawing blood, her teeth sinking into his shoulder. She had fought back. No, not fought—she had become something else, something feral, her rage drowning out all sense, all fear, until there was only the violence, the raw power coursing through her limbs.

Jimmy had screamed. But the more he screamed, the more alive she felt.

When the fog lifted, she remembered the silence. Jimmy had been curled up, his breath ragged, bloodied and trembling, his once cocky smile twisted into a grimace of terror. He was no longer the predator—he was prey, and she had tasted his fear.

The watch ticked on, its steady rhythm pulling her back to the present, but the weight of that night lingered, suffocating. The realization hit her like a fist to the gut. She hadn’t been the victim, not entirely. The real horror wasn’t Jimmy, or what he had done. It was what she had unleashed in herself.

Vanessa blinked, her mouth dry, her body rigid in the chair. Doc Halley’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, gentle but probing.

“What did you see, Vanessa?”

Her gaze shifted to the pocket watch again. The ticking was louder now, deafening.

“I… I didn’t stop,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

Doc Halley leaned closer, the candlelight casting strange shadows across his face. “What didn’t you stop?”

Her breath hitched. The memory had become a living thing, growing inside her, feeding off her guilt and her need for absolution. But there was none to be had. Not for this.

“I didn’t stop… hurting him.”

The room seemed to shrink, the darkness pressing in. She had lied to herself for years, convinced herself that Jimmy had been the monster, that she had been the innocent. But as the truth bubbled up, she knew it had been something else. She had felt good—terrifyingly, exhilaratingly good—when she tore him apart.

Doc Halley’s voice was distant now, almost drowned out by the watch’s ticking. “Do you think you can forgive yourself?”

Vanessa closed her eyes, but the image of Jimmy’s broken body wouldn’t fade. She hadn’t just taken back control that night. She had destroyed him.

The candle flickered and died, plunging the room into cold darkness.

“No,” she whispered into the void. “I don’t think I can.”

And in the silence that followed, she realized the monster she feared wasn’t lurking in Jimmy’s memory, or in some dark corner of her past. It had always been inside her—waiting.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Unwritten Chapters

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The Cracked Spine was a secondhand bookstore that smelled of old paper from a bygone era. The air was thick with the weight of hardcover and paperback editions in search of new owners, each containing stories begging to be reread. We reached for the same copy of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, fingers brushing in that intimate, fleeting way that only strangers can experience. It should have been a harmless moment, a serendipitous encounter, but instead, it marked the beginning of a descent into madness.

Nora, a figure swathed in the quiet allure of mystery, captivated me immediately. Her dark eyes, a shade too deep to be entirely human, held an intensity that unsettled as much as it intrigued. Our love for literature wove an initial bond, yet there was something deeper, an unspoken tension lurking beneath her every word. While I bared the pages of my soul, Nora remained an unread novel, her secrets bound in leather, sealed by something much darker than ink.

I should have known something was wrong when she invited me into her home. There was a weight to the atmosphere in her flat, a heaviness that pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe. Rows of books lined every wall, like a silent congregation of forgotten lives watching my every move. But one book stood apart, a volume so ancient that its spine seemed to pulse with something… alive.

Nora noticed my gaze, and in an instant, her demeanor changed. She moved to block my path, her movements too quick, too desperate. “It’s not ready,” she said, her voice trembling—fearful, even. “It’s only a draft.”

But I couldn’t stop myself. My curiosity had taken root, festering into an obsession, and despite her protests, I reached for the book. The leather binding was unnaturally warm, as though the cover itself was alive, pulsing beneath my fingertips. The moment I opened it, I felt the floor beneath me tilt, the world spinning as the words leapt off the page, twisting and coiling around my mind like serpents.

The first few pages were innocuous enough—rough sketches, half-formed ideas, fragments of what could be—but the further I read, the more a terrifying pattern began to emerge. The protagonist was a man. He was a writer. He was me.

Each chapter chronicled intimate details of my life, moments no one else could possibly know. The way I always kept my pens organized by color. The whiskey I drank when I couldn’t sleep. The thoughts I only admitted to myself in the dead of night. But the horror didn’t end there—no, the final chapters were something else entirely.

They told of a slow, creeping descent into terror. Each word described how this man—how I—would die, alone and forgotten, hunted by something far more dangerous than Nora’s simple mystery. There were no metaphors here. No clever narrative tricks. This was a blueprint. A death sentence.

I looked up from the book to find Nora watching me, her expression unreadable. But there was something in her eyes, something dark and predatory. The warmth I had once seen was gone, replaced by an emptiness so cold it turned my blood to ice. She smiled—a slow, curling smile that never reached her eyes.

“I’ve been working on that for a long time,” she whispered, stepping closer. Her voice was low, intimate, as though we were lovers sharing a secret. “It’s my best work yet, don’t you think? The final chapter is… exquisite.”

The realization hit me with sickening clarity—this wasn’t fiction. It wasn’t a story. It was a prophecy. Nora had been crafting my death with the precision of a master artist, every detail sharpened to perfection, every emotion honed for the ultimate cut. And I was the masterpiece.

I stumbled back, dropping the book as though it had burned me, but there was nowhere to run. The walls of her apartment seemed to close in, the shadows stretching, growing, until they swallowed everything in their path. Nora’s figure loomed before me, her face twisted with something feral, something no human could ever possess.

“You were always meant to be the final chapter,” she breathed, her lips brushing my ear like a lover’s caress. “My magnum opus, completed in flesh and blood.”

I turned to flee, but the shadows reached out, cold fingers clawing at my ankles, dragging me down. My mind screamed, but my body betrayed me, frozen in place as she knelt beside me, her fingers tracing the outline of my throat.

“You’ll die beautifully,” she promised, her voice soft and soothing, like a lullaby sung by the damned. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was her smile—a perfect, serene smile, as though she had written this moment a thousand times before. And in that final, terrible instant, I realized the truth: Nora hadn’t just been writing my story.

She had been living it.

The unwritten chapters would be scrawled in blood, a story of obsession, murder, and twisted love. And I, the unwitting protagonist, had already lost my chance to rewrite the ending.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Hollow Within

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In the echoes of my mother’s fading voice, I cling to the remnants of her wisdom, a child lost in the labyrinth of grief. Her words, once a comforting whisper, now haunt me like a twisted lullaby: “Guard the things you hold precious by keeping them hidden inside you.” But how could I, a mere child, comprehend the intricacies of love and loss? How could I find solace in the hollow chambers of my own heart when all I knew was the consuming emptiness of her absence?

I watched, helpless and alone, as her body decayed, a grotesque tableau of life’s fragility. The stench of rotting flesh filled my nostrils, a sickening perfume that permeated every corner of my existence. I searched, desperate and frantic, for the precious things she claimed to keep hidden within her, hoping to uncover the secrets that would guide me through this nightmare. But as I picked the vermin from her flesh and fought the carrion that sought to claim her, I found nothing but the hollow emptiness of death.

Her heart, once a mystery I longed to unravel, revealed itself to me in the most horrific of ways. I watched as it bruised and withered, a rotten apple consumed by the decay that surrounded it. And within its chambers, I found not love, not the answers I so desperately craved, but a writhing mass of maggots, feasting upon the remnants of her essence. The precious things she kept were nothing more than the disgusting creatures that stripped away her beauty, leaving me with nothing but the fading memories of her face.

In my dreams, she comes to me, a twisted apparition of the mother I once knew. Her face, a roiling storm of clouds, speaks to me in a voice that is a swarm of black bees, devouring all that is living and good. I run, through the forest of forgetfulness, seeking escape from the nightmare that consumes me. But there is no refuge, only the brackish waters of a black pond that beckon me with their siren’s call.

I plunge into the depths, only to find myself ensnared in a tar-like embrace, choking on the bitter molasses that fills my lungs and melts my flesh. I wake, gasping for air, my chest heavy with the weight of fear, my breathing a sickening, wet noise that echoes in the darkness. And in that moment, I know that I am no longer safe in this world, that the horrors that haunt me will never relent.

And so, in a final act of desperation, I crawl inside the remains of my mother’s body, wrapping her decaying flesh around me like a cocoon. I become the thing she kept precious, the maggot that feasts upon her essence, the hollow within that consumes all that is left of her. For in this twisted embrace, I find the only solace I have ever known, the only way to keep the precious things hidden inside me, safe from the horrors that lurk beyond the veil of death.

Thirteen For Halloween: Embrace of the Void

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In the labyrinthine corridors of my mind, I wander like a condemned man, trapped in a purgatory of my own making. Each morning, I rise from the depths, a hollow shell of flesh and bone, reciting lifeless affirmations that dissipate into the cold silence. I set forth, a misguided crusader armed with delusions of redemption, determined to leave a mark on a world that long ago forgot my name.

But the path beneath my feet is a treacherous thing, twisted and serpentine, choked with the refuse of my squandered hopes and festering regrets. Misfortune trails me like a shadow that bleeds black at the edges, its hot breath caressing my neck, its claws raking ever closer. Each choice I make cleaves a piece from my soul, and with every step, I descend further into the maw of a darkness that devours all light.

The road I once called righteous has vanished, swallowed whole by a memory I cannot trust. I drift, lost in a sea of my own sins, the weight of my transgressions crushing me under the stench of decay. The rot is inescapable. It seeps into my pores, coils around my heart, whispering that the time to pay has come—and I am bankrupt, with nothing left to offer but the fragments of a wretched soul.

I collapse into the gutter, a broken thing, my body crumpling like paper soaked through with blood. The cold concrete beneath me drains the warmth from my flesh, and the world dissolves into a sickly blur. Colors bleed away until only the monochrome of oblivion remains. Then, in the midst of this dying delirium, she appears.

She stands above me, a vision carved from darkness, her beauty a dagger in my chest. Her skin is a porcelain pallor, her raven hair cascading in tendrils that curl like smoke. Her eyes, twin voids, drink in the light, leaving nothing but the blackened husk of a soul that once dared to hope. She is perfection amidst the filth, a sanctuary I have sought all my life, a deliverance I could never earn. But as I reach for her, desperate to feel the warmth of salvation, a terrible truth shatters the illusion.

She is not my salvation. She is Death itself, cloaked in false beauty. Her touch is the final cold, her kiss the last exhalation. She is a hallucination conjured by the failing mind of a man who can no longer distinguish agony from ecstasy. Yet even as the understanding seeps into my bones like poison, I yearn for her, ache to surrender to the dark mercy of her embrace. The void whispers that to yield is to find peace, that oblivion is a lover more faithful than hope ever was.

In the end, I am nothing but a hollowed-out husk, a cracked vessel through which the last vestiges of life trickle away. As I fall into the blackness, I cling to the pale specter of Death like a drowning man clutches the hand that pulls him under. I do not fight. I do not struggle. I welcome her embrace as the final union, the consummation of my shattered soul with the void that awaits.

And then, there is only the darkness. There is no salvation, no redemption. There is nothing left of the man I once was—nothing but the silence of the grave and the echo of a heartbeat that has already stopped.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Demon’s Lament

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Alethea stood at the edge of twilight, a figure straddling the sacred and profane, cloaked in human flesh that barely concealed the infernal fires beneath. Her beauty was a mask, her voice a siren's call, lilting with promises of protection and devotion. She breathed lies as easily as air, each word slipping like silk around the throat of her chosen prey.

"Calvin," she whispered, the sound curling through the gloom. "You need not fear me. I only seek to keep you safe."

The air grew thick with the scent of decay, the cloying perfume of ancient temptation. Calvin, a man anchored in faith, clutched his rosary so hard his knuckles paled. His heart beat against his ribs like a frantic animal, but his thoughts held firm, fortified by the Scriptures that warned against the Beast's seductive touch.

“Stay back,” he stammered, eyes wide, the cross held between them like a blade. “You are not of this world. You are a creature of darkness.”

Alethea's gaze softened with an almost imperceptible sadness, a crack in the veneer of her monstrous facade. "You speak of darkness as if you truly understand it," she said, her voice as cold as the grave. "You cling to your faith, your symbols, as though they could protect you from the reality that lies beneath your skin. We are not so different, you and I."

Her eyes, black pools that swallowed the light, seemed to plead with him to see beyond the horror, to recognize the fractured soul trapped within the demon's form. But Calvin’s grip tightened, and his lips moved silently, reciting prayers he had learned as a child. The holy words fell from his tongue like ash.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he spat, though his voice quivered. “I will not succumb to your wiles.”

Alethea’s expression darkened, the illusion of warmth draining from her face like a sunset giving way to the night. Her features sharpened, revealing the contours of something ancient and hungry lurking just beneath the surface of her skin. The sadness in her eyes flared into rage, a cold flame that burned without heat.

“You fool,” she hissed, her voice reverberating like the tolling of a funeral bell. “You speak of salvation, but you have damned yourself by your own hand. Had you not recoiled in fear, I would have shielded you from the evils of this world until the stars themselves burned out.”

The shadows around her twisted and writhed, alive with malice. Calvin stumbled back, his faith wavering as an icy dread clawed its way up his spine. In that instant, the mask fell away, and the full horror of her true form unfurled before him: a thing forged in the abyss, its skin a darkened marble streaked with cracks through which a hellish glow seeped. Her mouth split wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth slick with hunger.

A scream clawed its way from Calvin's throat as she descended upon him. Her nails, sharp as daggers, raked his flesh, and her mouth, unhinged and yawning like a pit to oblivion, latched onto his throat. As she fed, the life drained from his eyes, the rosary slipping from his limp fingers to the cold earth below. His soul, severed from its mortal tether, slipped into darkness, vanishing like a final breath on the chill wind.

When the feeding was done, Alethea stood amidst the carnage, her hunger sated but her heart hollow. She knelt beside Calvin's body, her bloodstained lips trembling as she whispered, “I would have loved you.” Her words fell into the night, unanswered and unheard, a lament carried away by the wind.

The silence that followed was suffocating, and Alethea found herself staring into the void, a creature born of darkness yet grieved by a love that had been poisoned by the prejudice of mortal men. In the end, she was left with nothing but the taste of regret and the certainty that true damnation lay not in her infernal nature, but in the hearts of those who could only see her as a monster.

The night wore on, and the demon wept tears of blood over a love that had died before it had ever truly lived.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Seer of Forsaken Alleys

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The narrow street felt like a forgotten corner of the world, shadowed by crumbling buildings and dimmed by the setting sun. Renee had passed this way hundreds of times, always ignoring the rusted neon sign that flickered above the doorway: Madame Celeste—Fortunes Told. She never believed in that sort of thing.

But today was different.

Fresh out of a five-year sentence for armed robbery, her body was free, but her mind had remained shackled to one thought: her daughter, Ellie. Five years of missed birthdays, five years of wondering whether her child even remembered her, five years with no answers. The State had taken Ellie, placed her with some family she’d never met. No matter how hard Renee searched, it was as if her daughter had vanished.

Desperate, with nowhere else to turn, she stood at the entrance of the dingy fortune-telling parlor, the name Madame Celeste practically buzzing like an insect in her ears.

The inside was worse than she expected. Threadbare curtains, a single flickering candle, and the heavy scent of incense thickened the air. A table, draped in velvet, sat in the middle of the room, and behind it, the fortune teller herself: a gaunt woman in a patchwork of scarves and jewelry, her face obscured by a veil of beads.

“I’ve been expecting you,” the woman said, her voice smooth, with a hint of a rasp.

Renee hesitated, her pulse quickening. “How could you—?”

“I know why you’re here,” Madame Celeste interrupted, gesturing to the chair. “Sit. We’ll find her together.”

Renee’s breath caught. How could this stranger know? Was this a scam? But the thought of Ellie—the need to see her again, hold her again—was stronger than her suspicion. She sat.

“Your daughter… Ellie,” the fortune teller whispered, the name slipping from her lips like smoke. Her long fingers danced over a worn deck of tarot cards, shuffling them with an eerie grace. “She’s closer than you think.”

The cards fell, one by one. The Hanged Man. The Tower. Death.

Renee’s throat tightened. “What does that mean? Where is she?”

Madame Celeste smiled, revealing teeth too sharp for comfort. “She’s waiting for you. But to find her, you must follow the path unseen. The roads of the dead. You’ve walked close to the edge before, haven’t you? You know the place where life and death blur?”

Renee clenched her fists. “What are you talking about?”

“The place you’re looking for is not a physical one,” the seer murmured. “Ellie has crossed over, but not in the way you fear. Her spirit is bound to this world, wandering, waiting. She needs you to set her free.”

A chill crawled up Renee’s spine. “No… no, Ellie’s alive. She’s out there. I just need to find her.”

Madame Celeste leaned closer. “She was alive. But when you went away, no one came for her. No one cared. The family she was placed with—”

“What are you saying?” Renee’s voice cracked.

The fortune teller’s gaze pierced her, unblinking. “Your child died alone. Starved. Forgotten. The only way to reunite with her is to cross over yourself.”

Renee shot up from the table, her heart pounding. “You’re lying!”

But deep down, something in the words resonated. She had nightmares in prison, visions of Ellie calling out for her, crying, alone. She’d always woken up drenched in sweat, praying it was just her mind playing tricks.

“Go to the place where you were happiest with her,” Madame Celeste said softly. “She will meet you there.”

With shaking hands, Renee fumbled for the door. The fortune teller’s voice echoed in her ears as she stumbled into the night, a single word repeating: cross over.

The old playground. It hadn’t changed in all these years. Rust clung to the swings, the slide was chipped and faded, and the jungle gym looked skeletal under the streetlights. Renee stood there, the memories rushing back—of Ellie laughing, her tiny hands clutching the chains as she swung higher and higher.

“Ellie?” Renee whispered into the cold night air.

A shadow flickered at the far end of the playground. A small figure, no taller than a child, emerged from the gloom.

Renee’s heart lurched. “Ellie?”

The figure stepped closer, and as it did, Renee’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t Ellie. The thing that approached had her daughter’s shape, but its skin was wrong—pale, sagging, with hollow eyes that stared without seeing. It moved with a jerking motion, like a puppet on tangled strings.

“Mommy?” the thing rasped, its voice an echo of the child Renee once knew, but distorted, broken.

Renee’s legs buckled. “No… no, this isn’t real!”

The thing’s head tilted, its cracked lips curling into a grotesque smile. “You left me. Why did you leave me, Mommy?”

Renee screamed, backing away, but the figure advanced, faster now. Its skeletal hand reached for her, ice-cold fingers grazing her skin.

“I was waiting for you,” it whispered. “Now you can stay with me… forever.”

The world around Renee darkened, the playground fading as the shadows closed in. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and in her last moments, the memory of Ellie’s real laughter—pure and joyful—was drowned out by the horror that had taken its place.

The next day, the sidewalk fortuneteller packed up her things and moved on.

The playground remained, but the swing no longer moved in the wind. In its place, a new shadow hung in the air—one that sometimes whispered a name, searching, always searching, for the child she’d lost.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Skin Thief

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
The sterile air of the hospital was heavy, tinged with the scent of antiseptic and decay. Karl lay there, a fragile wisp of the child he had once been, his skin pale, stretched taut over bones that should have still been growing. The disease had whittled him down to something less than a boy, more like a flickering candle, guttering on the edge of darkness.

The heart monitor beeped in slow, shallow rhythms—each sound a metronome counting down his final hours. His parents sat nearby, hollow-eyed, their hands trembling as they held his, as if their love alone could keep him tethered to this world. But their love was powerless against the ravenous hunger that lurked unseen.

In the corner of the room, Karl’s imaginary friend, King Koda, waited. He was a tall figure, clothed in shimmering robes that only Karl could see, with a face that radiated kindness. Or, at least, it had once. Lately, something about the king's eyes had changed—becoming darker, hungrier.

Karl didn’t notice. He saw only his beloved companion, the king who had been with him through lonely nights and hospital stays. King Koda had always promised to protect him, to shield him from pain. But tonight, there was something wrong with that smile.

The boy dreamed of worlds
Where kings were friends and nightmares were myths
But some monsters wear familiar faces
And not all imaginary friends are safe

As his breaths grew shallow, Karl’s vision blurred. His parents whispered soothing words, but their voices seemed distant. And in the fog of his fading consciousness, Karl felt King Koda’s hand touch his—warm, far too warm, almost burning.

"Don’t be afraid," King Koda said, his voice soft, like silk sliding over a blade. "I will take care of you. I’ll make sure you live forever."

The words should have comforted Karl. But something was wrong. The touch of the king’s hand felt different now—too solid, too real. The air around the bed felt thick, oppressive, like the room itself was closing in, trapping him.

A promise laced with venom
The king whispers his dark command
In the shadow of death
There is a hunger older than time

Karl’s breath hitched, and for the first time in weeks, fear coursed through his frail body. He tried to call for his parents, but his voice was caught in his throat. His eyes darted toward them, desperate—but they sat, heads bowed, oblivious, as if some unseen force held them in a trance.

King Koda leaned closer, his once regal face now twisted into something grotesque, his teeth too sharp, his eyes too hollow. “It’s time, Karl. You have something I need.”

A coldness crept into the room, a suffocating weight. Karl’s skin prickled, and the little light left in his eyes began to dim as Koda’s true nature unveiled itself. The king wasn’t a friend. He wasn’t even human. He was something ancient, something that had fed on the minds of the vulnerable for centuries.

And now, he would take Karl’s life as his own.

Innocence devoured by shadows
A king of nightmares sheds his guise
A child’s light extinguished
As the Skin Thief claims his prize

With a sickening crack, King Koda’s form began to shift. His once-fantastical body twisted, growing taller, the flesh warping and tearing until it was no longer robes and crowns, but sinew and bone, stealing Karl’s shape. The frail child beneath him gasped, his last breath a shallow wheeze as the boy’s form slipped away—just another hollow shell for the creature to wear.

The heart monitor flatlined, its shrill scream blending with the rising wind of the creature’s birth. The room was filled with a gust that seemed to come from nowhere, scattering the tokens of love—the toys, the blankets, the flowers—as though they had never mattered.

And then, in the stillness, it stood—no longer King Koda, but Karl. Or something that wore Karl’s face.

The parents rushed to their son’s side, but it was too late. The thing that stood before them blinked with the same blue eyes, smiled with the same soft lips—but it was not their son. Not anymore.

Beneath the skin, something else watched them, something ravenous. The creature’s lips curled up, just slightly, as it settled into its new form. A wave of terror washed over the parents, though they didn’t understand why. Not yet.

“Mom? Dad?” the thing that was not Karl said, its voice innocent, perfect.

They wept with joy, not knowing that what they embraced was a monster.

In the mask of a child’s flesh
The Skin Thief walks the earth
Preying on those who see only what they wish

The hospital lights flickered as the creature left, hand in hand with Karl’s parents, their hearts too broken to sense the wrongness beside them. But deep inside, the thing smiled. It had taken Karl’s skin, his life, and now it would take more—because hunger like this is never satisfied.

And out in the night, a shadow passed across the moon, as another innocent life was claimed by the Skin Thief.

Thirteen For Halloween: Requiem for the Living: A Ghost’s Vengeance

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The sky split open, unleashing a torrent of rain that cut like shards of glass. Snow mixed with the downpour, falling in jagged flurries as if the heavens were weeping for a forgotten soul. A damp chill clung to the bones of the living, but I felt none of it. My cold was deeper—a frost of the soul, bound in chains that death had only tightened.

I hovered above my open grave, an intruder among the living. A field of black umbrellas swayed like wilted flowers in the wind, their owners clutching them in vain against the storm. I had no need for shelter, but their grief—their muted cries—clawed at my mind. A grotesque dance, these mourners, caught in the rhythm of loss they didn’t understand.

Below, a mahogany coffin waited—an empty vessel where my body should have rested. But it wasn’t my body they mourned. I watched with a hollow, burning rage, invisible to all but the darkness itself. My killer had orchestrated it all—ensuring I watched the false ritual, ensuring I would know my body would never rest in peace.

The truth of my death unfolded slowly, a cruel revelation whispered from beyond the veil. My death had not been an accident. No, it had been carefully crafted, and now I, the ghost, was left to wander—a pawn who had been cut from the board too soon.

I was not free. I was trapped between realms, tethered to the world by an insatiable need for vengeance. My ethereal form moved with the wind, silent and unseen, but I knew I wasn’t powerless. The hunt was mine to begin.

The first sign was the cold. A creeping, unnatural chill that followed my murderer, sinking into their skin, gnawing at the edges of their sanity. It started as a discomfort, a breath of cold air in a warm room. But soon, the chill grew deeper—frost on their breath, ice in their veins. Their windows, no matter how tightly shut, let in the biting air. They couldn’t sleep, their nights haunted by the gnawing sense of being watched.

I made sure of it.

I watched as their unease grew, as the world twisted around them. Shadows clung longer than they should, stretching into shapes that whispered my name. The clocks, once steady, began to tick out of rhythm, a maddening staccato of time unraveling. Their reflection in the mirror became distorted, the faintest hint of me—a flicker in the corner of their eye. I was always there. They could never be alone.

The trail of their guilt led me to their doorstep, each step heavy with the weight of their betrayal. They had been my friend once—trusted, loved even. Now, they were nothing more than prey, the target of a justice that death could not erase. I stood outside their door, a figure in the rain, invisible to the world but all too real to the one who had wronged me. The night pressed in, thick with tension.

I reached out with a thought, and the door creaked open.

Inside, they sat alone, clutching a glass of whiskey, its amber contents trembling in their hand. They had aged in a way that wasn’t natural. Fear had stolen the vitality from their face, replaced by the hollow-eyed look of someone who knew they were damned.

“Show yourself!” they cried, their voice cracking in desperation. They knew. They had always known it was me.

I made them wait. The silence stretched on, filling the room with the weight of the grave. Then, slowly, I let myself manifest—a cold breath on their neck, a shift in the air. My form flickered into view, pale and translucent, but unmistakable.

Their eyes widened, filling with terror as they scrambled backward, knocking over the chair in their haste. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” they stammered, their voice barely above a whisper. “It was an accident—”

But I knew the truth. The memory of that knife, cold and final, sinking into my back, burned within me like a wound that would never heal. They had plunged it in with purpose, a betrayal as sharp as the blade itself.

The room around us warped as my anger flared—walls groaning, lights flickering, the air thick with the stench of death. “You took my life,” I hissed, my voice hollow and echoing. “Now, I’ll take yours.”

Their breath quickened, coming in ragged gasps. I watched as their face contorted in panic, as they stumbled and fell, crawling away on their hands and knees. But there was no escape. I was everywhere—the creaking floorboards, the rustling curtains, the reflection in the shattered glass. My presence filled the space, choking the life from the air.

I could feel their pulse, frantic and wild, pounding in their chest as they tried to flee. I let them run, let them feel the hopelessness of it. My vengeance would not be swift—it would be slow, drawn out, until they begged for the end.

“You won’t outrun me,” I whispered, my voice curling in the shadows. “Death is inevitable. And so is my revenge.”

They stumbled into the bedroom, slamming the door behind them. But doors could not keep me out. I was the darkness, the cold, the thing they feared in their nightmares. I drifted through the walls, a cold fog filling the room as they cowered in the corner.

I could hear their whispered prayers, desperate and incoherent. Prayers that would go unanswered.

When I finally moved, it was with the force of all the fury I had held back. I surged forward, grasping their throat with icy hands, feeling the warmth of life beneath my fingers. They gasped, choked, clawing at nothing as the air left their lungs.

Their wide, pleading eyes locked onto mine, but I offered no mercy. Only the cold, hard truth—revenge was all I had left.

As their body went limp and the light faded from their eyes, I felt a release. The storm outside ceased, the wind falling silent. The room was still once more, and my killer lay at my feet, lifeless. The final chapter of their betrayal had been written in blood.

I turned away, drifting back into the night. The world no longer called to me. My task was done. The tether that bound me to this place unraveled, and with it, the bitterness that had gripped my soul for so long.

I returned to my grave, to the coffin that had once been empty, but now held the weight of my vengeance. The snowflakes continued to fall, a blanket of white, covering the earth in silence. I lay down in the earth, finally at peace, my story etched in the annals of the afterlife.