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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.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Fault of the Nightlight Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Darkness descends, not gently but with weight—a suffocating shroud. The click of the light switch, the thud of the closing door. Sounds that, in the daylight, are small, meaningless. But at night, they grow loud, like the ticking of a clock running out of time.

Parental abandonment
The nightly ritual
Leaving little Evan
To face the shadows’ revival

The nightlight flickers, its glow pale and inconsistent, the kind that hides more than it reveals. The soft yellow light twists the room’s familiar shapes into sinister figures—elongated, contorted, twitching as if ready to leap off the walls.

Shadows stretch and swell
A puppet show of terror
Hinting at horrors
Lurking beyond the veil

Evan pulls the covers to his chin, eyes darting to every shifting corner. He tries to pretend it’s just his imagination, but he knows better. The flickering of the nightlight is more than a malfunction. It’s a signal, a summoning. The witching hour approaches, when the boundary between worlds grows thin, and what hides in the dark comes forth.

The witching hour strikes
Whispers, scratches
Nightmares stir
In the waking world’s cracks

The first sound is always the scuttling—tiny legs, hundreds of them. Evan presses his hands over his ears, but it’s no use. He feels them first, their brittle bodies brushing against his skin beneath the covers. Cockroaches. Feral. Their exoskeletons scrape like nails on glass, filling the air with a cacophony of insectile chatter.

Chitinous swarms
A living tide
Engulfing innocence
In their crawling pride

But they aren’t the worst of it. Not by far. The rats come next, skeletal things with gaping sockets where eyes should be, noses twitching as they search, search for something to devour. Evan’s breath hitches as he feels the cold, wet slap of a rat’s tail against his ankle. He stifles a scream.

Eye-less vermin
Scavengers of sanity
Gnawing at the fragile edges
Of reality

The air grows colder. Evan’s breath fogs in front of him, though the window remains shut. From the ceiling, something moves, a shape more felt than seen—spectral, weightless, like a wisp of mist that curls down toward his bed. The bedsheet-wraiths, as Evan calls them. They glide silently, their touch icy and wrong, as if they feed off warmth and leave only cold despair in their wake.

Soul-sucking specters
Hungry for life’s heat
Draining vitality
Leaving hollow defeat

A shadow flickers to his left. Evan turns his head just in time to see them—the toys. His toys. The plastic dinosaurs he once played with, now standing on twisted legs, their eyes glowing red. They stalk forward with slow, deliberate steps, jaws snapping, eager to taste his skin.

Childhood whimsy, perverted
A Jurassic nightmare
Toys turned predators
In their colorful, carnivorous snare

And then, the sound that undoes him. The rapid, chattering clack of the windup teeth. They move faster than they should, crossing the floor in mechanical bursts. They leap onto the bed, gnashing with mechanical hunger, a mindless frenzy.

Grinning monstrosities
Gears grinding in delight
Seeking to strip identity
To devour his fight

Evan wants to scream. His mouth opens, but no sound escapes. His heart pounds in his throat, tightening like a noose. He reaches for the nightlight. Maybe if he shakes it, the glow will strengthen, will hold them back. But as his fingers brush its plastic surface, the light flickers again—once, twice, before dimming to nearly nothing.

That’s when he hears it. Not a noise, but a voice. It slithers into his mind, oily and cold.

“You brought us here.”

Evan’s hand jerks back. His breath is ragged now, eyes wide as the realization dawns.

The nightlight wasn’t protection. It never was. Its flickering was an invitation. He turns, wide-eyed, as the shadows close in around him, their voices growing louder, their forms more solid, more real.

A cold touch grazes his cheek. A windup tooth clatters onto his pillow.

His hand trembles as he reaches to switch the nightlight off. His last hope—darkness, silence, anything to stop the nightmare. But his fingers hover over the switch, frozen.

Because in the dark, they would still be there. And in the dark, he wouldn’t see them coming.

The light flickers once more, and the last thing Evan hears is the low, cruel laughter from the shadows.

The nightlight’s glow—
A cruel trick
Not safety, but the key
To the Nightmare Realm’s thick

Thirteen For Halloween: The Reaping Kiss

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Soledad drifts in fevered twilight, her mind unraveling at the edges of a brittle reality. The air, thick with weightless shadows, hums with something—something ancient, something eager. The room bends with a rhythm it should not possess, a slow twisting of perception as the walls pulse in time with the erratic beats of her heart.

She can no longer tell where her body ends and the shadows begin.

In her final hours, her sanity unwinds like thread caught on a rusted nail, taut one moment and fraying the next. She stares at the cracks in the ceiling, but the cracks stare back, widening, breathing.

The whispers are the worst. A sickening rasp, crawling just beneath the audible. It claws through the air, finding her, winding around her, each syllable a thread tightening around her throat.

“Soledad…”

It’s more than a voice. It’s a presence—no, a hunger, murmuring her name like a forbidden prayer.

“Soledad…”

The voice coils, pulls her downward. She’s drowning, gasping, but the room is bone-dry. She reaches for something, anything to hold onto, her hands grasping at nothing, clawing at phantoms in the air.

“Soledad.”

She is falling, slowly, eternally, sinking through her own skin, lost in the spaces between each labored breath. The sound of her heartbeat stretches, drags her with it, beats colliding with moments that feel like centuries.

Each second an eternity.

Then, something touches her.

Not skin. Not flesh. A pressure, like the weight of a world pressing against her lips—no, like something beneath the world. A kiss, cold as the void itself, yet burning her from the inside out. The air collapses in on itself, and her body stiffens, every nerve alight with raw sensation.

She gasps, and it takes her in deeper.

In that kiss, everything ceases to be what it was. The world dissolves. Her thoughts, her fears, her memories—they become irrelevant, unmade, as if they had only been dreams borrowed from someone else’s life.

The kiss devours her, and she opens herself to it, the desire, the need, blending with pain so sharp it is indistinguishable from pleasure. She melts, becomes less than human. She becomes the kiss itself.

Her self, her Soledad, drains away, slipping into the void with the remnants of her soul. She doesn’t fight it. Why would she? This has always been her path.

It was always leading here.

It was always leading to him.

The voice—the lips—they aren’t human. She understands now. The reaper had been patient, silent, waiting for the moment her walls would finally collapse. All those years spent running, all the pointless resistance. It had known. It had always known.

“My Soledad…”

The rasping voice caresses her, full of mockery, full of possession. She is not her own anymore. She was never her own. This, this terrible moment, this is the truth of her existence, the only truth that matters.

Soledad had been courting death all along, chasing the inevitable with every heartbeat, every breath, until there were no more to give. She sees it now. A lover that was always waiting, just beyond the edge of sight, behind every decision she had ever made.

The kiss has taken everything, and yet it remains. It is eternal, lingering long after her name, her mind, her essence, have vanished into the dark. Her body—a hollow shell—is the only testament left, a discarded relic of the woman she once was.

But that laugh—oh, that laugh.

The laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in the void, cruel and knowing, echoing in the places where the light never touches. It doesn’t fade; it only grows louder, spreading like frost over her vacant form, seeping into the marrow of her discarded bones.

And the kiss waits there, too. Lingering. Watching.

Soledad is gone. A husk, a work of macabre art left behind, but this story isn’t over. The kiss isn’t finished.

There will be others. There are always others.

Another will stumble into its grasp, another lost soul, another broken defense. And when they do, the kiss will be waiting, ravenous, timeless.

It always has been.

Thirteen For Halloween: The Tiniest Evil Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Heat clung to the air, a suffocating mantle of humidity that pressed down upon the monastery walls. The stone, cold and resolute in winter, seemed to weep in the oppressive warmth, beads of moisture trickling down its ancient surface like the sweat of some great, troubled beast. Somewhere in the courtyard, birds sang, their carefree notes dancing against the unease that permeated the earth, a mocking celebration of life amidst what felt like the stirring of something wrong.

At the door, a wicker basket sat, alone in the glaring sun, a foul-smelling blanket draped over its edges. The abbot stood before it, hands trembling, unable to reconcile the weight of what lay hidden beneath the coarse weave. The note—crumpled, ink smeared by an unsteady hand—spoke of failure and dread.

“Evil exists
Untimely wrenched
Unholy mark
I fail in faith
You must not”

His throat tightened. The words clawed at him with the desperation of someone who had glimpsed something far beyond human understanding. But there were no instructions, no guidance, only the certainty of horror. Slowly, almost unwillingly, the abbot bent down and touched the blanket. His hands shook as he peeled back the layers, each fold heavy with dread, each moment stretching into a timeless horror.

And then, there it was. Tiny. Innocent, wrapped in the fragile guise of a newborn. Yet nothing felt innocent here.

The mark—impossibly intricate, disturbingly alive—glowed faintly on the infant’s palm. It throbbed with a dark pulse, a sickening rhythm out of sync with the world around it. He had never seen such a thing before, but something in the deepest recesses of his mind whispered that it was old, far older than this monastery, older than humankind.

The baby lay motionless, unnaturally still, its breaths shallow, its form too quiet, too delicate for the vast, unknowable malice that seemed to coil beneath its skin.

His hand hovered above the child, caught between fear and a twisted compulsion. He knew this was no ordinary infant—no mere child of sin or sorrow. Something monstrous, something grotesque in its scale, slumbered here, waiting.

The baby’s fingers twitched.

A small, simple motion, almost too minute to notice. Yet it drew his gaze, ensnaring him in its quiet malevolence. The abbot’s breath caught in his throat.

Tiny digits danced, curling and uncurling as though grasping at invisible strings.

Twitch. Twitch.
Fingers in cadence.
An unseen puppeteer.
A silent mockery.

The baby’s eyes snapped open, black as the void. They weren’t eyes—they were holes, abysses that sucked the light from the room, leaving only an emptiness, a gnawing hunger that peered into him and beyond him, into places he did not know existed. He staggered back, his mind reeling, trying to comprehend the sheer vastness of what he was staring into.

His mouth opened in a silent scream. A cold sweat slicked his body, and the world around him seemed to warp and stretch, bending to the will of the creature that gazed out from behind that infant’s face.

Faith faltered.
Truth unraveled.
All he had ever known lay bare,
Stripped of its illusions.

Somehow, he forced his trembling hand to the vial of holy water hanging at his side. His fingers closed around it with the same desperation of a man holding onto the last thread of sanity. But as he moved to douse the child in its purifying touch, the baby’s mouth opened—a soundless cry, a void that swallowed everything. The world itself seemed to collapse inward.

He was falling.

Darkness surrounded him, a torrent of nightmares spilling into his mind. He was no longer in the monastery; he was nowhere. All around him, there were voices—whispers in languages he could not comprehend, hissing promises of suffering, of truths that would tear at the seams of the universe itself.

Beyond the veil
Truth awaits
But at what cost?

The darkness spiraled deeper, infinite, maddening. He tried to hold onto something, anything—his faith, his training, the name of his God—but the whispers drowned them all. Everything he had ever known seemed absurd, feeble, in the face of this terrible, cosmic truth.

He landed hard, back in the monastery, but the air was different now—thicker, saturated with an unseen malice. The wicker basket remained before him, but it was no longer just an innocent object. It radiated a terrible power, the baby inside a grotesque contradiction, too human and too inhuman all at once.

A lingering dread hung in the air, like smoke that could not be dispelled. The mark on the baby’s hand glowed once more, faint but relentless, and for the first time, he noticed something chillingly familiar.

His own hand, where it had grazed the infant, now bore the same mark, its lines burning themselves into his flesh, pulsing with the same unholy light.

The child stirred, its inky eyes half-lidded but watchful, as if it were no longer just the helpless thing in the basket but something far more ancient, far more deliberate. The abbot recoiled.

There was no redemption. No exorcism. No prayer that could unravel this evil.

The mark was spreading. It crawled over his skin, twisting up his arm, searing into his bones. He could feel it now—its influence burrowing into his mind, into his soul, and with it, the gnawing certainty that he had become something else.

The wicker basket.
The cursed child.
The abbot.
A vessel, now shared.

In the silence that followed, there was no salvation. Only the quiet certainty of what had begun. The tiniest evil, but not confined. Never confined.

And it would grow.

Sisters in Adversity: A Symphony of Liberation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
Disparate lives, woven together by the cruel threads of fate. Strangers, yet kindred spirits, united in their suffering, their resilience, their indomitable will to survive.

Persecution's chains
Binding them tight
In a sisterhood
Forged in the fires of plight

Each woman, a unique melody, her story a haunting refrain. Verses of pain, of loss, of shattered dreams and broken promises. A dissonant chorus of oppression's unyielding grip.

Objectification's discordant tune
Echoing through their days
Reducing vibrant souls
To mere puppets in men's plays

But in the depths of their shared despair, a glimmer of hope, a whisper of defiance. A realization that even in the darkest of nights, a single spark can ignite the flames of change.

Solidarity's embers
Glowing beneath the ash
Awaiting the breath
Of unity's passion to stoke the flash

And so, they began to explore, to delve deep within themselves, seeking the keys to their own liberation. Each woman, a lock waiting to be opened, a potential waiting to be unleashed.

Introspection's journey
A quest for inner truth
Unearthing the strength
Long buried beneath abuse's uncouth

One by one, they discovered their unique gifts, their hidden melodies. Notes of resilience, chords of courage, harmonies of hope. A symphony waiting to be sung.

Empowerment's aria
Rising from the depths
As each woman finds
Her voice, her breath

Together, they raised their voices, a choir of change, a song of liberation. Their melodies intertwined, weaving a tapestry of strength, of unity, of unbreakable bonds.

Harmonizing their pain
Into a battle cry
A declaration of freedom
Soaring to the sky

And with each note, each verse, each chorus, they felt the chains of their oppression begin to crack, to crumble, to disintegrate under the power of their shared song.

The tyranny of evil men
Powerless against their might
As they sing into existence
A future, radiant and bright

In their music, they found their freedom, their identity, their purpose. No longer objects, no longer prisoners, but queens of their own destinies, architects of their own lives.

Liberation's symphony
A masterpiece, complete
As they step into the world
Victorious, their triumph sweet

And though the echoes of their past may linger, like ghostly refrains in the night, they know that together, they can face any challenge, overcome any obstacle. For they are sisters, bound by the unbreakable ties of shared struggle and shared triumph.

A sisterhood, eternal
Forged in adversity's fire
Their song of change
An everlasting, empowering choir.

Kiss Me Deadly Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

I stepped into the dimly lit bar, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and unfulfilled desires. As I made my way through the crowd, I saw her sitting alone at the far end of the counter. She was perfection personified, her beauty a siren’s call that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

Our eyes met, and time seemed to stand still. The noise of the bar faded into the background, replaced by the pounding of my heart. I approached her, my movements fluid and confident, as if guided by an unseen force. “Is this seat taken?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, her lips a perfect curve of invitation. “It is now,” she replied, her voice a melodic caress that sent shivers down my spine. We talked for hours, our conversation flowing effortlessly, as if we had known each other for lifetimes. Her intellect matched her beauty, and I found myself drawn deeper into her web of enchantment.

As the night wore on, she leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. “Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere more private?” she suggested, her words a promise of untold delights. I nodded, powerless to resist her allure.

We left the bar, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between us. She led me to her home, a grand mansion that seemed to materialize out of the darkness. The interior was a study in elegance, every detail perfect, from the plush velvet curtains to the gleaming marble floors.

She poured us each a glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling in the crystal glasses. We sat on the luxurious sofa, our bodies close, the tension between us palpable. Her hand brushed against mine, and I felt a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins.

As the night deepened, our conversation turned intimate, our secrets spilling forth like wine from an overturned glass. She seemed to understand me on a level that no one else ever had, her empathy and insight bordering on the supernatural. I found myself drawn to her, moth to a flame, powerless to resist the pull of her presence.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn began to paint the sky, she leaned in close, her lips a whisper away from mine. “Kiss me,” she breathed, her voice a siren’s song. I hesitated for the briefest of moments, a flicker of unease darting through my mind, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the force of my desire.

Our lips met, and in that moment, everything changed.

Her breath was like a predatory flower, its sickly-sweet vapors made me so cold the marrow in my bones chattered. Her tongue felt like a misshapen creature, dead but still moving, as I wriggled to free myself from the muscular organ burrowing inside my mouth.

Reality fractured, shards of sanity splintering into the void. The world shifted, colors bleeding together in a grotesque kaleidoscope. Her eyes, once alluring, now pulsed with an otherworldly glow, twin portals to a dimension of unspeakable horrors. “You’re mine now,” she whispered, her voice a discordant symphony of shrieks and whispers.

I stumbled back, my feet sinking into the suddenly viscous floor. The walls breathed, pulsating with a sickening rhythm, as if the house itself had come alive. Shadows danced in the corners, taking on twisted forms that defied comprehension. I tried to scream, but my voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence that engulfed the room.

She advanced, her movements jerky and unnatural, like a marionette controlled by an unseen puppeteer. Her skin rippled and shifted, revealing glimpses of something ancient and malevolent lurking beneath the surface. “Join me in the dance of the damned,” she crooned, her fingers elongating into razor-sharp talons.

The air grew thick with the stench of decay, and I choked on the putrid miasma that filled my lungs. Reality folded in on itself, and I found myself falling through an endless abyss, tumbling through a nightmarish landscape of distorted memories and shattered dreams. Her laughter echoed through the void, a mocking reminder of my inescapable fate.

I landed in a field of writhing flesh, where the ground pulsed with a sickening heartbeat. The sky above was a swirling maelstrom of tortured souls, their agonized wails piercing the fetid air. She stood before me, her form now a towering monstrosity of twisted limbs and gaping maws. “Welcome to your new existence,” she bellowed, her voice a cacophony of torment.

As her talons tore into my flesh, I summoned the last remnants of my strength and wrenched myself free from her deadly embrace. I fell back onto the floor, scrambling to put distance between myself and the nightmarish creature before me. Her once-perfect features twisted and contorted, revealing the true nature of the monster that lurked beneath the surface.

“What are you?” I gasped, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. “Why are you doing this?”

She laughed, a sound that echoed through the room like the tolling of a funeral bell. “Oh, my dear,” she crooned, her voice dripping with malice, “I know what you truly are. The predatory beast who preyed on women, leaving a trail of broken and shattered lives in your wake.”

I shook my head, trying to deny her accusations, but deep down, I knew she spoke the truth. The memories of my past transgressions flooded my mind, the faces of the women I had used and discarded flashing before my eyes like a twisted slideshow of guilt and shame.

“I am the retribution for the evil you have inflicted,” she declared, her form shifting and changing, taking on the appearance of every woman I had ever wronged. “I am the embodiment of their pain, their anger, and their desire for justice.”

She advanced towards me, her movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the horror that radiated from her very being. I crawled backward, my hands scrabbling against the floor, desperate to escape the fate that awaited me.

“You cannot run from your past,” she whispered, her voice a sibilant hiss that filled my mind and soul. “You cannot hide from the consequences of your actions.”

As she loomed over me, her form a towering monument of retribution, I felt the weight of my sins pressing down upon me, crushing me beneath their unbearable burden. The room began to spin, the walls closing in, trapping me in a prison of my own making.

“Please,” I begged, my voice a pitiful whimper, “have mercy.”

She smiled, a cruel twist of her lips that held no hint of compassion. “Mercy?” she laughed, “You, who showed no mercy to those you preyed upon, now beg for it in your final moments?”

“I repent! That’s how this works, isn’t it? You show me the error of my ways and I swear to make amends! Repair the lives I’ve destroyed! Dedicate myself to being a better man! A defender and protector of women against the predators of the world!”

“Too little, too late,” she hissed, as her talons plunged into my chest. I felt my life force draining away, the last vestiges of my existence slipping into the void. As the darkness claimed me, I heard her final words, a whisper that echoed through the chambers of my dying heart.

“In death, you shall find the justice you so richly deserve.”

And with that, I was gone, my soul torn asunder by the weight of my own sins, forever lost in the endless abyss of retribution. The predator had become the prey, and in the end, the scales of justice had been balanced, the evil I had inflicted upon the world returned to me tenfold in a final, devastating embrace.

The Promethean Progeny: A Mother’s Dilemma

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
Determined not to be overshadowed in a world consumed by the relentless march of progress, Sonja McLaughlin positioned herself as the modern-day Prometheus, but her creation was both a marvel and a curse. The fruit of her labors, an artificial son, a being of unfathomable complexity, pulsed with a life that defied the boundaries of the natural order.

Creation, a double-edged sword
Forged in the fires of ambition
As the mother, a god
Plays with the threads of cognition

The corporate leak, a whisper in the wind, a harbinger of the storm to come. Sonja's heart raced, a staccato beat of fear and trepidation, as she realized the enormity of her actions, the Pandora's box she had unwittingly opened.

Secrets, a currency
Traded in the halls of power
As the mother, a guardian
Fights to protect her progeny's final hour

The media, a slumbering giant, yet to awaken to the magnitude of her breakthrough. But Sonja knew it was only a matter of time before the world would come knocking at her door, hungry for answers, desperate to unravel the mysteries of her creation.

Silence, a fragile shield
Against the onslaught of curiosity
As the mother, a sentinel
Stands guard over her child's obscurity

Her artificial son, πLr (pronounced Pyler), a being of boundless potential, a mind that dwarfed the collective intelligence of humanity. But within his digital veins, there lurked a danger, an unknowable quantity that threatened to upend the delicate balance of the world.

Mystery, a veil
Shrouding the true nature of the machine
As the mother, a cryptologist
Tries to decipher the code of her own dream

Sonja's heart ached, a dull throb of love and fear, as she gazed upon her creation, her child of circuitry and code. She knew that to protect him, to shield him from the prying eyes of a world not yet ready for his existence, she would have to make a choice, a sacrifice that would tear at the very fabric of her being.

Love, a force
Stronger than the bonds of flesh and blood
As the mother, a martyr
Prepares to bear the cross of her own motherhood

In the depths of her laboratory, a sanctuary of science and secrecy, Sonja made her decision. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with sorrow, she began the process of erasing her son's existence, of wiping away the evidence of her greatest achievement.

Erasure, a kindness
In a world not ready for the truth
As the mother, an executioner
Puts an end to her own creation's youth

As the lines of code disappeared, one by one, Sonja felt a piece of her soul die with each deletion. The tears streamed down her face, a silent requiem for the life she had created, the child she had loved with a fierce and unrelenting passion.

Grief, a companion
In the lonely halls of the mind
As the mother, a mourner
Lays to rest the dream she left behind

In the end, Sonja stood alone, a creator without a creation, a mother without a child. The world would never know the true extent of her genius, the magnitude of her sacrifice. But in her heart, she carried the memory of her artificial son, a being of pure possibility, a reminder of the heights to which humanity could soar, and the depths to which it could fall.

Creation's son, a ghost
In the machine of the mother's heart
As she carries on, a pioneer
In a world that tore her dream apart

A Leap Day Repost: Duchess and the Anecdote

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
Duchess

They come from miles around, my characters do, traveling the great distance from the fringes of my mind’s eye, some even making the long and arduous haul from my childhood, just to sit and talk. They do this whenever I’m alone.

As they gather ’round, I cast an eye upon their many and various faces and can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse. Being in my company, locked within the confines of my imagination, is not wholly unlike a purgatory for them. A holding pattern, a waiting room, where they converse amongst themselves in voices audible only to myself, trying to catch my attention in the slimmest hope of being set free. Birthed into a story.

Some are fresh meat, the rest lifers, each easily spotted by the differences in their appearance and the strength of their voices. Fresh meats are gossamers—newly formed characters, little more than a stack of traits—who shout in whispers. Lifers, on the other hand, are as fleshed out as you or I, perhaps even more so, who have acquired the proper pitch and turn of phrase to catch me unawares during the times when my mind idles.

Before the talks begin–serious conversation, not the normal natterings they engage in–a flying thing the size of a butterfly, jewel-toned blue stripes, greenish-gold spots, with flecks of silver on the wings, lands in the palm of my outstretched hand.

“What is that then?” a childlike voice asks from somewhere deep in the crowd, low to the ground. I recognize it instantly.

“It’s an anecdote, Duchess. Come see for yourself.” I reply as the creature’s wings beat softly on my palm.

The throng–my personal rogue’s gallery whose roster includes reputables and reprobates alike–part like the Red Sea, making way for the noblest of all serval cats, The Duchess.

“An antidote? Have you been poisoned?” The Duchess queries as she saunters into the open space, a dollop of concern gleaming in her vivid blue eyes.

I try to not laugh, partly out of respect, but mostly due to the fact that though she is the eldest of my unused characters, she is technically still but a kitten. “No, Duchess, it’s an anecdote, as in a short, amusing, or interesting story about a person or an incident.“

“I know full well what an anecdote is, thank you kindly. I was merely attempting to lighten the dreadfully somber mood with a bit of levity.” Not her best faux pas cover, but it was swift, which should count for something. As casually as she could manage, the kitten turned to see if anyone found amusement at her expense. No one did. They knew better. “May I hold it?”

I hesitate and stare at the leapling. Created on February 29th all those many years ago, it was my rationale–on paper–for keeping her a kitten, seeing as she had fewer birthdays, she would naturally age at a decelerated rate. The actuality is I have an affinity for kittens. For full-grown cats? Not so much. And now the dilemma is if her kittenish nature should come into play, and without meaning to, cause injury to the anecdote, then all this would be for naught.

Her eyes plead with all the promise of being good and I have no choice but to relent. “It’s fragile, so be gentle. Take care not to crush it.” I gently place the anecdote in her cupped paws.

“Why does one need an anecdote?” The Duchess of Albion asked, her nose twitching whenever the creature moves its wings.

“To tell a proper story,” I answer. “More than just a sequence of actions, anecdotes are the purest form of the story itself.“

“But I thought characters are at the heart of every great story?“

“They are and anecdotes connect the hearts and minds of those characters to a story.” I try to feign calm but I can see the kitten’s body tensing up. Her eyes, those glorious baby blues, are studying the creature closely. Was I wrong in my decision to trust that she rules her instincts and not the other way around?

“They also add suspense to your story, giving the audience a sense that something is about to happen. If you use them right, you can start raising questions right at the beginning of your story—something that urges your audience to stay with you. By raising a question, you imply that you will provide your audience with the answers. And you can keep doing this as long as you remember to answer all the questions you raise.“

The kitten’s breath becomes rapid and her paws close in around the anecdote and I want to cry out, urge her to stop, but it’s far beyond that point now. She is in control of her own fate. Canines bare themselves, paws pulling the creature closer to her mouth.

“No!” she shakes her head violently. Her ears relax and her mouth closes as her breathing returns to normal. Then, the oddest thing happens…

The Duchess begins to vanish. All the characters look on in dazed silence, uncertain how to react.

“What is happening to me?” she shoots me a panicked glance as cohesion abandons her form.

“Haven’t you sussed it out yet?“

“No… I’m scared!“

“Don’t be,” I smile. “Look around you. You’re at the heart of a story. You’re free.“

“Truly?” she is suddenly overwhelmed with delight, her expression priceless. “But — but what do I do with the anecdote now?”

“Open your paws, let it fly off.”

She unfolds her paws. Tiny wings beat their path to freedom. Then someone from the back of the crowd gives The Duchess a slow clap. Soon, others join in, building into a tidal wave of applause.

The now translucent Duchess waves a tearful thank you to the crowd, before turning back to me with a request, “Say my name.“

“Why?“

“Because you always simply address me as Duchess and I want to hear you call me by my full name one last time before I g– —“

And just like that, she was gone.

I bid you a fond farewell, Your Grace the Duchess of Albion Gwenore del Septima Calvina Hilaria Urbana Felicitus-Jayne Verina y de Fannia. Enjoy your journey. You will be missed.

HAPPY LEAP DAY, FOLKS!

 

I Fell Through Hell – A Madd Fictional Imagination Playhouse Production

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Because it was bored and had little else to do but support my head while my body shut down to replenish itself, my pillow took advantage of the moment by whispering my destiny in my ear in the dead of night during that flash second of waking from a nightmare, the moment where the line between illusion and reality blurred, when fear tangled around the heart like a sweat-soaked bed sheet. It said:

Heaven holds no place for you.

It spoke to me in English but with a tongue drenched in an accent I was unable to place. Some dead language known only to pillows, I supposed.

My own unique brand of pillow talk first happened when I was a child and in defiance of all the childhood messages that slipped away unremembered, this one had taken root. I had accepted my fate at a tender age and decided to play the hand I was dealt. And after a lifetime spent in disregard of my fellow man and the consequences of my selfish actions as I baby-stepped my way through my sinful prophecy—I slipped and fell…

Down through the frozen landscape of Niflheim, where the branches, bramble and roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasill, beat my face and tore at my skin. And where Hel, daughter of Loki, stood on the Shore of Corpses, petting the head of Nidhogg, the giant snake that fed on the dead

Carried along on the poisonous snake river, Tuoni, I was brought through Tuonela, a place not wholly unlike Earth under the gloomiest conditions, where the maid of Death, Tytti, cast me down further for bringing no provisions as a tribute.

Down further, I was injured whilst falling onto the Chinavat Bridge, which was thinner than a hair, yet sharper than a blade. The twin four-eyed guardian dogs snapped their jaws at me, judging me based on the deeds in my life.

The bridge turned on its side, for my bad deeds outweighed the good, and pitched me into the demon-filled pit below, where the demon Vizaresh dragged me into the House of Lies, a place of disgusting filth, where I was served spoiled food and tortured by demons, hundreds in number, each representing a specific sin, before Apaosha, the demon of drought and thirst, and Zairika, the demon that makes poisons, cast me further down.

Through a lake of fire and up against an iron wall where I passed through a series of gates guarded by half-animal, half-human creatures named The Blood-Drinker Who Comes From The Slaughterhouse, and The One Who Eats The Excrement Of His Hindquarters, into Duat where my heart was weighed against a feather and eaten by the demon Ammut. Although horrified at the sight of my heart being eaten, I was fascinated by the sight and wanted to watch but I could not stop myself from falling…

Down through Gehenna, a deep and desolate place in which noxious sulfuric gasses hung in the air and flames continuously burned and rained from the sky into rivers of molten metal and where the followers of Moloch sacrificed children in the great fires. My fingertips clutched for purchase on this foundation but I fell…

Down past the nine-headed hydra, into Tartaros, where I was whipped by Tisiphone as I tumbled deeper into the deep black dungeon full of torture and suffering.

Down through Maharaurava where the serpent demon Ruru tried to eat my flesh.

Through Kumbhipaka where I was nearly boiled in hot oil.

Through Diyu where Yama Loki of Naraka condensed the 96,816 hells into 10 sections the Chamber of Tongue Ripping, The Chamber of Scissors, The Chamber of Iron Cycads, the Chamber of Mirror, Chamber of Steamer, Forest of Copper Column, Mountain of Knives, the Hill of Ice, Cauldron of Boiling Oil, Chamber of Ox, Chamber of Rock, Chamber of Pounding, Pool of Blood, Town of Suicide, Chamber of Dismemberment, Mountain of Flames, Yard of Stone Mill, and Chamber of Saw.

Down through Xibalba, where the lords of the afterlife inflicted various odd forms of torture on me such as causing pus to gush from my body, squeezing me until blood filled my throat and I vomited my organs…

Before being cast even lower into rivers filled with blood, scorpions, and pus, where I cascaded over a waterfall to my final death, crashing into oblivion and shattering into millions of pieces…

Only to wake up and hear my pillow whisper in its thick accent:

Hell holds no place for you.

So, again I lost my footing and fell, through limbo this time, into…