Writing Prompt

The wind whistled through the grass As the moon cast light over the field The air was chill, autumn is in the past Winter is here, as months roll by like a wheel

It was an eerier night here in the deep Carolinas But then old folks here did not need a reminder It was a full moon you see, where vampires come out to play To strike fear in the Victorian townsfolk, ruining their night and their day

An inhuman scream pierced the night, and Devan felt his heart drop before he realized it was just the bats as they took flight from their perches in the trees. The cold winter night's air in the forest bit his cheeks, turning his skin red and painting his brows and beard in a small layer of ice. Upon further reflection, there were a thousand better ways to accomplish the task he had set out to do, and he had considered none of them before gearing up to venture into the forest at night. The tears of a pretty dark-eyed woman and a missing child was all he needed to hear to flaunt his skills as a hunter. But despite his experience with a bow and a blade, he was keenly aware that these woods were not his own. He didn't have the advantage he had there, the knowledge of every nook and cranny, every ill-placed snare, every hidden creek and fox den. To add to that, something about this forest felt...off. Every step he took made him feel like there was someone at his back, something whispering, warning him to leave, get out before it was too late.

"The longer you stay, the more danger you're in," the trees seemed to groan through their frost-covered branches.

Daven had stumbled upon his situation quite by accident. He had been selling furs alongside the Russian traders he had met in northern Moldova until one morning, he had woken to find his business partners gone, and all of his pelts. He had been lucky to find the village, and even luckier that the people there were kind enough to take him in. In these lands, strangers could be dangerous, and he couldn't help but marvel at such strange luck and hospitality. Sure there had been some suspicious looks, some whispers and glances, but so much was to be expected in these parts.

He had been enjoying some warm mead when the barkeeps daughter had burst through the door in tears, wailing about her missing son. She said he had gone into the forest to play and hadn't returned before sundown as he normally did.

Daven didn't normally consider himself to be a charitable person. The fur trading business didn't reward do-gooders much, and he was of the impression that nature had a way of choosing survivors. He was a survivor, that much was for sure. No one ever looked out for him, so he didn't look out for anyone but himself. Looking out for others got people into situations like these, cold and alone in a foreign forest with an increasing sense of dread and wrongness.

But the girl's watery eyes and warm mead he hadn't paid for make him foolish and brash. Why not? he thought to himself. Why not be the hero for once?

This was why.

He told himself he'd get to the tree the girl had told him the child liked to play at, look around quick, and then go back. If the boy wasn't there, odds were he was too lost to be found. If he was, Daven would get to play hero for the first time in his life and then move on.

Yet with every crunch of his boots across snow, the strange twisting in his gut grew stronger. The howl of the wind seemed more ominous. The whispers of the woods seemed more desperate. Daven had never been much scared of anything, but he had a hunter's sense. He knew when the land had a message, and this forest's message was clear. "Get out."

Just when he was about to listen to his sense, he came upon the tree. It was an old, twisted, dead thing in the middle of a clearing. The bark was pure white, striped of color and covered in snow. The sliver of moonlight pierced through the forest and cast a shadow that made dead branches look like arms, straining to wrap around whatever they could touch. Perhaps most shocking, small trinkets and effigies swayed in the wind, made of bones and twigs. The wood creaked in the wind and the effigies clanged together like windchimes, but the rest of the clearing was strangely silent, not even a hoot of an owl or the crackle of leaves.

At the base of the tree, a small figure was curled into a ball. Letting out a small sigh, Daven felt himself relax a little. So the boy was here. All that unease for nothing. Stepping into the clearing, he called out. "Hey. Hey, you. Your mom's worried sick about you."

No response. The form at the trunk didn't so much as twitch. Unease returning, Daven stepped closer. "I don't know your name," he said, "but your mother sent me to look for you. Said you were supposed to be home at sundown."

Still no response. Growing frustration propelled Daven forward. "Come on," he said gruffly, reaching down to put his hand on the boy's shoulder.

He pulled at his form, but the boy didn't budge. Then, slowly he turned his head and looked at Daven. He smiled.

Daven stumbled back. Black eyes and sharp teeth, a mouth of a thousand knives. The hunter fell onto his back and scrambled backwards through the snow. The boy slowly rolled over and stood to his feet, and as he did, his form seemed to grow. Bones creaked and stretched, cracking like dry branches underfoot as the figure transformed into something grotesque. Legs as long as spears, white as snow, arms gangly and thin. It was no boy at all. A wendigo.

Suddenly, the villagers' kindness seemed more stilted, more practiced. The maiden's tears seemed less genuine. No one was kind to strangers in these parts. He should've seen it before. Shouldn't have wanted to play the hero.

The wendigo tilted its head, saliva dripping from between its pointed teeth, it's mouth stuck in a perpetual grin. Despite it's inhuman smile, it's eyes looked strangely tormented. "Hungry," it croaked. "So..hungry."

Daven ran. Through the branches, blindly, he desperately searched for something, anything to save him. The trees seemed to grab at him, twigs cutting his face as he blindly barged through the thicket.

He did not run fast enough.

Just before the wendigo tore out his innards, he briefly wondered how many other would be heroes fed the forest.

One more show left. Deep breaths and it would be just fine, at least for a few songs. Tristan stepped out onto the stage and smiled after another breath.

Rayshawn looked down at his hands were the gun was tightly wrapped. Heavy and cold. Just like he would be in a few minutes. He supposed he was supposed to feel sorry, and he did... somewhat. It was just so hard. Ray has been looking forward to this day for a while. Its been only a few years for them, but countless of lifetimes for him. He was allowed a break wasn't he? He chuckled under his breath. Jean would never forgive me. That was the reason he felt sorry. One person. It's kind of ironic. How the one person that could ever make him stay can't. Oh I know how this would eat him up from the inside. Ray's thoughts were swimming. But I'm allowed. I'm allowed to rest. I allow myself to rest. A tear ran down his cheek. The last feeling he would ever feel. Not sadness. No, relief. He was so relieved. So, so thankful. Thankful that Jean wasn't here. Thankful that the cool air provided comfort. Thankful for this glorious end to the day. The gun in his and seemed to glow. "Beautiful." Ray muttered. What a quick way to go out. It was the best he could wish for. "I'm sorry Jean." The last time he would say his name. Love was important, yes, but this time it wasn't enough. To Rayshawn it won't ever be enough. And maybe the was the most horrifying thing of all.

He didn't even hear the gunshot go off as he dove into darkness.

To thee do we cry Oh poor banished children Why do thee cry at night Is the ghost of the past haunting thee again Your weeps are soft and silent But what is keeping thee awake In a tower so tall And chained to the wall Why you cry Is it the knife I have in my hand Or the fact that your life will end I’m the ghost of the past I know you want to end Let me end thy suffering You whimper at the thought But don’t utter a word You have nothing to live for But now I smile When your scream’s pierce the air I walk away No more children cowering at me I guess it’s finally time to move on

Olivia took a cautious step down the first step, one hand on the bannister, the other resting on her bump.

“Liv love come quick you’re gonna miss it!” Her mother called from the living room.

The young woman descended the stairs and trudged into the small room which was now crammed with people. Family, neighbours, everyone who wanted to see the coronation for themselves.

The Parker’s were one of only two houses on the road to have a television and Mrs. Parker made sure everyone knew it. So now they were here taking up space, suffocating the room.

Olivia made her way over to the packed sofa. It was full with her two grandmothers and teenage cousin who just rolled his eyes when he saw her approach.

She begrudgingly stood beside the sofa one hand gripping the arm of the chair to steady herself.

The Queen’s coronation began as the room waited in quiet anticipation.

A pain builds up in Olivia’s lower abdomen she grips her stomach in agony as she grunts, teeth clenched.

“Will you shut it!” Her cousin tells her with a dirty look.

“I think it’s coming!” She bends over in agony.

“No it ain’t” Mrs. Parker says in frustration “now shut your mouth we’re trying to watch.”

As The Queen walks down the aisle, Olivia feels her waters break. Fluid gushes from her body.

“Eww Liv wet herself!” Her cousin exclaims sitting back in his chair.

Mrs. Parker turns to look at her daughter, fury in her eyes.

“Oh, it’s just like you to be so selfish. You knew very well this day was important for me and you’ve gone and ruined it. Couldn’t keep your legs shut could you?”

Olivia blocked out her words she begins breathing heavily. Her heart pulsates as her vision begins blurring.

Now everyone is having a go at her, telling her how selfish she is, how she’s ruined a once in a lifetime event. The image of The Queen is ignored by the family yelling insults, but making no effort to aid Olivia through her labour.

“I need a midwife!” She exclaims to what may as well be a brick wall.

“You’re not going to ruin this for me!” Mrs. Parker growls.

The room begins to swirl around her. Her nails digging into the sofa exposing its innards as her stomach begins to feel like it’s tearing itself apart.

Because it is.

Tiny claws push through her flesh before protruding from the fabric of her dress causing the room to fall into silent disbelief.

The creature tears itself out from Olivia’s womb with her screams serving as its intro music.

It leaps from her body dragging blood out behind it as it heads straight for Mrs. Parker. It digs its claws into her throat before tearing her apart in a matter of seconds.

People try fleeing the room, but the creature is too fast. In moments the room is painted with blood and gore.

The room is silent now as the creature climbs over the corpse of the cousin before an out of it Olivia scoops it up into her arms.

The creature cuddles into its mother as she rocks it. Tears streaming down her face as she smiles with content.

She watches the television with a weak smile and doesn’t look at the creature as she whispers to it “I think I’m going to name you Elizabeth.”

The wind whipped through the town with sharp cracks, thrashing the creaky wooden doors and nearly tearing them off their hinges. Not a sound echoed through the dusty buildings as the sun reached it's peak in the sky. Horace was sitting at the bar, nursing a small bottle of beer in the corner. He was watching the townsfolk nervously hover by the windows, watching for something. "New to this town?" The bartender asked Horace with a smirk. She was cleaning a broken glass, eyeing the windows every now and then with wide eyes. Horace nodded quietly. "We're waiting for the beast to leave." "What's that?" Horace grumbled, still drinking a light hangover away. "We're not sure. All we know is to stay indoors during high noon. Even then it's a gamble on whether or not you'll-" The bartender's eyes suddenly shot to the closest window as something crashed into the building, sliding over the countertops and rolled in front of Horace. It was a horses head, torn off from its body. It's eyes stilled rolled in its skull, and Horace felt chills throughout his body when he realized it was HIS horse. The bartender grimaced. "It kills anything it sees." Horace looked away, spitting in the spittoon before standing up shakily. He grabbed his shotgun. A drunkard saw him approaching the door and tried to stop him, leaning sloppily on his shoulder. "H-hey, you can'd go out 'tere! Is dang'rous!" Horace glared at the drunkard and shoved him, pushing his way through the throng of people as they begged him to stop. As he made his way outside, the sky went dark like nighttime. Hot dust swirled around his old boots, pulling him towards the center of town. Coal-red clouds covered the sun and moved at lightning speed despite the wind being dead. Horace looked around in the darkness, struggling to see much of anything. The buildings that had once made up the town of Galeville had seemed to disappear, leaving him in an empty abyss of a dark desert. The sand seemed to burn at his heels, biting like snakes. Suddenly, an icy breath sank its cold fangs into Horace's skin, making him yelp in surprise. He whipped around, raising the gun with expert fingers, but found nothing. After taking a moment to catch his breath, Horace realized he could see his breath rising into the air. Sweat dripped down, dripping into the corners of his mouth. He swore under his breath, closing his eyes. He strained his ears, listening for anything approaching, and heard the distinct sound of a horse galloping. Horace dropped to one knee, twisting his body quickly and firing off a shot behind him, his eyes still shut tight. A faint howl rewarded his efforts, giving him a rush of adrenaline. Horace peeked an eye open to see a shimmer of a person hunched over, whining like an animal. He inspected its faint form, noting the translucent nature. "Just a common ghost." He muttered, firing off another shot, this time directly through the head. The ghost's body shuddered as the bullet went through, causing it to turn around and charge him with a final attempt at blood. The ghost wailed and screamed like a dying woman, filled with agony and pain. Though Horace was used to these types of sounds, it still sent painful shudders through his spine. He gritted his teeth and fired another shot through the heart, sending bits of ghost all across the land. He stood up, panting heavily as the clouds began to return to a normal white fluffy nature. The rest of the land was bathed in sunlight once more, and the town returned to its normal state. People ran out into the streets once they saw him, cheering happily. Horace nodded, approaching the bartender. "H-how in Gods name did you do that?" She asked, smitten by him. Horace shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. "It's what I'm paid to do, ma'am. Does this town have any horses for sale?" Horace asked, feeling a drop of cold sweat down his neck as the bartender got closer to him. She grinned, resting a freezing hand on his gun. "Anything for you, sweetheart."

In the dangerous night, Where there is one to guide thee, There lurks a strange fright, Behind the Looming Trees.

A creature none can see, Haunts the borders, A place no one can be, It’s the King’s orders.

The villagers, they dare not leave, For they stay in the comfort of the town, As they believe, They are safe in the home.

The noblemen they try, They search the libraries and the archives, For ways to scare away, The thing that threatens their lives.

But little do they know, This monster will not leave, And it soon shall deliver the Death Blow, On the village that fears the moonlit trees.

“She didn’t just steal identities, she took their faces too; here is the tale of Cindy Cypher.”

The drone began, displaying images of a smiling teen on the wall for its students.

“She was born in 2358, and from a early age grew up around Cypher Industries, most known for the ‘mind chip’, and of course, ‘face changer’.

“Her parents, Stephen and Greta Thinns, were attentive parents: we can see from birth reports and their own ‘mind chips’ that they cared very much for her.”

The image on the wall changed, showing graphs. “See the dopamine levels when interacting with family.”

The few students that were in the room took images of the screen by blinking twice.

“At the age of 17 she was involved in a gravity pod crash wherein the person next to her died. Blunt force trauma caused the ‘mind link’ to override the brain and cause their death. It is believed that seeing a death up close made her want to kill.”

“From that point on she took Cypher lessons, seemingly wanting to work in the factories that made them.”

A new image of a young boy with implanted eyes. “At 19 she would go on to kill this man, Tyler Jones. As you can see, he was outside the classroom when she said something to him in passing, making him follow her.”

“Cypher industries say that two days after this, a body was discovered in a nearby locker with flayed skin and removed face. She was not a suspect until much later.”

Three more images appeared on the screen. “Then, three more were found in the same year, in the same class as Cindy. All with missing flesh.”

A series of names and dates. “In the next five years, ten people would be found in varying places ; city sun centres, in synthetic trees, one was found inside a store.”

“Then, in 2386, she made a mistake.”

A video of a crying girl with bandages on her head. “She tried to kill me, said a load of numbers and I don’t know what happened- we- we were suddenly in the pod when I woke up to see her cutting my face off!”

“Luckily for Tiff Gubbins, the Cypher mind chip had updated, causing a reboot. Cindy Cypher, as she came to be known by news outlets, “ police images of Cindy being booked in, looking panicked flashed across the screen. “Had discovered a method that caused the mind chip to deactivate, turning victims into mindless people that didn’t know what was happening until they died from blood loss.”

More pictures of Cindy, of her neat room, of the knives under the mattress and the names on a crossed-off list that matched up to the victims.

“Police still don’t know where the faces of her victims are, or why Cindy behaved like this in police custody;” A slightly tilted chest camera shows a shocked looking Cindy talking to a police interviewer. “I’m not Cindy! I’m tiff! Tiff gubbins, chip number 35790!” The drone continued, showing images of her in court, wailing. “She belived she turned into her victims once she had killed them, and behaved in this way until she grew violent and had to be sedated.”

“Cindy Cypher was sentenced to 6 lifetimes in Rixby penetatary, where she is still under her illusions. She became the most prominent killer of the 2300’s, and Cypher industries have updated their Mind chips to a point that this can never happen again.”

In the back of the class sat a girl who silently smiled under the face she was wearing. It was difficult to remove her face and swap them around; but so worth it to be free to kill again. “Let’s see how much the Mind chip has improved…” she silently mused, looking around the classroom for her next victim.

As the sun dips lower to kiss the horizon a clear sound rings in the early autumn air. The sound is echoed by the varying tones of a multitude of bells swinging in their scattered towers standing sentinel across the land claimed by the castle town.

Although the work is not yet finished, those toiling in the fields and orchards immediately gather their tools and scurry towards the single open gate in the town’s outer wall. This close to dusk the other two gates embedded into the wall have already been sealed, the portcullis lowered and the drawbridge drawn up.

The bells continue to ring on, calling all stragglers to hurry inside the thick stone walls. Those on foot quicken their pace, not stopping if an item dropped. Those guiding the mules hitched to the smalls wagons snap the reins nervously, urging the plodding animals onwards.

The horses carrying riders clothed in leather and metal are more sensitive to the changes in the air. They paw at the ground, shifting and tensing their lean muscles, ready to run. The soldiers and commanding knights tighten their hold on the reins and check their bows and long swords while keeping their gaze fixed outwards, away from the walls and across the fields to the distant hills beyond.

The furthest bells, the two closest to the hills, fall silent. Moments later three more cease to ring and change is noticeable to all but the deaf or dead. The armed men begin their retreat. All should be behind the walls now. They turn and gallop to the gate, their steeds deftly avoiding abandoned tools.

One soldier spies someone fifty yards from the slowly closing gate. A boy struggle to unhitch his mule from a broken cart. The soldier alters his course and shouts to the foolish boy.

The boy lifts his head and widens his eyes seeing the horse and rider bearing down on him. With out slowing, the soldier catches the boy by his collar, lifting him to sit in front of him the saddle. The soldier snaps they reins and steers the horse back to the gate.

The bell ahead of them goes silent though it is still swinging in its perch. They are running out of time. The soldier urges the horse faster, faster. Pushing it past its limits. It is a race to the gate.

No.

It is a chase and they are the prey.

They soldier does not dare look behind as he pushes forward. The gate is almost closed, the drawbridge beginning to rise. It is only because the lookout sees them that the portcullis has not been lowered, but that cannot be delayed much longer.

The horse leaps the gap, barreling through gate doors and the soldier barely registers the pain of his legs shoulders scrape against the stone.

The gates doors are sealed behind him and he hears the the chains rattle as the portcullis is swiftly lowered. The soldier and the boy dismount. The soldier checks the boy and seeing he is fine, if breathing heavily, the soldier opens his mouth to scold him when the last bell, the one that hangs on top the wall above the gate silences.

The soldier, the boy, and everyone still lingering by the gate freeze as if by a spell until, as one, they turn towards the gate. Waiting. Listening.

And moments later, howling winds batter against the thick stone walls and inhuman screams fill the air.