Forums → Art, Music, and Writing → Legion's Literary Legacies
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Hello, everyone! This thread is where I'll be putting my literature. Mostly horror (perhaps sci-fi) short stories, and I might eventually get into Latin poetry. I won't be able to update often, but I do work. Either way, we should get some good short stories in here.
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*Sigh* I knew I'd forget. All of my work would be able to be seen on my deviantART account as well.
Either way, to get this started, I'd like to present you with The Shadow Man!
âMommy! Help!â Julia rose from her bed, and crossed the hall to Billy's bedroom. She opened the door, and found her son sitting up in his bed with the covers pulled around him, eyes stricken with fright.
âWhatâs the matter, Billy? Did you have that dream again?â She made her way over to his bed.
âUh-huh. He was there again.â
âWell, remember: Heâs not real. It was just in your head. Besides, Daddy and I are always just down the hall. You okay now?â
âYeah, Iâm fine...â
âGood. Now try to get some sleep, okay?â
Julia made her way back up the hallway, and returned to her bed. Her husband rolled over and asked, âHe had that nightmare, right?â
âWhat else would it be? George, I donât know what weâre going to do. Poor boyâs scared to go to sleep.â
âI know, I know. Where do you think heâd get an idea like that, anyway? I mean, heâs never even seen a horror movie.â
âI have no clue. Iâm really worried about him.â
âHey, donât think Iâm not. For now, letâs try to get some sleep tonight.â
âYouâre right. Thereâs nothing we can do right now anyway. Goodnight, George.â
Billyâs parents rolled over, and went to sleep again that night. You see, in this little house at the intersection of Yonge and Finch, Billy has been plagued by a nightmare. It all started around the time of a particularly loud thunder storm. This same nightmare has been repeating itself for nearly two years every couple of weeks.
Donât think he wasnât taken to therapy. While there, he claimed that in the dream, he was chased by some sort of âshadow man.â He never went into specifics, but it was right on the boyâs face that he was terrified. The therapist, a Mr. Jones, simply shrugged it off as displaced fear. âTrauma from the storm,â as he put it. Either way, the boy would continue to wake up stricken with fear, with seemingly no hope.
About two weeks later, a massive thunderstorm rolled in during midnight. One of the largest in a few years, in fact. Billyâs parents were awoken by their sonâs familiar nightmarish outcry. George started to get up and said, âIâll take care of it this time.â As he began to make the walk down the hallway to his sonâs room, he heard the shattering of glass. This time, they knew something really was wrong. George and Julia both bolted towards Billyâs room. It was then that they realized he had stopped screaming. When George finally made his way to the door and opened it, they were horrified by what they saw. George paled and vomited, and Julia could only faint from fright.
And so they found the corpse of little Billy Campbell, his body laid out on his bed, his middle torn asunder, and his mangled expression frozen in stark terror. The police investigation found not the slightest trace of evidence. As well, the glass in the window broken out, like someone was already in there. But there couldnât have been; every single door and window had been locked. The coroner certainly had a devil of a time with this one, too. Billyâs abdomen was ripped open, but it hardly seemed like it could have been by a blade. All the wounds on his body were layered in some sort of low-voltage electrical burns. It took an entire month before his body was released.
Sure, there was a funeral. Closed casket? If you have to ask, youâre out of your mind. The mortician could barely do anything to fix him. George was first to propose he be buried at St. Michaelâs Cemetery, his final resting place. It was about five miles south of their home, by any rate. The ceremony was short and simple. The headstone was likewise, and quoted an excerpt from the Beatitudes: âWilliam Lee Campbell â" September 12, 1987 - August 27, 1994 â" Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.â
But thatâs not where our story ends. Two months after Billyâs death, Julia had a nightmare of her own around eleven oâclock. In this dream, she saw the shadow man with her own eyes. It was hardly a man at all, rising to nearly seven feet and hideously stooped over. It seemed to be fashioned from pure darkness, and noxious fumes rose from its blackened form as if it was ablaze. Its fingers and toes ended in piercing talons. Aside from its incandescent vermilion eyes and grinning saw-toothed maw, it bore no face.
She awoke with her heart pounding and her body drenched with sweat. A deep foreboding flooded her mind. She shook her husband awake while whispering his name. George turned over onto his side and quietly muttered, âJulia? Whatâs wrong?â
âGeorge, itâs horrible! I just had Billyâs dream. You have no idea how real it seemed!â She repeated the dream to him, leaving out no detail.
His eyes shot open, then slowly lowered again. âI think I know whatâs going on, here. Billy died just two months ago, and thatâs still hanging around in your head. You were his mother, so naturally, you were very close to him. Now that heâs gone, youâre worried that the same thing might happen again. Remember, it was just a nightmare he had. It means nothing.â
âWell, I suppose youâre right⦠But you have no idea how real it was. I could smell it!â
âThatâs just because the dreams seemed so significant. Listen to me: We have no idea what happened to him, but thereâs no possibility on Godâs earth that some sort of dream monster killed him. Now, are you okay?â
âYeah, Iâm okay. I know itâs ridiculous, and Iâll try to forget about it.â
âGood. Now letâs get some sleep.â
They both rolled over to sleep again, but Julia wasnât able to fall asleep that night. That same sense of foreboding held her mind in its grasp. Could it have been a warning, or was it just her mind getting the best of her? There was no way for her to find out. Well, that was what she thought, at any rate. As the dire barrage of thunder gradually filled the air, that same dread continued to creep through her mind.
And on that night, Juliaâs final cry pierced the midnight sky.
And there we go. I'm terribly sorry, everyone. I thought I made precautions against this. (Won't AG's preview feature be wonderful?) Here's my last try:
"Mommy! Help!" Julia rose from her bed, and crossed the hall to Billy's bedroom. She opened the door, and found her son sitting up in his bed with the covers pulled around him, eyes stricken with fright.
"What's the matter, Billy? Did you have that dream again?" She made her way over to his bed.
"Uh-huh. He was there again."
"Well, remember: Heâs not real. It was just in your head. Besides, Daddy and I are always just down the hall. You okay now?"
"Yeah, I'm fine..."
"Good. Now try to get some sleep, okay?"
Julia made her way back up the hallway, and returned to her bed. Her husband rolled over and asked, "He had that nightmare, right?"
"What else would it be? George, I donât know what weâre going to do. Poor boy's scared to go to sleep."
"I know, I know. Where do you think he'd get an idea like that, anyway? I mean, he's never even seen a horror movie."
"I have no clue. I'm really worried about him."
"Hey, don't think I'm not. For now, let's try to get some sleep tonight."
"You're right. There's nothing we can do right now anyway. Goodnight, George."
Billy's parents rolled over, and went to sleep again that night. You see, in this little house at the intersection of Yonge and Finch, Billy has been plagued by a nightmare. It all started around the time of a particularly loud thunder storm. This same nightmare has been repeating itself for nearly two years every couple of weeks.
Don't think he wasn't taken to therapy. While there, he claimed that in the dream, he was chased by some sort of "shadow man." He never went into specifics, but it was right on the boy's face that he was terrified. The therapist, a Mr. Jones, simply shrugged it off as displaced fear. "Trauma from the storm," as he put it. Either way, the boy would continue to wake up stricken with fear, with seemingly no hope.
About two weeks later, a massive thunderstorm rolled in during midnight. One of the largest in a few years, in fact. Billy's parents were awoken by their son's familiar nightmarish outcry. George started to get up and said, "I'll take care of it this time." As he began to make the walk down the hallway to his sonâs room, he heard the shattering of glass. This time, they knew something really was wrong. George and Julia both bolted towards Billy's room. It was then that they realized he had stopped screaming. When George finally made his way to the door and opened it, they were horrified by what they saw. George paled and vomited, and Julia could only faint from fright.
And so they found the corpse of little Billy Campbell, his body laid out on his bed, his middle torn asunder, and his mangled expression frozen in stark terror. The police investigation found not the slightest trace of evidence. As well, the glass in the window was broken out, like someone was already in there. But there couldn't have been; every single door and window had been locked. The coroner certainly had a devil of a time with this one, too. Billy's abdomen was ripped open, but it hardly seemed like it could have been by a blade. All the wounds on his body were layered in some sort of low-voltage electrical burns. It took an entire month before his body was released.
Sure, there was a funeral. Closed casket? If you have to ask, youâre out of your mind. The mortician could barely do anything to fix him. George was first to propose he be buried at St. Michael's Cemetery, his final resting place. It was about five miles south of their home, by any rate. The ceremony was short and simple. The headstone was likewise, and quoted an excerpt from the Beatitudes: "William Lee Campbell â" September 12, 1987 - August 27, 1994 â" Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God."
But that's not where our story ends. Two months after Billy's death, Julia had a nightmare of her own around eleven o'clock. In this dream, she saw the shadow man with her own eyes. It was hardly a man at all, rising to nearly seven feet and hideously stooped over. It seemed to be fashioned from pure darkness, and noxious fumes rose from its blackened form as if it was ablaze. Its fingers and toes ended in piercing talons. Aside from its incandescent vermilion eyes and grinning saw-toothed maw, it bore no face.
She awoke with her heart pounding and her body drenched with sweat. A deep foreboding flooded her mind. She shook her husband awake while whispering his name. George turned over onto his side and quietly muttered, "Julia? What's wrong?"
"George, it's horrible! I think I just had Billy's dream. You have no idea how real it seemed!" She repeated the dream to him, leaving out no detail.
His eyes shot open, then slowly lowered again. "I think I know what's going on, here. Billy died just two months ago, and that's still hanging around in your head. You were his mother, so naturally, you were very close to him. Now that he's gone, you're worried that the same thing might happen again. Remember, it was just a nightmare he had. It means nothing."
"Well, I suppose you're right⦠But you have no idea how real it was. I could smell it!"
"That's just because the dreams seemed so significant. Listen to me: We have no idea what happened to him, but thereâs no possibility on God's earth that some sort of dream monster killed him. Now, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. I know it's ridiculous, and I'll try to forget about it."
"Good. Now let's get some sleep."
They both rolled over to sleep again, but Julia wasn't able to fall asleep that night. That same sense of foreboding held her mind in its grasp. Could it have been a warning, or was it just her mind getting the best of her? There was no way for her to find out. Well, that was what she thought, at any rate. As the dire barrage of thunder gradually filled the air, that same dread continued to creep through her mind.
And on that night, Juliaâs final cry pierced the midnight sky.
It reminds me of Nightmare on Elm street, with the whole being killed in your dreams thing, its good.
Sweet. Awesome horror. I have to say, it's up there with Freddie, Chucky, and Jason. (If you don't know who those are, don't look it up.)
It reminds me of Nightmare on Elm street, with the whole being killed in your dreams thing, its good.
Heh, thank you. I was thinking of Freddy Krueger while I was planning this. Ironically, never watched any Nightmare on Elm Street movies.
Sweet. Awesome horror. I have to say, it's up there with Freddie, Chucky, and Jason. (If you don't know who those are, don't look it up.)
Thank you, man. And yes, I'm familiar with them, lol. Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street, Chucky from Child's Play, and Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th. That's a major compliment for me, man. I appreciate it.
Fun fact: I'm basing most of the locations mentioned in my short stories on real places in/around Toronto. There are two roads named Yonge and Finch intersecting, and there is a St. Michael's Cemetery.
I've also decided on the next story to write. Think of a karma overload. Happy horror!
Thank you, man. And yes, I'm familiar with them, lol. Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare on Elm Street, Chucky from Child's Play, and Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th. That's a major compliment for me, man. I appreciate it.Ha ha. Happy horror to you to. By the way, have you ever been freaked out by Chucky's face? I can't really watch his movies anymore. There's just something with it...
Fun fact: I'm basing most of the locations mentioned in my short stories on real places in/around Toronto. There are two roads named Yonge and Finch intersecting, and there is a St. Michael's Cemetery.
I've also decided on the next story to write. Think of a karma overload. Happy horror!
Hey man a great story, I'm looking forward to your next one.
Ha ha. Happy horror to you to. By the way, have you ever been freaked out by Chucky's face? I can't really watch his movies anymore. There's just something with it...
I think the Chucky films and Chucky himself are rather funny!
Ha ha. Happy horror to you to. By the way, have you ever been freaked out by Chucky's face? I can't really watch his movies anymore. There's just something with it...
I've always thought it looked kinda stupid. Like Chucky had a birth defect, lol.
Hey man a great story, I'm looking forward to your next one.
Thank you, dude. You don't have to wait long!
Now, here's a little tale of karma I like to call The Sulphur Dive:
The car sped down Nelson Street before finally parallel parking on the side of the road. It was a 1981 Pontiac Turbo Trans-Am with a coat of chipped black paint, and the stereo was blaring Cypress Hill. The protagonist of our story, Donny, exited the car, and crossed the street to enter Harrison's Mini-Mart. I would have called the star of our little story the hero, had he been nearly anyone else. It's best if you learn a little about Donny before we continue.
You see, he is far from being Nelson Mandela. His criminal record is longer than most resumes, with two counts of drug possession, one count of sexual assault, three counts of aggravated assault, and one count of motor vehicle theft, among others. Mind you, these are only crimes Donny has been convicted of. Bar fights are nearly a hobby, and his left arm is riddled with injection marks.
Now, back to our tale. As Donny passed through the automatic doors, he saw a middle-aged man with graying hair behind the counter, a teenage boy, perhaps sixteen, sweeping the floors, and a young boy sitting next to the door, drawing. He went over to the fridge, and grabbed a six-pack of Molson Canadian. Ambling over to the counter, and mumbled, "Pack of Belmonts." The man smiled, but looked almost disheartened as he turned around and grabbed the cigarettes. As he rang up Donny's purchases, he said, "There are better ways."
Donny looked up and said, "What?"
"There are better ways to spend your life."
His voice became sterner. "Look, just because I'm buying beer and cigarettes, that gives you no right to judge me. There's no reason to say you're any better than I am."
"I don't mean it that way. But I know your life story."
He slammed his fist down on the counter, and brought his voice to a shout. "You know nothing about me! Now, shut up and tell me what I have to pay."
His face bore a deep concern, and said, "Please, be careful! If you don't, They will get you!"
Donny reached over the counter, and pulled the man over to him by the collar. "The cops have got me plenty of times already! I don't need to listen to your Jesus crap, or whatever you're bloody trying to preach! Now, tell me what I have to pay for the ruddy Molson and Belmonts." Halfway through this outburst, the boy sweeping the floor dropped his broom and looked on in worry. Donny slowly released the man, who looked to the boy and said, "It's all right, Michael." He turned back to Donny with an expression of shame, and said, "Seventeen eighty-seven." Donny handed him the money, placed the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, and took the six-pack in his left hand.
As he went to leave, the younger boy held up a drawing to him, and smiled. Donny examined it, and was shocked by what he saw. It was a crude depiction of some sort of horned person beating a man engulfed in flames. At the top of the drawing, "DONNY" was scrawled in jagged letters.
With his mouth agape, he quietly said, "Is this some sort of joke?" His expression changed to that of rage, and reached into his right pocket. He pulled out a small knife, pointed it at the boy, and yelled near the top of his lungs, "How do you know my name? You think this is funny?"
He wheeled around, and saw the man was surprised by the scene before him. Donny pointed the knife at him, and firmly said, "I don't know what's wrong with you freaks, but you should all be shot." Still aiming the knife at the man, he stumbled backwards out of the store.
Turning around, he ran towards his car. Opening the door, he placed the knife back in his pocket and dropped the six-pack on the passenger seat. Sitting down in the Pontiac with his eyes wide open, he started it and sped down the road, turning right onto Duncan Street. About a third down the road, he slammed the brakes, and got out of the car. He crossed the street into a short alley, and reached for the pack of cigarettes.
Unwrapping a new pack, he took a cigarette out. Placing it in his mouth, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out a lighter. Just then, he noticed the inside of the pack's lid. In blood red letters were printed the words, "IT'S NOT TOO LATE. YET."
Upon seeing this, he leapt back and launched the pack down the alley. His mouth started shaking, and he leant back against the alley wall. He slowly slid down, and began muttering to himself, "I know. It's just a joke. Some stupid, elaborate prank. Yeah, the schmuck had that pack prepared. Printed it in, then wrapped it up again. Knew which one it was. Besides, probably saw me before, anyway." He brought the lighter to the cigarette, lit it, and began smoking. "That's how he knew my name. Overheard someone talking to me. But how did he know I'd buy a Belmont? ...Of course, he saw me smoking one, too. That's how he knew. Big setup."
Donny placed his head into his hands, and sat there smoking his cigarette. Perhaps a minute later, he felt an earthquake beneath him. He jumped up, and came to the realization that nothing else around him was moving in the slightest. Before he could move out of the way, a wide fissure began opening directly between his feet. This offset his balance, and he began to fall into the pit, but managed to grab a side with both hands. The shaking still going on, smoke rose from the pit, and he heard a low noise. Attempting to pull himself up, the noise got progressively louder, and Donny realized it was... Deep laughter?
While he tried to pull himself from the fissure, he felt something grasp his leg. With an expression of pure terror, he looked down into the pit. The pit was glowing red, and he couldn't see the bottom. But it wasn't the pit that terrified him. Directly beneath him was a cluster of grotesque demons. Resembling large humanoids, they bore bright red flesh, sharp fangs, and curving horns, among other unmentionable features. One was grasping his ankle firmly, and began pulling him down. Donny let out a series of loud screams as the demons pulled him deeper and deeper into the pit and tore at his body.
After he was deep down into the pit, the shaking of the earth died down, and the smoke stopped billowing. Over a period of a few minutes, the pit filled up with sandy earth. The scene bore nothing other than a patch of tar missing from an alley.
Perhaps an hour after this occurrence, the man and the teenage boy from the convenience store walked up to the alley. Both looking down it at the patch of earth, the man spoke in a low voice. "I just wish I could have warned him."
Michael turned his head to face him. "But Father, you did the best you could."
"I know, but I should have done more. If I told him more clearly, he might have listened."
"He wouldn't have, Father. He obviously wasn't going to change no matter what happened."
The man let out a long sigh. "I suppose you're right, boy. Strangers never listen, and now They've got him..."
Michael waited a few moments before speaking again. "Father, we should probably go back to the store now. There's nothing else we can do, and the smell of brimstone is burning my lungs."
I've always thought it looked kinda stupid. Like Chucky had a birth defect, lol.That's better then my reaction. I guess it's because I was five, I went into my parent's room, the TV was on, and then Chucky just popped up on the screen. Pre-horror era scarring for life.
No problem, lol. To be honest, I've never actually watched any Child's Play movies. Either way, it probably would have scared me when I was younger, too. Over the past two(?) years, I think I've mentally matured a lot, though. Maybe two years ago, I saw The Shining. I only made it to the part with the dead twins in the hallways before I had to shut it off. Now, at 14, I watched it a few days ago. Didn't bother me in the least.
By the way, did you like my second story?
It was pretty good, although the whole "going to hell" thing is still fresh in my mind from all these stupid kids at school trying to tell me I was going to hell or something like that.
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