Smeared Black Ink

Sawicki's Early Drafts and Other Stuff

Month: February, 2016

The Movie

Wrote this from a writing group prompt.  Something to do with something happening on tv effecting what’s happening in the room…

Flash Fiction: Horror Drama

Mary didn’t usually watch horror movies.

Her mother wasn’t sure why she had chosen to rent this one.  Mary typically picked romances or comedies.  Something light-hearted.  But as the opening credits rolled, she snuggled under a blanket on the couch as the stings of the nerve-wracking music rang throughout the living room and into the kitchen.  Her mother watched Mary from the breakfast nook, studying how her dark hair shone in the dim light.  Mood lighting for a scary story.

It took twenty minutes for the ghost to finally appear: a black silhouette in the background, a bit out of focus.  The protagonist – a stubborn skeptic – spun around, and it was gone.  Mary jumped, startled, and turned to look behind her.  But it was only her mother there, by the fireplace.  She laughed at herself and turned back to the movie.

The movie was winding its way to its end when the ghost finally revealed itself to the skeptic.  Mary’s mother stood behind the couch, as engrossed in the movie as Mary, as engrossed in Mary as in the movie.  The ghost reached out to the woman, and mother reached out to Mary.  Mary shivered and again checked over her shoulder.  But of course no one was there.  She was alone in the house tonight.

The Fallowing – The Third, Part III

Novel: Occult Adventure

“Half the day was over when he showed up.  Cassie and Kelly were seeing to the crops in the next house over.  Sasha and George were starting on dinner.  I was patching up the side of the house with Kyle playing in the snow behind me.  It was cold, I remember that.  I mean, it’s always cold but at that time it was frigid, like a wind was blowing the freezing air under my coat and through my gloves, but there was no wind.  It was dead still.  I heard Kyle call me and I turned, and he was pointing down the road.  Someone was approaching us.  It was easy to see him because he was dressed all in black, like a priest.  Stuck out like a sore thumb against the snow.

“I watched him come closer.  We don’t see many people traveling by our house, and this was our third visitor in a single day.  As he came closer he waved, and I waved back.  Then he came close enough to talk and for me to see him clearly.

“’Nice house,’ he said across the yard.  His eyes were dark, not just his irises but all the shadows of the world rested around his eyes, as if it was dark instead of day and he was holding a flashlight to his chin to tell a ghost story.  But I thought nothing of it.  People have angles to their face and birthmarks and discolored skin.

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