Me, I love to write the horror more than to read or to watch it. Hope you're alright with me sharing a tale of my own:
Doll
The man walked away from the specimen. He was old and withered, very wizened. She, on the other hand- she was perfect. She was very tall, and had big brown eyes, but more importantly, she had red hair. It wasn’t just any red – she had the perfect autumnal shade of crimson that the man had been searching for years to find. He looked around one last time, to make sure no one saw him. He snipped a single strand of hair off of her head and left the girl in the alley. Funny, he thought, how important she was, and how he never even knew her name. He took one last whiff of her hair, kissed her forehead, and walked away.
The man placed the hair in a small Ziploc bag. He looked very carefully at it, inspecting every last detail, before he placed it into his trench coat pocket and sighed. He climbed into his old Chevy and drove slowly to his house. He knew that he had to avoid the toll bridges and the street lights. This meant that what would normally be a 5 minute drive would become an hour long puzzle. He couldn’t use a GPS – that could be tracked. The man had been at this long enough to know better than that.
The man turned on the seat warmer. It was a cold night and he wore a thin jacket. Even with his scarf and hat, the night was still frigid. There was no snow, but it felt cold enough that there should have been a layer of white sand covering the ground. He removed his blood soaked gloves and placed them in a hole in the upholstery of the car. They would be safe there for the time being. He sighed again. “I’m getting too old for this”, he whispered with a grimace, but then added “My job is done now. I just have to finish one last thing, and then I’m done…”
The man continued to mutter to himself until he returned home. “The project”, he said in a daze, “I must finish my project”. The man had taken on the project when he was only 17. He had run away from home that day. He brought with him $1,000, a Swiss army knife, and his bald, childhood doll. He kept that pack with him at all times. His project had been ongoing since that day.
The man had heard the voices since he was very young. He didn’t remember when they started, but he couldn’t remember a time before the voices had started. They told him to start his project. They made him do terrible things. Things he felt sorry for. Things he could never undo. He had to live with himself for all of that, but the voices told him that the project must be finished.
The man exited the car. He picked up the pack and gloves and walked up the path towards his small flat. It was a very bland house, completely white with a red roof, just as the voices had told him. Nothing to draw intention, they told him. We must be sure that the police never know. Never know. Never know. The words now rang in his head. He suddenly heard over them a new command. Slow, the voices told him. You must savor this. We have almost completely the project. You must savor this. Never know…
The man walked up to his house. He swallowed a deep swallow, that didn’t go down. He grabbed the door knob and felt its cool brass handle as its cold embrace seemed to pulse through his fist. Open it, they told him. We’ve waited long enough. “I know”, he replied, aloud, but to himself. His frail body pushed into the door, swung it open. He smelled the foul odor that was his house. He wondered to himself what he had done his whole life to deserve this. Everything, the voices told him. You’re a terrible man. Life is cruel. But it shall be over soon. Worry not. Over soon. Never know.
The man made his way up to his couch and sat down, a tedious process for a man of his age. When his process was done, he removed the old torn sack from his back. He lay it across his lap. Never know. He removed the doll. He stroked its long hair and brought it up to his face. Smell, they told him. He did so. It smelled terrible, but they told him to continue inhaling. He removed it from his face and looked over the rainbow of hair upon its head. No two strands were alike. He looked over the scalp until he found the tiny bald spot. He pulled the hair back and looked at the doll, longingly. The glue, the voices whispered. Idiot.
The man got up and retrieved the glue. Again, he slowly sat and picked up the doll. The man pulled the hair out of his pocket. Carefully he pulled the hair out of the bag. He dipped it in the glue and lowered it upon the head of the doll. He placed the hair on the doll and pressed. He looked upon the doll, a finished process, and felt no satisfaction. Only regret. Good, they whispered. You are done now. Never know.
The man got up. How many girls had it been? How many lives had he ruined? He did not know. He had tried so many styles; the cops believed he was three different serial killers. Or was it four? It matters not, the voices said. They were necessary to the experiment. “Shut up!”, the man yelled aloud. “Shut the hell up.” Make us, they replied.
The man had an idea. It felt good to think for himself. Where are you going? Now the voices overlapped. So many words at once. The man’s thoughts were straight though. He would fix things. His mind continued to echo - never know. Never know. They must know. The man put down the doll on a table. He walked towards his room.
The man opened the drawer of his old chifforobe and sighed. It was not truly from his childhood, but he made himself believe so. There was no childhood of his. So the man made his own, adding elements as he went. The chifforobe felt like home to him. Close it, they told him. Close the drawer. Nothing to do. You’re a terrible man, and nothing will fix it. Never know, they reaffirmed. Never know. But he did not close the drawer.
The man took out the revolver. He used it to collect five of the hairs of his doll. But never the sixth. The bullet remained inside, waiting. It seemed to call to him. Use me already, it screamed. “Alright”, the man said aloud. The voices screamed in his head. They yelled over each other in a terrible type of harmony. Put it down. Leave it. Never know.
The man sat down. He spun the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he brought it to his head. It was a game of Russian roulette that he knew he would lose. Or from the way he saw it, he knew he would win. I wonder how it feels, he thought. What do you mean, they asked. “Death”, he said aloud. They screamed in unison, a deafening unison, as he pulled the trigger. A miss. He was so saddened. He needed release, needed satisfaction. And he would get it, no matter the cost.
The man cocked the gun again, lowering it to his heart. The voices begged and pleaded and mocked. “Shut up!” He yelled. The trigger pulled again. The bullet struck him in the chest. “Shut up, shut up” he said cackling. He laughed and laughed. The pain was so freeing. His head fell back into a pile of blood. Never know. Never…
I like realer horror, sorry that doesn't really answer the "paranormal" bit there! _________________
Me, I love to write the horror more than to read or to watch it. Hope you're alright with me sharing a tale of my own:
Doll
The man walked away from the specimen. He was old and withered, very wizened. She, on the other hand- she was perfect. She was very tall, and had big brown eyes, but more importantly, she had red hair. It wasn’t just any red – she had the perfect autumnal shade of crimson that the man had been searching for years to find. He looked around one last time, to make sure no one saw him. He snipped a single strand of hair off of her head and left the girl in the alley. Funny, he thought, how important she was, and how he never even knew her name. He took one last whiff of her hair, kissed her forehead, and walked away.
The man placed the hair in a small Ziploc bag. He looked very carefully at it, inspecting every last detail, before he placed it into his trench coat pocket and sighed. He climbed into his old Chevy and drove slowly to his house. He knew that he had to avoid the toll bridges and the street lights. This meant that what would normally be a 5 minute drive would become an hour long puzzle. He couldn’t use a GPS – that could be tracked. The man had been at this long enough to know better than that.
The man turned on the seat warmer. It was a cold night and he wore a thin jacket. Even with his scarf and hat, the night was still frigid. There was no snow, but it felt cold enough that there should have been a layer of white sand covering the ground. He removed his blood soaked gloves and placed them in a hole in the upholstery of the car. They would be safe there for the time being. He sighed again. “I’m getting too old for this”, he whispered with a grimace, but then added “My job is done now. I just have to finish one last thing, and then I’m done…”
The man continued to mutter to himself until he returned home. “The project”, he said in a daze, “I must finish my project”. The man had taken on the project when he was only 17. He had run away from home that day. He brought with him $1,000, a Swiss army knife, and his bald, childhood doll. He kept that pack with him at all times. His project had been ongoing since that day.
The man had heard the voices since he was very young. He didn’t remember when they started, but he couldn’t remember a time before the voices had started. They told him to start his project. They made him do terrible things. Things he felt sorry for. Things he could never undo. He had to live with himself for all of that, but the voices told him that the project must be finished.
The man exited the car. He picked up the pack and gloves and walked up the path towards his small flat. It was a very bland house, completely white with a red roof, just as the voices had told him. Nothing to draw intention, they told him. We must be sure that the police never know. Never know. Never know. The words now rang in his head. He suddenly heard over them a new command. Slow, the voices told him. You must savor this. We have almost completely the project. You must savor this. Never know…
The man walked up to his house. He swallowed a deep swallow, that didn’t go down. He grabbed the door knob and felt its cool brass handle as its cold embrace seemed to pulse through his fist. Open it, they told him. We’ve waited long enough. “I know”, he replied, aloud, but to himself. His frail body pushed into the door, swung it open. He smelled the foul odor that was his house. He wondered to himself what he had done his whole life to deserve this. Everything, the voices told him. You’re a terrible man. Life is cruel. But it shall be over soon. Worry not. Over soon. Never know.
The man made his way up to his couch and sat down, a tedious process for a man of his age. When his process was done, he removed the old torn sack from his back. He lay it across his lap. Never know. He removed the doll. He stroked its long hair and brought it up to his face. Smell, they told him. He did so. It smelled terrible, but they told him to continue inhaling. He removed it from his face and looked over the rainbow of hair upon its head. No two strands were alike. He looked over the scalp until he found the tiny bald spot. He pulled the hair back and looked at the doll, longingly. The glue, the voices whispered. Idiot.
The man got up and retrieved the glue. Again, he slowly sat and picked up the doll. The man pulled the hair out of his pocket. Carefully he pulled the hair out of the bag. He dipped it in the glue and lowered it upon the head of the doll. He placed the hair on the doll and pressed. He looked upon the doll, a finished process, and felt no satisfaction. Only regret. Good, they whispered. You are done now. Never know.
The man got up. How many girls had it been? How many lives had he ruined? He did not know. He had tried so many styles; the cops believed he was three different serial killers. Or was it four? It matters not, the voices said. They were necessary to the experiment. “Shut up!”, the man yelled aloud. “Shut the hell up.” Make us, they replied.
The man had an idea. It felt good to think for himself. Where are you going? Now the voices overlapped. So many words at once. The man’s thoughts were straight though. He would fix things. His mind continued to echo - never know. Never know. They must know. The man put down the doll on a table. He walked towards his room.
The man opened the drawer of his old chifforobe and sighed. It was not truly from his childhood, but he made himself believe so. There was no childhood of his. So the man made his own, adding elements as he went. The chifforobe felt like home to him. Close it, they told him. Close the drawer. Nothing to do. You’re a terrible man, and nothing will fix it. Never know, they reaffirmed. Never know. But he did not close the drawer.
The man took out the revolver. He used it to collect five of the hairs of his doll. But never the sixth. The bullet remained inside, waiting. It seemed to call to him. Use me already, it screamed. “Alright”, the man said aloud. The voices screamed in his head. They yelled over each other in a terrible type of harmony. Put it down. Leave it. Never know.
The man sat down. He spun the barrel of the gun. Slowly, he brought it to his head. It was a game of Russian roulette that he knew he would lose. Or from the way he saw it, he knew he would win. I wonder how it feels, he thought. What do you mean, they asked. “Death”, he said aloud. They screamed in unison, a deafening unison, as he pulled the trigger. A miss. He was so saddened. He needed release, needed satisfaction. And he would get it, no matter the cost.
The man cocked the gun again, lowering it to his heart. The voices begged and pleaded and mocked. “Shut up!” He yelled. The trigger pulled again. The bullet struck him in the chest. “Shut up, shut up” he said cackling. He laughed and laughed. The pain was so freeing. His head fell back into a pile of blood. Never know. Never…
I like realer horror, sorry that doesn't really answer the "paranormal" bit there!
That was interesting. It does leave a lot to the imagination indeed. What was special about the Doll?
I want to bring this thread back because I am feeling in this mood again.
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