- Joined
- Nov 5, 2007
- Messages
- 730
Yet another horror story made by me. If you read it, please post feedback. And if you see some grammar errors, please let me know so i can correct them.
The cheating rays of a cold, winter afternoon sun hit Bryant Nelson right on the face. He nagged for a moment, turned around, but couldn’t sleep anymore.
He opened his eyelids lazily, grumbling something about bad dreams, then finally got out of bed.
Without brushing his teeth or changing to his daily outfit, Bryant jumped from bed to his chair, then comfortably sank in it, still grumbling in his pajamas. He hit the button on his computer, then patted impatiently with his foot, waiting for it to turn on.
Many teenagers usually wash their teeth, change clothes or take a bath after waking up. Bryant was a type that woke up late, and was dressed and ready to start the day hours afterwards.
He was obsessed with video games. He could spend hours and hours, sitting crooked in his chair, like an old woman, playing and playing. How he managed to have real-life friends was a mystery to everyone, even to himself.
His fingers tapped lazily on the keyboard. He was bored, but this state of mind had become so often to him, he had gotten used to it and accepted it as a part of his life. He yawned, then muttered “Breakfast.”
Bryant lifted his right hand, while still keeping his left one chained to the keyboard, then started banging violently into the wall of his room. “Mom, breakfast!” he yelled.
But there was no response.
Then it came to him, through the foggy depths of his memory, that his parents had gone at the countryside for the weekend this morning. He was all alone. It made him feel a bit unpleasant.
His fingers suddenly stopped tapping as he had recalled something important.
"Yeah, breakfast" he said, slowly lifted his body from the chair and dragged himself to the kitchen. Something out of order caught his attention.
In the wondrous surroundings of modern appliances a moldy old tome was lying on the table. It stood out, looking almost alien, old at least a century, rotting away inside a home of the new age. Bryant picked it up. It was completely covered in dust, except for a finger-shaped trail that revealed its title: “Reanimating the inanimate”.
It looked like a corpse, due to fall apart at any moment. Bryant corrected himself; a corpse was a bad comparison. The book looked alive, more alive than anything he had ever read. It just radiated with life, and you could tell it from other books just as you could tell a human from a wax figure.
After a few moments of blank stares, he had recalled his father coming home last night, delighted at how he struck a good deal for something of obvious antique value.
Bryant was too much into his video game to ask or see what it was back then. He carefully put the book down, and forgot about it as soon as he turned his head to the refrigerator.
He spent the next few hours listening to the growls of his stomach which he had left empty because he didn't know how to cook. He could have gotten outside and bought something, but after pondering this for a while, he had decided that it would be best for him to stay inside and play some more video games. Hours passed.
The sun illuminated the lonely buildings of a winter city one last time, then drowned behind it’s rooftops, making room for the shiny, grinning moon.
After clearing countless levels, Bryant remembered that he didn't even open the old book. A spark of interest, something so unlikely for him, awakened. He cautiously opened the book, as if he was expecting something to jump out of it's pages.
What he saw disappointed him. It was written in a language he didn't know of. He really wanted to know what the book was all about.
However, the first page was written in English. With a red pen.
“This tome deals with bringing the things that are dead – and that have never lived, to life. Do not temper with it’s force, and avoid holding it’s covers for too long. Never, never lie to sleep with this book in your hands, for you might find out in the morning that they have gained a will of their own.”
Bryant cackled. then he let the cackle evolve into laughter. He laughed and laughed for a while. Then he jumped in his favorite spot, his chair, flipping the book, trying to find something else he could read.
But the strange note had been all that was written in an understandable language. He didn't want to look at the old ink runes anymore, as they caused discomfort in him. As if they were spitefully returning his glance back to him, gazing from their nest of ancient gray pages.
A bit disappointed and a bit disturbed, Bryant placed the book at the top of his computer, and took out his favorite video game. There was no more use in staring at the dusty bunch of papers, he thought to himself.
The fancy box of the game illustrated an army of corpses, strolling down an abandoned road, their faces disfigured in a cacophony of moans.
The title looked as if it was written in blood: "Night of The Dead".
Bryant had dedicated countless nights to his fictive alter-ego, blasting away hundreds of unholy creatures with his pistol. He spent more time with this game than he did with his parents.
If someone had listened to what was going on in Bryant's room for the next hour, he would have only heard the silent tapping of his keyboard, a lonely sound in an almost fanatical silence.
Taptaptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap.
It sounded as if someone had put tiny stepping shoes on a mouse. But in Bryant's head, much more than mere tapping was going on.
He had just killed a whole army of zombies. He just needed to put away one more, and he would have completed the game.
But putting it away wasn't easy. He had to find it first.
He checked the whole level he had cleared. It was nowhere to be seen. He checked it again, just in case he missed a corner or two.
Still nothing. It was unusual for a game like this to have any elements non-related to killing. Searching for a missing zombie wasn't what Bryant had expected.
He ran in circles looking for it until he became dizzy. Then he reset the whole level, and started to wipe out the forsaken legions of virtual enemies all over again.
He was already tense, and a silent "Thud!" that came from his bathroom had made him jump out of his chair like it was a frying pan.
He paused his video game, and focused all of his attention to the sound he had just heard.
shuffle
shuffle
...
"Thud!"
The sound went off again. And again. And again.
The doors were locked. Nothing could have come in his apartment. All windows were closed. Bryant was sure about this.
Being all alone in your apartment in the middle of the night while playing a horror game is enough to make you frightened. Hearing unearthly noise in your bathroom on top of all that is enough to make the blood freeze in your veins.
Bryant slowly sneaked through his house. With a slow, indecisive move, he opened the door that led to his toilet.
What Bryant saw made him scream in horror.
The missing zombie was in his bathtub.
It was helplessly squirming inside, bumping it’s rotting carcass on the wall. It’s skin had rotten away, revealing diseased flesh that was being gnawed by hundreds of little white worms before Bryant’s very eyes. It’s eye sockets were empty. It’s jaw had dropped, as if the abomination was too lazy to keep it shut. It would have looked better if it was shut; the gaping hole of the festering skull revealed rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Not teeth. Something so obscurely big and horrid cannot be called such a name; those were claws, claws emerging from the dead man’s jaws.
It turned it’s neck slowly, forcing a few worms to withdraw into the safety of it’s empty skull. It stared at Bryant with those two deep, black holes for a moment then moaned.
Its voice was deep like a grave, full of dirt. “Flesh”, it cried, and clumsily arose from the bathtub.
The thing started dragging it’s body towards Bryant, lifting it’s charred hands as if it had wanted to hug him. To unite with him.
To hold his body as it devours him alive.
Bryant screamed once more, ran outside the kitchen, and charged for the exit of his apartment.
He had just grabbed the handle, and would have surely opened the door if he hadn’t looked at his computer first.
The pause screen, filled with hundreds of zombies just a minute ago, was now completely void.
The gloomy old tome lay atop the computer, looking guilty.
Bryant was in trouble.
In the hallway outside of his apartment, moans of the dead started echoing.
THE MISSING ZOMBIE
The cheating rays of a cold, winter afternoon sun hit Bryant Nelson right on the face. He nagged for a moment, turned around, but couldn’t sleep anymore.
He opened his eyelids lazily, grumbling something about bad dreams, then finally got out of bed.
Without brushing his teeth or changing to his daily outfit, Bryant jumped from bed to his chair, then comfortably sank in it, still grumbling in his pajamas. He hit the button on his computer, then patted impatiently with his foot, waiting for it to turn on.
Many teenagers usually wash their teeth, change clothes or take a bath after waking up. Bryant was a type that woke up late, and was dressed and ready to start the day hours afterwards.
He was obsessed with video games. He could spend hours and hours, sitting crooked in his chair, like an old woman, playing and playing. How he managed to have real-life friends was a mystery to everyone, even to himself.
His fingers tapped lazily on the keyboard. He was bored, but this state of mind had become so often to him, he had gotten used to it and accepted it as a part of his life. He yawned, then muttered “Breakfast.”
Bryant lifted his right hand, while still keeping his left one chained to the keyboard, then started banging violently into the wall of his room. “Mom, breakfast!” he yelled.
But there was no response.
Then it came to him, through the foggy depths of his memory, that his parents had gone at the countryside for the weekend this morning. He was all alone. It made him feel a bit unpleasant.
His fingers suddenly stopped tapping as he had recalled something important.
"Yeah, breakfast" he said, slowly lifted his body from the chair and dragged himself to the kitchen. Something out of order caught his attention.
In the wondrous surroundings of modern appliances a moldy old tome was lying on the table. It stood out, looking almost alien, old at least a century, rotting away inside a home of the new age. Bryant picked it up. It was completely covered in dust, except for a finger-shaped trail that revealed its title: “Reanimating the inanimate”.
It looked like a corpse, due to fall apart at any moment. Bryant corrected himself; a corpse was a bad comparison. The book looked alive, more alive than anything he had ever read. It just radiated with life, and you could tell it from other books just as you could tell a human from a wax figure.
After a few moments of blank stares, he had recalled his father coming home last night, delighted at how he struck a good deal for something of obvious antique value.
Bryant was too much into his video game to ask or see what it was back then. He carefully put the book down, and forgot about it as soon as he turned his head to the refrigerator.
He spent the next few hours listening to the growls of his stomach which he had left empty because he didn't know how to cook. He could have gotten outside and bought something, but after pondering this for a while, he had decided that it would be best for him to stay inside and play some more video games. Hours passed.
The sun illuminated the lonely buildings of a winter city one last time, then drowned behind it’s rooftops, making room for the shiny, grinning moon.
After clearing countless levels, Bryant remembered that he didn't even open the old book. A spark of interest, something so unlikely for him, awakened. He cautiously opened the book, as if he was expecting something to jump out of it's pages.
What he saw disappointed him. It was written in a language he didn't know of. He really wanted to know what the book was all about.
However, the first page was written in English. With a red pen.
“This tome deals with bringing the things that are dead – and that have never lived, to life. Do not temper with it’s force, and avoid holding it’s covers for too long. Never, never lie to sleep with this book in your hands, for you might find out in the morning that they have gained a will of their own.”
Bryant cackled. then he let the cackle evolve into laughter. He laughed and laughed for a while. Then he jumped in his favorite spot, his chair, flipping the book, trying to find something else he could read.
But the strange note had been all that was written in an understandable language. He didn't want to look at the old ink runes anymore, as they caused discomfort in him. As if they were spitefully returning his glance back to him, gazing from their nest of ancient gray pages.
A bit disappointed and a bit disturbed, Bryant placed the book at the top of his computer, and took out his favorite video game. There was no more use in staring at the dusty bunch of papers, he thought to himself.
The fancy box of the game illustrated an army of corpses, strolling down an abandoned road, their faces disfigured in a cacophony of moans.
The title looked as if it was written in blood: "Night of The Dead".
Bryant had dedicated countless nights to his fictive alter-ego, blasting away hundreds of unholy creatures with his pistol. He spent more time with this game than he did with his parents.
If someone had listened to what was going on in Bryant's room for the next hour, he would have only heard the silent tapping of his keyboard, a lonely sound in an almost fanatical silence.
Taptaptaptap. Taptaptaptaptap.
It sounded as if someone had put tiny stepping shoes on a mouse. But in Bryant's head, much more than mere tapping was going on.
He had just killed a whole army of zombies. He just needed to put away one more, and he would have completed the game.
But putting it away wasn't easy. He had to find it first.
He checked the whole level he had cleared. It was nowhere to be seen. He checked it again, just in case he missed a corner or two.
Still nothing. It was unusual for a game like this to have any elements non-related to killing. Searching for a missing zombie wasn't what Bryant had expected.
He ran in circles looking for it until he became dizzy. Then he reset the whole level, and started to wipe out the forsaken legions of virtual enemies all over again.
He was already tense, and a silent "Thud!" that came from his bathroom had made him jump out of his chair like it was a frying pan.
He paused his video game, and focused all of his attention to the sound he had just heard.
shuffle
shuffle
...
"Thud!"
The sound went off again. And again. And again.
The doors were locked. Nothing could have come in his apartment. All windows were closed. Bryant was sure about this.
Being all alone in your apartment in the middle of the night while playing a horror game is enough to make you frightened. Hearing unearthly noise in your bathroom on top of all that is enough to make the blood freeze in your veins.
Bryant slowly sneaked through his house. With a slow, indecisive move, he opened the door that led to his toilet.
What Bryant saw made him scream in horror.
The missing zombie was in his bathtub.
It was helplessly squirming inside, bumping it’s rotting carcass on the wall. It’s skin had rotten away, revealing diseased flesh that was being gnawed by hundreds of little white worms before Bryant’s very eyes. It’s eye sockets were empty. It’s jaw had dropped, as if the abomination was too lazy to keep it shut. It would have looked better if it was shut; the gaping hole of the festering skull revealed rows and rows of razor sharp teeth. Not teeth. Something so obscurely big and horrid cannot be called such a name; those were claws, claws emerging from the dead man’s jaws.
It turned it’s neck slowly, forcing a few worms to withdraw into the safety of it’s empty skull. It stared at Bryant with those two deep, black holes for a moment then moaned.
Its voice was deep like a grave, full of dirt. “Flesh”, it cried, and clumsily arose from the bathtub.
The thing started dragging it’s body towards Bryant, lifting it’s charred hands as if it had wanted to hug him. To unite with him.
To hold his body as it devours him alive.
Bryant screamed once more, ran outside the kitchen, and charged for the exit of his apartment.
He had just grabbed the handle, and would have surely opened the door if he hadn’t looked at his computer first.
The pause screen, filled with hundreds of zombies just a minute ago, was now completely void.
The gloomy old tome lay atop the computer, looking guilty.
Bryant was in trouble.
In the hallway outside of his apartment, moans of the dead started echoing.
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