Posts Tagged ‘horror story’

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On Pendle Hill,
My love did dance.
The fires burned,
A blessing asked.
Dancing in the dark so spritely,
Prayers to not be taken lightly,
Under clouds that turned to black,
Black as coal on that lovely night.
On Pendle Hill,
She spoke the words,
Uttered in the fire’s light.
Bless this crop, she dared to ask,
Beseeching nature do its task,
And in due course the lamb was given,
In hopes the past year’s sins forgiven,
Something in the darkness summoned,
Summoned on that fateful night.
On Pendle Hill,
My love did sing.
An ancient rhyme,
From the time since time,
To the crow above and the hare below,
When the bitter winds of Autumn blow,
Those lost to the ages sought,
Sought upon that holy night.
On Pendle Hill,
An offering made.
The dagger rose, the lamb did cry,
Its blood upon the ground so dry.
A tribute to the harvest made,
Another fallow field forbade.
And in the dark the dagger fell,
Fell upon that blessed night.
On Pendle Hill,
The earth did part,
Exposing thus its beating heart,
Laid bare all secrets hence concealed,
The glowing rock within revealed,
Revealed upon that sacred night.
On Pendle Hill,
The thunder roared,
Torrential rain from above poured,
Surging clouds flew overhead,
Ignorant hearts filled with dread,
Hearts and minds were split wide open,
Open on that stormy night.
On Pendle Hill,
The gallows built,
Creaking in the wind,
That blew through the grasses,
The parson shouting to the masses.
Condemning all the ancient ways,
Calling these the End of Days,
His holy tome spinning madness,
Madness on that awful night.
On Pendle Hill,
My love did climb,
A rope around her neck,
Parson following quick behind,
Leading all in single mind,
Torchlight, flickering, lights the path,
Whispering for god’s vengeful wrath.
The village, all behind her trailed,
Trailing on that dreadful night.
On Pendle Hill,
The crate was kicked,
The rope cracked tight,
My love’s neck snapped,
Her dear body swayed in the breeze,
In heartbreak I fell to my knees,
Crushed beyond all measure,
I had lost my greatest treasure,
I condemned the crowd to fire eternal,
And damned them all to pain infernal.
The crowd fell hushed and silent,
Silent on that murderous night.
On Pendle Hill,
The flowers grow,
The crops below protected.
The skies above, serene and calm,
And healing rains expected.
So the field will reap its harvest,
Though its seeds were sown in darkness.
The gods received their sacrifice,
Sacrificed on that hallowed night.
On Pendle Hill,
I sit alone.
My love lies in an unmarked grave,
For it was she I could not save,
Her labors spent in love complete,
To make the autumn harvest sweet,
They killed just her, but we both died,
Died on that forsaken night.
Available in print at Folk Horror Revival,
in the Corpse Roads anthology.
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happiness-07All along the boardwalk, happy people and happy families wandered, enjoying the warm late summer sunshine that carried with it the faint but unmistakable light of the approaching autumn. The air was saturated with the smell of corn dogs and soft pretzels, and children scampered around their parents, playfully shrieking with the sense of unfettered freedom that only comes with the very young, a freedom that would be lost soon enough to the vagaries of adulthood. The parents knew this, as all adults do, and quietly mourned the loss of innocence that would one day fall upon their children, as surely as it had fallen upon them.

Music rang out softly from cleverly concealed speakers; 70s pop from bands whose names few remembered, but lyrics everyone knew, their contagious catchiness declaring with anthemic earnestness that happiness was only a heartbeat away, just one more kiss away, that her magical spell was working so well, and that all would be right on a Saturday night. A slight breeze off the ocean wafted past the revelers as they took in the sights and the sounds of one last weekend before the weather turned.

The town’s autumns were its best kept secret; known locally as “Second Summer,” it was the delicate span of two to three weeks after labor day, when all the tourists had gone back home, and the town again belonged to those who lived and worked there. The pace slowed, rules relaxed a bit, and a cheerful glow enveloped the strand along the beach. This was the time in which, as if by communal agreement, nothing happened, as per the unwritten code of the tourist towns across the country. In the absence of Them, all that remained was Us.

Hands held, arms around waists, moving at a pace that spoke of neither hurry nor worry, everyone just happy and content to be here, to be sharing the quiet joy of Fall, and even if something was lightly fouling the air, a faint whiff of what, decay maybe, it would pass soon enough and be as quickly forgotten. Except that to some, the smell was growing stronger, more pungent. More wrong.

A gasp arose from somewhere in the crowd, the sound repeating as others turned to see, a susurration of shock whose echo grew louder, instead of diminishing. Children cried, their mothers and fathers drawing them close with iron-gripped hands, shielding their eyes from what they had already seen, could never un-see, their childhoods crashing down around them like milk bottles in a rigged carnival game. The throng of people parted, not unlike the Red Sea, at the sight of the woman among them.

The woman, if she could even be called that anymore.

She staggered along the promenade, this ruined wreck of a human being, oblivious to the multitude staring at her. Barefoot, shambling toward an unknown destination, each step leaving a bloody smear on the ground, gangrenous toes the dark purple-green of putrefaction, the hem of her tattered sweatpants as filthy as the feet beneath them, the knees torn through and crusted with dried blood, suggesting a lifetime spent on her knees; a torn, sleeveless cardigan hung open, making no secret of the nakedness behind it, the awful, shameless bruising and open sores weeping sickly yellow pus and blood, and the arms, the terrible arms with countless scratches and scars, suggesting that she might have been a cutter, but even worse, much worse than that, were the blackened track marks that flowed down from the crooks of each arm, the wounds that had never closed, homemade tattoos unidentifiable now but staining the flesh for ever more.

But the left arm, it must have been a trick of the light, certainly that if nothing else, because the left forearm…the skin was rotting away, the radius and ulna brownish-white and exposed like a dirty secret for all the world to see, ragged flaps of desiccated skin and tendons hanging loosely, hardly any meat to cling to, just empty air, the hand, if indeed it was a hand, flopping limply at her side and wrapped in a towel soiled and dripping, no tissue to give it life, to give it motion. As the horror of the arm attempted to lodge itself in the minds of those who saw it, they were powerless as their eyes went to her face, which was perhaps the worst of all.

Her hair, which may once have been strawberry blond, was a dirty, matted mess, hanging in her face, but not enough to cover it, not nearly enough, for her face was a tattered roadmap of self-hatred and abuse of many types. Blood vessels had bust like fireworks in one eye, leaving the sclera red and angry, while the other eye, its pupil dilated, wandered about, searching everything, focusing on nothing, blood leaking like awful tears from the depths of a hell beyond comprehension, her nose partially eaten away, scarcely more than a diseased crater in the middle of her face, yellow-green snot hanging in thick ropes, her occasional sniffles doing nothing to stem the tide of mucus running into and out of the hole where once had been a mouth, where once had been strong, white teeth, but now was home to rotting, ragged stumps of black and brown, lips chewed to shreds as though incredible pain had been sustained.

Her shoulders slumped, betraying any sense of height, and such was her appearance that her own mother, had she been there that day, would have failed to recognize her. The woman’s ruination was so complete, so absolute, that nothing of her humanity remained. Dragging a leprous foot behind her, she slouched onward, humming a song to herself, a discordant but familiar tune, so quietly that none of those nearest her, who cleared a broad path, could have heard it. Had they chanced approaching this malignant, walking nightmare, they might have learned something about her, but none there on that awful day were willing to cross the line between caution and foolishness which, as it turned out, made no difference whatsoever.

The sniffling got louder and she stopped in her tracks, body shuddering and trembling as though current was passing through it. Suddenly, explosively, she sneezed, the force of it doubling her over and as phlegm spattered the horrified faces around her, the sneeze caused her to violently void her bowels, a vile torrent of toxic shit staining her pants and cascading down her leg.

Screams erupted as those covered in her mess caught the smell, as though all they had seen had been abstract until they were spattered in her filth, that they were shocked back into reality. As the people scattered and ran, frantically clutching their children, the woman coughed slightly and pitched forward, her swollen, distended abdomen disgorging an impossible amount of black bile onto the ground, her face landing in the puddle of vomit. With death, the last of her muscles gave way, and a reeking lake of dark waste soon surrounded her, her wretched destruction complete.

In the distance, a siren wailed. By the time paramedics arrived on the scene, the woman’s purpose had been served; the poison that had exploded from her orifices and leaked from her pores, had reached nearly every soul on the boardwalk with absolute efficiency.

It had begun.