Hungry Ghost (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on October 25, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Sandratsky Dmitriy/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Sandratsky Dmitriy/Shutterstock.com

She was a hungry ghost. One of the new ones that modern medicine so blindly made. Transplants after an untimely death, of vital organs still with a spark of life, seemed a blessing and little else. She’d signed the donor card willingly, a generous girl at heart. And then the motor accident, and then her liver taken from her, to save another.

And that should have been that, but she didn’t know, and they didn’t know, what the loss on the material level meant on the immaterial.

Her earthly form reflect the numinous spiritual body, and now it was broken apart, not whole. And that made her hungry. A hungry ghost.

The road to hell is indeed pathed with good intentions.

She’s one of many, haunting hospitals mostly, though sometimes also in other places, darker places, where the harvesting of organs comes before a death caused by ill-prepared physicians for black market activities.

It doesn’t matter, though, how they are made, it only matters that they are.

Hungry ghosts have to feed, they have to try to spiritually ingest back what they have lost. So others die in the hospital wards, or in the back alleys of disrepute. And it just looks like medical failings, nothing supernatural.

They don’t see her feeding. They don’t see any of them feast. But feed they must, creating more of their kind, until, perhaps there is no-one left, and nothing but hungry ghosts.

And then we will all starve.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

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Old City (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on October 18, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Alexandre Lande/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Alexandre Lande/Shutterstock.com

Any alchemist will tell you that it is in the oldest cities that all the power and wisdom of the ancients lies. Down copperstone streets that run like the arteries of the cosmic body or in buildings that rise like the haunches of prehistoric beasts, is the architecture of wisdom.

This wisdom is hard won, bitterly fought for by those aspiring to illumination. The blood and the sacrifice that attend this style of spiritual quest, into morality of dubious, questionable origins, paint the streets still. And while the coppery red has been washed away by rain and tears the baptism remains.

One place, one terrible place, I saw in my tutelage, haunts me to this very day. And believe me, I have seen darkness. I have enacted darkness. My fingers, my skin, my very essence are soiled. But this place, this place was something more.

It was the last place the very worst traveller must reach. I came there as initiate, I left horrified and destroyed. But I at least left. Others who came did so unwillingly, and their souls are stuck to the walls now like their withering forms, sucked into the oblivion of this wormhole without light and grace. That is the way of that place.

There is this place and I know it too well. They speak of the crossing over point, the channel or bridge across the abyss. You traverse there, through that door, in that place. And you must evade Choronzon, you must elude the fall. And if so some emerge as I did, but many do not.

It haunts me as I say, that place, in nightmares that tell me, over and over, that I have turned the wrong corner, taken the wrong path. But it is not true what they also say – there is never time to change that road that you are on, not after that place. After that place your course is set as is your fate.

As is mine.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Nasty Boy (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on October 11, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: George Martinus/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: George Martinus/Shutterstock.com

Wilson was a nasty little boy. I always knew it.

I was about five years older than him, and he was my neighbour. He looked like a little angel. Shock of pure blonde hair on the whitest of skin, a cherubim in training.

All the mothers in the street doted on him. Sometimes I thought my own mother would have preferred him to me as her child. Not that she ever said that exactly, but she would coo about how sweet he was anytime she saw him, and she seemed to almost worship his mother as though she’d given birth to the second coming or something.

Well, Wilson was something else than that. Something else entirely.

I tried to warn my mother but she would spank me and send me to bed without my supper. I tried to tell the other children, but those that liked him wouldn’t listen, and those who sensed what I felt didn’t really need to be told and avoided him like I did. In those days in our neighbourhood it was like there were two camps, unspoken but clear. The pro-Wilson camp and us.

Wilson had a sister he seemed to tolerate. Even the girl’s parents thought little of her compared to Wilson. I saw him push her once when she was a toddler down the front stairs, and she survived the fall but narrowly, but her tears and wails fell on deaf ears as Wilson cried with his false guilt. He got all the attention, little angel that he was.

How he would have suffered if his little sister was hurt!  Yeah, right…..

Even when they found his sister’s dolls hanged outside, and her childish attempts at painting torn to shreds, no-one would think it was Wilson that did it.

Must be some nasty neighbourhood child, they all said.

But Wilson was the nasty neighbourhood child. And some of us knew that, and so many, many years later when people started dying in the neighbourhood, we knew who it was behind it all. Little Wilson, the nasty cherubim, all grown up, and fallen it seemed, just like his real father. The one we all knew he had to have, devil that he was.

Angels of a feather, you see, stick together.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Possession (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on October 4, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Jopics/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Jopics/Shutterstock.com

The priest was weary. Three days and nights this had continued with little respite. The room held an all pervasive stench, and the dark glimmer in the girl’s eyes haunted him even when her eyelids were shut.

Crash! Old furniture and plain was not sturdy enough for a room of exorcism, but he knew he must make do. The mirror fell even as she looked up briefly to complain of little liking what she saw if she looked into it. Just as though she was holding a wholly unremarkable conversation for a moment with a friend. And then it fell, crashed to the ground. As though at her command.

But it was not her command.

Something else was in charge here, of this space, this cloying light, this wretched child.

He labored on, reciting the verses and nodding slightly to his helper who returned voice for voice as required. The peaceful drone of their voices was deceptive now as she remained unusually, preternaturally silent. She lay on the bed, twitching on occasion, otherwise eerily still.

Her father watched on, helpless. He had not been a religious man and would never have believed in any of this had he not witnessed this now with his own eys.

But perhaps that is it, he thought, I would never have witnessed it if I was a religious man. This darkness would never have been able to enter this house, or enter my child.

He looked at the priest, superstitious and believing he would agree if he could read his thoughts. But the priest did not return the gaze, for his attention lay with the girl.

Then she began to rise, to levitate, to float up above her bed. It almost looked beautiful, like an angel ascending to heaven

But there was nothing angelic, nothing beautiful, here.

The recitation continued as she floated and the priest knew there were many hours till dawn, and still more, still many more, before she would be free.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Watching TV

Posted on September 27, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Burhan Bunardi Xie/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Burhan Bunardi Xie/Shutterstock.com

Where were you
The phantoms ask
When the money washed away?
Where were you
When darkness fell
On that fateful day?
Where were you
When police and chains
Robbed the poor and free
I was calm
Anaesthetised
Watching my TV

Where were you
When cities burned
All innocence was lost
Where were you
When wise men found
They couldn’t count the cost?
Where were you
When the hidden rose
All the world to see
I was cool
Unworried here
Watching my tv

Where were you
When all around
The poor were left to die?
Where were you
When food was spoiled
No money left to buy?
Where were you
When circumstance
Defeated all that’s free
I was dead
Or in a trance
Watching my tv

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

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Ritual Escapade (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on September 20, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Vasileva Ekaterina/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Vasileva Ekaterina/Shutterstock.com

Welcome to the escapade! The ritual escapade!

We dance in the forest, an ancient dance, to draw down the spirits of old. The gods that were lost when Christianity spread its angel wings across the land. We did not forget.

Nature is king here, and nature requires its due. There is much that is beautiful, but the beast dwells within the ritual also. The angel must wed the demon, the light must caress the darkness, and the beauty must transform into the beast.

We offer youth, we offer pleasure and wealth and the dominion of the lands. We offer fertility and prosperity, abundant harvests, graceful passing of the years.

All we ask is blood, to replenish the earth, to provide the life-force back. It is a small sacrifice surely, for all the bounty of the escapade?

Come with your sacrifice. Come with your soul. Dance with us in the forest. For the night is long away even as the eternal dark may await us all. But for now it is sunshine, dappled by the trees. It is joy and the flesh and the dance.

Welcome to the ritual! To the ritual escapade!

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

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Park Bench (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on September 13, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Fantom666/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Fantom666/Shutterstock.com

“The young girl was last seen sitting on the park bench on the outskirts of town. You know, that one where the bus to Portland makes its first pick up on its journey?”

“Yes. Seen by our resident travelling salesman n his way out of town. I know. He even said he waved to her as he drove past and that she smiled at him, but he thought she was crying. Crying and laughing at the same time he said. It was very odd he said. Thought she must have broken up with her boyfriend or something. But there is no record of her on the bus, or of reaching Portland, or any other towns along the way.”

“That’s true. Nor a sense that she would have wanted to leave town. She was happy by all accounts, nearing the end of her school days, hopeful of a bright future and still very much with her boyfriend.”

“Indeed I read somewhere that she was top of her classes, and her college applications were already progressed. And yet, there she was. We are sure of that at least, even though the rest is as yet unknown.”

“That park bench is a place where many seem to disappear from. This is the third case in as many years. We haven’t solved any of them, or found the children lost.”

“You know what the townsfolk say about that.”

“I’m not a man for idle superstition. Or a science fiction buff either. This talk of portals and crossing over to other realms leaves me cold. Yet something drew them there, and now she is gone, just like the others. There must be a more pragmatic solution to the mystery.”

“My money is still on our old friend Geoff M. We never should have allowed him to stay here after he got out of prison.”

“No, not given what he was in there for! And now young teenagers missing, one a year, since he was free. Not that we have anything on him, and not that we can work out how he might have got them to be at that park bench, each and every one, just before they disappeared.”

“Lured by the internet?”

“No records we can find. On his computer or on theirs.”

“Still, I think it was him. What else could it be?”

“But he has alibis, each and every time it seems. Still, it must be that, it must be him, or someone like him we don’t know about yet. What else could it be?”

“Only portals to other dimensions, as the townsfolk say. But who could ever really believe in that?”

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

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Butterfly Girl (Horror Flash Fiction)

Posted on September 6, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Sergey Velikanov/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Sergey Velikanov/Shutterstock.com

I cannot tell you what it is to be a butterfly girl.

My lips are closed when words might be spoken and only open at their command for other services. My eyes shut more often than they allow in light, for there is precious little of that in any case. My ears debar sounds except their commands.

I cannot communicate this to you.

So you think me a normal girl in a halloween costume. A beautiful, whimsical display that is innocent and transformative. But if I allow you more than a moment to gaze into my tear stained eyes you would know. There is nothing of the innocent left here. It is all long gone, burnt out on altars hidden within the depths.

When the butterfly emerges from the cocoon it is only after the caterpillar has been annihilated utterly. Think on that if you would understand me.

If you would understand us. For there are many, many butterflies, roaming these dark streets. Many not as beautiful nnd colourful as I, but still the same, under the skin, in the underneath, where only their darkness may reach.

Butterflies have such brief lives. Pure beauty for a day. We grow old we think, but to our cold dismay find even that must be replicated. The analogy must be complete, for that is perfection.

Age does weary us, and the years condemn.

And you won’t remember me, just as you don’t remember them.

(c) Helen M Valentina (2016)

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Fortune

Posted on August 29, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Vera Petruk/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Vera Petruk/Shutterstock.com

I will read your fortune. Sit quietly and concentrate on what you want to know. Sometimes we don’t really realise what our true questions are, so let them rise. The cards will know, and tell their story, but you may not understand if you have not appreciated why you truly came.

The Devil card is central to you. This question is somehow about bondage, or the secrets we keep. I see you understand at least a little, so listen carefully. This card is dangerous,and dark. It knows more than you know, and more than I can ever see.

Your fortune is linked to death, but not your own. The cards show a dance, a game, which you might play. Do I see blood upon your hands? You can let me know, your secret’s safe with me. We are bonded by the rules of fortune’s game – a confessional of sorts, if you will, though the gods that take their tributes here are not the same. Not the same.

Your future is your past, and your past your future. The cycles of time and the Wheel, of fortune good or ill. All these Major Arcana rise to greet you. There is something you must do. Something you have come to do.

Sweet Death, the card of choice and liberation. Do you seek my forgiveness for what you have come to do? If so, take it freely, you and I can only ever be what we are. And fortune has favoured and blighted us both just the same.

My life for yours. I read my own cards this morning my friend, something they say you should never do. It brings a curse they say, and this time, it has brought me you.

We cannot escape our fortune, you and I. You have come to kill, and I have come to die.

But I will read your fortune, just once, before we go.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Lucy

Posted on August 22, 2016 by Helen
Image credit: Rainer Fuhrmann/Shutterstock.com

Image credit: Rainer Fuhrmann/Shutterstock.com

Lucy made these little dolls. She called them Candy Kids, and she said they were innocent. She learnt how to make them from her grandmother, who she always claimed had gypsy blood. We’d laugh about that,and I liked her dolls, so much so I would put them up on my bedroom mantelpiece whenever she made one for me.

She starting making them when we were both ten years old. I was her best friend in those days, so she would show them to me. But she’d tell me to hide them if other friends came to play. In fact, I always thought she rather disliked the thought that anyone else might visit me. She was kind of possessive that way.

One day I made a new friend. A new girl in town named Sharon. She was simple and sweet, and very athletic, so many of us looked up to her a bit. She could run like a gazelle, faster and further than any of the rest of us. Lucy didn’t like her though, and was less than impressed with her fitness and skill.

“I could make her run so fast she’d burn up on the spot,” Lucy said one day. She was holding one of the dolls in her hands, sort of twisting it as she spoke. I found it a bit disturbing.

More disturbing was the fact that Sharon then disappeared. The whole town went hunting for her, but she was never found. Townsfolk became suspicious of strangers. We felt the danger of the other in our midst.

Lucy wasn’t afraid though. I once said I missed Sharon, and she gave me the doll she’d been holding that day.

“Have her back,” she said.

After that, I started to avoid Lucy. She frightened me. I wanted to throw away the doll she gave me, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

Eventually Lucy accused me of abandoning her. She wanted to know why, but I couldn’t begin to tell her.

Then I disappeared. The townsfolk searched for me too, and I’d like to have told them where I was, but I couldn’t speak. Not anymore. The stitching kept my mouth shut.

I’m just one of the dolls, in one of the dolls, on Lucy’s shelf, silent and solemn and lost forevermore.

(c) Helen M Valentina 2016

Posted in Horror Flash Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments