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05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
03/20/17 01:20 am
10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
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Great post.
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And anyone else who loves this site, it's worth mentioning there's a nifty little "Donate" option just below the shout box here! ;)
08/31/16 03:43 pm
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Author's Corner

[Reviews - 4]

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Authors Chapter Notes:
I've always wanted to try a horror story... and after I read Pet Cemetery, i was so completely creeped out by the last few pages, i decided to write this. I don't think i'm that good at horror, personally, but I thought, 'what the heck'... i'll post it anyways. Hope you like.

The old, Victorian mansion at the base of the hill lay silent as the night, solid against the swirling wind howling in the dark. Crickets sounded and cats prowled; it was a mysterious night. It was a blackened night.

The property looked abandoned – ‘No Trespassing’ was clearly faded and the wooden fence was halfway knocked down and the dull, green grass was sullenly gray in the black night. There was a movement in the long, uncut weed as a rat silently crept through the yard. It scampered across a narrow dirt path, into an unkempt bush and all was still again.

The path lead up to the entrance of the old house, winding and worn out – small traces of the life once lived and the tortured steps that had once graced it in the old days. In the days where there were light and children smiling with leaping dogs and purring cats. But the sun never came out anymore, and so the path lay empty, collecting dust and slowly deteriorating away.

A white porch guarded the front of the house, daring any form of life to just try and put a wary foot on the first step. Come hither, it beckoned with a crooked smile, come rest from the worries of your past. The three steps stood grandiose in their blackness, stripped of the paint and carefully hammered in wooden panels.

The house was unnaturally still. Not even the air dared to stir itself in fear of disturbing the withering walls. It shuddered at every movement – something it was known to do in its old age. But right now, there was no sign of life except for the faint glow of the fire in the second window from the door.

A man sat in an armchair by the fireplace, watching sparks dance up and about, staring at the flames flickering in and out, moving of their own accord. He didn’t move. His very breathing was so very subtle that his chest did not even rise up and down.

His blue eyes reflected the orange haze of the fire and no more. Glass orbs of flame and wood, memories be damned. He didn’t care for his memories. He didn’t believe in them.

Children’s laughter floated in and out mirthlessly, tormenting him until he could stand it no longer. Small, miniscule voices ringing from behind him, calling to him to turn around, Da, look what I can do! Small, wicked voices taunting him from all around.

He breathed in and suddenly, the musty air smelled like a fresh Sunday morning with tell tale signs of just-baked bread still warm and in the oven. The morning dew scented the air and whooshed in the direction of the happy, young voices.

His eyes closed. No, he mustn’t think back, mustn’t dwell. For the fear of waking up and turning round to find the marbled hall emptied and the skied darkened just as the little lives of his children were now tossing and turning in miniature sized coffins.

Oh, he had tried to bring them back, he had. And now the honking of the truck’s horn was loud and clear, screaming in his ear, forcing him to see again, and again the lives of his loved ones disappear right before his very eyes.

’Noooo… Billy, no,’ he heard his wife’s agonized sob over a body that could no longer be called a body. Blood covered her hands and her golden blonde hair as the salty tears spilled down her green eyes. Those beautiful green eyes.

He was torturing himself again.

His writhing mind was brought back to the cemetery. The legendary one, where the dead was never still and the living wanted the dead. It was a paradox, it was a myth. It wasn’t all that it seemed as he vividly remembered the one particularly cold night where he had carried the little body that was heavier than what it should have been.

Up, up the trail behind his beautiful house he went, laboriously climbing up, up into the forest where the cemetery lay. The cemetery that could bring life, as his neighbor had told him. Bloody magic, he had thought to himself at the time, rolling blue eyes at the crazy old man. But that night, magic was not on his mind. It was the life that was not… lying lifelessly limp in his arms, dragging him down and begging him to please, go back.. turn away. That was what had been on his mind, and he ignored the little voice in his head, telling him to steer clear of the legend, for mysteries had a knack for turning out all wrong. All wrong.

But if legends say life and the living was now dead, but the dead can be living… it could bring back his little boy and how would that be wrong? His wife was asleep in the room, heart wrenched out and eyes still wet. She didn’t hear him leave the house and she didn’t feel him trudging up the muddy slope into the legend that could turn out wrong. All wrong.

The shovel dug into his raw palms again and again as he hacked at the hard earth. His boy would live again.

The memory tormented his shoulders and brought a pain in his chest he only knew too well. Yes, indeed, his boy did live again. The boy and his sister as well.

Five days from the single-man burial, there had been a knock on the door and he had seen his little children alive, smiling dimly on the other side of the mahogany – or was it oak? – door. He could never tell.

Their smiles reached their noses and no further. Their eyes had lost the little glow that made them burst with life. Now they stank of death and reeked of the earth in which they were buried. He did not care. Could not bring himself to care. There were the bodies of the two that were dearest to his heart – how could he care?

But, alas, he did not realize, the man shook his head at the thought. He did not realize that bodies were all they were. What was the body without the human? Without the soul that grants the life and without the life that fires the eyes? Their blue and green irises were no longer of color – they too had turned into the murky brown of dirt as they made their way past him into the Victorian house.

And into his bedroom where his wife still lay.

A short shout erupted from his throat as he blocked the next image from coming and threw down the mug he had been holding into the fireplace. The flames leapt away, then grew ever taller. They sprang up, fuelled from what they had just been fed.

The image came anyways, ruthlessly bombarding his mind, making him keel over and catch himself before he could fall into the inviting flames.

Mustn’t forget, William… what you made us do.

Dark, red blood that almost seemed black, seeping through the plush carpet that his wife had picked out herself. The pool grew wider and wider from her head that was secured onto her twisted body in the most peculiar way.

No… but he couldn’t help it. His two children, with a cruel twist of the mouth, holding onto her hair, wrenching her until she gasped her last breath, eyes on him the entire time. They didn’t listen to his shouts, they wouldn’t budge at his movements. They were stronger than him and had suddenly disappeared after killing her.

Her. Killing her. Torturing her. How they loved it.

He knelt by her, holding onto her body, crying. Her eyes never closed. They regarded him with a dead stare, asking ‘William, my love,… what did you do?’.

I’m sorry, Elizabeth. But it didn’t matter.

Neighbor dead, dog dead, cat dead, policeman dead on the fourth night. But he could help his wife. The legend sang out to him and he answered back, bringing her to the cemetery as he had with his two children.

This time he would do it right. It would be right. It had to be.

And he sat by his fire when he had gotten back. Sat by his fire to wait for her return. He did not care if all of her was not there – at least some of her would be. Her golden hair, her emerald eyes. Some of her would be.

The night was shock still after his rebel yell and it reverberated into the empty house, echoing and bouncing back from the walls. Not a sound after, not even a movement.

He was back in his chair, gripping at the armrests and still staring at the fire.


The crickets stopped their silent chorus and the owl dared not hoot. The legend had come back as the dead had become the living and the living ran away. Dark night became a cold night and all the air chilled in the property with a faded sign in front. ‘No Trespassing’, it once said.


The rat backed away slowly, barely letting its nose twitch. No bird flew overhead.


It was closer now. On the porch. Phsush, Phshush, Phh, shuu… and it stopped.

The man still sat at his chair as he heard the soft jingling of a key being turned and the eerie creak of a door being open. He closed his eyes as the rancid smell of death filled the room and the Phshushing sound had started up again.

A hand rested on his shoulder and his hair stood on end.

Softly, the wind picked up her voice and brought it to his ear. She sounded like death, grating and earthy. The small whisper dried up the streams and froze over the fire. The flame stopped flickering and backed away, frightened, before dying down into a cold, blackness. All was dark again as he heard her voice say,


The night turned to stone.

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