Persephone
Member
Scary stories lose their charm after a while. Tales of creatures reaching from underneath beds, from beyond cracks in closet doors, and through bathroom mirrors. Creatures that rip through the boundaries of reality and fiction, reaching out of pages, dragging long, claw-like nails down the too soft skin in the night. Beings that lurk just beyond the safety of the streetlamps late at night or just beyond the first row of trees in a forest along an unused highway. Ghosts that haunt empty parking lots of schools and churches, the remnants of the laughter of children, of hymns sung out of key. Ghosts of feelings, of love lost, of love, regained, or simply of a presence that marked the earth too deeply, leaving a cavity when their body turns to dust.
A child cries out in the night, a coat hanging off an animal-themed hook that was once screwed into the wall hurriedly, now the body of a phantom. They sit up in bed, crying out for parents who too quickly rush to their child, flipping switches and calling out too loudly for the early hour of the mourning. They find their child, flip the switch, and explain how the phantom was just a coat. Just a semi-permanent fixture, like the giraffe lamp, or the carefully arranged row of tows that line one wall. Nothing to be worried about. The child goes back to sleep, the parents return to their room, slowly turning off lights, their own childhood fears bubbling to the surface for a single moment before they are pushed down by adult logic. The phantom is the coat, the coat is a phantom.
A young woman out too late keeps well within the safety defined by small spots of light. She turns, watching the expanse of trees, suddenly feeling invisible eyes watching her. Turning back, she tries to calm her racing heart, wipe the sweat from clammy palms, to carry on into the night. Home wasn’t even that far away, only another mile or so. She reassures herself that there is indeed nothing watching her and carries on her way. Ignoring the figure who has been following her for the last two blocks. Remember, monsters do not always take monstrous forms. They take different forms, all of them human enough.
The schoolyard at midnight was a graveyard. Empty structures, empty courts, empty fields. Ghosts of childhood haunt these empty places in these hours before sunrise. Hopes and dreams that were too quickly dashed in growing up haunt these places. Laughter echoes through the yard, swings sway in a gentle breeze. These ghosts are not physical, they don’t appear as specters. These ghosts do not speak, only whisk away from the world in a flurry and a burst of laughter. No one walks through the schoolyard at midnight, lest they upset the innocent spirits that dwell there.
The brick expanse of the church looms above a man, threatening damnation for unspeakable deeds. He wipes bloody hands off on muddy jeans, traces a deep scratch on one side of his face. They had writhed in the mud together for minutes that felt like hours before she was finally still, glassy eyes looking up at the waning moon above them, privy to his deed. She was hastily thrown into the river. He threw her wallet into a dumpster on his way back.
The statue of virgin mother looms over him, staring him down with unseeing eyes. The Christ child holds up a hand, palm out towards him as if staying his execution for damnation instead. He shrugs and carries on.
Scary stories lose their charm once the horrors that man is capable come to light.
A child cries out in the night, a coat hanging off an animal-themed hook that was once screwed into the wall hurriedly, now the body of a phantom. They sit up in bed, crying out for parents who too quickly rush to their child, flipping switches and calling out too loudly for the early hour of the mourning. They find their child, flip the switch, and explain how the phantom was just a coat. Just a semi-permanent fixture, like the giraffe lamp, or the carefully arranged row of tows that line one wall. Nothing to be worried about. The child goes back to sleep, the parents return to their room, slowly turning off lights, their own childhood fears bubbling to the surface for a single moment before they are pushed down by adult logic. The phantom is the coat, the coat is a phantom.
A young woman out too late keeps well within the safety defined by small spots of light. She turns, watching the expanse of trees, suddenly feeling invisible eyes watching her. Turning back, she tries to calm her racing heart, wipe the sweat from clammy palms, to carry on into the night. Home wasn’t even that far away, only another mile or so. She reassures herself that there is indeed nothing watching her and carries on her way. Ignoring the figure who has been following her for the last two blocks. Remember, monsters do not always take monstrous forms. They take different forms, all of them human enough.
The schoolyard at midnight was a graveyard. Empty structures, empty courts, empty fields. Ghosts of childhood haunt these empty places in these hours before sunrise. Hopes and dreams that were too quickly dashed in growing up haunt these places. Laughter echoes through the yard, swings sway in a gentle breeze. These ghosts are not physical, they don’t appear as specters. These ghosts do not speak, only whisk away from the world in a flurry and a burst of laughter. No one walks through the schoolyard at midnight, lest they upset the innocent spirits that dwell there.
The brick expanse of the church looms above a man, threatening damnation for unspeakable deeds. He wipes bloody hands off on muddy jeans, traces a deep scratch on one side of his face. They had writhed in the mud together for minutes that felt like hours before she was finally still, glassy eyes looking up at the waning moon above them, privy to his deed. She was hastily thrown into the river. He threw her wallet into a dumpster on his way back.
The statue of virgin mother looms over him, staring him down with unseeing eyes. The Christ child holds up a hand, palm out towards him as if staying his execution for damnation instead. He shrugs and carries on.
Scary stories lose their charm once the horrors that man is capable come to light.
