Fan Fiction ❯ Journal ❯ ONESHOT ( Chapter 1 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

(Written by Jessica D. Coughlin)

Dear reader,

I am writing this to tell my story, to tell some one. Even if this is never read; it seems to be a way to channel my memories, and express myself; for I have never been one to talk…This is the story of the horrors… horrors no human would be able to comprehend.

My name is Cole, I was 14 and I attended a high school on the rough side of town when the events took place. I was not well liked and singled out as `strange' and `peculiar'. You see; I'm schizotypal, which means a number of things in the doctors' books. I suffer from the following symptoms; I have an odd appearance, which was true. Blonde hair and brown roots Baggy cloths, chains- the works. Superstitious, sure, why not? My speech patterns are difficult to discern, meaning I talk with such words in such and order that you may find me hard to understand. Paranoia, but doesn't everyone? Odd beliefs, and I Appear shy, aloof, or withdrawn to others. I just think of it as liking my privacy. They seem to have a name for everything now a day. I try not to dwell on it.

“I wonder is those rumors are true… all the things they say at school…” I had whispered to myself as I stared down the long abandoned road.

Branches had grown low to the ground, and trees had fallen in excess of the over-grown, making it inaccessible by car and bike alike. But as scared as I should be, I seemed drawn into the thin dirt road leading deep into the autumn forest. Vines seemed to shield view of the rest of the road. All the colors in the area where a shade of brown or orange, occasionally red and despite the thickets density, a chilling breeze seemed to blow through it all- making it seem… hollow

I pulled my scarf close to my face as the late autumn wind nipped at me. The rumors couldn't be true… impossible. Though, I found myself start to believe. The people at school rumored that behind the long narrow dirt road, and past the thicket, there was a decaying mansion… but what could possibly be there?

I jumped as a black cat screeched and ran across the pathway in front of me. Narrowing my eyes, I knew fate was laughing at me. Little signs like these always seemed to appear for me, whether it is a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, or a raven perched on the tower of the cathedral.

Slowly I walked up to the first obstacle blocking the path. It happened to be a fallen tree, so big that he couldn't have wrapped his arms around it if he tried. I swung my leg over it, followed by the other. The first obstacle was down, but it was certainly not the last. There was no turning back after that…

I clutched my coat close to me as I stared at the mansion before me. After much effort and a few scratches and from the overhanging sticks, I managed to make it and found that it was very much real. Over grown vines seemed to encase the old mansion in an auburn grip.

The mansion; seeming as dead as the forest around it was cold and unwelcoming with the same hollow feel that seemed to exhale this very woods. The only sound was that of an old swing, screeching as its rusted hinges rubbed against each other.

I heard a cat again, most likely the same one considering I heard something moving silently behind me through the woods (Although this noise was much softer then the cat's last screech.).

Most of my story is vivid- like the memory itself. But you must know… there are a few times in the events that I can see refold before my eyes as clear as day. These next moments would set off a chain effect that I would change my life for eternity.

I walked timidly towards the shelter as I felt my bravery slowly start to leave me. Fear pricked the back of my neck with its sharp talons. The need to turn around and run back full hilt was overpowering me as my steps became unsteady to match my breath.

The door seemed to come towards me, as opposed to me stumbling towards the door. I must have truly been insane in order to for fill my curiosity. When I finally reached the door I paused, trying to regain composure. I don't know why I even desired to be here, but I let it pass. It was the feeling to die here of starvation so that I would never had to leave that was begging to frighten me. I craved to be here, alone, in this empty hollow fragment of existence.

I reached my hand up to the door and let my finger run down the splintered wood. I felt drugged, numb, as if the world had froze in its space and my hand was fighting it, dragging eerily down the door. I watched in morbid fascination as my fingertips started to leek blood down the worn wood. I was alive enough to notice, but to dead to care.

My fingers came to a piece of steal; long, rusted, and sharp. I barely noted in my near lifeless mind that this long rectangular piece of metal, as well as multiple pieces of wood, where nailed over the door in a hurry to somewhat preserve the contents inside near the houses abandonment. When my fingertips reached this obstacle they merrily slide across its sharp edge. Blood now oozed from my fingers and I let myself smile mildly.

It was the fairly large amount of red liquid that caused the world to abruptly start up again, and all the pain, fear, sickish amusement, disgust, and astonishment came back full force- knocking me off my feat.

I tried as hard as I could to get away from the house while trying to hoist myself up. My frantic body wouldn't allow it as I fell back down. Frantically trying to put distance between the house and myself, my hands dragged me backwards; eyes not daring to stray from the house for a near second.

My back finally hit the trunk of a large tree and I tried to breathe down as much oxygen as possible to accommodate my rapidly beating heart.

As soon as I was able I stood up- taking one last fearful look at the mansion I ran at top speed away from the atrocity. Never to look back and pass this event off as a nightmare or a trick of the eye, as if it never happened. If I had looked back, if I had turned back, I would have seen the door drink in my blood, absorb the liquid. And if I was in my true state of being, I would've heard the sound of a young girl laughing manically.

From Cole Hedwic's Journal, May he rest in peace

“Kieran says we have a visitor Damian…”

Quietly I looked at the spirit sitting below me. She knew I wouldn't answer her. She might as well have been talking to herself, which she did often anyways. Her split lips curled into a smirk.

“Kieran can't wait to play in his blood…”

I was not surprised by her words. She often spoke off such. What would be grown adults nightmares would be a game for her. She'd wander the mansion catching rats and stray cats with her own teeth and slowly torture them as a form of entertainment. Then she'd patiently watch the squeal in her grasp and watch them die, painfully. Followed by her licking her hands clean of any blood.

I finally looked down at her morbidly tattered form. I had become use to the spirits sickly and dark presence. What a horrid tragedy had befallen to reduce this seven year old girl into the deranged, deformed and sadistic psychopath of her former self. A slave to her own madness.

I had become use to Kieran by now. She had served as a form of entertainment over the past few decades, by means of duty and something to do had I stuck around. Even as I write this is she by my side.

For this book, I am its creator. There is none other of its likes. Whether it be in the depths. Of hell or in the confines of modern day military it is unique. The others of its kind are fake, this I can assure you. A record of a tragic soul. The journal of a ghost.

I was at least forty feet above her. The Massive library offered beams reaching across the vaulted ceilings. Now a day we rarely bothered to look at each other. We could hear every word the other said. As well as the absolute silence no human would ever hear over there beating hearts and pumping blood. An other worldly silence.

“What is his name?”

I spoke with a cold yet dead pan voice, proving that not much had changed in our hollow lives. I spoke for her sake, to keep her talking, to keep her existing.

“Cole…”

Kieran spoke with such adoration in her voice it made me wince.

“Kieran's going to pull his stings… Kieran wants his beautiful eyes in her hands…”

I looked down at her and she looked up at me with pure black eyes.

“Kieran wants to feed off his fears, taste his blood on her lips…”

I nodded slowly and looked away. She symbolized death itself and even I could not look death in the eye for long. She found this entertaining.

Her once black hair had faded to silver, and absolutely no color had stayed in her face when she died. Her eyes had no white or color, just the darkest, purest black, lifeless. Her body was meek and she was rather short to match. I could fit her waist between both my hands if I tried. She wore an elegant Victorian style dress that was so stained with blood (new and old) that you could no longer tell the color.

She was covered in bleeding gashes except for her face, marred in only two places. There was one rather small scratch on her jaw, and one starting at her right eyebrow and ending and inch below her left eye. She only ever bled after she had fed and I assume this was recent because a drop of blood dripped off her chin. She was a cute girl in life, and underneath the cuts she still was.

I on the other hand had kept a more humanoid appearance. Dusty brown hair and crystal blue eyes. Not a drop of blood on my white garments. I was taller than her by a foot and was almost as pale as her with a lean form. I think I was nine or ten when I died, I don't really remember.

I do however, remember my death. Long had I sought revenge, and when claimed I found the true meaning of death.

In death, time rushes by. The small amount of life left in you doesn't seem like enough to make your final arrangements. Thus, the seconds become faster. And when death comes close you can almost hear your eternal clock ticking rapidly. So fast, yet so in beat. As for the end, there is none in death. Death is continuous, constant. Hours stand still as second rush by, like a rock that becomes engorged into the river bank. And as for time itself, it seems to be brought to a standstill.

After, not so suddenly comes the inhuman silence as your clock stops. Quite, as if your clock had been broken yet time still rushed by as you become blind. Blind in all aspects. As you die.

Tremendous fear and much realization comes in your last seconds of life, this is true. Your last moment of life is your longest one as your eyes cloud over. All the pain and horror dissipate same as all the company of the material world. Then you know what it is like… to be truly alone. The abandonment of God. The absence of God. With only your own company.

October 27th, 2004

From the Diary of Damian, 1780-present

All Places and Characters contained in this story are fictional. Information on schizotypal is factual. It is a real disorder and is quit common. Information on schizotypal is taken directly from http://www.4degreez.com. Any error in the text is mine, not that of the author or editor of the web page.