Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Posts tagged ‘Supernatural’

Occupational hazards

Microsoft Word - Supernatural Survival Skills

This one is based on the prompt from Mayhem Monday.

There was a time when Camilla thought the luminous, full moon was beautiful. It felt graceful and mysterious. Then she saw what lay on the dark side of the moon, and Now it made her twitchy. Camilla paced; fortieth security check of the night now complete and heading for her forty-first. If the neighbours chanced to look in her barred windows when the moon was full they would no longer wonder if she were crazy. They would know. If they saw how Camilla rocketed into her closet, bolted it shut at the mere clang of a garbage can hitting the pavement they would have her committed. She clutched at crosses and rummaged through her arsenal for every silver bullet she owned. There was only one neighbour she could trust at times like these. Justin Bateman.

Justin lived to her right. He was a staunch non-believer in the supernatural. At least until she set a starving succubus on him for hanging inverted crosses on her door. She had rescued him from his willing entanglement with the demon when he admitted there was a slim possibility the demon would, indeed, suck out his soul. From that point on he acted as an unwilling lackey rather then risk any other encounters with Camilla’s ire. Camilla slammed herself into a chair she had stored in the closet for occasions such as these, pulled a gun across her lap, and dialled his number. Wedging the phone between her shoulder and cheek, she methodically loaded her gun while she listed a string of names she wanted to call Justin as he took his sweet time to answer the phone.

“My God! What the hell do you want?!” Camilla was too focused on her task to care about the grating tone of his voice. “You need to check outside my house. Something knocked over the garbage cans.”

“Why would I do that? Surely you can manage something so simple on your own.” Camilla cocked her gun, imagining it was aimed at Justin’s head. “Tell me, Justin, what happened the last time I did an external perimeter check on a full moon?” Justin let out an exasperated sigh.

“You became a lunatic, filled a stray dog full of silver bullets, and set Mrs. Crabsky’s cat on fire. Why the hell did you do that, I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Never trust a black cat on a full moon. As for the dog? Full moon – shoot first, confirm later. Now, then, who would you rather face: a) a werewolf or b) an irate monster hunter with an itchy trigger-finger who lives next door?”

“…I’ll take my chances with the strays.” A few minutes of tense silence later, he was back on the line. “Camilla, are you sure you killed the old bat’s cat?” Fear had knocked the annoyance out of his voice. “Yes; ethanol and flames tend to be quite efficient.”

“Then why is it in your trash nibbling on rotting chicken?” Camilla dropped the crosses in surprise.

“…I’ll be out in a minute. Seems the old crone really is an Old Crone.”

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Typo

typewriter

Combo prompt today.  This one combines prompts from Monday’s Finish the Story and Sunday Photo Fiction.

The old typewriter had a mind of its own. The antique was part of Olivia’s inheritance. Originally, the possessed item belonged to a great-uncle. “Andy had talent,” Grandmother claimed, “With this it will seep into you.” Olivia ignored her; she was interested in its occult nature; keys that moved. The messages received – written by spirits. Olivia had to test it out in Casa rosa, whose unsolved homicides were infamous.

Casa Rosa was unoccupied; occupants didn’t last long. Sneaking in was effortless. Years of redecoration and the dwelling smelt of blood and rot. Olivia lit her candles and got to work. For once, the spirits came when called. The flash-light flickered while the temperature dropped in concert to the house Groaning. The keys clacked.

Get. Out.

Past the typewriter, the walls bled. Taking heed, she bolted.

sunsetCollapsed on the front lawn, she looked up a the sky awash with colours and laughed. Talent indeed.

The keys typed out a new message. I. Meant. Get ME Out.

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