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Kalanna Rai
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 Posted: Thu Sep 20, 2007 8:27 pm Post subject: Tales of the Twisted |
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I did warn you all that these would be showing up. Only I guess I should start them sooner rather than later otherwise I won't be able to add to them regularly. You've already seen this one, if you read Fright Night, but some of you havn't. So here it is again. Enjoy!
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Beautiful Eyes
"It's said that in the house at the end of Cherry Tree Lane, on a balmy summer night, a jealous boyfriend ripped his girlfriend's eyes out after he caught her in the arms of another man. 'If you cannot look at me like that you'll look at no one at all!' He was heard to scream.
The woman died of her injuries but the story doesn't end there. Three months later, guards were summoned to the boyfriend's cell by his hideous screams. They were too late and found him with his eyes torn out.
Now, they say, the woman waits in the house on Cherry Tree Lane...."
A rough voice interrupted the smooth tones of the storyteller. "No...wait...lemme guess. She waits for unsuspecting victims to wander into the house so she can tear their eyes out...right? Am I right?"
The storyteller, a beautiful young woman in her early twenties, stood with a disappointed frown wrinkling her pixie-like features. "Fine, spoilsport. Be that way. But you were the one who came to me looking for urban legends. I'm sorry if they're all so alike to you."
The young man on the bed watched the storyteller for a few moments more, admiring her as she dressed. With a sigh he decided to patch up relations. After all, he had plans for later this evening. Plans she wouldn't go along with if she felt like he was using her. Dressing quickly he caught her arm and spun her around. "Show me the house." He said softly.
She blinked at him, eyes wide and luminous...a brilliant shade of green that jumped out at him. A slow smile spread across her face.
"You sure? You're not going to get scared on me or anything right?"
He laughed as he grabbed his jacket and slipped into it. "Please. I'm a big boy...I can take care of myself."
She grinned at him impishly, a hand snaking out to take the proffered elbow. "Oh I realize that. I really do." She planted a kiss on his cheek and smiled up at him, gazing deeply into his eyes. "Beautiful." She whispered.
He chuckled. "Handsome. You're beautiful." He shook his head, they weren't kidding about small town girls. This gorgeous girl had taken one look at him and nearly crawled into his skin. He was worried though that soon she'd be pitching that 'deeper connection' crap. She spent an awful lot of time staring at him and talking.
He helped her into the car like any good gentleman and hopped in himself. Then he turned to the girl with a smile as he keyed the ignition. "Lead on."
She directed them down an old street filled with ranch style homes. A green and white street sign proclaimed it as Cherry Tree Lane. A yellow sign below that said 'DEAD END'. The entire place seemed to have a messy air about it, as if it wasn't yet abandoned but well on it's way to desertion.
She pointed to one house that sat alone, at the very end of the street. It was in the very middle of the cul-de-sac, brooding and in a state of disrepair. He squinted at it. "Well, it certainly fits the bill for a haunted house. I'm waiting for the catch."
The girl looked at him strangely. Her voice was low and puzzled when she spoke. "What catch?"
He laughed. "You know, the catch. Whatever it is that makes the victim dash into the house and meet their untimely end." She gave him this depressed, hurt, look and he instantly felt bad about the comment.
He sighed. "Alright, let's take a look at the place."
Slowly, they got out and started toward the house. At the end of the driveway he stopped and turned to talk to the girl...and was rather surprised to find she wasn't there. "Hey!" He called out as he looked around.
He heard the girl whistle and his head snapped up. She was standing next to the front door, wind playing with her skirt ."Over here slowpoke!" She said with a wink and a wiggled finger. He laughed at bit and shook his head.
"I never said I'd go in!"
She laughed back. "Chicken!" She tried the door and frowned. "It's locked...I'll go around back and see if I can't get in."
He rolled his eyes. "You do that." He watched with some amusement as she trotted off, blond waves bouncing. The wind sprang up, cold and biting, forcing his hands deeper into his pockets.
He soon felt like he'd been waiting forever. He called her name once, then twice...no answer. He was starting to get nervous when the scream rang out into the air. It was horrifying and bloodcurdling...he gave her points for it since it made him jump out of his skin.
Cupping his hands around his mouth there was laughter in his voice as he called out to her. "Nice one! Almost had me going!" But the screams continued, interspersed with loud sobbing and pleading. Too quickly he began to wonder if some weirdo was living in the house and he ran up to the front door.
He didn't bother to try the knob, just kicked the door in. The screams cut off and his shoulders slumped. "Okay, that wasn't funny. Now the cops are probably going to bust me for breaking and entering...or destruction of property."
He peered into the gloom but couldn't see her anywhere. With a shrug he stepped across the threshold and moved deeper into the house. Idly he wondered if she was going to jump out form behind something and shout boo. If she did, plans or no, he was going to have some harsh words for her.
This was pretty ridiculous as pranks went. He'd been the butt of far better. After all, a man crossing the country in search of urban myths and legends for a thesis was bound to have numerous attempts to spook him. This was yet another attempt by yet another person trying to convince him that their myth, unlike countless others, was true.
He wandered back towards the bedroom. "You in here?" He pushed the door open and screamed in horror. There, inches from his own face, was that of the girl. Only now, blood ran in thick streams from empty eye sockets. A pair of shriveled green eyes fell from one of her hands.
She reached for him and he bolted, nearly stumbling over the corpse of another young man that was now near his feet. The house was suddenly filled with corpses, splayed all over the place, all perfectly preserved. Like flies in amber each defied time, their death masks eternal, faces frozen in looks of terror, shock, and despair.
There was a pile on the couch, more on the floor, others peered at him from doorways and other pieces of furniture. All of them missing their eyes. He vaulted another stack and turned for the doorway...only to watch in horror as it stretched endlessly before him. A sea of corpses rushed to fill that vast, eternal space. To block his escape.
He realized that he'd never make it through the door and made a last desperate attempt for freedom. He spun on the ball of his foot, rubber sole of his shoe squeaking on the tile of the entryway. He was aiming to crash through the windows to his right but momentum and fate combined to deal him a cruel blow.
His ankle snapped under the force of the turn and he spun wildly, falling as he went. His back slammed again the wall, head hitting the window frame. His vision swam and he blinked away the blur. As it cleared he saw the girl coming closer, a sad frown wrinkling her brow and turning down the corners of her mouth.
"I really liked you too. But you were just like the rest of them. I wasn't a person to you...I was a thing. It doesn't matter if you wanted to keep me yours forever or just use me for a short time...I was a thing to you."
"No...honest...you were more! You were brilliant and smart...and you can tell a story like no one I know!"
She smiled sadly at him, kneeling down at his feet. She reached for his hand and patted it. "Thank you for that. I know you were telling a little truth in that so I'll tell you a little truth in return."
Suddenly her hands shot up, fingers entering his eye-sockets. Her nails severed his optical nerve with a precise twist and she plucked his eyes free and whole. He screamed and clawed his face while slowly she inserted his eyes into her own empty sockets, blinking a few times to get them working. She quickly dabbed away the blood that rimmed her eyes using a torn bit of his shirt to clean her cheeks.
She sat there and watched until he'd taken his last breath, his life flowing out to feed her as his soul was consigned to some dark, horrible place. She stood, smiled, and wiped away the blood on his face tenderly. Stepping lightly over the stacked corpses in front of the door, she pulled it shut behind her.
Sliding into his car she turned the keys he'd left in the ignition. Reaching up she readjusted the rear-view mirror. Tilting it down she stared right into it and smiled.
"You did have beautiful eyes."
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There you are. More to come.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Sat Oct 13, 2007 11:42 pm Post subject: |
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This story was written on a dark and stormy night, I'm not kidding, after an idea kept me occupied for months. Enjoy!
Warning: Graphic Images
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Morphine
There was blood everywhere...everywhere. It wasn't fresh, already cool and starting to thicken, but it was recent. His entire body was shaking as he watched it congeal on the walls and floor. The sound of footsteps grew louder and louder in his ears until...
"Mr. Smith? Can you hear me?"
Slowly his eyes peeled open, feeling as though they'd been glued together for a very long time. He ached everywhere and his limbs felt heavy. The world was a mass of fuzzy nutral tones, the smell was antiseptic, clinical. "W...where am I?" His mouth was so dry his words were little more than a whisper, his voice little more than a croak.
A figure leaned over him, her white smile discernable against her dusky skin. "You're safe now Mr. Smith. You're in Valin Memorial Hospital." A hospital? He tried to dredge up any memory of how or why he'd ended up here. Nothing came to mind, only a dark emptiness that threatened more vile visions.
The nurse wrote something on her clip board, his vision was clearing and allowing him to gain the broader details of the world around him, or the small room that passed for his world. IV's, monitors, tubes, and endless bandages...he was pretty banged up. "W...what happened? To me."
The nurse set her clip board down and smiled at him again. He could make out the name 'Monica' written on her nametag. Smoothing his blankets and checking some of the heavy bandaging on his wrists she began to speak soothingly. "You were in an accident Mr. Smith. Your car hit a patch of ice on the highway, went airborn, and crashed through a guard rail. I was there when they brought you in and let me tell you...you were one sorry piece of work."
Picking up her clipboard again she turned and smiled at him from the doorway. "But you're a fighter Mr. Smith. You're still hanging round with us. I'll go tell the doctor that you're actually awake now." He listened as her footsteps faded, unaware that he was drifting back to sleep as they grew dimmer.
There was a door infront of him with the faintest smearing of blood on the knob. It was open just a crack but only darkness could be glimpsed through the narrow gap between door and frame. He turned and looked behind him noting the way the cream carpet turned scarlet, stained by the carnage of the room he'd just left. He could still see it's open archway yawning like the gate of hell...he spun around. Something was coming. He peered at the door behind which lay darkness and knew that someone was behind it. Suddenly the door opened wide and a hand shot forth from the shadows beyond.
"Restrain him! Somebody restrain him!" Hands were suddenly pressing down on him and he felt the sting of a needle against his arm. Lassitude spread through his body and allowed him to shake off the vision for the reality. A man in green scrubs stood over him looking disheveled. Next to the doctor stood Monica and a male nurse who's nametag said 'Dave'.
The doctor shook his head and gave a wan smile. "Well Mr. Smith you are awake. I'm sorry if I frightened you, I assure you that wasn't my intention. I'm Bob Davis by the way, the physician who'll be attending you. I'm plesantly surprised to see you've pulled through, they were all rooting for you down in ER."
Somehow, though his tounge felt heavy and thick in his mouth, he managed to ask the doctor a question. "Am I going to be alright?"
"Well as I said you're pretty banged up. The surgery crew did their best but only time will tell if you'll walk again or not. For now all we can do is wait for you to heal and treat the pain as best we can." The doctor reached over and handed him a small device that looked like one of those bomb triggers from a James Bond film. "This will activate your Morphine pump. If the pain starts getting unbearable, just give it a little squeeze and wait for it to take effect."
The doctor stood and smiled. "I'll be back in a little while. For now I've got to continue my rounds." With that the man in green scrubs was gone, pausing outside the door just long enough to impart instructions he didn't know his paitent had overheard. "If he starts getting violent again put him under. We don't want him injuring himself or anyone else."
"Yes doctor."
He turned his head as far as the neck brace would allow, just far enough to look out the window. Suddenly, between one blink and the next, the bright sunny day outside ceased to be. Instead it had been replaced by something darker.
His face was held to the glass and he was forced to look upon the scene of horror before him. Bodies, those of a family, lay sprawled below the window in a heap. They were no longer people, merely a pile of parts. He wanted to get away from them but a force stronger than he wouldn't let him. "This can't be happening...this isn't real." Suddenly the force let go as he wrenched his head away from the grisly scene.
He smacked his jaw against the hard plastic of his neck brace and felt pain shooting down his body where his thrashing had aggrivated his injuries. He depressed the button on the Morphine pump and within minutes the agony was replaced by fuzziness. He turned his mind to the weird dreams...what the hell did they mean? Why was he having such horrible...nightmares? Daymares? Hallucinations? That's it! Hallucinations!
He'd just undergone a sever trauma and was on God knows how many drugs. He must be hallucinating this shit. So why was it so real? Why could he recall the feel, and the smell, and the sight of all that blood? It was almost familiar to him, as if he'd been there. But he couldn't have been there, it wasn't any place he recognized. Not his office, his home, the home of his friends or family or any place he'd ever been.
He didn't want to tell the nurse though, or the doctor. No telling what they'd do to him. He looked toward the blank TV screen then toward the door to the bathroom. It was open a smidge, almost like that other door...that door with the bloody knob...
The door was open and light spilled in from the hallway. Scrambling on hands and feet he managed to escape that room, that person, that presence. He hauled himself upright on the stairway railing then found himself tumbling down the stairs. He banged and bounced waiting for the impact that would snap his neck. But it never came, only a searing pain as his left arm was twisted under him in his final landing. Snapping as his full weight crashed down on it. The sounds of thudding footfalls could be heard as someone began to descend from above.
A door slammed, bringing him back to his breezy, bright hospital room. He looked around for the nurse who'd been so careless but they must have left because he saw no one. He turned his attention back to his room. It was fairly simple, a TV high on one wall, windows letting in light from his left, the door to his right and...and a dividing curtain.
The curtain was open just a smidge, obviously the door slammer hadn't bothered to close it properly. He could just make out the form of a young boy laying in that bed, swathing in bandages that had just been changed. Dark hair peeked out from the bandages wrapping his forehead to brush down across his fragile features. He looked pretty beaten up...weren't they two of a kind?
The door opened again, softly, and Monica entered bearing clipboard and stethoscope. She smiled at him as she took his vitals, writing the numbers down on his chart. "Looking good so far Mr. Smith. You're doing well." His curiosity pricked by the strange sight of a young boy in his room, shouldn't he have been in the childrens' ward, he cleared his throat for a question.
"Monica. What's he doing in here."
"What's who doing in here?"
"The little boy...over there..." Following his pointing finger he watched Monica frown and look back at him.
"Mr. Smith...you take it easy now. I'm going to go talk to Dr. Davis." The way she left made him think he'd done something wrong and he looked toward the boy again. Suddenly he wasn't staring at a dividing curtain he was staring at something else.
The deep crushed velvet of the living room drapes showed no signs of violence but the ivory pillows on the couch told a different tale as he stumbled through the elegant living room settings. The heavy footfalls behind him grew louder and louder until he stumbled into the hallway and slammed the heavy oak door behind him. There was no bolt so he simply ran, trying to put as much distance between the approaching menace and himself. As he ran he passed a mirror it's surface marred by a bloody handprint. He stopped and walked back to it. Gazing at it he screamed in horror...
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Dr. Bob Davis looked up when the man entered his office. He stood quickly and moved round his desk to shake the man's hand. "Oh thank you for coming so quickly Detective Marstad."
"Well the circumstances you described are quite remarkable. Are you sure of these findings?"
Handing the man a manila envalope Dr. Davis shook his head. "I wish I weren't but he accurately described everything down to the last detail. It seems that the boy has remembered what happened at last."
Marstad looked through the file then back up at Dr. Davis. "Yes, amazing. It's too bad he didn't remember it while he was alive. Instead, he had to pick some poor half-dead son of a bitch to remember for him. How is Mr. Smith doing doc?"
Dr. Davis smiled. "Well at least he's convinced he's not crazy. And he's no longer blaming the Morphine..."
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Interesting no? Confusing yes? Still I hope you liked.
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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D-Lotus
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| Posted: Sat Oct 13, 2007 11:56 pm Post subject: |
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That story creeped me out, honestly, but the ending was slightly confusing and unclear. It could be worked on. Try explaining who this boy really is.
I seriously think this would make a good short film. Shudder, I'm afraid to go to bed now.
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 Chapter 5: The Rendezvous 
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Crunchyfrog
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| Posted: Sun Oct 14, 2007 12:17 am Post subject: |
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| That was very good. Made me shudder too.
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Fri Feb 22, 2008 12:24 am Post subject: |
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This story was originally meant to go with these. Felt like it should end up in here with them. Make of it what you will...
Warning: Graphic Images!
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Song of the Slaughterhouse
It sat on the hill overlooking the town. Old. Abandoned. Forgotten. A broken and twisted shadow of what had once been, what the foundations of the oldest parts of the town were built on. The industry that had seeded the birth of the town, nurtured it through it's early years, then been left by the wayside as the modern era took hold. It was the kind of place teenagers dared themselves to go near but nobody was ever foolish enough to go into. The kind of place that the town would have been greatful to see burn down, but nobody in that town had the courage to actually lay the torch to the structure.
In this building, hundreds of thousands of animals had met their end. A hole through the head, blades through their stomachs as they were gutted with precision. Their hides' stripped off and shipped away to a tannery somewhere, their organs carefully captured to be sold to the less fortunate. Their fat steamed down in great vats to become lard or glue. No part of the animal wasted, no consideration spared for them while they yet lived in their filthy pens. Miserable and condemned.
More than one man met his death in that building as well. Accidents were common, men impailed on the great hooks used to transport cow carcasses, crushed in massive gears as the wheels of the unforgiving machinery turned. Unmorned, unloved, unlooked for, many were found only as skeletons in the bottom of the great lard vats when they were finally emptied. This place was Upton Sinclair's worst nightmare, the most hellish Jungle he could have imagined.
But it had closed it's doors long ago, so long ago that the chains that held them tight were long links of rust. It's roof sagged and gaping holes sent beams of unfettered light, shafts of a more brilliant world, deep into it's shadowed interior. Yet, as if passing the rotting shell of wood and rusted nails were in some ways the crossing of the river Styx, the light lost all it's warmth and splendor. It seemed to mock any who would have stood inside, reminding them of what they had not instead of imbuing them with the hope of what might be. To step into this place was to step into a lost world, a violent world, a dark world.
Ancient chains still hung, hooks attached, from the rotting rafters. The smell of blood and carnage, so soaked into the ground as to forever stain it red, hung in the air like some rancid perfume. And then the wind would blow. It would seep through the cracks and crevices of the unstable building, eeling it's way through every tear in the slaughterhouse's wooden armor. It would catch up the stench of blood, decay, and despair as it swirled around the beams of empty light. It would stream through the rusted chains, swaying them ever so gently until they collided with each other.
The sounds of these impacts, the faint chiming of these grusome instruments of destruction, would imprint itself upon the back of the traveling wind. Soon enough the wind would exit the building, no longer the carefree zephyer it had been upon entering. It would emerge as a malice born banshee, carrying the song of the slaughterhouse wherever it wandered. And, on rare occasions, it would wander into town...
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The four of them stood at the end of the weed choaked drive, unsure what had possessed them to come up here in the middle of the night. It could have been the alcohol, freely passed out amoungst themselves, imbuing them with liquid courage and stupidity. It could have been the harsh taunts and snide comments endured during the day, slights against their honor and bravery. It may have been simply for the rush of doing this most forbidden of things. Or, least likely, they had come seeking solace, peace of mind.
The gentle sounds of the clinking chains reached their ears, the smell of things long dead no more than a footnote in the gentle breeze. Yet as they strode closer, none dared speak in this lonely place. Some instinctive warning had sealed their lips even as fear began to choak their throats. The hairs on the backs of their necks stood up as the breeze became a light wind. The sounds of the chains echoed clearer now, the smell of blood rose clearer to their noses. Their fear grew.
Yet they came ever closer, each glancing at the others to make sure nobody had yet turned back. Only the first to turn back could be accused of cowardice, the others would merely be taunting that poor soul. As each was unwilling to endure that further torment, none dared so much as falter their footsteps. The strains of compulsion, so faint when the stirrings of the night wind had first touched them in the town below, now grew stronger with every step taken. They were walking into the maw of hell and damnation awaited them but none of them could as of yet see it. It was unlikely that any of them would until it was too late.
The door provided them their first pause, their first chance to turn and walk away with an excuse. It wasn't cowardly if you couldn't get into the place. But that excuse was weak. Who needed a door held shut by rusted chains when so many of the boards and slatted siding had rotted away, leaving holes like festering wounds in the exterior of the building. It was through one of these ragged portals that they slipped inside, standing for a moment as every sane nerve in their body cried out for flight. But none of them could muster what it took to turn them back the way they had come.
Instead they moved deeper into the darkness that seemed to close tighter about them with every forward step. It pushed down on them, the shafts of light ruthlessly mocking them, the chains singing louder and louder. The sounds of their own beating hearts, their own rushing blood and ragged breaths, blocked out the slight noises that warned them. The slight whisperings amoung the chains, the warnings and pleas. Go back...go back...go back...
The ground under their feet was dirt. Soft. Loose. It squelched unplesantly under their footsteps as if the blood from those countless slaughters were welling up from some unholy reserve deep underground. The stench of rotting blood and carrion was thick enough to choak them now, causing their mouths to open to gasp in each lungful of putrid air. The wind screeched through the cracks and holes, rattling the chains in the manner of a hungery beast demanding dinner. The soft song, the compelling song, had risen to a killing cacophony.
Reaching the center of the floor, the killing grounds themselves, the ranks of twisting chains shifted around them. Gleaming hooks turned points too wickedly sharp to have hung for a hundred years untended towards the flesh of the four. Only now did the compulsion lift, did the fear break over them like some horrific ocean wave. Only now, as the hooks lashed forward to pierce their soft, warm, flesh. To pull back with horrific force, ripping away that which they skewered. Only now as fresh blood misted in the air and soaked into the ground did the whispered warnings become a chanted lament. Too late...too late...too late...
Loops of intestine spilled forth and were caught up, twined upon bloodstained chains and carried away. Hunks of flesh covered razor sharp hook points, protecting them from wear until the next victim came within reach. Bones lay scattered, flesh and tissues clinging to them haphazardly. And now the hooks descended again, picking up even the smallest bits of flesh, morsels of meat, fragments of bone. Slowly in a rattling procession they carried the remains to one of the great boiling vats.
Rust ran like rivers of blood down it's sides, it's top edges like lace with their many holes. The chains rattled and jangled, depositing their grisly cargo upon the remains of those that had proceeded them. These four were not the first that the slaughterhouse had lured into it's grasp. Charmed with it's song and bound with their own pride. Damned, forever damned. More shades amoung the restless ranks that already called this place hell.
And just like that the wind subsided, the chains returned to their positions, hooks turned every which way. The jangling subsided, movement ceased, and silence reigned supreme. The blood soaked into the soil, the flesh already begining to putrify. The remains well hidden from any prying eyes that might dare venture into this dark sanctum. Not that any would. Without the song instinct would rule and cool logic would keep even the most foolhardy from venturing within these unhallowed walls.
The slaughterhouse had been fed and now, hunger saited, it settled down to wait. Wait until the wind came again from the north and blew it's song into the town below once more....
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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Kalanna Rai
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| Posted: Wed Feb 27, 2008 11:46 pm Post subject: |
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This one isn't as scary as the others, but it is twisted. Enjoy.
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Addiction
The struggling figure cursed and writhed futilely in the grip of it's captors, blond locks soaked with sweat sweeping down and obscuring all vision of the face. The two burly black-robed guards hauling on it's arms were, themselves, uttering the occasional muffled curse or grunt as they fought to keep their charge well in hand. Down the spiraling stone steps they went, taking a moment to slam their prisoner against the walls to slow the frantic movements and regain order. By the time they reached the bottom of the staircase the struggles had ceased and the figure sagged between them.
At the sounds of their approaching footfalls a soft voice whispered for them to give the password and they whispered back, just as softly. For a moment all motion ceased and the only noise in the world was the wet breathing of the battered captive. Then there was the sound of a door opening, iron handle clanking as the hinges gave a soft squeak. The two burly guards hastened inside to where a circle of torches lit a long forgotten room. With a casual gesture, the pair of them pitched their prisoner forward, washing their hands of the unpleasant task.
The captive landed in the center of the round room with a thud, blond curls spilling back to reveal the face of a youth of noble lineage. Classically handsome yet flawed by the bruising inflicted upon it, the blood that trailed down the jaw and stained the collar of his torn shirt. A new figure, black robes trimmed in red, moved forward. A tisking noise issued from the depths of it's hood. "I expected the Prince in better condition. I also expected him aware."
The two guards went to their knees, foreheads pressed to the cold stone as their arms remained rigidly by their sides. When they spoke, it was with two voices as one. "A thousand apologies Master Mas but the youth is strong and feisty. There were times when we were forced to extreme measures lest he escape our power. We did not want him to get away."
The red trimmed figure stood silent for a moment and then, with a gesture, allowed the prostrate pair to rise. "Tis better to have a battered Prince than no Prince at all. Perhaps it is for the best this way. He will come to learn the workings of his new Prize all the sooner. And the sooner he learns, the sooner our goals will be to completion."
With that the figure turned and strode toward the back of the round room and placed a gloved hand against the stone wall. There was a faint pop and lingering stench of something unpleasant, the faintest aftereffects of magic. The red trimmed figure spoke as it turned around, holding aloft something that gleamed metallic in the torchlight. "Behold, the Prize!" Instantly the many black robed figures in the room went down on bended knee, heads bowed before the silver bracelet held gently in the Master's hands.
With gestures steeped in ritualistic meaning he knelt down and snapped the cuff closed around the Prince's left wrist, watching as the ends blended together seamlessly. He arose swiftly, robes swirling around him as he summoned the two guards again. "Quickly, take him to the mouth of the North Sewers and leave him there. Strip him of his valuables, leave him only his cloak. Let them think he was accosted by simple beggars."
Again the pair spoke with a single voice. "As you wish."
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He woke to the most delightful of sensations running down his body, as if he were held deep within his father's Pleasure Wing. Yet the pleasures were out of place. They did not belong with the lingering stiffness his muscles bore, the cold kiss of the wind on his naked flesh, the stench of rot and hopelessness that invaded his nostrils. Sitting upright made him gasp at the wave of feeling, bringing him to a fever pitch. What was wrong with him?
His eyes did not want to open and, when at last he coaxed his right open a mere fraction, he did not recognize his surroundings. He sat for a moment, dazed and confused, realizing that the reason for his shivers and chill was his lack of clothing. He quickly wrapped his cloak, now stained and grievously holed, around his nude form and struggled to stand. A smile stretched his features and he was forced to bite his battered lips to keep from crying out for all the wrong reasons. A glimmer of silver caught his eye and he glanced down at his left wrist.
The ornate silver bracelet that was clasped tight to his flesh did not belong to him, he would never have worn such a thing. The images graven upon it were craven and depraved, wanton and increasingly disturbing the longer the eye lingered upon it. The flesh of the hand was swollen, the arm bruised. The stiff and unresponsive fingers of his right hand reached out to seek the clasp of the cuff and he frowned when there was none to be found. He almost cried out as a rock smashed into his side, hurled from some distance away by a sooty faced urchin.
However, he was forced to credit the youth with the discovery of the cuff's properties. There was, for a brief instant as the rock smashed against him, a shock of pain. But the bracelet gleamed in the light, the figures seeming to shift, and the pain became a warm rush of pleasure. The change must have shown on his face for the urchin quickly dropped the second rock it had readied and charged away down the filthy streets. He waited a moment for the wave to subside, before trying to take a step.
He quickly surmised it was going to be an awkward journey back to the castle as the pain generated with every step, every breath, became a slowly building pleasure. Still, one has to bear what one has to bear. And he shuffled off along the slimy cobbles of this most hideous of districts, his movements intended to prevent as much pain, and therefore pleasure, as possible. The hollow eyed residents of this place stared at him vacantly as he passed them by, many assuming that he, like them, was another fallen upon hard times. Beggars left him alone for the first time in memory, men and women alike brushed against him without apology, causing him untold ecstasy in his agony.
He somehow managed to make it out of the slums and into a more respectable district, limping slowly down the wide lane. Here glances quickly turned away from him, scowles were aimed his way, and impolite shouts urged him to 'go back to the filth he had crawled from' and other various things of that nature. He must be a sight, he surmised, unrecognizable. Still it prickled his pride that these, his people, would speak to him in such a manner. He continued on his way, head upright, gaze defiant, drawing on all he had within him to simply complete the journey to the castle.
The building feelings within him were becoming unbearable, almost beyond hiding. He glanced again at the cuff, it's silver gleam seeming to mock him, and cursed whatever unholy artificer had forged it. He cursed it's nefarious purposes and yet, he found himself strangely intrigued by it. What would the value of something like this be in battle? If it changed pain to pleasure, might a man not be able to stand more grevious wounds than his flesh would normally allow? His brain sized upon that thought, realizing that there was the danger of such a device as this. One could easily come to rely upon pain, forsaking all else in search of it.
He shuddered at the fact he had even entertained the though, wondering if this also was the infernal things doing. Absorbed in his morbid and dire thoughts, his feet automatically taking him where he wanted to go, he failed to notice the shouts of the guards or their falling shadows. He couldn't help but moan when a heavy hand thudded onto his shoulder, the delicious feelings racing across his nerves. He turned his battered face to that of the hands owner the motion almost more than he could take. Recognizing the face of one of the Guard, he licked his cracked lips and spoke the codeword. "Almonto."
---------------------------
The King gazed thoughtfully at the bandaged form of his son, his stormy eyes lingering on the silver jewelry that bedecked his heir's wrist. "You're certain there's no way to remove it Master Cur?"
The aged wizard next to the monarch thoughtfully leaned upon his staff, shaking his silvered head. "None my liege, save removal of the hand itself. Once the cuff is in place, that is the only mortal method by which one can be freed of it's evil. The only other way would be unthinkable."
The King's expression grew thunderous as he glowered at the wizard. "And removing my son's hand is not unthinkable?! That is my son's good hand, his sword hand, his writing hand. Removing it will cripple him Master Cur. How will this Land survive with a crippled king!"
The aged wizard stared right back at the King, aged shoulders stooped yet stiff with pride. "He can learn to use his right hand my liege. Better that than deal with the demon who inhabits the cuff. Only by offering it a worthy substitute could it be wooed away from one host to another."
The Prince stirred in his bed, crying out softly as a smile tinged the corners of his mouth. "You see?" said the wizard. "Even through the effects of the sleeping potion it works upon him. If we do not remove it soon, the curse will linger despite it's removal. It is your choice my leige."
The King gazed from the cuff, to his son, to the wizard, and back again. "I am not a young man any longer Master Cur. I have but two sons, only one of whom is fit to rule this nation. I will not, for any reason, have him impared in the defense of this Land." Pulling up his sleeve, the King placed his wrist next to that of his son. "If the demon must have anyone, let it have me."
There was a click and a flash of silver as the cuff quickly changed owners, seeing the worth in trading a Prince for a King. For a moment the King stood, wondering at the consequences of his actions. Then, swiftly crossing the room and walking out on to the balcony, he realized what he must do. Closing his eyes, he hurled himself from the high railing, crashing onto the stones below with tremendous force. For a moment there was overwhelming pain then it became the sweetest pleasure. The furious cry of the demon echoed in his head and the King lay still, safe in the knowledge that he had protected his kingdom one last time.
----------------------------------
They gathered again in the forgotten room, the red edged Master with folded arms surveyed his flock. When the door had been shut behind the last attendee, he spread his hands and said softly "All goes according to plan."
_________________
"It's not just about living forever...the trick is living with yourself forever..."
"Music makes you braver."
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