#YourHorror - Week 10

#YourHorror

The world is a scary place. Every day we’re forced to make choices, no matter how small, that may be leading us along a new path. Whether that path is heading towards something good, like a promotion or meeting some special, or towards something bad, like an accident, or even death, we can never know. In the end, that’s possibly the scariest thing of all.

That’s why I need your help to guide a character, or characters, through the possible dangers that await them in #YourHorror, an interactive horror story that will be shaped by the choices you make. Even I don’t know what will happen, and I’m the writer…

From Monday to Friday, at roughly 8pm GMT each day, there will be a new Twitter poll. These polls will ask you to choose between a number of options, each of which may take the story in a new direction. Sometimes a decision will give a bit more insight into the character, setting, or backstory, while other times the decision will solely focus on driving the narrative forward. 

Excited? Intrigued? A little bit terrified of the unknown? Yeah, me too. Get involved.

Week 10

She’d shut her eyes tight as the car hurtled along, so it was a complete surprise to her when the car halted to a stop. For a few seconds, she daren’t open them. In the driver’s seat next to her, she heard the mentally troubled stranger wheeze with excitement.

(This is it. They’re coming for me. They’re finally coming for me. No more fucking about with bugs and phone calls – this is the real deal.)

A whirring noise shocked her into opening her eyes, terrified that something sharp would be twisting towards her face. If she hadn’t collected more than a few reasons to be so jumpy, she might have been embarrassed. It was the window on her side of the car descending.

Only then did she realise why they’d stopped. Surrounding the car on all sides was a mist so thick that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. She could see that they were still on the road, but all was completely silent. No cars drove by. No birds chirped overhead. It was just the two of them, sitting in the car, in the middle of a murky world.

The mist seemed to be creeping towards the car, like it was alive, thinking, hunting. In the seat next to her, the driver, neither masculine nor feminine in personality now, seemed to regress to a child-like state of glee, and bounced up and down in their seat, clapping their hands and squealing.

(It’s like I’m parked outside of Disneyland with a 5-year old. What is happening?)

Mist rolled into the car, and it became difficult to even see her own hands when she stretched her arms out. She inhaled. It brought about another squeal of glee from the driver.

(I don’t feel so good.)

Her head suddenly felt heavy, and she let it fall back against the head-rest of the chair.

(so… tired…)

She let her head flop to the right, where the driver was fiddling with something around their face. When they looked in her direction, she could just about make out something white across their mouth and nose.

(it’s the… mist… breathed… so sleepy)

Her head rolled back to the front as she surrendered to the mist. Before she lost consciousness, she thought she saw shadows swarming towards her from the grey.

(they are… here… shadows… so… many…)

*

(so… many… Huh?)

Grogginess and confusion worked together to keep her from remembering the events in the car for a few moments, and even when she did, the pounding sensation behind her eyes forced her to keep them closed a little longer. Through the mist of her own mind, there was only one key fact she could glean from her current situation; she couldn’t move.

Her arms and legs were bound, just out of view, and she felt too weak to pull free. For all she knew, they’d used string cheese to tie her up. She’d still have been unable to build the strength to break away from its calcium-filled grip.

Though her body was trapped, her eyes fought their own battle, and she managed to squint at her surroundings.

(Shadows… so many shadows… from the mist. They’re here.)

On all sides, at least as far as she could see, she was surrounded by shadows. Shadow people. People’s shadows. Whatever was in the mist definitely hadn’t quite worn off yet. With great difficulty, she slurred out a few words:

            “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? You’re sick. Fucking sick.”

The shadows said nothing.

After what could have been a few minutes, or a few hours, in which she remained tight-lipped, scared to break the silence a second time, her vision began to clear.  

(What. The. What?)

They were definitely people, not grotesque creatures morphed from shadows and nightmares. Not only that, but they were old. Each and every single face that circled her, though stony and cold, was wrinkled and aged. She thought she might recognise a few of them from the town, even though she'd only been there for a few days. Instead of fussing over her with tea and sandwiches, like her own grandparents had done when she was a child, they stared at her with an intensity that had her wondering if there was an episode of Midsomer Murders being shown just behind her.

(Am I scared enough to wish Midsomer Murders was actually on?

Shit. I really am. This is bad.)

Whatever was holding her down creaked and burned against her bare wrists as she struggled to get a sense of where she was. The air had a chill to it, and it seemed to resonate from the walls, which looked to be some kind of smooth stone. Were they underground? If so, it was deep enough to change the temperature. Too deep to be heard.

Screaming wouldn’t help. Did it ever?

As she strained her neck, eyes scanning for some scraps of information that might help her, the people she had begun to call the Ancient Ones watched, unmoving, unfeeling. She couldn’t tell if they were about to kill her, or if they were going to start knitting hats for smoothies. Both possibilities scared her shitless.

(What are they going to do to me?)

She whispered, almost inaudibly: “Somebody. Help me. Please, help me.”

***

Enjoying my interactive horror? Get in touch with me on Twitter, leave a comment, or just share this story in every single place you can think of! Or all three. All three is good.

Thank you to everyone that has been voting and sharing in the weekly polls - without you, there would be no story to tell. If you haven't been, there's always next week!

#YourHorror - Week 9

#YourHorror

The world is a scary place. Every day we’re forced to make choices, no matter how small, that may be leading us along a new path. Whether that path is heading towards something good, like a promotion or meeting some special, or towards something bad, like an accident, or even death, we can never know. In the end, that’s possibly the scariest thing of all.

That’s why I need your help to guide a character, or characters, through the possible dangers that await them in #YourHorror, an interactive horror story that will be shaped by the choices you make. Even I don’t know what will happen, and I’m the writer…

From Monday to Friday, at roughly 8pm GMT each day, there will be a new Twitter poll. These polls will ask you to choose between a number of options, each of which may take the story in a new direction. Sometimes a decision will give a bit more insight into the character, setting, or backstory, while other times the decision will solely focus on driving the narrative forward. 

Excited? Intrigued? A little bit terrified of the unknown? Yeah, me too. Get involved.

Week 9

She wasn’t quite sure how long the ringing sound lasted for, but she’d shut her eyes tight and rocked back and forth for what felt like hours. Her throat and eyes stung from the tears and the constant questioning of “why me?” Once again, the continuing insanity that seemed to have become her everyday life had drained her of energy, such was the mental toll it was taking on her.

Her knees protested with loud cracks as she stood up, and her hands, which had been wrapped around her legs so tightly that they’d turned white, began to regain their colour.

Although she’d have liked nothing more than to run a bath and soak her aches, pains and memories away, she couldn’t stay in this place for a minute longer. Not only did she not feel safe, but she felt as if the ringing were going to come back in full force at any second – every now and then she thought she could hear it again. For now, at least, it was only her imagination.

She picked up her rucksack and hefted it onto her shoulder. It seemed so much heavier than it had when she had first packed it. Whatever, she’d make do. She’d complete the damn 12 Labours of Hercules if it meant she’d get away from this town.

Without even looking back at her new home, she left. It was a bold decision, driven by events that she didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, and honestly wasn’t even sure had happened. However, she sighed in relief at having made the decision. She’d be back in her real home town soon. Whether they thought she was crazy, if she even told people the truth, was a bridge she’d cross when she came to it. 

She crunched across the gravel path, and swung open the gate at the end of it. Some of the aches and pains seemed to be receding as she put distance between herself and the town, and the rucksack didn’t weigh her down quite as much now.

(I’m getting out of here. Hollywood had this so wrong. Moving sucks.)

With no phone to call for a taxi, no nearby train station, and a deep dislike of buses (what about being late and strangers that smelled of cat piss did people actually enjoy?), she decided upon hitchhiking as her preferred method of travel.

It probably wasn’t an option for everyone, but it was something she’d done a few times when she’d been in need of a ride to a friend’s house or a last-minute gig she’d scrounged tickets for. As long as someone was heading in the right direction and kept their hands to themselves, there was nothing wrong with it. Especially if, like she was, you were in a hurry to be on the move.

She kept her head down as she walked towards the main road out of town. It was late afternoon, the sun still shining but beginning to dip towards the horizon, and a few others were also out walking dogs or picking up their kids from school. In her mind, an irrational fear formed. If she were to catch eyes with one of these strangers, they would know exactly why she was leaving town. They would point, whisper, laugh, shout, throw things and run her out of town with pitchforks, torches and cries of “you’re crazy” and “get a padded cell, freak.” While the latter sounded quite comfortable, it wasn’t what she needed after the hell she’d been through.

Her pace quickened until she reached the main road, a dual carriageway with a speed limit of 60mph. After awkwardly stumbling her way across the side of the road, she found a lay-by near a bright orange emergency phone. She planned to use the colour as free advertising for her hitchhiking campaign. Thumb in the air, she waited.

*

Since it was still relatively early, there weren’t that many cars on the road. Her arm was aching by the time a car slowed to pick her up. With a groan, she let her arm hang by her side, and gave the car a small wave with her other hand – the burnt hand. When she realised, she hid it behind her back.

She walked towards the car. Who was waiting in there? It could be anyone.

(Why did I think this was a good idea? I start getting notes and phone calls from strangers… so I decide that I’ll get in a car with one? Great plan.)

As she approached the car, the window rolled down. A voice called out:

            “Y’alright there, darlin’?”

She peered into the car, and saw an old man sitting in the driver’s seat. He was quite thin, with a hat pulled down low over his eyes. If the eyes are the window to the soul, she thought, his soul is hidden. Then he smiled at her. It was a big toothy grin, and she found herself returning it in full force. It would be fine.

He reached over and opened the door from the inside. “Come on in. I don’t bite.”

So she did, and placed her rucksack between her legs as she sat down. “Thanks for picking me up. I know a lot of people aren’t so sure about picking up a stranger on the side of a road…”

He chuckled. “Well, you looked like you could use a bit of luck.”

She almost snorted. “You have no idea.”

The car joined the road again, and they began picking up speed.

(Fuck you, town. I’m out of here.)

“So, where you headin’?”

She explained that she was trying to get home, and that as far as he could get her in the right direction was all she needed. As soon as his journey and her own took a different road, literally, she’d hop out and make her own way from there.

        “You’re in luck. I can all but drop you on your doorstep. I’m visiting family nearby, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I ended up leaving you next to another road somewhere. Anyone might pick you up.” Under the cap, she thought she saw him wink in her direction.

        “You’re a lifesaver. If you want any money for petrol, or want to get some food on the way, let me know. I owe you that.”

        “Nah, don’t worry about a thing like that. I enjoy the company, and I’ve done a lot of driving in my time. It won’t be more than a few hours, give-or-take some for traffic.”

He began to tell her about long journeys from his childhood, and she smiled and nodded along. She relaxed into her seat a little. Outside the window, trees and signs blurred past. A smile crept onto her face. The town was getting further and further behind her, and the memories it held would begin to blur too, in time.

*

 

(And, unfortunately, Dissociative Identity Disorder! This is what happens when old man/woman are voted for in equal measure, but then you only choose for there to be one person in the car. Do you even know how hard this was to write? Do you?)

*

A revving engine snatched her back from the brink of sleep; startled back into the passenger seat of the old man’s car.

(What’s happening?)

As far as she could see, her eyes now regaining focus, there was no other car around. Another roar of the engine made her gasp. She looked across to the driver’s seat. Something was wrong.

The old man was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned bone white, and every 30 seconds or so his right leg seemed to spasm. When it did, he was forced into pushing down on the accelerator and the engine screamed, almost like it was in pain. They were going 70mph, but, for some reason, he had left the car in 4^th gear. It wasn’t happy. He didn’t even seem to notice.

She placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Hey… are you okay? Do you want to pull over for a second? You’ve been driving for a while.”

He didn’t say anything. The spasms continued. Back and forth the car jolted as the speed increased and decreased. This wasn’t safe.

She shook him a little. When it changed nothing, she shook a little harder.

“Hello?”

His hands seemed to relax on the wheel, and the revving stopped. She could almost hear the car sigh in relief, and it wasn’t alone. He shook his head, and it felt like he was present again.

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry about that. I think I switched off there for a second, didn’t I?”

She began to reply, planning to hide just how much it had scared her – he was probably more scared than she was. He didn’t deserve a hard time about what had just happened. Before she could, he continued:

“It happens more and more now. Sometimes it’s in the car, or when I’m gardening, and I can’t for the life of me remember how I ended up on my knees in the soil. I can’t even count the amount of times I’ve let the bath overflow. Don’t even bother with sorting the ceiling in the kitchen anymore, it’s soaked through so many times.”

She offered up a small smile, unsure of what she could even say.

“I just thank the lord that they took my ovaries. The last thing I’d have needed was a bunch of babies I can’t remember crawling around, sticking their fingers in plug sockets and floating face-down in the bathtub.”

(Well, that was dark. Wait… ovaries? Am I missing something? Is his voice higher than before… maybe softer, too?)

The old man removed his hat. Greying hair spilled down, almost to his shoulders. Where had he been hiding that? It was shaped into some kind of bob, which seemed strange for a man to choose.

(Is… is that make-up?)

In the shadows that the hat had cast over the old man’s face, there were a pair of eyes, speckled green in colour, surrounded by make-up. His eyelashes were long and curled, and his eyes were enveloped in a dark blue eye-shadow. It wasn’t a colour she would have used, but it did contrast well with his (or her?) eyes.  

He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it up at the end. It looked like shampoo advert for all ages. He was trying to give himself “maximum volume.”

What followed as they drove along this one road was a conversation with a completely different person to the man that had first picked her up. He had a new personality, a new life – as a woman. He told her about getting married, about his wedding dress, about discussing children but never getting around to it. 

At some point, most likely during that episode with the spasms, Paul Hollywood had been replaced with Mary Berry.

He clearly had some sort of personality disorder, and maybe schizophrenia or something similar, but that didn’t mean he was dangerous, right? Not everyone was lucky enough to grow older with their mind completely intact, and considering the last couple of days, she could completely empathise. She’d be lucky to made it to the end of that week feeling sane.

No, she wasn’t about to lump him into some sort of “danger to society” category. He was a person, hell, two or more people, and he deserved the same respect from her that he’d had even before he mentally switched between the two.

Even so… she didn’t know how to feel. Whatever was happening to him, it wasn’t his fault, but she also couldn’t help but feel concerned for her own safety at the same time as worrying about his, or now, hers. She hated herself for that, but certain events had her on guard. There was nothing she could do about that.

This disappointment in herself quickly turned to fear as the driver spoke again:

“Yes. We’ll drive. Not too far, though, not too far. That’s not what they want. They need you. We do their bidding. You, my dear, have been chosen. There is no escaping that.”

Neither the man nor the woman was leading the show now; it was both of them. Somehow, they were involved in what had been happening to her. She closed her eyes.

(No. Not again. I’m getting away. I’m getting home.)

The driver began to laugh, and it was as if two people were fighting for their right to do so. From one set of vocal chords, she could hear a man and a woman laughing at the same time. Naturally, the car door was locked, otherwise she’d have jumped from the car just to escape that awful sound. It overtook the sound of the engine, the sound of the wind rushing past the car, and the tyres against the road as they sped forward.

She’d thought she was getting away. They’d known all along. Whoever they were. They were watching, they were waiting, and they knew every single step she was making. 

#YourHorror - Week 8

#YourHorror

The world is a scary place. Every day we’re forced to make choices, no matter how small, that may be leading us along a new path. Whether that path is heading towards something good, like a promotion or meeting some special, or towards something bad, like an accident, or even death, we can never know. In the end, that’s possibly the scariest thing of all.

That’s why I need your help to guide a character, or characters, through the possible dangers that await them in #YourHorror, an interactive horror story that will be shaped by the choices you make. Even I don’t know what will happen, and I’m the writer…

From Monday to Friday, at roughly 8pm GMT each day, there will be a new Twitter poll. These polls will ask you to choose between a number of options, each of which may take the story in a new direction. Sometimes a decision will give a bit more insight into the character, setting, or backstory, while other times the decision will solely focus on driving the narrative forward. 

Excited? Intrigued? A little bit terrified of the unknown? Yeah, me too. Get involved.

Week 8

She awoke from her nap and squinted at the sun, now beaming proudly from the centre of the sky. Yet again she had fallen to sleep on the sofa, pulled into slumber by the sheer exhaustion of what had been happening to her. Dark circles were more present around her eyes than they had been only two days before, when her biggest problems had been the lack of an internet connection and her desire to be the kind of person that made morning smoothies. Neither were up-and-running yet.

After a few minutes, the memory of the phone call that had beaten the energy from her came rushing back, like water exploding from a cracked dam. Her eyes darted about the room, from the window to the hallway to the window again. Could they be watching her? Had they watched her sleeping? She could still hear the way the thing on the phone had smiled when it taunted her.

If she stayed here, she might not be safe. She had to leave. Now.

She leapt from the sofa and almost ran to the bedroom, where a whirlwind of chaos and packing took place. Not that the place had been tidy yet anyway; hell, she was yet to unpack a single box in its entirety, but now it looked like the next sequel of Sharknado had made its way through here. Considering the budget that the films seemed to be made with, she wouldn’t have been surprised. If anything, it was out of their price range.

Only the essentials were worth shoving into a rucksack right now. A few tops, a pair of jeans, underwear, toothbrush, deodorant, her laptop, chargers. She could come back in a couple of weeks, when she felt safe again, or maybe just send for her things if she decided that she didn’t want to come back at all.

Her eyes swept her bedroom, which she’d barely slept in since moving, and tried to find anything she might have missed. She spied a box by the side of the bed and rummaged through to find one more item. It was bright pink, ran on batteries, and was ribbed for her pleasure. Even a girl on the run deserved to have some fun…

With that key item in her rucksack, hidden under clothes, she pulled on her jacket, tugged on her boots – still slick with centipede ‘blood’ - and went to pick up her discarded phone from the sofa. She flinched as she picked it up, half-expecting that raspy, teasing voice to ooze from the speaker, but it was still dead. The phone was slipped into the darkness of her pocket. It could be charged when she got home. Real home. She’d just have to stay with a friend, or maybe even move back in with – shudder – her parents. Just for a bit.

As an after-thought, she picked up her purse from the counter. She wasn’t getting far without this, but it was strange how far money was from your mind when you were running scared.

Time to get out of here.

She reached for the door handle, when a sensation in her leg shocked her into freezing where she was. At first she thought it might be the toy inside her bag.

(Well, it’s not really the time for it, but if you insist…)

Then she realised it wasn’t anything quite as fun. The phone in her pocket – the phone that had run out of battery and had no right to be doing anything other than shutting the hell up – was vibrating. Someone wanted to speak to her.

Maybe she’d turned it on when she put it in her pocket? Sometimes phones seemed to find a minute of strength on 1% battery, even after dying. Yeah, that’s what it was. Only one way to find out for sure. She placed her rucksack down next to the door, ready to leave at a moment’s notice, and pulled the phone from her pocket.

It was an unknown number. She didn’t answer these at the best of times, let alone when her hand started to shake at the very thought of who might be waiting on the end of the line. Worst of all… it could be PPI claims. No, she hadn’t been an accident, and no, they were not aware of said fictional accident.

(Unless they covered nightmare burns*? Lucrative.) - *read Week 4!

The rational part of her mind, no matter how shaken it was, tried to take over. It could be a friend from home, calling from a new number; or maybe someone from the estate agents, calling to check in on their newest renter; for all she knew, there was a dentist appointment that she was missing back home.

Honestly, it could be anyone, about anything. Unfortunately, based on what had happened in the last 24 hours, it could also be a sickly-sweet stranger that enjoyed watching her, a centipede that had dialled the numbers with its hundreds of legs, or even her mirror-self, calling with another friendly warning.

(“Hai buddy, whatever you do, avoid nightmares, insects and strangers, ‘kay?”)

No. She didn’t want to know. She shouldn’t even have to know. Not speaking to anyone was the main perk of a dead phone.

Something in her head snapped. She’d had enough, and decided the phone could be deader still. The phone was dropped to the floor, and she brought up her boot for the second time in as many days. Her heel was brought down onto the screen with as much strength as she could muster, and there was a satisfying CRACK.

The screen had split, but the phone was still going. She did the same, stamping on the phone in a frenzy no different to the one she’d entered when making sure that the centipede outside her front door was truly dead. Her boot rose up and down like a piston, stamping on the phone until it was hard to tell what the pieces had once been. Teenagers everywhere began to cry. How would she possibly ignore people when they tried to talk to her in person, or keep up with the Kardashians? Blasphemy.

        “Call me now,” she smirked. It was strange how much better she felt after crushing the means to contact her.

(I should have done this years ago.)

Feeling lighter without the physical and emotional weight in her pocket, she turned back to the door, picked up her rucksack and reached for the handle once more. She couldn’t wait to leave this place.

Her shoulders slumped, and the rucksack fell to the floor. Tears began to well in her eyes.

She could hear a phone ringing.

The ringing wasn’t coming from anywhere in particular now. It was all around her, and seem to come from every direction, every room, every thought in her head. Incessant. Never-ending. Ringing.

         “Please. Please, just stop.” She cried out. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I don’t know what you want. Tell me what you want.” No answer came back to her. The ringing only continued.

She began to tear through drawers, cupboards, anything that might be hiding another phone, and clawed through or tipped the contents directly onto the floor. Boxes were emptied. Pans clattered to the floor. Books, DVDs and souvenirs littered the floor. Photo frames were smashed on impact. All the while, a phone kept ringing, somehow distant and yet closing around her. It wouldn’t stop.

On the plus side, she had technically unpacked.

She went back to the hallway where her rucksack lay on the floor, and let the remaining pieces of her phone pour between her fingers.

Shattered.

Broken.

Her back hit the wall as she slumped down, head on her knees. Her jeans became a darker, damper blue as she openly sobbed into them. A never-ending phone call taunted her, daring her to give into the new world she had been dragged into.

A world of madness.

It wasn’t a call she was ready to answer, but how long could she hold out? She was just one woman, no-one to help her, as something she couldn’t even begin to comprehend closed in on her from all sides. She remained in the hallway, rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped around her legs, occasionally whispering to herself:

             “Why me? Why me?”

There was never an answer. Only the ringing of a phone that she didn’t think even existed in this world. Someone, somewhere, wanted to speak to her. Someone, somewhere, wanted to take away her sanity. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, it seemed to be working…