Graveyard Shift – Retail

“So, you’re starting up tonight at that new clothing store huh? Strange that place has a graveyard shift, but whatever. I’ve heard some stories though, you want to hear?”

“Well first off, you’re not supposed to go in the back, where they keep the mannequins? That’s a nono, manager only apparently. You’ve been back there huh? Best keep that to yourself. I’m not sure why they’re weird about it, but the last girl that went back there? Well, she didn’t fare too well job wise after it.”

“After that, the clothing they sell? It’s all leathers, good leather but still an all leather clothing store open 24 hours? That’s just awkward, yeah fucking creepy really, seeing all those bone white mannequins all dressed in dead skin more or less.”

“Another thing, don’t go messing with the mannequins, those things are normally creepy enough but that place? I don’t know but they give me the…oh shit. Your manager is right there, staring at us. What…oh fuck…fuck…shit fuck hell! Run! Run damn i-”

“Where are we? The store? Why the fuck-oh hell…nononnon-”

The girl’s voice cuts off and your manager stands before you,  a smile stretching their mouth into a macabre grin.

“I have to thank you for being such a dedicated worker, if you wanted to work overtime as a model, well all you had to do was ask. Since you’re doing it pro bono though, I have to say thanks dear. Oh don’t worry, kill you? Oh no, no, none of my girls are dead. They’re out on the floor, just as pretty as you please, see look I’ve kept their faces, why? So you could see them smile. Now dear, hold your breath, it’s your turn.”

“Skin? Oh you’ll have your own lovely jacket to wear, your skin seems smooth enough for it. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Scarecrows (Muffled Cries)

The family stands in the field, the cold wind of the northern farmlands blowing across their faces as they look at their start towards making a scarecrow, muffled cries can be heard.

The father turns towards the two children, he hands them a coat with a smile, the two children and put the coat on the scare crow, muffled cries can be heard.

Smiling the mother hands them a hat, a large hat, but its something they’d wear to keep the sun off the their face, the children put the hat firmly on the scare crow’s head, muffled cries can be heard.

The father pulls out a tool, to the give the scare crow the proper face. The muffled cries get louder and the children smile. They make the face, the muffled cries getting weaker until they go silent.

Now only the laughter of children remains, as the cold wind blows across the form of the new scarecrow and the children’s faces. Father drags the old scarecrow away, silence remains now, and the children go back inside. There is no more muffled cries, only weeping and the wind.

A Reading  (Read by me)

A Laughing Warning (Please, listen not)

Laughing and scratching just at your door, hear the quiet steps.

See them scurry from out the light and into the dark, in which they keep their foul delight.

There is no fear to be had, of these spirits here, the owns that make them selves known, those that thrive on fear.

But truly, beware the silent home, fear the quiet dark, hear them plodding in silence and feel the ghastly breath upon that chilled nape of your neck.

Rest not the weary in a house of the dead for you’ll not waken again, this I fear my friend.

They come to take your breath, they come to take your warmth and in it’s place they leave only a chill embrace that has not a single bit of worth.

So fear the silence and rest not the weary but waken the wary and fear for thy soul for they come to claim it and the life you know.

This is the risk and the warning from the wary to the weary, and the words of the restless dead. I warn you not from goodness, but for myself and my own plans.

For I hope you laugh and shake your head, and then take yourself, your weary bones, to your untroubled bed resting in that corner of this home I know so well, this home in which I died, where I am dead.

And where I hope to live again.

A Return and Recognition

Shuddering shaking and shivering in fear, the tapping, tapping that I hear so near.

The fear has returned, my bloodied muse at my back, her tortured hands upon my neck as her twisted  face a broken smile  of recognition.

Such a saddened thing at the return of my grim fate.

Lashed to the page, chained to the well, my pen drips the black ink, the color of my soul that I know so, so well.

My form ephemeral, my purpose not set, I am the writer, to my muse, a fond pet.

She neither cares for me, nor clothes me, or sees to my feed, for she devours not but fear and twisted dreams, and it seems, to me, expects myself to do the same.

Tipping, Tapping, Don’t be Caught Napping

Tipping, tapping, tipping, tapping, don’t be the one that is caught napping.

They’ll snatch you up and eat your soul. Slough off your flesh and devour you whole.

Then you’ll awake and wipe a sweat drenched brow and think to your self just a dream nothing more, nothing less, just idle thoughts tipping, tapping at my minds door nothing more, nothing less.

Tell me my friend, how does that comfort sit when you pull your hand back and see the blood on your clenched fist?

How does it rest with a throat torn raw from the screams of hell,  that idea that whilst you were napping it was only just nightmares  tipping, tapping, at your minds door?

I’ll say it again and I’ll speak no more, I’ll not be the one napping as they tip and tap upon my door. It’s never just a dream, or at least that’s my fear.

Because quite truly friend, while it is a dream, and it might be less.

There is a chance, a slim belief, that those tipping and tapping at your mind’s open door, might indeed be something, not less.

But quite dreadfully more.

To be a “Hero”

It’s the middle of the night, you’re out, walking. Trying to clear your head after a rather heated argument when you hear a woman cry for help. You look and you can see it’s coming from a little grove of trees, just off the path. The path you’re on isn’t the most well lit path in the first place, but that?

That’s far from any beaten path and pitch dark, as it is you can only see it due to the shadows cast from lights on the other side, which doesn’t help you much. Looking at your phone you see that you’re out of minutes and the battery is about dead, but the woman is screaming for help, loudly.So you rush off, towards that darkened path, shivering a bit in the chill of winter, you should have wore a heavier coat really.

Heading closer you start to notice something, after about three cries of “Help! Someone! Please Help!” there is a pause before it starts again, exactly the same, the tone, the volume, all of it the exact same. You slow your pace but it’s too late, you see them too late as they come of the little wooded area, one of them actually having a net and tossing it over you as you feel a small prick, a little pinch in your arm. Looking down you see what looks like a dart sticking from you before you suddenly become exhausted.

Looking up you see the silhouette of three men standing over you, with just enough light to make out a smile. “We got one boys, this one should sell for a pretty penny. Told you it’d work.”

Leaning down he grabs your hair to pull you up “They never can resist the chance to be a hero.”

A Warning About a Blighted Well

The shadows see and the eyes they bleed the bones do creak and wait for the weak. They stand behind the backs of those the eyes that bleed do watch with intent while the shadows dance to tempt and distract until the claws snatch and drag the hopeless to the bleeding maw within the dark that well of bodies that hold no soul, no sorrow within that well is known for the shadows devoured it all. Their smiles masks for the skeletons, their joy a macabre dance of blood and bones and eyes that stare and seek. Waiting for the sorrow of the poor and pitiful weak, so my advice to you and these darkened nights don’t go by that well of shadows alone for solitude in grief for you’ll find your respite in the bottom of that blighted well quite brief, with only cruel shadows and hungry bones to which to speak.

Bleeding eyes watch me die and breath me last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through the ground to that darkened bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until nothing of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and I live again to restart the night where it all began. Where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home and drag me through to that darkened and bleeding throne they grab and dig and steal my sorrow until of grief is left nothing of sorrow nothing of pain the bleeding stopped and i live again to restart the night it all began where bleeding eyes do watch me die and breath my last until they grasp my soul in shadow’s home….