The music box

The music box sat on the desk, beckoning. Dust and moths fluttered about in the shadows. I pried open the box, and out she came. A damsel in pastel. Mouth painted red like a whore. I turned the crank with care, and after several seconds a melody emerged. I sat the box back on the desk, and listened. The music continued long after it should have ended, and the notes seemed too haunted for it's stature. Eventually the ballerina stopped moving. The song however, continued to play.  

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Horror House

I started puking up blood. The copper taste never really left my mouth after that day. I keeled by the bathtub, vomiting more and more. She was beside me, standing there menacingly.

I watched, as though an old film, and saw what had happened to her.

There was a dead girl with a heart in her mouth and no eyes, that part of her face was wide with astonishment and torment. She kept trying to scream, but she couldn't. The heart was fatty, like a mass of gross tissue or a tumor trying to escape a tortured soul. Often veins would crawl out of her skin.

She could hear him coming, the ringing, and slow vibrations in the air and objects around her, warning her, but to no avail. There was no help for her soul.

He always used to come into her house and rearrange her possessions, attempting to possess her. Sometimes when she was out of the house and about, she'd come back, and the furniture would be tossed about or just moved dramatically. Then, sometimes when she slept, he would come in and watch her and turn the faucets on, or the television. The little trinkets she had sitting on her shelves, some were mermaids, one was Betty Boop, and he would move them or lay them down, but never break them.

She couldn't stop him. He was otherworldly.

Sometimes, she'd be standing in the kitchen, and static would rise up through her body, she'd loose colors of the spectrum and her mind would fade out to gray. Always, all she would hear was the ringing, and it tingled her bones, tickling them. She could feel the objects moving by themselves. But it was always him. He would allow her no one and nothing.

She would cry, but she cannot.

She would scream, but she cannot.

She would leave... but eventually, she could not. 

The Souls

“We live, as people of all sorts, then we die in all manner of ways, and then our souls leave us; and so the soul travels. Through the air, up through space, past the stars, planets, and other beings. The soul travels such a long way, it cannot be measured. It passes through other parallels and universes, but never becomes distorted. You would think that the soul would become light, or find a body, but truthfully, the soul travels onwards, forever searching. There are no all knowing beings to guide or damn our souls, they just float, and float on. Peace is something that cannot be known to the soul, bodily or by any other means. Our souls are everlasting, and ever wanting things. If we could have found peace by our body or soul alone, we would have found it long before now.

“The souls don't remember anything of their lives, only vague, vague thoughts they cannot decipher; but there are some souls that seem to know where they are going, and stop occasionally. Once they realize that nothing will happen though, they keep going. Sometimes, souls get sad, and stop floating. It doesn't matter how old or young the soul, they all stop sometimes. Still, nothing happens, and they are forced to go on, but to what? This is the final frontier, the blackness, limbo, and no more death awaits. Only time and space are ahead. There is enough room in the ever looming universe for all the souls that any planet could generate, and so it goes on.

“Sometimes the young souls get feisty, they play and twitter about happily, joyfully, enjoying the small companionship of other souls. It is impossible for souls to physically play with or harm each other because they lack bodies, and so there is no reason or want to fight each other, but there is no way to hold hands or hug. It is good that wars do not exist, but nor can love. Souls want very earnestly to find something, anything; an answer, more questions, a way. If any souls have found anything, no other souls would know about it, else they would have all been gone by now. The souls want, and grow impatient. The souls want, find naught and still they want.

“Then, something strange happens...”

The Crow

I held the dove in my hands, her panicked cries pierced the morning air. I grasped her tightly, constricting her wings as she shook with terror. I felt the feathers between my fingers, so soft was the down, how fragile her bones. I was careful with her, and now was the final moment. I began to choke her, her twitchy movements stopped suddenly. The birds eyes watched me with evil in them. I felt like my soul had been taken from me, along with her life.

This had to be done though.

I kneel at the end of the pier and I hold the dove loosely in my palms. The water staring back at me is dark, almost black. The moss and algae covering most of it's surface seems to dissipate and I place the bird on the surface. The pond echos in my heart, and begs the offering. I let the dove float slowly to the bottom. I feel her sinking.

I wait, and I feel my heart rushing to keep beating. I wait for but a moment, and I feel the water separate, and make a path, and I know she is coming up. Her wings are spread as she levitates out of the dirty leech water. Her once pure wings now are lacquered in black, and the gloss of her coat resonated in the rays of the sun. She's been to the other side now, and come back stronger. Like me.

She watches me, knowing my pain, and with her rebirth, she lands on my shoulder. When she nuzzles her beak to my skin I feel cold. She lays down, clawing at my skin. Then I feel a burning like tar over my shoulders, I can't move. She's digging her way into me. I start to scream, but hold it back, I hold onto my arms for balance. I claw my arms until I feel the burning growing like a stem out of my shoulder blade's. I watch hesitantly as the wings form, and the feathers unravel.

I feel her beak inside my throat, and know the power that she has given me. 

Vintage Satanism

While she's painting her face with red lips, and thick lashes, the roar of the world is passing by. Her breasts are held high by under wire like metal clasps holding her together, and her waist cinched in the classic hourglass figure. Her idol Marilyn would be proud. As she curls her hair the only thing she burns is her soul. Her personality slowly slipping away while her baby blues look only to one thing.

Satan.

He is her everything.