Sinister Scribblings - Volume 1 Read online

  Bone snapped, teeth separated from gums and plinked on the concrete beside the boy’s head as Horace stood above him, continuing to rain blows down on the boy from above. A menacing, evil look had spread across his face, and white spittle flew from the corner of his mouth. The boy on the floor had stopped trying to defend himself any further; he was out cold.

  Horace snapped back from his daydream to find himself face to face with the boy.

  “Did you hear what I asked you, Horace? Don’t ignore me, you useless lump.”

  “What, sorry, I –“

  Before he could complete his sentence, the boy nodded, and his two friends grabbed Horace by his shoulders, spinning him round. Bending him forwards, they held him doubled over, exposing his rear upwards, his shirt tails hung from the back of his trousers, exposing the top of his underwear and his arse crack. The boy standing behind him grabbed the top of his underwear and wrapped it around the top of his hand, and yanked the material upwards, hard. Horace yelped as the sharp edge of the material from his underwear disappeared up into the crack of his behind.

  The boy behind him laughed. “How’s that for a wedgie, Horace? Beg me to stop and I’ll stop.”

  Still bent over, Horace bit his lip and refused to answer. Becoming agitated, the boy continued to tear at the boy’s underwear, pulling it further into Horace’s vast crack. He bit his lip and struggled to hold back the tears.

  “You had better start begging Horace because this can go on all evening.”

  After a few moments of futile struggling, Horace conceded. He pleaded, “Please, let me go.”

  The other boy goaded. “Pretty please?”

  Horace winced as the boy gave his underwear another sharp tug upwards. “Pretty please, with a cherry on top.”

  “Sad git,” he spat, and let go of Horace’s underwear as he released him.

  The boy stumbled forward a few feet. The bully added to his already toppling momentum and shoved his foot into the small of his back, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. Every pupil in the vicinity snapped round and burst into immediate laughter. Once again, Horace collected his belongings from where they had fallen to the floor, frantically tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he walked away slowly and silently, attempting to remove the remainder of his underwear from his butt.

  *****

  Nobody answered her first call. She lay patiently, silently listening. She called out again. “Hello, is anyone there? Can you hear me? Help.”

  No answer came immediately, then a few moments later she heard the sound of a door handle being turned, and the audible creak of a door opening. She lay still, terrified, her body beginning to shake in fear as she heard the sound of footsteps falling on a wooden floor, moving slowly towards her.

  A voice spoke. “Was that you calling out?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Answer me or I will cut three of your fingers off,” the voice replied sternly. “Was that you calling out?”

  “Yes,” she replied. Attempting to speak through her broken teeth and swollen gums.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m scared. Where am I?”

  “That is none of your concern.”

  “Please, I’m scared. What do you want with me?”

  Suddenly, the hood that was covering her face was quickly removed, she squinted painfully as the light suddenly invaded her eyes. Her pupils quickly dilated and the blurred vision of her captor slowly came into focus. The black hood that had been snatched from over her head was held in her captor’s gloved hand.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  “Just do what I tell you to do, as and when I tell you to do it, and you will be free to go.”

  “But what do you want from me? How can I be sure that you will stick to your word?”

  Without any warning, a gloved fist struck her round the side of the head, bashing the temple. For a brief moment her world went black, before slowly regaining consciousness.

  The figure slowly walked away. “I will return when it's time.”

  She heard the sound of a key in a lock being turned as she turned her head to the side and vomited. Then she passed out.

  *****

  Easter Sunday arrived and Horace awoke early, excited. After all, the prospect of chocolate eggs for breakfast only happened once a year. He threw his bed clothes aside and wobbled downstairs as quickly as his chubby legs would carry him.

  Reaching the living room, he looked around for his mother. She was nowhere to be seen. Turning, he spotted a pile of chocolate eggs stacked up on the living room coffee table and immediately began to salivate. Bounding over he quickly unwrapped a large Easter egg, hastily ripping away the cardboard and foil packaging as he proceeded to stuff the whole of the egg into his mouth. Beats boring old crumpets, he thought.

  Taking another look around, spitting globs of spittle and fragments of chocolate from his mouth, he called out, “Mum, are you here?”

  No answer.

  Walking into the kitchen, the smell of cooking food invaded his nostrils and made his stomach growl. He headed over to the cooker surface where a large metal pot was slowly simmering away on the stove. Carefully, he lifted the lid and inhaled the beautiful aroma of the cooking meat. Licking his lips, he carefully placed the lid back down and called out again. “Mum, hello? Where are you?”

  Again, no answer.

  Horace smiled and remembered back to the previous years on Easter Sunday, where his mom had always put on an egg hunt around the house and garden. Looking around again, he beamed as he spotted a costume hanging from the front of the utility room door. Hanging from the coat hanger was a note written in his mum’s familiar handwriting:

  Horace, put this on, and head downstairs, and don’t forget your basket. Love, Mum.

  Slightly confused at the prospect, but obeying the instructions, Horace began stripping from his pyjamas, throwing them into a pile on the kitchen floor. He struggled as he squeezed his legs into the furry costume and continued pulling it up over his midsection. Eventually he managed to awkwardly slot his arms in and pulled the top section up over his messy hair. Pulling the zip right up to his chin, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection from the patio doors. He looked funny, an overweight, furry pink rabbit with two ears pointing from his head. One totally erect and pointing upwards, and the other flopping down to the side.

  He chuckled at his reflection as he waggled his head from side to side, making the ears flap around on his head playfully. Heading over to the kitchen surface, he collected the wicker basket that had been left for him, filled with a load of shredded, coloured paper. Inside, there was another note from his mum:

  No peeking. Now, come downstairs.

  Intrigued, Horace walked across the kitchen to the door that led downstairs to the cellar. Opening the door, he called out. “Hello. Mum, are you down here?”

  “Yes, honey, come on down,” his mum’s voice replied from downstairs.

  Slowly, Horace began to descend the stairs that led down to the cellar. He continued along the dimly lit corridor that opened out to the room at the end of the hallway.

  As he entered the room he stopped and looked in confusion. His mother stood before him wearing one of her old kitchen aprons. It was splattered with blood. In her gloved hands, she gripped a pair of pliers, and proceeded to rip the fingernails from the hand of his teacher, Miss Fingerhut, who was screaming through the gag wrapped around her mouth. She thrashed violently, naked on the leather bed.

  “Mum, what are you doing?” he asked, confused.

  “It's essential, dear. I had to remove her teeth and nails, we can’t risk having her bite or scratch you.”

  Horace looked on, confused as his mother continued to viciously rip the nails from the woman’s fingers, and toss them carelessly to the floor. Miss Fingerhut spotted Horace as he walked into the room. Her eyes widened, she mumbled something frantically from behind her gag.

  The boy turned b
ack to his mother. “Mum, I don’t understand?”

  “Today, my boy, you are going to become a man. Here, give me a hand.”

  Horace placed the basket down on the floor and walked to the aid of his mother, who had proceeded to hold his teacher's left ankle and left wrist together.

  “Grab that duct tape and wrap it around here,” she nodded. “It’s more than sufficient to hold her in place.”

  Horace grabbed the roll of tape and began to wind it around her ankles and wrists tightly. Once secured, he ripped the tape and continued to repeat the process with the other arm and leg as his mother held her in place. Once complete, Miss Fingerhut was left lying on her back with her groin pointing upwards, exposed.

  His mother ripped the gag from the woman’s mouth and threw it aside. The woman on the bed continued sobbing and pleading, an incoherent babble through broken teeth stumps and blood.

  “Oh, shut up, will you woman? Before I cut out your tongue.”

  The boy continued to stare on, incredulously.

  “Right, Horace, grab your basket and take out your Easter eggs.”

  Complying with her instruction, the boy picked up the wicker basket from where he had placed it on the floor. He searched through the shredded bits of coloured paper until he found something. Confused, he removed the item from the basket before placing it back to the floor.

  He held the plastic egg in one hand, attached to another device by a thin pink cable. As his thumb brushed past a switch on the device, the egg that he held in his left hand began to vibrate steadily. It felt a little strange, yet pleasant. On the device was a small dial, as Horace turned it with his thumb, the rate of the vibration increased rapidly.

  He giggled. “What do I do with this Easter egg, Mum?”

  His mother pointed to the woman’s exposed genitalia.

  “Use your imagination, son.”

  Horace stood for a moment bemused, before suddenly beginning to understand. He felt himself becoming aroused as he inched closer to the woman, an erection beginning to poke out from beneath the fur of his rabbit costume.

  Miss Fingerhut looked at him, then his mum, then at the love egg in his hand.

  She screamed.

  Horace smiled.

  Immolate

  Ancient Romanian folklore often told of a creature that lived within the foot of Mount Negoiu in the Fagaras mountain range. A creature that would roam into the nearby villages during the night, snatching children from their beds as they slept. It was told that it would tear its victims to shreds with its vicious claws, drink their blood, and feast on their young flesh.

  Nobody knew of its origin, nobody knew of its reason for existence. Over time it became a legend – a story that the villagers would recite to their children to keep them from misbehaving or deter them from venturing into the mountains to play, alone. For hundreds of years nobody except for a chosen few of the villages’ elders truly knew of its importance.

  *****

  The scent of smoke infused with sulphur and lime filled the night sky as the torch burned – illuminating the path along the hazardous, rocky path that the group were descending. They continued down the track, their bare feet down treading cool dirt, doing their best to avoid sharp stone, shrubs, grasses, ferns and mosses. None of the villagers below were aware of their perilous journey.

  The group consisted of three senior village members and a fourth – a child; the offering.

  Marcellina was her name. Her rounded, pretty face was pale. Her long straggly brown hair that fell to her waist was matted to her forehead with a soft sheen of sweat from the long walk on a warm night. She followed the other members of the group in silence. At only eight years old, her will held strong, and her brown eyes showed no fear, her dread subsided by the opiate that had been placed beneath her tongue. Opium picked from the fields where it grew naturally in the Romanian wild.

  The covenant with the creature had been in place for centuries. Not once had it been broken – both parties always kept to their side of the bargain. It was a simple enough exchange. The sacrifice of one, in exchange for the lives of many. The initial offerings of communal men were refused by the creature costing the villages dearly. The subsequent disappearance of many children suggested that the creature preferred the taste of younger flesh.

  The creature is not held captive, nor has it ever been. The elders were not sure if it could even be contained, besides - it had no real reason to ever leave its lair. The covenant states that once a year during the last period of summer, the offering is given.

  On the approach, the village elder leading the way raised his hand for the others to halt, and not a single word is spoken. Gazing below, five steps can be made out - formed into the rock, leading down to the entrance of the creature’s lair. A new scent begins to fill the air – the smell of fear, emanating from only three. The girl remained calm in her sedated state. Despite the three elders having made this hazardous journey numerous times, the prospect of coming face to face with the creature once again filled their hearts with terror.

  They continued their descent towards the lair. The entrance blocked by a huge boulder, used to conceal the opening. With the combined efforts of the three men, the stone is rolled aside, revealing the large wooden door, hidden beneath. His fist trembling with fear, one of the elders smashed the door thrice, loudly, and quickly stepped back within the sanctity of the group.

  The noise of a large locking mechanism came from within. A grotesque hand wrapped around the side of the door as it began to open. Long brown fingers that stretched into razor sharp talons protruded from the gap. With the door fully open, the abhorrent stench that escaped from within assaulted the senses of the men, turning their stomachs and nearly making them vomit.

  The child stared on without reaction.

  The soft illumination provided from the torches burning within its lair exposed the creature in its full, horrific glory. Standing at nearly five feet tall – its body similar in form to a human, two arms, two legs – its torso was covered with brown and grey matted hair. Its head, long and deformed, was covered in tight leather-like skin, full of scars and holding host to deep, red sunken eyes. A series of ugly, jagged sharp teeth protruded from within its mouth, a thick stream of saliva ran from one of its fangs and dropped to its chest.

  No words were spoken, the creature looked upon the village elders with no change in expression. It closed its deep red eyes briefly and gave a gentle nod before turning its gaze toward the child.

  Ushered by the villagers, Marcellina took a step forward into the creature’s lair. Standing only a foot shorter than the creature in height, she stared into its eyes. Her drug induced state didn’t allow any reaction, even as its razor-sharp talon ran down her soft cheek releasing a slow trickle of blood.

  Raising the claw to its eye line, the creature tilted its head back and opened its foul jaws, allowing a drop of the liquid to fall into the abyss below. A second later the door slammed shut in the face of the elders. From outside, the audible grinding of the locking mechanism could be heard, sealing the creature and the child within. The offering had been accepted.

  Rolling the rock back into its position to conceal the entrance, the three village elders set off in silence on their return journey to their homes.

  The creature inspected the child before him, the trickle of saliva increasing from its mouth - it was time to feast. The elders or villagers living below would be unaware that no flesh would be consumed.

  His name was Diavol, the harvester of innocent souls.

  Naughty List

  Christmas is a truly magical time. Children from all over the world open their hearts when the season of good will arrives. They love the whole package; the decorations, the carols, the nativity at school. One thing makes Christmas the most enjoyable time of all for children; the prospect of the jolly fat man with a white beard in a red suit littering their living room with a vast assortment of presents, early on a Christmas morning.

  Paren
ts understand that, at this time of year, their children will naturally become more excitable than normal. Waking up on Christmas morning to find that the cheerful, chubby fella has been busy during the night, fulfilling the list of their desires, fills their frozen little hearts with greed and expectance.

  Gone are the days of traditional Christmas gifts; beautifully hand-crafted wooden toys and bikes are replaced with mass produced, cheap electronic devices and expensive mountain bikes. Parents spend a small fortune on their little darlings, willing to risk financial ruin to keep up with the Jones’ and witness a half-hearted look of joy and gratitude upon their little children’s faces.

  There are many traditions and beliefs that are instilled by parents into their children. We’ve already mentioned Father Christmas. Most kids are incessant in their quest for answers and pursuit of knowledge, their questions come thick and fast, all day long in a seemingly endless stream. Yet, they seem totally willing to accept that the jovial, plump gentleman will drop down their non-existent chimney on Christmas Eve and litter their Christmas tree with lavish gifts.

  A child that questions the number of hours in a day, whether the earth revolves around the moon, or even the number of blades of grass in the front lawn, will ask these questions but simply accept that on Christmas Eve, a herd of airborne reindeer pulling a sledge will deliver their surprises.

  I digress.

  One of the most famous Christmas traditions is Father Christmas' naughty list, and any child that is unfortunate enough to make this list will not receive their Christmas demands.

  In recent years, due to the mass production of the aforementioned electronic devices, parents are able to manipulate their children’s minds with further deceit.