Collaborative Story Horror, Part II

This was written as part of a collaborative storytelling experience in the horror genre. Thanks to Shana Horn who wrote part one. It can be found here:

A big toe, iridescent and slick as a silver koi, pressed against the window, visible below the stained glass stick-on. It traced a line against the pane, leaving a streak of sparkling slime in its wake. My eyes went from toe to the window ledge. In my frantic washing, I’d splashed some water onto the line of salt. A little gap formed as it dissolved, dripping down the wall.

My mother never told me what would happen once the outside got in. It was a little secret not spoken, the dangers lying in wake for a girl half-grown. I will tell you the one thing I learned that night: Silence never saved anyone.

My nakedness became my chief concern, silly though it was. One hand covered my budding breasts while I stumbled backwards, my mother’s too-large briefs sagging on my scant hips.

The hiss came again from the other side of the window. Crackling and low. A radio with a broken antenna. “Blood. My blood.”

My heel slid as it hit the line of salt outside the bathroom door, sending me crashing to my ass. My favorite pajama top, the purple one with the smiling rainbow pony, was balled up in the hall where I’d tossed it. I pulled it over my head and looked back at the bathroom window.

The toe was gone. The line of goo remained.

I pulled myself up, rubbing my sore tailbone through my mother’s briefs. The pad pressed against my skin beneath them, warm and wet beneath the porous plastic layer.

I wasn’t told there would be so much blood.

Then again, I wasn’t told a lot of things.

Eyes on the bathroom window, I padded backwards to the kitchen where the round florescent bulbs anchored to ceiling, glowing blue halos, would be my savior. I’d almost convinced myself the entire thing had been a nightmare, something I’d imagined while half-awake and frantic. I lowered myself onto the padded seat at the dining room table.

Scratching outside the sliding glass door leading onto our balcony. It’s voice—his voice, I realized—came from behind the drawn black curtains. “You are mine. Your parts are mine. Your blood is mine.”

My mother’s knife block rested on the kitchen counter. I staggered across the linoleum to it, pad already swelling with blood between my legs. I felt other things ooze from me as I moved. Hot flesh sliding from my flesh as I pulled the largest knife from the block and approached the door. My lower abdomen ached as though my uterus was an animal, twisting in circles, trying to get out.

“What are you?” I tried to sound bold, but my voice was built for selling sugary cereals between Saturday morning cartoons.

“Wrong question, woman.” The door shook as he tried to pull it open. “What are you?”


You’re mine,” he hissed. The door jiggled. Louder this time. Curtains shaking. He howled. “Cursed bitch with the salt. The crosses. The locks. The lights. Cursed bitch who thinks fear makes her safe. Nothing makes you safe.”

The rattling stopped. Silence was louder than his howling. My ears ached. My gut twisted. Was he still there? Was it still there? Waiting for me on the other side of the door?

I swallowed, throat tight. I reached out with the knife’s tip, touched the curtains and gently pushed them to the side.

Dark night stared back at me. A half moon. A few stars too bright to be swallowed up by the light pollution of our town.

I let the curtains fall back into place, backing up. The wooden knife handle was warming in my hands.

My legs brushed together, chaffing from the stickiness that flowed over the pad, coating my thighs. I pressed a hand against my flesh just to make sure. It came back red, dotted with black clots.

Shattering glass broke the silence. A large hunk of something fell and crunched into metal three stories below. A car alarm screamed. I whipped around to see it emerging from the bathroom, brushing red brick dust off its shoulders.

It was a man, or male at the very least, advancing upon me. His skin was shimmering white, sparkling and translucent. Veins pulsed beneath his skin. Suggested muscles shifted. The only shred of cloth he had was a red silk tie worn nattily around his neck. Hair like cotton candy made of piss twisted around his head. His eyes were blue, only blue, like blinking marbles.

“Blood.” He held out his hand, curled it in my direction as though pulling me towards him. “My blood.”

“I’ll give you your blood,” I said, even as my fingers went limp, knife falling from my hand.

He chuckled, revealing a sharks mouth behind his lips. “The woman doesn’t know what it says. You are not yours. This body. This life. I created you. You are mine. Your parts are mine. Your blood is mine. I shall have my right.”

His head whipped forward before I heard the crack of a wooden bat against the back of his head, leaving an indent in the side of his skull. He slid to the ground.

My mother, my beautiful mother, stood behind him, worn fabric grip of the slugger clutched between both her hands. She wore a long shirt, purple like my own. Three fat white kittens chased a butterfly across her breasts.

Her eyes, brown eyes like mine, stared back at me in horror. “What did you do, baby?”

I held out my bloodied hand, gestured to my wet thighs, to her briefs.

”No. No. No.” The bat trembled in her hands.

The thing on the ground started to move. I watched the crater in his head slowly disappear. “Yes, sweet thing, yes. I will have my blood back from her. I will retake my power.” He lashed out with one long, pale arm and knocked my mother to the floor.

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