In order to get myself back in the writing mood I started going through my old writing folders. I rarely write short stories, but while free writing one day I came up with this. If it is finished it looks like it would work out for a short story. Otherwise, it might make a decent scene in a book with the right polishing.
Either way, here it is, as I said it was free writing, so no major editing was done. I’m just posting this to remind myself that I actually do write things occasionally and to get into the groove to begin working on future works.
Hope you like it!
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Tap….tap….tap. The sound of a shoe pressing to the hardwood floor could be heard. Tap…tap…tap. He moved slowly, as if his steps were calculated. He seemed to know where he was going even before he had reached his destination.
“I know you’re in here. You can’t run from me. In fact, you’re only making this harder on yourself.”
There was no answer but that was okay in his mind. It wasn’t like he expected an answer. The thunder rolled and the lightening struck, which caused a light to cascade through the window centered above the hallway. As this occurred his eyes moved from left to right.
More than one door stood beside him. He could choose the left or the right. It would not matter much which was chosen though he highly doubted what he sought would be behind door number two. The reason he didn’t think the left door was occupied was because there was a deterrent waiting in that room. The deterrent, in this case, was a dead person. Of course, he saw it more like a work of art.
The body had been strung up with the help of a four poster bed. The arms were out, elongated and held in place by rope that was attached to the bed. The feet, on the other hand, were bound tightly together and secured to the bed in this fashion. The end result was a warped cross without the proper backdrop.
The wounds of the body were fresh, though the body itself had been dead long before moving into its current religious frame. The body, female and no more than 23 years old, had been smothered in her sleep - an easy way to die, in comparison to what was done to her afterwards.
First, her throat was cut. This was necessary to bathe her body in the crimson parade of blood that was once inside of her. Next, she had cuts protruding from her hands all the way down her arms. This was to remove the veins, which would then be twirled around her body in a festive pattern. The same was done to her feet and legs. As he carved her name and RIP into her swollen belly, he smiled at his work – proud of what he had done.
The artist was not totally a monster mind you. Knowing she would be found, he made sure to make up her face with what was in her makeup bag. He added some blush, lipstick, eye shadow, and liner. He even found a bluish eyeliner pencil and drew a few little tears down her pretty, painted face. She was all ready to be seen by her adoring public.
He knew she had been in there but highly doubted she would stay. He heard the scream when she had found her and then the slam of a door. A little deductive reasoning had meant that the room was all but empty with the exception of the masterpiece.
He left the door open and the light on but decided that it was time to move on. He turned towards the right door knowing that while there were other doors to look in, he had to start somewhere, and this was as good a place as any. He opened the door slowly and stopped in his tracks. It seemed that the room had been….prepared for him.
Lights flickered softly, but these were not the other lights that were flickering around the house as the pull of electricity wavered in the storm. These were candle lights. While a normal person would have been dumbfounded by finding this wrench in their plan, he just moved on. Nothing more to do than continue. He took a step into the room, checked behind the door, and then took another step so that he had full entered the room.
No one was in the room, but that was no shock. He didn’t expect to find her laying on the bed in waiting. He peered under the bed. She wasn’t there. He looked in the bathroom. That too was empty. He looked to the door that was connected to the door where his masterpiece hung over the bed. He still didn’t believe she was in there, not again, but she wasn’t in this room so that was the next logical stop on this murderous mystery tour. He opened the door and could not believe his eyes.
His masterpiece lay slumped on the bed, nothing more than a dead pile of rubbish. The art was gone. The beauty in his work was no more. Now he was angry.
Technorati Tags: Writer, Short Story, Free writing, Editing, Thriller, Serial Killer, Work of Art, Rubbish, Author, Ashtyn Evans
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I really like this story. It’s creepy and it makes me want to know what happens. I can just imagine the nutball as angry as he is, and his prey is most likely responsible for it. Killers like him don’t like when their masterpieces are ruined, so he’d be spitting mad. Would love to see if the one responsible meets the same fate as the “artwork”.