Inked: A Supernatural Short Story
Page 3
“Police! Open up!”
Amanda watched as Terry’s neck tilted back. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.
“This is Lieutenants Easton and Labarbara! Open the door, now!”
Terry’s leg began to rip open.
Startled, Amanda fell backward onto the ground. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.
The flesh tore completely away and a Shape pulled its way out of Terry’s leg.
Amanda didn’t make a noise. Her mind couldn’t process what she was seeing.
Looking down at her was a large man wearing a long black robe with a hood. There was no face. And just like the tattoo, he carried a large sword at his side.
The banging at the door continued, but it didn’t open. A body slammed against it.
The Hooded Shape turned to Terry, whose head remained tilted with blood falling from each side of his mouth. Raised the sword above his head, a tight hold on the grip.
Amanda howled as The Shape brought the sword into Terry’s chest. The drive of the blade was so intense that Terry’s body was split into two pieces down his midline.
Terry’s limp body fell backward. It bent all the way back over itself. The flaps of skin, fat, and muscle gave way to smoke from the open wound on his leg.
Amanda fell forward onto her stomach and sobbed. Her nails clawed at the linoleum, trying to hold onto something to comfort her.
The Shape move toward her.
She sat up and crawled backward on her hands as far as she could.
“Leave me alone!”
He kept moving. There was no face, but the hood was angled toward her. Then it shifted to look at the painting of the end of days.
It went over to the painting and stood in front of it. The hood cocked to one side. It appeared to be studying it.
A hand began to rise from the figure’s side and move toward the canvas. The skin on the hand was pale. Dead.
It touched the painting. Glided its worn fingers down the middle, crossing the scenes of Heaven, Earth, and Hell.
The Shape turned. Crept toward the exit.
Lieutenants Easton and Labarbara continued their assault on the door from the outside.
When it reached the door, The Hooded Figure stopped. It turned to show its nothing-face to Amanda once more, then looked to the door and vanished through it.
“What the fuck?” Easton said.
Amanda heard the gunshots, the blade cut through the air, the screams, and at last, two bodies tumble to the ground.
Then she heard nothing but her nose trying to catch up with her tears.
She sat in the middle of the room. Wanted to keep her eyes away from Terry but couldn’t.
A noise came from over her shoulder.
It was faint at first, and she couldn’t make it out.
But it got louder.
She stood and backed away from the noise.
It became clear.
Galloping.
She stopped in the middle of the room as it began to shake. Amanda struggled to stay on her feet.
In front of her, something strange began to happen with the painting. It began to rumble more than the rest of the room.
Moments later, it was on fire.
Amanda ran to the door, almost tripping over her lost love. She looked down and saw the whites of his rolled-up eyes and his entrails escaping his midsection. More tears rolled down her red face as she tried to open the door.
The galloping became louder behind her. An orange glow reflected off the door and she turned around.
Fire shot off the painting and the rest of the room began to set aflame.
She turned and tried the door again. Kicked it as hard as she could.
A fury of screams echoed through the room. Her hands covered her ears.
The room stopped rumbling and became completely silent.
She slowly turned and looked toward the painting. The flames continued but there was no noise.
A crash came through the painting and she ducked her head.
When she looked up, her eyes went wide.
A screaming neigh echoed through the room as a large horse reared up in front of her. Its head was covered with a steel halter and mask. It came down on all fours and she saw the face of the Rider. It wore a white cloak and, like the dark thing that had killed Terry, was faceless. It held the same sword. Its head tilted down toward Amanda.
She heard more galloping and her mind made her move past the Rider on the horse toward the painting. Sweat joined her tears as the room kept burning, almost all the way in flames now. She walked through the center of the room in spite of the burn. Amanda was drawn to the painting.
The galloping became louder and the flames on the painting began to spread.
Amanda cocked her head and looked into it. She could see beyond the canvas.
Inside the painting, she saw a brick bridge winding down the middle of a city in flames. Large castle-like buildings in the skyline. On each side of the bridge, it was black; a bottomless pit.
Down the middle of the road came another Rider. It wore the same robe as the one in the room, but was red instead of white.
It was getting closer.
Amanda watched with an open mouth as the Horseman got larger.
It pulled its sword from the side of the horse and reared back.
Came through the painting.
Swung.
The head severed from the spine cleanly enough to leave the signal to Amanda’s brain on for moments after the strike.
Her head came to a stop in time for her to watch her own knees hit the ground and her body fall over.
Blood poured from where her head once was, like a fountain.
The red Horseman raised his sword as his horse reared up, neighed.
She watched the quivering of her body come to a stop as the signals in her brain shut off.
“Empty Bodies is dark, enthralling, and offers a terrifying look into a post-apocalyptic world.” - Taylor Krauss, Horror Blogger
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Something about the dark side of life has always appealed to me. Whether I experience it through reading and watching horror or listening to my favorite heavy metal bands, I have been forever fascinated with the shadow of human emotion.
While in my 20's, I discovered my passion to create through playing drums in two heavy metal bands: Kerygma and Twelve Winters. While playing in Twelve Winters (a power metal band with a thrash edge fronted by my now wife Kathryn), I was able to indulge myself in my love of writing by penning the lyrics for all our music. My love of telling a story started here, as many of the songs became connected to the same concept and characters in one way or another.
Now in my 30's, my creative passion is being passed to willing readers through the art of stories. While I have a particular fascination for real life scenarios, I also love dark fantasy. So, you'll find a little bit of everything in my stories, from zombies to serial killers, angels and demons to mindless psychopaths, and even ghosts and parallel dimensions.
My influences as a writer come primarily from the works of Clive Barker, Stephen King, and Blake Crouch in the written form; the beautifully dark, rich lyrics of Mikael Akerfeldt from the band Opeth; and an array of movies, going back to the root of my fascination at a young age with
70's and 80's slasher films such as Halloween, Friday the 13th, and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
I live in Nashville, Tennessee with my wife Kathryn, our daughter Haley, and our German Shepherd Guinness. When I'm not writing, I enjoy playing hockey, watching hockey and football, cycling, watching some of my favorite television shows and movies, and, of course, reading.
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