Every village has its own quirks and ours was to carry a bell with you in case of trouble.
It was rare to hear a bell go off but when one did the person ringing it was either dead or dying.
The gravediggers lived in fear of hearing bells at night when they checked the graveyard's fences.
Its never been said of those fences were meant to stop animals getting in or ringers getting out.
The vicar won't say, too busy prophesying some great disaster he's seen in his sleep.
A landslide will see the whole congregation ruined but for the church and graveyard several miles away.
No one shall be safe and the bells shall ring louder and angrier than our Great Lord Almighty's voice!
It wasn't the first time he'd had one of these doomsday dreams, the last one was a flood.
Can you imagine our little hilltop village being flooded?
When the birds all flew away one morning in great swarms,we thought he might be onto something.
He definitely took it as a sign and spent every day screaming in church for us to repent.
It only got worse when the first tremors came, it was like the ground was vibrating.
Half the village went into a religious frenzy but most went to secure their homes as if that would help.
I remember the news would later say that a 7.4 scale earthquake in our area had never happened before.
A scale 7.4 earthquake should have been impossible, we were so far away from any fault lines.
It was localised too, nowhere else felt it apparently and were it not for the village's destruction they'd
never believe us either, even now I can hardly believe it.
Every house had been shaken to pieces, a whole community utterly destroyed with less than ten survivors.
What makes it worse is the constant ringing with no apparent source, the media won't report it.
The few who survived had spent the quake in the church, trembling under the alter.
They refused to go near the village for fear that the ringing dead would come for them and finish the job.
Maybe we were all meant to die then, it certainly feels like it sometimes.
The guilt is the worst part, hearing their bells and not being able to see or help them.
Knowing that whole they were slowly crushed to death we were safe.
Why did the quake only strike that village and more importantly how?
The vicar went back to pray for the dead and beg their souls to leave for heaven or hell.
When he came back he was bone thin and mute, that night the last thing he did was ring his bell.
they found him in the morning, body crushed and mutilated, bell clutched in his shredded hand.
Whatever caused that quake is coming for us all, the bells are always close by.
20150531
20150529
Day 390
There hadn't been a dog in the
house for years but they still kept the bowl.
The last one was something
special, you don't get many like that.
Jo and her dog were as close
as twins, damned inseparable.
Whenever she called her dog
would come running.
It didn't matter if she was at
school or her grandparents - the dog followed her everywhere.
The last time it followed her
was across a road, dogs never know when to look.
Poor thing hasn't talked about
it since, refuses to even look at dogs.
She
seems happy though, like she's finally coming to accept it at last, after
countless nightmares.
Still
sometimes she calls its name out in her sleep like they're still playing.
That dog did love to hide under her bed like a kid playing hide-and-seek.
About
two years after its passing she called her dad into her room, screaming like
the devil was out for her.
Kept
yelling BAD DOG, BAD DOG, OUT JESSIE, OUT! when it was just her in
there.
When her dad entered he saw nothing out of place but his daughter curled up on the bed screaming
at a
dog that hadn't been there since she was six.
His
blood ran old when she said dad, Jessie's under my bed and he won't go to
heaven.
She told him that Jessie had always been there and they'd played in secret all this time.
But
Jessie was changing now and he wasn't her dog any more, he was a monster.
Taking
a deep breath, reassuring Jo that there was nothing there and Jessie was in
heaven he crouched.
As he crawled over right up to the bedside he heard a faint panting noise, the same one Jessie made
whenever
he was excited and especially when hiding under the bed.
Lower
and lower his head went, moving fearfully slow and praying that it was empty.
It wasn't.
Jessie's
eyes peered from the back corner of the bed, far larger than they had been but
still Jessie's.
Voice
shaking he called Jessie like he always had when they played this game.
C'mon Jess-Jess, come on out ya silly pup. Playtime's over, we have to go to bed.
Jessie
began to crawl forward, slower than he had when he was alive, more like a
predator now than friend.
He
paused before his old human, tongue hanging out as he panted.
The man took in the sight of his former companion after two years of death had taken their toll.
Where
fur once was now maggot covered, bloody, pus-ridden flesh remained.
And
those eyes, only so big because the meat had dissolved away.
The white's of his eyes blending perfectly with the bleached looking bone.
His
nose had gone altogether as had his lower jaw leaving his tongue lolling
limply.
Before
Jo's dad could gather the breath to scream Jessie lunged out, predator in every
inch of his rotting form.
20150528
Day 389
My dad used to say his chair was "real leather, not the cheap cow kind either".
We thought it was just a morbid dad joke and ignored him every time.
That is, until the chair made it known exactly what kind of leather it was.
This only happened after my dad passed away from skin cancer, before that is was fine.
Just a regular chair made of some kind of beige leather and mottled in places.
Dad said it gave the chair character - "a proper personality" he'd say.
From the day he died the house started changing, though the changes came from the chair.
Flooring became dark and scratched as its wheels dug in and refused to move.
Each hinge screeched in protest and we had to force every door to move as we did that seat.
Some kind of dark blue mould spread like the new violets in our gravel driveway.
As the mould darkened so did the flowers until they began drooping and leaking red.
It was a pollen according to one garden savvy friend but it didn't smell quite right.
You know that faintly metallic taste you get in your mouth in a butcher's shop?
They smelt like that, violets and something salty that we knew but couldn't quite place.
Besides these changes around the house the chair itself began to warp and twist, ageing maybe?
Nothing online made it make sense and no amount of polish and phone calls sorted it out.
Eventually we gave up, decided instead to record the changes and wait for it to fall to pieces.
We didn't have to wait for long, the changes were happening faster and faster.
The arms of the chair grew this strange set of folds that began to resemble actual arms.
It grew hair all over (or was it actually mould?) and I swear I saw teeth by the wheels.
That wasn't even the worst of it... the eyes were.
Far larger than any eyes I'd seen before and bulbous, always leaking this sickly yellow fluid.
They actually followed you around the room sometimes creasing round the edges.
Its like the chair was trying to make expressions.
We were just glad that for the time being it couldn't move.
Discussions had been had about moving it to the garage or dumping it for someone else to have.
I wasn't sure if I wanted it gone after all it didn't seem to want to cause harm - it just was.
Every time I went near it the area above its eyes would slope down, poor creature looked so sad.
I attempted to talk to it by leaving a pen and paper on its seat overnight.
The reply was on my bedside table by morning.
His name had been Joseph and he had been my dad's old room-mate in university.
They wanted to live forever, heard that a soul tied to an object could potentially do that.
It was never meant to go like this but dad had read some ritual for eternal life that demanded blood.
Joseph never stood a chance, at least dad bound him to his favourite chair in return.
It was kind of ironic that the man who had given all he could for immortality had died first.
The irony soon ruined as my search to cure/kill Joseph has yet to bring up anything.
Every morning I find paper by my bedside with a message from him asking for an update.
I moved away from the house a year ago, couldn't stand to see him and not be able to help.
Even after I put him in the middle of a Guy Fawke's bonfire he came out alive.
He hasn't healed though, more a smouldering husk than a former humanoid chair creature.
His eyes are still there though,one popped and dribbling down his surface, the other pure white.
The papers that appear beside my bed are angrier now, he wants an answer that I don't have.
We thought it was just a morbid dad joke and ignored him every time.
That is, until the chair made it known exactly what kind of leather it was.
This only happened after my dad passed away from skin cancer, before that is was fine.
Just a regular chair made of some kind of beige leather and mottled in places.
Dad said it gave the chair character - "a proper personality" he'd say.
From the day he died the house started changing, though the changes came from the chair.
Flooring became dark and scratched as its wheels dug in and refused to move.
Each hinge screeched in protest and we had to force every door to move as we did that seat.
Some kind of dark blue mould spread like the new violets in our gravel driveway.
As the mould darkened so did the flowers until they began drooping and leaking red.
It was a pollen according to one garden savvy friend but it didn't smell quite right.
You know that faintly metallic taste you get in your mouth in a butcher's shop?
They smelt like that, violets and something salty that we knew but couldn't quite place.
Besides these changes around the house the chair itself began to warp and twist, ageing maybe?
Nothing online made it make sense and no amount of polish and phone calls sorted it out.
Eventually we gave up, decided instead to record the changes and wait for it to fall to pieces.
We didn't have to wait for long, the changes were happening faster and faster.
The arms of the chair grew this strange set of folds that began to resemble actual arms.
It grew hair all over (or was it actually mould?) and I swear I saw teeth by the wheels.
That wasn't even the worst of it... the eyes were.
Far larger than any eyes I'd seen before and bulbous, always leaking this sickly yellow fluid.
They actually followed you around the room sometimes creasing round the edges.
Its like the chair was trying to make expressions.
We were just glad that for the time being it couldn't move.
Discussions had been had about moving it to the garage or dumping it for someone else to have.
I wasn't sure if I wanted it gone after all it didn't seem to want to cause harm - it just was.
Every time I went near it the area above its eyes would slope down, poor creature looked so sad.
I attempted to talk to it by leaving a pen and paper on its seat overnight.
The reply was on my bedside table by morning.
His name had been Joseph and he had been my dad's old room-mate in university.
They wanted to live forever, heard that a soul tied to an object could potentially do that.
It was never meant to go like this but dad had read some ritual for eternal life that demanded blood.
Joseph never stood a chance, at least dad bound him to his favourite chair in return.
It was kind of ironic that the man who had given all he could for immortality had died first.
The irony soon ruined as my search to cure/kill Joseph has yet to bring up anything.
Every morning I find paper by my bedside with a message from him asking for an update.
I moved away from the house a year ago, couldn't stand to see him and not be able to help.
Even after I put him in the middle of a Guy Fawke's bonfire he came out alive.
He hasn't healed though, more a smouldering husk than a former humanoid chair creature.
His eyes are still there though,one popped and dribbling down his surface, the other pure white.
The papers that appear beside my bed are angrier now, he wants an answer that I don't have.
20150527
Day 388
The whistling carried along the fort walls, drifting along and back as if it were pacing.
On clear nights you could hear footsteps accompanying it, they varied from soft pitters
to many thundering feet stampeding along the ramparts.
When it rained you could see them.
Clothing like theirs hadn't been worn for hundreds of years yet they looked freshly dressed.
The rain seemed to form them rather than soak them.
Each night they paced, it was seemingly endless and nothing would put them to rest.
The people tried, the living ones reached out in every manner to calm the marchers.
The whistling at least was cheerful, even if the beings accompanying it were not.
One young lad tried to talk to the whistler, whatever they said he hasn't spoken since.
He was one of the lucky ones too - others have come back far worse or not at all.
Still they pace, always those same ramparts and always those same people.
Though there was one day, only one day where the pattern changed.
I remember it well, the rain was so heavy it formed a sort of fog on the ground.
Made it much easier to see them - they looked almost like real living people.
They usually stopped by the stairs and turned back but on that day they continued onward.
The march went through the town and turned violent the further along they went.
It got to the point where they were yelling and screaming only their words were warped.
Maybe they were talking backwards, maybe they weren't saying words at all.
Either way they destroyed several dozen homes, booted doors down and threw furniture all over.
Nobody was hurt at least, dazed perhaps, confused and worried too but not hurt.
The marcher's faces though... never seen anyone manage to look so enraged and scared all at once.
Nobody's managed to figure them out, not even from that night - there's nothing in the books.
Still they march though, maybe they'll come down again in a hundred or so years.
On clear nights you could hear footsteps accompanying it, they varied from soft pitters
to many thundering feet stampeding along the ramparts.
When it rained you could see them.
Clothing like theirs hadn't been worn for hundreds of years yet they looked freshly dressed.
The rain seemed to form them rather than soak them.
Each night they paced, it was seemingly endless and nothing would put them to rest.
The people tried, the living ones reached out in every manner to calm the marchers.
The whistling at least was cheerful, even if the beings accompanying it were not.
One young lad tried to talk to the whistler, whatever they said he hasn't spoken since.
He was one of the lucky ones too - others have come back far worse or not at all.
Still they pace, always those same ramparts and always those same people.
Though there was one day, only one day where the pattern changed.
I remember it well, the rain was so heavy it formed a sort of fog on the ground.
Made it much easier to see them - they looked almost like real living people.
They usually stopped by the stairs and turned back but on that day they continued onward.
The march went through the town and turned violent the further along they went.
It got to the point where they were yelling and screaming only their words were warped.
Maybe they were talking backwards, maybe they weren't saying words at all.
Either way they destroyed several dozen homes, booted doors down and threw furniture all over.
Nobody was hurt at least, dazed perhaps, confused and worried too but not hurt.
The marcher's faces though... never seen anyone manage to look so enraged and scared all at once.
Nobody's managed to figure them out, not even from that night - there's nothing in the books.
Still they march though, maybe they'll come down again in a hundred or so years.
20150526
Day 387
It lives in bark, right in the creases, in plain sight all the time.
Each night it peels itself from around the tree's form and slips silently to the floor.
When it moves it looks like veins, pulsating black veins that seek out your warmth.
If you don't know what to look for you'd never see it sliding underneath the leaf strewn ground.
Gradually it works its way towards you, striking as you stand unaware and pulling you down.
It leaves no trace, your body would be found cold, bloated and covered in wet leaves.
There's no real way to tell if there is one nearby.
With no eyes to be felt staring at you and no scent or sound to give away its hiding place.
Fortunately their appearance leaves them few places to stay in our bustling concrete cities.
They have been seen around particularly dense gardens, waiting among the thick foliage.
Some have even been seen trying to blend in with brickwork but they never stay there.
Perhaps they feed on the trees as well as warm blooded beings?
They have never been caught alive before, which confirms this hypothesis at least.
The last specimen (#174) managed to survive a record five weeks in a reptile-styled terrarium.
We'd taken a snipping from one we caught feeding on a stray dog in the city park.
When given a decent supply of water and heat it seemed to pose no threat to humans.
Though we've since guessed it could be due to age rather than contentment.
After it caught Doctor Thornby while he was misting it our approach quickly changed.
We measures the length of its needle-like spines that drew out the air from the body.
With the largest at almost twelve inches we knew that would be our minimum distance.
Not that it helped, in the end we lost most of our team one way or another.
Jakarta tripped and fell into the specimen tank, Rivero got too close, Wilson went the same way.
In the end with just myself and my assistant LaSelle we decided to close the lab down.
While we were closing the doors for the final time, we heard the sound of a window shatter.
Reports of it have come from miles around, too many to be just one.
Are they coming to get the other specimens or is this an invasion?
Despite our attempts at a lengthy study we barely scraped the surface of these creature's potential.
Their adaptability can make them practically impossible to find when they want.
Damn them and damn us for keeping so many clippings.
And thrice damn their growth, they'll outgrow us all soon enough.
Each night it peels itself from around the tree's form and slips silently to the floor.
When it moves it looks like veins, pulsating black veins that seek out your warmth.
If you don't know what to look for you'd never see it sliding underneath the leaf strewn ground.
Gradually it works its way towards you, striking as you stand unaware and pulling you down.
It leaves no trace, your body would be found cold, bloated and covered in wet leaves.
There's no real way to tell if there is one nearby.
With no eyes to be felt staring at you and no scent or sound to give away its hiding place.
Fortunately their appearance leaves them few places to stay in our bustling concrete cities.
They have been seen around particularly dense gardens, waiting among the thick foliage.
Some have even been seen trying to blend in with brickwork but they never stay there.
Perhaps they feed on the trees as well as warm blooded beings?
They have never been caught alive before, which confirms this hypothesis at least.
The last specimen (#174) managed to survive a record five weeks in a reptile-styled terrarium.
We'd taken a snipping from one we caught feeding on a stray dog in the city park.
When given a decent supply of water and heat it seemed to pose no threat to humans.
Though we've since guessed it could be due to age rather than contentment.
After it caught Doctor Thornby while he was misting it our approach quickly changed.
We measures the length of its needle-like spines that drew out the air from the body.
With the largest at almost twelve inches we knew that would be our minimum distance.
Not that it helped, in the end we lost most of our team one way or another.
Jakarta tripped and fell into the specimen tank, Rivero got too close, Wilson went the same way.
In the end with just myself and my assistant LaSelle we decided to close the lab down.
While we were closing the doors for the final time, we heard the sound of a window shatter.
Reports of it have come from miles around, too many to be just one.
Are they coming to get the other specimens or is this an invasion?
Despite our attempts at a lengthy study we barely scraped the surface of these creature's potential.
Their adaptability can make them practically impossible to find when they want.
Damn them and damn us for keeping so many clippings.
And thrice damn their growth, they'll outgrow us all soon enough.
20150525
Day 386
You didn't know who the sender was, the return address area was blank.
It was weighty, damp, smelled like a butcher's shop in summer and buzzing faintly.
At best the human body is a disease-ridden sack of pus and bones waiting to die.
It can be felt in every breath, as your lungs draw in corrosive chemicals and breathe out life.
As your eyes ache, your feet drag and your pulse flickers like a failing lightbulb.
At worst the human body is a prison with thousands of prisoners and surrounded by kin.
Our eyes are like ants, tiny in comparison to the grand conglomerated mesh that we are.
So many stare into these eyes claiming to see emotions behind the glassy gaze we spew forth.
That was it, no signature or date or any way of telling who sent you this.
Bracing yourself you opened the fairly hefty package and almost immediately you were hit
by a wave of incredibly fat flies, their bloated forms finding purchase all around you.
As you panicked and began swatting their sluggish bodies you dropped the parcel.
What was left of an infant's body rolled out and sat bloody on your floor.
It was weighty, damp, smelled like a butcher's shop in summer and buzzing faintly.
Placing the parcel to one side you open the slightly moist letter stapled to the side.
The words felt familiar, like something your uncle would say after two drinks too many.
It read:
At best the human body is a disease-ridden sack of pus and bones waiting to die.
It can be felt in every breath, as your lungs draw in corrosive chemicals and breathe out life.
As your eyes ache, your feet drag and your pulse flickers like a failing lightbulb.
At worst the human body is a prison with thousands of prisoners and surrounded by kin.
Our eyes are like ants, tiny in comparison to the grand conglomerated mesh that we are.
So many stare into these eyes claiming to see emotions behind the glassy gaze we spew forth.
That was it, no signature or date or any way of telling who sent you this.
Bracing yourself you opened the fairly hefty package and almost immediately you were hit
by a wave of incredibly fat flies, their bloated forms finding purchase all around you.
As you panicked and began swatting their sluggish bodies you dropped the parcel.
What was left of an infant's body rolled out and sat bloody on your floor.
20150524
Day 385
Our fireplace was mainly decorative and rarely turned on unless the main heater broke.
There was some kind of pipe connecting it to a vent outside the house, never paid it any mind.
All you saw of the vent was a little mesh panel screwed into the wall, pretty subtle.
So subtle god knows how longs it had been open for.
I worried that a mouse might have gotten in and made a home there.
No sounds were coming from it at that point but I'd left a humane mousetrap there just in case.
With no hassle coming from it, no sprung trap either, we soon forgot it was even open.
It wasn't until our daughter Abbie began talking that we realised something wasn't right.
She kept wanting to sit in front of it, laughing and babbling away at the unused fireplace.
It was cute at first to see her pulling faces at the faintly clouded glass.
Soon though she grew scared of it, eventually to the point where she refused to go anywhere
near the living room, scampering past the doorway as fast as possible.
Her speech wasn't the best at this point so all we got from her was that the fireplace was bad.
I put different mousetraps outside and around the vent before finally screwing it shut.
Somehow it kept coming undone, we suspected Abbie and hid the screwdrivers but it didn't work.
Eventually we found the vent cover embedded in the wall above our bed, it was in pretty deep.
At this point we decided to get rid of the fireplace altogether.
When we told Abbie she was old enough to form sentences, kept saying something about a bad
lady who would escape if we broke through the wall as "that's where they killed her".
She described the way this imaginary woman was choked and bricked in so graphically.
We thought it was something she'd seen on TV or at a friend's but she said "the lady" told her.
She drew us plenty of pictures to illustrate the lady and how she talked to her.
As the fireplace removal day drew closer Abbie gave us a written list of instructions on how
to contact "the lady"and said that we had to before we got rid of the fireplace.
My other half refused, said it was just her imagination but I decided to give it a go.
Following her little list to the letter I sat down by the fireplace and put my left hand on the glass.
It was supposed to heat up when she was there and after a fair while it did.
Flames leapt out and left my hand bright red and throbbing.
A faint chuckle met my ears as the flames receded and in their place was the face of a woman.
She looked gaunt, nearly skeletal and sadistically pleased with my hurt hand.
Before I could talk to her she vanished altogether, leaving behind smoke and ash.
I peered closer at the fireplace so see if she was lurking back there when a hand darted out.
Her ashy grey palm slammed into the glass, cracking it slightly.
My mind was set to remove the fireplace now, hoping it would get rid of her entirely.
Removal day came all too soon and we had a family day out to give the removers space.
When we came back the wall was soot covered bricks.
Before our eyes the soot formed the rough outline of a person.
Abbie was distraught, we hadn't told her what was happening to avoid stressing her.
She was screaming that we'd let the bad lady out and we'd all burn for it.
The figure laughed and began to step out of the wall towards us as the room grew warmer.
There was some kind of pipe connecting it to a vent outside the house, never paid it any mind.
All you saw of the vent was a little mesh panel screwed into the wall, pretty subtle.
So subtle god knows how longs it had been open for.
I worried that a mouse might have gotten in and made a home there.
No sounds were coming from it at that point but I'd left a humane mousetrap there just in case.
With no hassle coming from it, no sprung trap either, we soon forgot it was even open.
It wasn't until our daughter Abbie began talking that we realised something wasn't right.
She kept wanting to sit in front of it, laughing and babbling away at the unused fireplace.
It was cute at first to see her pulling faces at the faintly clouded glass.
Soon though she grew scared of it, eventually to the point where she refused to go anywhere
near the living room, scampering past the doorway as fast as possible.
Her speech wasn't the best at this point so all we got from her was that the fireplace was bad.
I put different mousetraps outside and around the vent before finally screwing it shut.
Somehow it kept coming undone, we suspected Abbie and hid the screwdrivers but it didn't work.
Eventually we found the vent cover embedded in the wall above our bed, it was in pretty deep.
At this point we decided to get rid of the fireplace altogether.
When we told Abbie she was old enough to form sentences, kept saying something about a bad
lady who would escape if we broke through the wall as "that's where they killed her".
She described the way this imaginary woman was choked and bricked in so graphically.
We thought it was something she'd seen on TV or at a friend's but she said "the lady" told her.
She drew us plenty of pictures to illustrate the lady and how she talked to her.
As the fireplace removal day drew closer Abbie gave us a written list of instructions on how
to contact "the lady"and said that we had to before we got rid of the fireplace.
My other half refused, said it was just her imagination but I decided to give it a go.
Following her little list to the letter I sat down by the fireplace and put my left hand on the glass.
It was supposed to heat up when she was there and after a fair while it did.
Flames leapt out and left my hand bright red and throbbing.
A faint chuckle met my ears as the flames receded and in their place was the face of a woman.
She looked gaunt, nearly skeletal and sadistically pleased with my hurt hand.
Before I could talk to her she vanished altogether, leaving behind smoke and ash.
I peered closer at the fireplace so see if she was lurking back there when a hand darted out.
Her ashy grey palm slammed into the glass, cracking it slightly.
My mind was set to remove the fireplace now, hoping it would get rid of her entirely.
Removal day came all too soon and we had a family day out to give the removers space.
When we came back the wall was soot covered bricks.
Before our eyes the soot formed the rough outline of a person.
Abbie was distraught, we hadn't told her what was happening to avoid stressing her.
She was screaming that we'd let the bad lady out and we'd all burn for it.
The figure laughed and began to step out of the wall towards us as the room grew warmer.
20150523
Day 384
The concert hall was loud and packed to the brim.
Latecomers crammed themselves into the aisles as the stage lights flickered.
The band appeared in a bright flash and the audience began screaming.
They never stopped screaming.
You could barely make out the music over their cries.
Some of them seemed to pass out, one by one the whole audience was falling down.
Turning to your friend who had suddenly stopped screaming, you saw them collapse.
As you pushed their hair from their face you saw blood streaming from their mouth.
They were choking, there was no space to push them onto their side.
Struggling you managed to sit them upright and prop them against a chair.
Everyone around you was falling and bleeding, the air stank of it.
The band kept singing, growing louder and louder until they too were screaming.
Soon their screeching filled the air and the bleeding people began to convulse.
You began to join in.
It took you a while to realise that you were crying just as loudly.
Your voice almost harmonising with them, it should have hurt.
You felt nothing, no fear nor pain.
It became harder to scream as your throat filled with blood, so much blood.
Surely by now you should be passing out, how much blood have you lost?
Everything feels numb and heavy but you can't stop crying out.
The band slowly stops and you continue.
They hop off stage, treading on and over corpses like strewn paper heading towards you.
Your vision is getting shakier, your voice is the only sound besides their light steps.
As they draw closer an closer your screaming dies down.
You are left slouched and gasping for air at their feet.
They pull you up and drag you over the bodies scattered all around.
Down the stairs, through seemingly endless corridors to a familiar set of open doors.
You were tossed out of the concert hall's doors, they slammed closed as your heart slowed down.
Latecomers crammed themselves into the aisles as the stage lights flickered.
The band appeared in a bright flash and the audience began screaming.
They never stopped screaming.
You could barely make out the music over their cries.
Some of them seemed to pass out, one by one the whole audience was falling down.
Turning to your friend who had suddenly stopped screaming, you saw them collapse.
As you pushed their hair from their face you saw blood streaming from their mouth.
They were choking, there was no space to push them onto their side.
Struggling you managed to sit them upright and prop them against a chair.
Everyone around you was falling and bleeding, the air stank of it.
The band kept singing, growing louder and louder until they too were screaming.
Soon their screeching filled the air and the bleeding people began to convulse.
You began to join in.
It took you a while to realise that you were crying just as loudly.
Your voice almost harmonising with them, it should have hurt.
You felt nothing, no fear nor pain.
It became harder to scream as your throat filled with blood, so much blood.
Surely by now you should be passing out, how much blood have you lost?
Everything feels numb and heavy but you can't stop crying out.
The band slowly stops and you continue.
They hop off stage, treading on and over corpses like strewn paper heading towards you.
Your vision is getting shakier, your voice is the only sound besides their light steps.
As they draw closer an closer your screaming dies down.
You are left slouched and gasping for air at their feet.
They pull you up and drag you over the bodies scattered all around.
Down the stairs, through seemingly endless corridors to a familiar set of open doors.
You were tossed out of the concert hall's doors, they slammed closed as your heart slowed down.
20150522
Day 383
The fields seemed to extend for miles, small trails criss-crossing throughout.
It was a common sight to see flags wandering along as people travelled from town to town.
This area had never been cut down, never been trimmed nor tamed.
No attempts ever made, at least none that were heard of.
Some parts of the fields were shorter, little squares that were around eye level rather than head height.
Nobody quite knew what had happened there but the stone slabs nearby gave hints.
Names written on them that sounded strange, gave your mouth a buzzing feeling and made your eyes
ache if you stared at them for too long.
Our solution was to cover them with thick woollen blankets, it only dampened the effect.
Makes my tongues curl just thinking about it.
Some of the older folk talk about other things living in the grass, always just out of sight.
They say that these beings protect us, but they never say what from.
I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eyes, always a few feet from me.
They come closer towards the evening to the point where you can feel their breath on your neck.
I think they come closer when danger is nearest.
Last time I met up with the old mayor I felt breath on the back of my neck.
His face went ghastly pale and he stuttered excuses to leave, running heck for leather.
As he left he dropped something among the grass - a curved blade.
The further away he got the further away the other being went until I was left alone.
Every time I see the mayor I also see the faint black outline of one of the other beings.
It was a common sight to see flags wandering along as people travelled from town to town.
This area had never been cut down, never been trimmed nor tamed.
No attempts ever made, at least none that were heard of.
Some parts of the fields were shorter, little squares that were around eye level rather than head height.
Nobody quite knew what had happened there but the stone slabs nearby gave hints.
Names written on them that sounded strange, gave your mouth a buzzing feeling and made your eyes
ache if you stared at them for too long.
Our solution was to cover them with thick woollen blankets, it only dampened the effect.
Makes my tongues curl just thinking about it.
Some of the older folk talk about other things living in the grass, always just out of sight.
They say that these beings protect us, but they never say what from.
I keep seeing them out of the corner of my eyes, always a few feet from me.
They come closer towards the evening to the point where you can feel their breath on your neck.
I think they come closer when danger is nearest.
Last time I met up with the old mayor I felt breath on the back of my neck.
His face went ghastly pale and he stuttered excuses to leave, running heck for leather.
As he left he dropped something among the grass - a curved blade.
The further away he got the further away the other being went until I was left alone.
Every time I see the mayor I also see the faint black outline of one of the other beings.
20150521
Day 382
My parents never saw my little brother like I did.
They thought they had another child, a human child who loved them.
He may have been a child but he sure as hell wasn't human, he just made people think he was.
I even saw how he did it, sneezed on them and some blackish smoke would come out.
After that he was as good as gold in their eyes, no matter what he did.
He came home from school with a mangled cat over one shoulder and out parents said nothing.
Skinned the shrieking mess on the kitchen table and put it in the oven.
I'll never forget how it clawed at the door or the silence that followed.
Dad came in and asked what was cooking.
My brother just smiled and said kitty.
Of course dad thought this was adorable, silly child thinks cats can cook, oh how funny.
I smiled along, I was too scared not to - I've seen what he does, I don't want to be the next one.
The police used to call them animal attacks but I think his influence is wearing off.
They're holding murder investigations now and I hope it gets caught.
At the same time I'm afraid for anyone who dares to call him out.
He knows I'm writing this, I don't know why he's left me alone, why he's letting me live.
I'm not complaining of course, I'm glad to be left alone.
It just makes it so much harder to ignore when he kills in broad daylight.
He just leaves their bodies in the streets, makes someone else carry them into alleys or fields.
I do wonder how many of them, if any, realise what they've been doing.
Recently he's taken to making random people stand outside my locked bedroom door.
I've had to lock it or they stand by my bed and smile, or whisper my name again and again.
The damned brat made our parents change my door so it has a large glass panel at eye level.
All I see when I go to bed or wake up is their smiling faces.
I think he's done with me, this will be it.
They thought they had another child, a human child who loved them.
He may have been a child but he sure as hell wasn't human, he just made people think he was.
I even saw how he did it, sneezed on them and some blackish smoke would come out.
After that he was as good as gold in their eyes, no matter what he did.
He came home from school with a mangled cat over one shoulder and out parents said nothing.
Skinned the shrieking mess on the kitchen table and put it in the oven.
I'll never forget how it clawed at the door or the silence that followed.
Dad came in and asked what was cooking.
My brother just smiled and said kitty.
Of course dad thought this was adorable, silly child thinks cats can cook, oh how funny.
I smiled along, I was too scared not to - I've seen what he does, I don't want to be the next one.
The police used to call them animal attacks but I think his influence is wearing off.
They're holding murder investigations now and I hope it gets caught.
At the same time I'm afraid for anyone who dares to call him out.
He knows I'm writing this, I don't know why he's left me alone, why he's letting me live.
I'm not complaining of course, I'm glad to be left alone.
It just makes it so much harder to ignore when he kills in broad daylight.
He just leaves their bodies in the streets, makes someone else carry them into alleys or fields.
I do wonder how many of them, if any, realise what they've been doing.
Recently he's taken to making random people stand outside my locked bedroom door.
I've had to lock it or they stand by my bed and smile, or whisper my name again and again.
The damned brat made our parents change my door so it has a large glass panel at eye level.
All I see when I go to bed or wake up is their smiling faces.
I think he's done with me, this will be it.
20150520
Day 381
They say there was once a garden in the middle of the forest.
Well, from the old black and white image it was more like a park with carnival style rides.
My grandmother went there as a child but during the war it got bombed.
They never did fine it afterwards, despite searching the garden remained lost to them.
She kept those childhood photos all her life, longing for its return.
Nowadays kids would try to find it among the miles and miles of wooded ground.
Some of them even managed to though it wasn't much, they said, just rusted frames.
The old benches were just jagged sticks in the dirt and the rides were skeletal shells.
You could still tell what they had once been, even imagine it.
Almost hear the children in your mind, laughing and screaming and screaming.
The year was 1939 and World War Two was in its early days, before blackouts and bombs.
Picture in your mind the lush grass in the wide clearing full of flowers and people and life.
The rides will be closing soon and the children are lining up, elbowing their way to the front.
It's late though the summer sun makes it feel like mid afternoon and everyone wants one more go.
Their cries of joy and loud chatter made it harder to hear the incoming.
When it was seen they ran, some not fast enough.
Small bodies (or rather what was left of them) were removed but tiny voices still ran around.
They echoed throughout the area, calling others to the tune of "London Bridge".
As the years went on the voices would fade in and out, some years silent and others deafening.
The louder years drew people out like flies to a corpse, so many never came back.
I felt helpless and furious when they got to my grandmother after all these years of resisting.
She'd never shown any signs of hearing them, though they called her by name last I saw her.
I think she'd been hearing them all along, reliving that day when the bomb dropped and they died.
She never said if she knew any of the victims of that bomb.
At that point she was one of the oldest people in the town, most of the elders went first.
I wanted to go after her, wanted to bring her back safely to her living family.
It took four hours of wandering before I began to hear their voices - they knew my name.
Said I was late and if I didn't hurry I'd miss my chance to ride the merry-go-round.
They were so hard to find, their voices floating all around me like music.
In the end it was my grandmother's laugh that lead me there.
The first thing you notice is the smell, like fireworks and rotten eggs.
Next are the bodies, some are propped up where the benches would have been and others are in the
midst of all manner of regular activities like talking or eating (all propped up with metal poles).
My grandmother was on the merry-go-round, wires stretching her mouth into a grin.
I noticed speakers lying all around the place, heard someone breathing heavily nearby.
This wasn't some forgotten treasure where the dead were forever playing as children.
This was mass murder in disguise and they were still there.
If only I had left a trail, with no proof and no clue on how to get there again I can't say anything.
All I can hope is that, whoever they are, they don't come for me as they did my grandmother.
I wish those damned children would stop screaming, I can't help you!
Well, from the old black and white image it was more like a park with carnival style rides.
My grandmother went there as a child but during the war it got bombed.
They never did fine it afterwards, despite searching the garden remained lost to them.
She kept those childhood photos all her life, longing for its return.
Nowadays kids would try to find it among the miles and miles of wooded ground.
Some of them even managed to though it wasn't much, they said, just rusted frames.
The old benches were just jagged sticks in the dirt and the rides were skeletal shells.
You could still tell what they had once been, even imagine it.
Almost hear the children in your mind, laughing and screaming and screaming.
The year was 1939 and World War Two was in its early days, before blackouts and bombs.
Picture in your mind the lush grass in the wide clearing full of flowers and people and life.
The rides will be closing soon and the children are lining up, elbowing their way to the front.
It's late though the summer sun makes it feel like mid afternoon and everyone wants one more go.
Their cries of joy and loud chatter made it harder to hear the incoming.
When it was seen they ran, some not fast enough.
Small bodies (or rather what was left of them) were removed but tiny voices still ran around.
They echoed throughout the area, calling others to the tune of "London Bridge".
As the years went on the voices would fade in and out, some years silent and others deafening.
The louder years drew people out like flies to a corpse, so many never came back.
I felt helpless and furious when they got to my grandmother after all these years of resisting.
She'd never shown any signs of hearing them, though they called her by name last I saw her.
I think she'd been hearing them all along, reliving that day when the bomb dropped and they died.
She never said if she knew any of the victims of that bomb.
At that point she was one of the oldest people in the town, most of the elders went first.
I wanted to go after her, wanted to bring her back safely to her living family.
It took four hours of wandering before I began to hear their voices - they knew my name.
Said I was late and if I didn't hurry I'd miss my chance to ride the merry-go-round.
They were so hard to find, their voices floating all around me like music.
In the end it was my grandmother's laugh that lead me there.
The first thing you notice is the smell, like fireworks and rotten eggs.
Next are the bodies, some are propped up where the benches would have been and others are in the
midst of all manner of regular activities like talking or eating (all propped up with metal poles).
My grandmother was on the merry-go-round, wires stretching her mouth into a grin.
I noticed speakers lying all around the place, heard someone breathing heavily nearby.
This wasn't some forgotten treasure where the dead were forever playing as children.
This was mass murder in disguise and they were still there.
If only I had left a trail, with no proof and no clue on how to get there again I can't say anything.
All I can hope is that, whoever they are, they don't come for me as they did my grandmother.
I wish those damned children would stop screaming, I can't help you!
20150519
Day 380
Something had happened to the cars and nobody quite knew what.
There was this lingering feeling whenever they closed the car doors.
It was like they were burying themselves in metal coffins.
This was always accompanied by a faint smell like morning breath and pork.
It became a countrywide phenomenon and disappeared as quickly as it began.
There are too many strange things around for something so seemingly minor to stick.
Eventually it was blamed on such things as bacteria in the engines, chemicals and such.
Placation soon turned to fear as the strangeness began to change.
What had started as an irritating faint smell, a persisting claustrophobia was only the beginning.
Soon people found that the air would become more humid with condensation streaming down the
windows which was blamed on a particularly hot summer (though the air outside was tepid at best).
Panic was on the rise, as were skin rashes - especially from those with a driving occupation.
The rashes would spread with continued car exposure, whole limbs would just dissolve.
Vehicles were confiscated for testing and the air inside their thin metal hulls was found to be acidic.
It wasn't a naturally occurring acid either, it was more akin to human stomach acid.
Cases as extreme as this were few and far between, the vehicles in question were always seized.
They locked them away in a secured pit, dug so deep but somehow people managed to get in.
You'd see what was left of them through the steel fencing at the top of the cavern, rotting corpses
hanging out of the windows like dogs on hot summer days, trailing gore behind them.
It streaked down the paintwork, mixing with the morning breath/pork car stench like miasma.
Occasionally you could hear screams coming from there as another fool got stuck.
There are a great many sports cars there mingling with the HGVs and taxis, it is tempting.
Not everyone believes that they are dangerous though there are too many bodies in there to refute it.
Makes you wonder how many bodies could fill that hole and how long it will take.
There are too many strange things around for something so seemingly minor to stick.
Eventually it was blamed on such things as bacteria in the engines, chemicals and such.
Placation soon turned to fear as the strangeness began to change.
What had started as an irritating faint smell, a persisting claustrophobia was only the beginning.
Soon people found that the air would become more humid with condensation streaming down the
windows which was blamed on a particularly hot summer (though the air outside was tepid at best).
Panic was on the rise, as were skin rashes - especially from those with a driving occupation.
The rashes would spread with continued car exposure, whole limbs would just dissolve.
Vehicles were confiscated for testing and the air inside their thin metal hulls was found to be acidic.
It wasn't a naturally occurring acid either, it was more akin to human stomach acid.
Cases as extreme as this were few and far between, the vehicles in question were always seized.
They locked them away in a secured pit, dug so deep but somehow people managed to get in.
You'd see what was left of them through the steel fencing at the top of the cavern, rotting corpses
hanging out of the windows like dogs on hot summer days, trailing gore behind them.
It streaked down the paintwork, mixing with the morning breath/pork car stench like miasma.
Occasionally you could hear screams coming from there as another fool got stuck.
There are a great many sports cars there mingling with the HGVs and taxis, it is tempting.
Not everyone believes that they are dangerous though there are too many bodies in there to refute it.
Makes you wonder how many bodies could fill that hole and how long it will take.
Day 379
A hand was gently rubbing your shoulder as you sat shivering under the sheets.
You thought the flat was empty, the old man had died several months ago so who was here?
Sure you should't be here but the lure of potentially free furniture was too great to resist.
The lock was easy enough to pick - pensioners tended to all use similar Yale locks.
Everything was still in place it seemed, fully furnished and waiting to be emptied.
You figured that eight months was long enough for relatives to come and go.
Seeing as nobody had come and gone (except to take the old duffer's body and forensic the place)
you could only assume that everything here was free for grabs.
As you got stuck into your rummaging through the sheet covered kitchen you heard the door slam.
You could have sworn you shut it behind you, maybe you forgot?
Peering past the kitchen door, wary for authorities (what if someone had seen you?) you saw a
figure wearing some kind of black sheet over their heads.
Figuring it was some teen wanting to scare you, you walked over and yanked the sheet off.
There was nothing underneath, the sheet tumbled to the floor.
Shakily stepping back the sheet began to rise before your eyes, forming a figure once more.
At this point you ran for the nearest room and shut it behind you, leaping under the sheet covered
armchair, it was baggy enough to hide you... you hoped.
Whatever it was, it began to bang on the door and rattle the handle.
It had managed to open the front door just fine - it was taunting you, it knew where you where.
Everything fell silent, you held your breath and hoped it had gone away.
Then you felt a hand, gently rubbing your shoulder as you sat shivering under the sheets.
You thought the flat was empty, the old man had died several months ago so who was here?
Sure you should't be here but the lure of potentially free furniture was too great to resist.
The lock was easy enough to pick - pensioners tended to all use similar Yale locks.
Everything was still in place it seemed, fully furnished and waiting to be emptied.
You figured that eight months was long enough for relatives to come and go.
Seeing as nobody had come and gone (except to take the old duffer's body and forensic the place)
you could only assume that everything here was free for grabs.
As you got stuck into your rummaging through the sheet covered kitchen you heard the door slam.
You could have sworn you shut it behind you, maybe you forgot?
Peering past the kitchen door, wary for authorities (what if someone had seen you?) you saw a
figure wearing some kind of black sheet over their heads.
Figuring it was some teen wanting to scare you, you walked over and yanked the sheet off.
There was nothing underneath, the sheet tumbled to the floor.
Shakily stepping back the sheet began to rise before your eyes, forming a figure once more.
At this point you ran for the nearest room and shut it behind you, leaping under the sheet covered
armchair, it was baggy enough to hide you... you hoped.
Whatever it was, it began to bang on the door and rattle the handle.
It had managed to open the front door just fine - it was taunting you, it knew where you where.
Everything fell silent, you held your breath and hoped it had gone away.
Then you felt a hand, gently rubbing your shoulder as you sat shivering under the sheets.
20150518
Day 378
There came a time when they pushed too far, killed too many but felt no loss
Society wouldn't touch them, they were too unclean, not even thought of as human.
They hid their faces inside familiar things - masks, lampshades, computer monitors.
Most of them sought comfort in the rot and filth that they had created.
Others weren't so fortunate.
They were mostly found dead nowadays, by their own hands or the survivors of their mire.
There were still ways of finding them alive (not that anyone should).
Places that people forgot, where people who wanted to be forgotten ended up.
Right on the fringes of civilisation, just enough to be out of sight but never out of mind.
One such place had once been used for grain storage until the draughts hit the area.
The one who lived there was one of the few who remembered it before it died.
He had been the cause of it, pushed and pushed to drain and bottle the water til it dried.
Now the place was dust, dirt and rusted shells of old farm houses.
He felt it cathartic to live out his life in the death he had caused, peaceful almost but for the ghosts.
They were the only ones to complain, the dead never slept there.
His days were spent hiding from the harsh sun, boiling in his pallid flesh.
The TV monitor he wore to conceal his wretched face had fused around his face, a part of him now.
Perhaps he should have been afraid of this, feared it made him even less human.
He only felt tired, a deep seated ache in his bones that came from so much more than the sun.
The only things that could stand him were the rats, their taste clung to his mouth like tar.
Society wouldn't touch them, they were too unclean, not even thought of as human.
They hid their faces inside familiar things - masks, lampshades, computer monitors.
Most of them sought comfort in the rot and filth that they had created.
Others weren't so fortunate.
They were mostly found dead nowadays, by their own hands or the survivors of their mire.
There were still ways of finding them alive (not that anyone should).
Places that people forgot, where people who wanted to be forgotten ended up.
Right on the fringes of civilisation, just enough to be out of sight but never out of mind.
One such place had once been used for grain storage until the draughts hit the area.
The one who lived there was one of the few who remembered it before it died.
He had been the cause of it, pushed and pushed to drain and bottle the water til it dried.
Now the place was dust, dirt and rusted shells of old farm houses.
He felt it cathartic to live out his life in the death he had caused, peaceful almost but for the ghosts.
They were the only ones to complain, the dead never slept there.
His days were spent hiding from the harsh sun, boiling in his pallid flesh.
The TV monitor he wore to conceal his wretched face had fused around his face, a part of him now.
Perhaps he should have been afraid of this, feared it made him even less human.
He only felt tired, a deep seated ache in his bones that came from so much more than the sun.
The only things that could stand him were the rats, their taste clung to his mouth like tar.
20150517
Day 377
Her hallway usually had three doors - kitchen, bedroom and bathroom.
When she came home from work there were four.
This new door was a deep red with a dark bronze handle, ornate and bleeding.
Voices were yelling from the other side, she could only partially hear them.
You rotten cheat you had that card up your slee - no I never, you cut card all the time!
As she pressed her ear to the door to better eavesdrop on them the door swung open.
She fell through, just managing to catch herself.
Looking up she found herself in a dimly lit room with an almost foggy tone to the air.
A round table was at the centre, its green felt surface matching the dark carpet.
The walls were blood red and covered in western-style wanted posters.
She recognised the faces of the two men seated at the table from them.
They were staring at her, eyes pitch black and skin slightly translucent.
Say lady, do you know how to play Ashes? I'm damn sick of this cheating scumbag over he-
Oh I'm the cheater? Roll up your sleeves pal and we'll see who's cheating!
They continued to argue until she stood up and their heads snapped to face her, silent and waiting.
Nervously she stuttered out that she'd never played Ashes before and had no idea what it was.
The door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place.
A third chair appeared before her, it looked comfortable and inviting.
Slowly she sat down and they dealt her in, refusing to explain to her how the game was played.
As the game progressed she found that the cards moved her hands, playing themselves.
When she voiced this the two men rolled their eyes like it had been obvious all along.
The game never seemed to end, one round morphed into endless others.
Before she realised it she was accusing them both of cheating, joining the meaningless squabbles.
As a fourth chair appeared the lock clicked open and they fell silent.
You rotten cheat you had that card up your slee - no I never, you cut card all the time!
As she pressed her ear to the door to better eavesdrop on them the door swung open.
She fell through, just managing to catch herself.
Looking up she found herself in a dimly lit room with an almost foggy tone to the air.
A round table was at the centre, its green felt surface matching the dark carpet.
The walls were blood red and covered in western-style wanted posters.
She recognised the faces of the two men seated at the table from them.
They were staring at her, eyes pitch black and skin slightly translucent.
Say lady, do you know how to play Ashes? I'm damn sick of this cheating scumbag over he-
Oh I'm the cheater? Roll up your sleeves pal and we'll see who's cheating!
They continued to argue until she stood up and their heads snapped to face her, silent and waiting.
Nervously she stuttered out that she'd never played Ashes before and had no idea what it was.
The door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking into place.
A third chair appeared before her, it looked comfortable and inviting.
Slowly she sat down and they dealt her in, refusing to explain to her how the game was played.
As the game progressed she found that the cards moved her hands, playing themselves.
When she voiced this the two men rolled their eyes like it had been obvious all along.
The game never seemed to end, one round morphed into endless others.
Before she realised it she was accusing them both of cheating, joining the meaningless squabbles.
As a fourth chair appeared the lock clicked open and they fell silent.
20150516
Day 376
The city wasn't far away enough for the area to be classed as a village.
Postcode was the same as the city but it had its own name - Ongar.
They always had their own postman though, everyone knew them.
Bright lad this one was, always polite.
There weren't many like him anymore.
Nobody wanted to deliver the post there, not the whole way round at least.
But the route was set and it had to be followed.
From Mrs McKreedy at number 3 to the football club near the forest.
The post was sorted in a specific way for Ongar and nobody really knew why.
The locals had a vague idea, had a feeling they knew where the next bad postman would end up.
Their longest was Tori Bosko at five and a half years of service.
Her body was found one week after she skipped the old nuclear shelter's postbox.
You had to deliver to them if there was a letter addressed and for some reason she never did.
The letter was still in her hand when they uncovered her corpse by the roadside.
They never did say what had killed her, only that she'd lost a lot of blood.
This new lad (Alex Ska-something) was keen to stay on track at least.
It seemed like he might even become a permanent sight around Ongar on his red bike.
He had a bit of a stumble at first, couldn't find the old bunker's postbox and panicked.
Ran like buggery to Mr Thompston at the end of the road to get his help.
Oh, that little slip-up would have cost him dearly if he hadn't have found anyone.
There was always one or two letters to go there, damn thing had been abandoned since the last war.
Honestly the city council wanted to tear it down, only thing keeping it up was the regular post.
Rumours from the city said that the surrounding people deliberately sent those letters and demanded
they all be opened before delivery to ensure they weren't just a silly attempt at keeping that dump.
Of course the post office wouldn't allow that - post is sacred to them.
If you ask the right person in the pub just down the hill from the old bunker you might get the truth.
Otherwise you'll get all kinds of tales, from war widows ghosts to irradiated scientists.
The truth wasn't quite so far fetched, at least not compared to the former spiels.
It was an air raid exercise gone horribly wrong, a poorly built ventilation system.
A broken lock, concrete door and singular small hatch.
They were trapped, almost thirty of them in that small air tight room.
The door broke as they rammed themselves against it, accidentally sealing it shut.
With only a small opening (designed for security) they cried for help, desperately forcing others
out of the way to get to the fresh air coming from such a little opening.
So many of them suffocated, it made survival easier for the surviving few.
Weeks and months passed and the door could not be moved.
Food was passed through the hatch as were supplies including letters from their loved ones.
The dead were piled in one corner of the room, as far from the hatch as possible, it didn't help.
Neither did the stream of grief ridden letters from their mourning families.
It was said that those letters started the postman murders.
They needed to hear from their families, needed that comfort as they remained trapped there.
Can you imagine it, crouched in a cramped concrete shelter with your fellow soldier's bodies
lying mere feet away from you, rotting and bloated.
You'd need a supportive letter more than anything, especially with the constant reminder of your
mortality so close by and so pungent.
It took a year for the others to die, they just went one-by-one from something, probably fear.
They never managed to recover those bodies, the door was too thick and too broken.
So they're still there, still waiting for their letters and they will have their letters.
Never read those letter - poor dear Alex found that out, they haven't managed to find his eyes yet.
Talk to the right person in the local pub, they'll tell you where they probably are - the old bunker.
Postcode was the same as the city but it had its own name - Ongar.
They always had their own postman though, everyone knew them.
Bright lad this one was, always polite.
There weren't many like him anymore.
Nobody wanted to deliver the post there, not the whole way round at least.
But the route was set and it had to be followed.
From Mrs McKreedy at number 3 to the football club near the forest.
The post was sorted in a specific way for Ongar and nobody really knew why.
The locals had a vague idea, had a feeling they knew where the next bad postman would end up.
Their longest was Tori Bosko at five and a half years of service.
Her body was found one week after she skipped the old nuclear shelter's postbox.
You had to deliver to them if there was a letter addressed and for some reason she never did.
The letter was still in her hand when they uncovered her corpse by the roadside.
They never did say what had killed her, only that she'd lost a lot of blood.
This new lad (Alex Ska-something) was keen to stay on track at least.
It seemed like he might even become a permanent sight around Ongar on his red bike.
He had a bit of a stumble at first, couldn't find the old bunker's postbox and panicked.
Ran like buggery to Mr Thompston at the end of the road to get his help.
Oh, that little slip-up would have cost him dearly if he hadn't have found anyone.
There was always one or two letters to go there, damn thing had been abandoned since the last war.
Honestly the city council wanted to tear it down, only thing keeping it up was the regular post.
Rumours from the city said that the surrounding people deliberately sent those letters and demanded
they all be opened before delivery to ensure they weren't just a silly attempt at keeping that dump.
Of course the post office wouldn't allow that - post is sacred to them.
If you ask the right person in the pub just down the hill from the old bunker you might get the truth.
Otherwise you'll get all kinds of tales, from war widows ghosts to irradiated scientists.
The truth wasn't quite so far fetched, at least not compared to the former spiels.
It was an air raid exercise gone horribly wrong, a poorly built ventilation system.
A broken lock, concrete door and singular small hatch.
They were trapped, almost thirty of them in that small air tight room.
The door broke as they rammed themselves against it, accidentally sealing it shut.
With only a small opening (designed for security) they cried for help, desperately forcing others
out of the way to get to the fresh air coming from such a little opening.
So many of them suffocated, it made survival easier for the surviving few.
Weeks and months passed and the door could not be moved.
Food was passed through the hatch as were supplies including letters from their loved ones.
The dead were piled in one corner of the room, as far from the hatch as possible, it didn't help.
Neither did the stream of grief ridden letters from their mourning families.
It was said that those letters started the postman murders.
They needed to hear from their families, needed that comfort as they remained trapped there.
Can you imagine it, crouched in a cramped concrete shelter with your fellow soldier's bodies
lying mere feet away from you, rotting and bloated.
You'd need a supportive letter more than anything, especially with the constant reminder of your
mortality so close by and so pungent.
It took a year for the others to die, they just went one-by-one from something, probably fear.
They never managed to recover those bodies, the door was too thick and too broken.
So they're still there, still waiting for their letters and they will have their letters.
Never read those letter - poor dear Alex found that out, they haven't managed to find his eyes yet.
Talk to the right person in the local pub, they'll tell you where they probably are - the old bunker.
20150514
Day 375
The patients weren't where they should have been.
First day here, first break here and the second she got back all the patients had gone.
The matron was going to kill her, wherever she was.
She should have been around the area, it was A&E - it was always busy!
She went to the reception desk and was overjoyed that the receptionists were there.
Her relief soon faded when they said the patients should have been there, why aren't they there?
Their teeth chattered and their talons skittered over the keyboards, chains rattling.
She maintained the correct distance (2.5 meters, exactly on the cross) and waited.
After almost ten minutes they ceased and hooked up the intern to the printer.
Poor thing, they rarely lasted past the first paragraph.
The document they pushed through glass barrier had a room number on it.
One that she recognised as being a corridor on the top floor.
It wouldn't take her too long to get there so long as she used the porter's lift.
As she began to head there she noticed other staff members (no nurses, they were few here)
scouring the rooms, eyes black as coal and darting up and down their arms.
One of them (Consultant Sherrie, her nametag read) stopped her to ask where the patients were.
She said she was just on her way to fetch them and Consultant Sherrie nodded, black eyes all
merging on her cheeks to form eyes the size of tennis balls.
Taking this as a good sign she excused herself and continued to the porter's lift.
A brief glance at the receptionist's paper said the patient's location had changed.
They were moving, they shouldn't be moving.
As the matron said "If you can walk, you can go home", she wondered if that was their plan.
Shaking her head she rid herself of this notion, patients couldn't plan!
They were only partially in this plane of existence, held here by their wristbands.
God forbid they figure out how to remove them, they'd end up god knows where.
They'd go after food first, whatever and whoever they came across first.
In all honesty the hospital was more of a containment area than anything.
They still offered medical services, it made the patients feel cared for, kept them calm.
They would wait for weeks on end just to have a doctor (or consultant like Sherrie) talk to them.
Normally they'd be in the waiting area in whatever department they'd circled round to.
How did they get out and why were they heading to an unused bedding room.
As she entered the porter's lift (giving obligatory thanks to the Makers) she began to plan.
The patients main weakness was their apparent need for comfort and reassurance.
If they felt needed they were as active as a sack of flour, if left unchecked they were deadly.
The top floor felt like a lifetime away but time never flowed right in the hospital.
Other humans had complained but it never solved anything, the Head had no ears for mortals.
On floor six the lift stopped as a porter squeezed in beside her with a trolley of food.
Seems word of her retrieval had gotten around and he'd been sent as a backup.
Patients couldn't resist the smell of food, if he used it sparingly enough he could make a trail.
It was primitive but the options were few and any plan was a good plan.
After passing the rest of the ride with meaningless chittering noises (she'd been practising that) the
lift finally hit floor eleven and the sound of the patients filtered through the air.
Their breathy whimpers and shuffling feet came from the far side of the floor (the paper agreed it).
Putting on her friendliest smile she called out for them loudly.
She remembered a few of their names (or at least the ones they responded to sometimes, they liked
to have several as they thought it meant they got seen more often) and followed their replies.
Somehow they'd managed to all cram inside an area meant only for ten patients, all forty of them.
This would require far more help so she reassured them quickly and ran to the nearest phone.
In a matter of minutes the top floor was flooded with staff members and plans were made.
She was congratulated on finding the patients before their hunger grew too much to handle.
Soon enough they were all being escorted to stocked bays for check-ups.
Shame about the matron though, she'd kept them sated enough at least.
First day here, first break here and the second she got back all the patients had gone.
The matron was going to kill her, wherever she was.
She should have been around the area, it was A&E - it was always busy!
She went to the reception desk and was overjoyed that the receptionists were there.
Her relief soon faded when they said the patients should have been there, why aren't they there?
Their teeth chattered and their talons skittered over the keyboards, chains rattling.
She maintained the correct distance (2.5 meters, exactly on the cross) and waited.
After almost ten minutes they ceased and hooked up the intern to the printer.
Poor thing, they rarely lasted past the first paragraph.
The document they pushed through glass barrier had a room number on it.
One that she recognised as being a corridor on the top floor.
It wouldn't take her too long to get there so long as she used the porter's lift.
As she began to head there she noticed other staff members (no nurses, they were few here)
scouring the rooms, eyes black as coal and darting up and down their arms.
One of them (Consultant Sherrie, her nametag read) stopped her to ask where the patients were.
She said she was just on her way to fetch them and Consultant Sherrie nodded, black eyes all
merging on her cheeks to form eyes the size of tennis balls.
Taking this as a good sign she excused herself and continued to the porter's lift.
A brief glance at the receptionist's paper said the patient's location had changed.
They were moving, they shouldn't be moving.
As the matron said "If you can walk, you can go home", she wondered if that was their plan.
Shaking her head she rid herself of this notion, patients couldn't plan!
They were only partially in this plane of existence, held here by their wristbands.
God forbid they figure out how to remove them, they'd end up god knows where.
They'd go after food first, whatever and whoever they came across first.
In all honesty the hospital was more of a containment area than anything.
They still offered medical services, it made the patients feel cared for, kept them calm.
They would wait for weeks on end just to have a doctor (or consultant like Sherrie) talk to them.
Normally they'd be in the waiting area in whatever department they'd circled round to.
How did they get out and why were they heading to an unused bedding room.
As she entered the porter's lift (giving obligatory thanks to the Makers) she began to plan.
The patients main weakness was their apparent need for comfort and reassurance.
If they felt needed they were as active as a sack of flour, if left unchecked they were deadly.
The top floor felt like a lifetime away but time never flowed right in the hospital.
Other humans had complained but it never solved anything, the Head had no ears for mortals.
On floor six the lift stopped as a porter squeezed in beside her with a trolley of food.
Seems word of her retrieval had gotten around and he'd been sent as a backup.
Patients couldn't resist the smell of food, if he used it sparingly enough he could make a trail.
It was primitive but the options were few and any plan was a good plan.
After passing the rest of the ride with meaningless chittering noises (she'd been practising that) the
lift finally hit floor eleven and the sound of the patients filtered through the air.
Their breathy whimpers and shuffling feet came from the far side of the floor (the paper agreed it).
Putting on her friendliest smile she called out for them loudly.
She remembered a few of their names (or at least the ones they responded to sometimes, they liked
to have several as they thought it meant they got seen more often) and followed their replies.
Somehow they'd managed to all cram inside an area meant only for ten patients, all forty of them.
This would require far more help so she reassured them quickly and ran to the nearest phone.
In a matter of minutes the top floor was flooded with staff members and plans were made.
She was congratulated on finding the patients before their hunger grew too much to handle.
Soon enough they were all being escorted to stocked bays for check-ups.
Shame about the matron though, she'd kept them sated enough at least.
20150513
Day 374
The rust was spreading throughout the town.
It started on the outskirts by the farms some said, others said it was brought in from abroad.
There's always someone or something to blame, regardless of actuality.
After the original panic subsided a bit, it was noticed that the rust was different.
It didn't seem to corrode in the way it should,it merely discoloured and re-textured.
Nobody could make sense of it.
Without the fear of structural decay and animal sickness (among end-of-the-world rumours)
the townsfolk settled down once more and treated the rust as though it had always been there.
It even became a trend among teenagers to wear rusted iron as jewellery.
Soon everyone wore small metal pieces from jagged shards held together with safety pins to
polished and finely crafted shapes decorated with semi-precious stones.
The occasional person complained that their metal had left marks but they faded quickly.
I'm sure you can tell where this is going and how it will end.
Nobody really pays attention when it comes down to the smaller details like new freckles.
As an intense summer rolled in everyone seemed to tan so quickly and more so than normal.
The tan didn't fade either, if anything it grew richer over time as their skin grew rougher.
It didn't take long for someone to put two and two together.
Soon after they shared their theory with a friend strange stories of the metal jewellery came out.
The local news was flooded with people's limbs where they claim to have once had metal.
With no negative effects aside from the permanent tan and change in skin texture, the authorities
said the general public had nothing to fear.
When the first body was found flaking and crumbling in a house full of jagged metal shards they
quickly retracted this and begged everyone to stay indoors for their own safety.
It wasn't long before they all went that way, the metal overwhelmed them and they passed on.
Nowadays the town's gone altogether but for some old fencing, red and rough in texture.
Our school once took us on a field trip there to play sports until a kid cut themself on the fence.
We never saw from him again, rumour quickly spread that he'd died.
They claimed it was a hit-and-run and in such a small town as ours we believed it.
Well most of us did, those of us who were there when he got cut linked his passing with the
old stories of a town that rusted to death.
Whatever that rust has inside it, it isn't done yet.
His gravestone is a dark reddish colour, the grey overwhelmed within a fortnight.
The neighbouring graves are starting to get it too.
Its really only a matter of time and we know that now.
We've decided to get it before it gets us by doing the worst a teenager could in a small town.
Parents noticed our new piercings but they never saw us slip metal into their food.
Soon we'll all be rust, just like the other town.
Hopefully by fully ingesting it we'll go sooner than the others, sooner than the kid.
Nobody wants to linger.
20150512
Day 373
The greenhouse was full of children's drawings.
It had been centuries since humans had been anywhere near the place, nuclear fallout and all.
Entire area was closed off ever since, remote cameras had been set up but they'd never worked.
Well, now they were.
That's when the drawings began to appear.
It was just the one camera at first,on the outskirts of the area.
The reports varied from convenience shop to motel but they all showed the same image.
A staticky one for sure, you could hardly see it in most photos but there were clearer ones.
They showed it everywhere, that childish scribble.
Claimed it was restless spirits, claimed it was a prank.
Then they began to spread, nearly every week a different camera would switch itself on.
Neatly every week a new drawing would be found in that same style.
The cameras were in stranger and stranger places from the underside of a car to the greenhouse.
Always with the same static overtone, radiation interference supposedly.
The drawings were fairly innocuous, children playing or families smiling under a black sun.
Yes, some details of the pictures and parts of the landscape were distorted and the wrong size.
Radiation was blamed again but reports of unusually large flies came from neighbouring sites.
Yes, people began to await the new feeds with religious temperament.
People are just like that - if it scares you then appease it, even if it isn't alive.
I think they're just waiting to see who or what is behind all of this.
The latest feed seemed to come from a handheld camera.
You could see a human-ish shadow surrounding the image inside of the bathroom.
Too bad there were no reflective surfaces, it left too much to the imagination and people feared.
Nobody could guess what it was, there was no sound recorded so we didn't know if it breathed.
They are talking now about going in to investigate.
I think that's just what it wants.
All these images must be a taunt, it wants us to go in.
But why cameras... and why the guise of a child of all things?
If anything the use of a vulnerable figure makes people more worried, more rash.
They'll bring weapons... they probably won't be back.
They haven't checked in via radio for days now.
The new feed is due any hour and we hope and fear that we'll see them.
Whatever state they are in, dead or worse - alive.
Will we be able to hear their screams as the radiated air burns them from the inside?
Hopefully whatever is in there will get to the poor bastards first.
It had been centuries since humans had been anywhere near the place, nuclear fallout and all.
Entire area was closed off ever since, remote cameras had been set up but they'd never worked.
Well, now they were.
That's when the drawings began to appear.
It was just the one camera at first,on the outskirts of the area.
The reports varied from convenience shop to motel but they all showed the same image.
A staticky one for sure, you could hardly see it in most photos but there were clearer ones.
They showed it everywhere, that childish scribble.
Claimed it was restless spirits, claimed it was a prank.
Then they began to spread, nearly every week a different camera would switch itself on.
Neatly every week a new drawing would be found in that same style.
The cameras were in stranger and stranger places from the underside of a car to the greenhouse.
Always with the same static overtone, radiation interference supposedly.
The drawings were fairly innocuous, children playing or families smiling under a black sun.
Yes, some details of the pictures and parts of the landscape were distorted and the wrong size.
Radiation was blamed again but reports of unusually large flies came from neighbouring sites.
Yes, people began to await the new feeds with religious temperament.
People are just like that - if it scares you then appease it, even if it isn't alive.
I think they're just waiting to see who or what is behind all of this.
The latest feed seemed to come from a handheld camera.
You could see a human-ish shadow surrounding the image inside of the bathroom.
Too bad there were no reflective surfaces, it left too much to the imagination and people feared.
Nobody could guess what it was, there was no sound recorded so we didn't know if it breathed.
They are talking now about going in to investigate.
I think that's just what it wants.
All these images must be a taunt, it wants us to go in.
But why cameras... and why the guise of a child of all things?
If anything the use of a vulnerable figure makes people more worried, more rash.
They'll bring weapons... they probably won't be back.
They haven't checked in via radio for days now.
The new feed is due any hour and we hope and fear that we'll see them.
Whatever state they are in, dead or worse - alive.
Will we be able to hear their screams as the radiated air burns them from the inside?
Hopefully whatever is in there will get to the poor bastards first.
20150511
Day 372
The Old Chalkhouse had been abandoned since the mid sixties.
All that was left was a shell, no walls, no windows and a rusty fence to keep everyone out.
It didn't work according to the local kids, they all said they'd been there.
Strangely they all described a different place.
One claimed there were cavernous holes on the ground floor that spoke softly.
Another said that wires hung from the ceiling, trying to ensnare you as you walked underneath.
I almost went once, on a cloudy late at night and on a whim.
Made it to the old gatehouses nearby, crumbling like everything else there.
Before I could even turn down the road that lead to the rusted fence a hand gently stopped me.
I never saw their face but they spoke so quietly.
I really wouldn't go down there if I were you. There's nothing but rot and bones.
You'll thank me when you come to your senses, this place gets to the best of us.
And with that the hand lifted, I turned and nobody was there.
Still the urge to go into the Old Chalkhouse was strong, I just wanted to see it for myself.
The smell of limestone and pondweed drifted from the ruin in the faint breeze.
I was torn between listening to that oh-so-familiar yet unplaceable voice and sating my curiosity.
As I found myself taking cautious steps towards the fence the breeze picked up sharply.
The clouds were shunted away from the moon and in its feeble glow I saw people.
Well they looked something like people, roughly humanoid if you will.
There must have been dozens of them prowling behind the fence, I hope they didn't see me.
I haven't gone near there since but the children keep asking me about it.
They want to know what I saw, they know I went there.
Maybe they're working with the things behind the fence.
What if they told those things that I was there... what if they knew already?
All that was left was a shell, no walls, no windows and a rusty fence to keep everyone out.
It didn't work according to the local kids, they all said they'd been there.
Strangely they all described a different place.
One claimed there were cavernous holes on the ground floor that spoke softly.
Another said that wires hung from the ceiling, trying to ensnare you as you walked underneath.
I almost went once, on a cloudy late at night and on a whim.
Made it to the old gatehouses nearby, crumbling like everything else there.
Before I could even turn down the road that lead to the rusted fence a hand gently stopped me.
I never saw their face but they spoke so quietly.
I really wouldn't go down there if I were you. There's nothing but rot and bones.
You'll thank me when you come to your senses, this place gets to the best of us.
And with that the hand lifted, I turned and nobody was there.
Still the urge to go into the Old Chalkhouse was strong, I just wanted to see it for myself.
The smell of limestone and pondweed drifted from the ruin in the faint breeze.
I was torn between listening to that oh-so-familiar yet unplaceable voice and sating my curiosity.
As I found myself taking cautious steps towards the fence the breeze picked up sharply.
The clouds were shunted away from the moon and in its feeble glow I saw people.
Well they looked something like people, roughly humanoid if you will.
There must have been dozens of them prowling behind the fence, I hope they didn't see me.
I haven't gone near there since but the children keep asking me about it.
They want to know what I saw, they know I went there.
Maybe they're working with the things behind the fence.
What if they told those things that I was there... what if they knew already?
20150510
Day 371
I thought they were worms at first.
Just strange looking worms writhing around a bird's corpse as they do.
Living in the countryside you see sights like that fairly often.
Everything will die and breakdown eventually.
See, I get interested in the process of decomposing.
It truly is fascinating to see in person, smell aside of course.
Something was off about this scene though.
They were awfully flat for worms, is what I began to notice.
They didn't quite move like worms either.
Worms writhe anyway they can - articulated all over you see, setae they're called.
Though it was hard to tell through the mud and rotting bird they didn't move right.
I'll admit I had a rummage through the corpse to get a closer look.
They were rounder at one end and jagged at the other, much larger than I thought.
Felt rougher than worms too, covered in little lumps.
Took me a while to realise they were tongues.
I felt the dirt beneath me shift slowly as they rose.
I felt the dirt beneath me shift slowly as they rose.
Day 370
Ornamental gardens are beautiful.
The plethora of plants and streams that run between them seem like miniature landscapes.
One such place was at my local art centre, an eight by ten foot piece.
It was meant to be a scaled down version of a nearby field but... embellished.
The river that ran through it never existed and was pitch black for some reason.
I swear I saw fish in it, or at least things that looked like fish.
The miniature figures were said to act out scenes as well.
Apparently they were motorised but that still didn't explain their facial expressions.
It didn't explain how they would "kill" each other either.
So many times they've been seen tearing others to shreds and yet more appear in their place.
The peace of the diorama is quite often accompanied by their tiny bodies in states of decay.
Minute corpses floating down the river, choking others and worse.
Nobody wants to explain to their children why the tiny people stopped moving.
They even bleed.
Last time I went they'd formed a mob around the designated "mayor" figure.
He was chased into the tall lavender "forest" and I swear I heard quiet screams.
By the time I'd looked around the rest of the centre and come back he was dead.
Strung up on one of the outer plants.
A friend who worked there said that the staff were at their wits end trying to stop this.
The figures couldn't be reasoned with and couldn't be removed as they somehow just came back.
He said things were getting dire for the others there.
One woke up to a dozen or so of the people on his night stand.
They'd picked up a kitchen knife and were aiming it at him.
He grabbed them, receiving multiple small wounds, and tossed them into his bin.
The next day he found them back in the diorama following him in that same cluster as he moved
about the room.
He quit soon after and nobody's heard from him since.
The plethora of plants and streams that run between them seem like miniature landscapes.
One such place was at my local art centre, an eight by ten foot piece.
It was meant to be a scaled down version of a nearby field but... embellished.
The river that ran through it never existed and was pitch black for some reason.
I swear I saw fish in it, or at least things that looked like fish.
The miniature figures were said to act out scenes as well.
Apparently they were motorised but that still didn't explain their facial expressions.
It didn't explain how they would "kill" each other either.
So many times they've been seen tearing others to shreds and yet more appear in their place.
The peace of the diorama is quite often accompanied by their tiny bodies in states of decay.
Minute corpses floating down the river, choking others and worse.
Nobody wants to explain to their children why the tiny people stopped moving.
They even bleed.
Last time I went they'd formed a mob around the designated "mayor" figure.
He was chased into the tall lavender "forest" and I swear I heard quiet screams.
By the time I'd looked around the rest of the centre and come back he was dead.
Strung up on one of the outer plants.
A friend who worked there said that the staff were at their wits end trying to stop this.
The figures couldn't be reasoned with and couldn't be removed as they somehow just came back.
He said things were getting dire for the others there.
One woke up to a dozen or so of the people on his night stand.
They'd picked up a kitchen knife and were aiming it at him.
He grabbed them, receiving multiple small wounds, and tossed them into his bin.
The next day he found them back in the diorama following him in that same cluster as he moved
about the room.
He quit soon after and nobody's heard from him since.
20150508
Day 369
The stairs creaked and groaned and writhed as you walked down them.
They should be used to your pacing by now, it had been months since they were constructed.
You hunted abroad for the perfect materials, had them carefully brought here.
Each piece potentially worth over $45 million and so easily available.
They won't even be missed until they're long gone.
You felt glad that they no longer screamed though the creaking was irritating.
Then again, ribs can only take so much weight before they just break.
The rest of the house was getting just as bad but at least you remembered to keep them alive.
It was awful when they died - the mess, the stench - unbearable even to you.
Through trial and error you found the best solution was to keep them barely living.
So little mess, so little noise and so little smell.
They just needed a quick hose-down once a week.
You congratulated yourself on making such great decisions.
Still, replacing them proved to be a nuisance, people were starting to catch on in places.
Certain countries were sharper, cared more for their missing - it couldn't be helped.
Likewise with the stairs (for the time being) at least three steps were unusable already.
The lower ones had the most use, they were very much dead and starting to swell.
You knew what would happen soon after - the release of fluid and the stench of rot.
Fortunately for you, an associate in the disposal business agreed to take care of them.
All he asked for in return was a fresh one every now-and-then.
You never asked what he did with them, only that if he keep his mouth shut if he got caught.
Nobody needed the authorities at their door, especially not with such delicate furnishings.
It honestly wouldn't surprise you if he was found, the man was hardly inconspicuous after all.
In such instances, a spare home was necessary sadly without the lovely furniture you had here.
The top stair screamed as their ribs finally snapped - time for another shopping trip.
They should be used to your pacing by now, it had been months since they were constructed.
You hunted abroad for the perfect materials, had them carefully brought here.
Each piece potentially worth over $45 million and so easily available.
They won't even be missed until they're long gone.
You felt glad that they no longer screamed though the creaking was irritating.
Then again, ribs can only take so much weight before they just break.
The rest of the house was getting just as bad but at least you remembered to keep them alive.
It was awful when they died - the mess, the stench - unbearable even to you.
Through trial and error you found the best solution was to keep them barely living.
So little mess, so little noise and so little smell.
They just needed a quick hose-down once a week.
You congratulated yourself on making such great decisions.
Still, replacing them proved to be a nuisance, people were starting to catch on in places.
Certain countries were sharper, cared more for their missing - it couldn't be helped.
Likewise with the stairs (for the time being) at least three steps were unusable already.
The lower ones had the most use, they were very much dead and starting to swell.
You knew what would happen soon after - the release of fluid and the stench of rot.
Fortunately for you, an associate in the disposal business agreed to take care of them.
All he asked for in return was a fresh one every now-and-then.
You never asked what he did with them, only that if he keep his mouth shut if he got caught.
Nobody needed the authorities at their door, especially not with such delicate furnishings.
It honestly wouldn't surprise you if he was found, the man was hardly inconspicuous after all.
In such instances, a spare home was necessary sadly without the lovely furniture you had here.
The top stair screamed as their ribs finally snapped - time for another shopping trip.
20150507
Day 368
We'd all heard the zombie stories, seem the films and even dressed like them.
It still didn't prepare us for the reality of it.
They are nothing like the movies, they aren't mindless and hunger driven stumblers.
They think and feel and it spread too fast to contain.
I honestly wouldn't mind if they were shambling and brain dead!
In fact it would be far easier than our current situation.
They remember somehow and they know our weaknesses.
Can you imagine your loved ones half torn to shreds and asking you to come home?
Their faces so sad, rotting, pieces falling to the floor as they use childhood nicknames.
You get tempted, you're torn between being with your family and being "safe".
Remember - you're only alive because their fingers are too stiff to use keys.
The second you let your guard down, you open the door they strike.
They don't have mercy, they aren't who you thought they were.
This much the movies got right - they want you dead, the virus wants to spread.
Its just far smarter than we'd anticipated.
My son's been at the window for weeks now and I can't let him in.
It still didn't prepare us for the reality of it.
They are nothing like the movies, they aren't mindless and hunger driven stumblers.
They think and feel and it spread too fast to contain.
I honestly wouldn't mind if they were shambling and brain dead!
In fact it would be far easier than our current situation.
They remember somehow and they know our weaknesses.
Can you imagine your loved ones half torn to shreds and asking you to come home?
Their faces so sad, rotting, pieces falling to the floor as they use childhood nicknames.
You get tempted, you're torn between being with your family and being "safe".
Remember - you're only alive because their fingers are too stiff to use keys.
The second you let your guard down, you open the door they strike.
They don't have mercy, they aren't who you thought they were.
This much the movies got right - they want you dead, the virus wants to spread.
Its just far smarter than we'd anticipated.
My son's been at the window for weeks now and I can't let him in.
20150506
Day 367
The sea gives and takes just as much as the land does, only the sea is subtler.
It does more than landslide tsunami wreckage.
Who knows how many people it takes, how many slip away with no note left.
It doesn't leave a trace, the fish take care of that.
The sea takes around 200 people per year on cruise ships alone.
They are assumed to have fallen off into the sea or stayed behind.
Few people know that the key to successful voyage is to appease the waters.
It is assumed that one person per ship is lost but the truth goes far deeper.
Our sources say they take one per port for luck.
Depending on the journey it could be anywhere from 3 to over 20.
Not everyone follows this though, more modern captains prefer alternative methods.
The waters are so temperamental its near impossible to tell if they work.
Instead of a living person drowned alive exactly sixteen miles from port they use blood.
Exactly sixteen pints from any poor creature and exactly sixteen miles out at sea.
Nobody has been able to say why sixteen is such a vital number for these rituals.
So few of our sources returned from their investigative trips.
We can only hope that they pleased the oceans enough.
Too many vessels have been lost to its ravenous hunger and wrath.
What proof do we have aside from the few reports that survived?
We can at least assure you that the practice of sea-pleasing is very much alive.
It does more than landslide tsunami wreckage.
Who knows how many people it takes, how many slip away with no note left.
It doesn't leave a trace, the fish take care of that.
The sea takes around 200 people per year on cruise ships alone.
They are assumed to have fallen off into the sea or stayed behind.
Few people know that the key to successful voyage is to appease the waters.
It is assumed that one person per ship is lost but the truth goes far deeper.
Our sources say they take one per port for luck.
Depending on the journey it could be anywhere from 3 to over 20.
Not everyone follows this though, more modern captains prefer alternative methods.
The waters are so temperamental its near impossible to tell if they work.
Instead of a living person drowned alive exactly sixteen miles from port they use blood.
Exactly sixteen pints from any poor creature and exactly sixteen miles out at sea.
Nobody has been able to say why sixteen is such a vital number for these rituals.
So few of our sources returned from their investigative trips.
We can only hope that they pleased the oceans enough.
Too many vessels have been lost to its ravenous hunger and wrath.
What proof do we have aside from the few reports that survived?
We can at least assure you that the practice of sea-pleasing is very much alive.
20150505
Day 366
Breathe.
Breathe as you have never breathed before.
Fill your lungs with this new air, this thick air.
This rolling tar-tasting air that somehow screams life.
You will choke at first but breathe through the pain.
It will sear and scar your lungs, throat and lips but breathe.
Feel it seep through you like oil, slick but with a cloyingly sweet stench.
Fill yourself.
Look at the people around you.
They are already breathing deeply.
Their lives are far greater now - they are far greater now.
Become more.
Breathe as you have never breathed before.
Fill your lungs with this new air, this thick air.
This rolling tar-tasting air that somehow screams life.
You will choke at first but breathe through the pain.
It will sear and scar your lungs, throat and lips but breathe.
Feel it seep through you like oil, slick but with a cloyingly sweet stench.
Fill yourself.
Look at the people around you.
They are already breathing deeply.
Their lives are far greater now - they are far greater now.
Become more.
20150504
Day 365
The noise sounded like some kind of alarm horn blaring in the distance.
She wouldn't be bothered but she'd been hearing it all her life and it was so much louder now.
Most of her adult life had been dedicated to finding its source, she knew it was out there.
The latest location was an old industrial estate near the Sussex border.
It was right at the edge of a small village, one of those five-house-and-a-pub deals.
The curtains shifted as she drove past - it was rare for people to come here even if it was
just off the edge of a motorway, the whole place had the same musty feeling as an attic.
She parked near the quays that lead onto the small harbour, it seemed safe at the time.
There were a few kids in the distance perching on their scooters, staring at her intently.
She was tempted to wave but the noise was so loud here and somewhere to her left.
Walking down the grassy embankment and down the narrow "HGV ONLY" lane she
found the sound to be coming from further along.
The industrial area was a stark contrast to the picturesque village mere meters back.
Huge swathes of scrub-land bordered the road with large tire tracks and rubbish strewn about.
Halfway along there were scum-filled pools filled with an assortment of unusual things.
From old canisters of some kind to planks and tires they grabbed her attention the most.
She wouldn't be bothered but she'd been hearing it all her life and it was so much louder now.
Most of her adult life had been dedicated to finding its source, she knew it was out there.
The latest location was an old industrial estate near the Sussex border.
It was right at the edge of a small village, one of those five-house-and-a-pub deals.
The curtains shifted as she drove past - it was rare for people to come here even if it was
just off the edge of a motorway, the whole place had the same musty feeling as an attic.
She parked near the quays that lead onto the small harbour, it seemed safe at the time.
There were a few kids in the distance perching on their scooters, staring at her intently.
She was tempted to wave but the noise was so loud here and somewhere to her left.
Walking down the grassy embankment and down the narrow "HGV ONLY" lane she
found the sound to be coming from further along.
The industrial area was a stark contrast to the picturesque village mere meters back.
Huge swathes of scrub-land bordered the road with large tire tracks and rubbish strewn about.
Halfway along there were scum-filled pools filled with an assortment of unusual things.
From old canisters of some kind to planks and tires they grabbed her attention the most.
They weren't the source of the noise though, they were just indicators.
It meant that she was on the right track to whatever or whoever the noise was.
A sudden blow to her arm threw her out of this reverie as someone tried to run past her.
She turned to yell at them only to see them sink into the ground and run along as a shadow.
Regarding her own shadow with new found suspicion she tried to find where the dark being
was running to or who they were running to.
By coincidence or conspiracy they seemed to be heading towards the ever heightening noise.
Jogging past piles of bricks and other debris she saw it become solid enough to enter a fence.
The hole it leapt through didn't look to be too much smaller than she and somewhat padded
around the edges by surrounding which had been braided to form a protective barrier.
Someone had done this purposely, clearly there was more here than she had expected.
The old factory on the other side of the fence wasn't nearly as rusted as the others.
Seems it was being taken care of, maybe by the shadow being, maybe something worse.
Everything fell silent as she stepped across what may have been a car park or loading bay.
There were no birds here, not even a single pigeon though she saw vague movements in the
building before her, was it more shadows or had those children followed her?
She drew closer and saw what she had guessed to be windows were empty holes with similar
shadowy beings standing inside - some crouching to peer down at her.
The noise was much louder here and steadily rising but the shadows didn't seem to be bothered.
Maybe they heard nothing but oh how her head ached and pulsed with that noise.
Her footsteps began to fail her as the noise reached a crescendo, horn-like sound blaring in her ears.
As the shadows around her began to rise she stumbled back trying to overcome the cacophony.
She felt blood trickle from her ears and with her last ounce of strength lifted her phone to click.
It was claimed a suicide though no one quite knew how, others still flock there to find the source.
All they had to go on was the images on her phone and an unsent text that read as follows.
That damned noise won't let us rest.
Those damned shadows.
Its so close I could taste it.
I can almost feel it.
20150503
Day 364
The waitress takes your order with a lazy grin, she knew what you wanted before you spoke.
The seats are stiff and rigid, you see glimpses of them worn right through but they are new.
The other patrons sip their coffee slowly, you never saw them walk in like you did.
Come to think of it, you never saw the waitress go to them yet their cups remain full.
The jukebox plays a slow rendition of some song you heard as a child but can't quite name.
As it sits at the back of your tongue the waitress comes over with your coffee.
You didn't order it but she assures you that you did.
Everyone orders the coffee, best drink this side of the river.
You don't know which river they mean but nod as knowingly as the rest of the customers.
It grows dark outside, you go to leave but the waitress halts you, you haven't finished your joe.
You begin to protest but a great force pushes you back into your seat, places your hand on the cup.
The other patrons glare at you, compelling you to take another sip.
Night falls and the diner lights up with sickly neon colours, everything is washed in an unreal glow.
Everyone seems less real all of a sudden, like a postcard you saw in a petrol station years ago.
Nobody else comes through the door, the jukebox keeps skipping sections of the latest tune.
The words take on new meaning as it seems to tell you to settle in and keep drinking.
The seats are stiff and rigid, you see glimpses of them worn right through but they are new.
The other patrons sip their coffee slowly, you never saw them walk in like you did.
Come to think of it, you never saw the waitress go to them yet their cups remain full.
The jukebox plays a slow rendition of some song you heard as a child but can't quite name.
As it sits at the back of your tongue the waitress comes over with your coffee.
You didn't order it but she assures you that you did.
Everyone orders the coffee, best drink this side of the river.
You don't know which river they mean but nod as knowingly as the rest of the customers.
It grows dark outside, you go to leave but the waitress halts you, you haven't finished your joe.
You begin to protest but a great force pushes you back into your seat, places your hand on the cup.
The other patrons glare at you, compelling you to take another sip.
Night falls and the diner lights up with sickly neon colours, everything is washed in an unreal glow.
Everyone seems less real all of a sudden, like a postcard you saw in a petrol station years ago.
Nobody else comes through the door, the jukebox keeps skipping sections of the latest tune.
The words take on new meaning as it seems to tell you to settle in and keep drinking.
20150502
Day 363
As you sat on your bed fog began to seep in through the open window.
The room grew colder and colder, ice formed on the window frame and it wouldn't close.
No amount of pulling would help as the fog began to rise.
You tried your bedroom door only to find it frozen shut as well.
The thick mist was so cold it burned you, the only option was to sit on your bed and wait.
It just kept rising, almost at the level of your bed frame.
You stood on tiptoe, trying to avoid the mist as long as possible but god your legs burned.
As it rose over the ledge of your bed your legs gave way, too sore to hold you up any longer.
It didn't feel cold any more, or were you too numb to feel it?
The white haze slithered over your lap and began to rise in small spires and coils.
Before your eyes it formed a miniature cityscape, squinting you saw cars on the roads!
As you ran your hands along the mirage the"buildings" fell down in such a realistic way.
You could almost hear the frightened people screaming, the tiny cars swerved and crashed.
It filled you with childish glee to destroy this tiny cloud-like city.
Once you had obliterated the fog city it began to seep out of your room.
Everything went back to its original unfrozen state.
After firmly shutting the window you went downstairs to tell your room-mate about it.
They'd never believe you but it made for an interesting story nonetheless.
You called out but they didn't answer, staring with horror at the news channel.
The broadcasters were talking about the catastrophic destruction occurring globally.
Across the world cities were being totalled by unknown forces.
Buildings were thrown, crushed, knocked down and even vanished altogether.
There were never any survivors but reports of heavy mist before the strikes began to filter in.
You prayed that nothing led them to you and when the mist came for you again you sat and wept.
The room grew colder and colder, ice formed on the window frame and it wouldn't close.
No amount of pulling would help as the fog began to rise.
You tried your bedroom door only to find it frozen shut as well.
The thick mist was so cold it burned you, the only option was to sit on your bed and wait.
It just kept rising, almost at the level of your bed frame.
You stood on tiptoe, trying to avoid the mist as long as possible but god your legs burned.
As it rose over the ledge of your bed your legs gave way, too sore to hold you up any longer.
It didn't feel cold any more, or were you too numb to feel it?
The white haze slithered over your lap and began to rise in small spires and coils.
Before your eyes it formed a miniature cityscape, squinting you saw cars on the roads!
As you ran your hands along the mirage the"buildings" fell down in such a realistic way.
You could almost hear the frightened people screaming, the tiny cars swerved and crashed.
It filled you with childish glee to destroy this tiny cloud-like city.
Once you had obliterated the fog city it began to seep out of your room.
Everything went back to its original unfrozen state.
After firmly shutting the window you went downstairs to tell your room-mate about it.
They'd never believe you but it made for an interesting story nonetheless.
You called out but they didn't answer, staring with horror at the news channel.
The broadcasters were talking about the catastrophic destruction occurring globally.
Across the world cities were being totalled by unknown forces.
Buildings were thrown, crushed, knocked down and even vanished altogether.
There were never any survivors but reports of heavy mist before the strikes began to filter in.
You prayed that nothing led them to you and when the mist came for you again you sat and wept.
20150501
Day 362
They offered to empty your mind.
It was "cheap" and "painless" and never spoken about in public.
We all knew what they did but we never knew how or more importantly why.
What could they possibly have stood to gain from disposing of unwanted mental clutter?
Apparently enough to own quite a sizeable establishment.
You'd never seen anyone go in or out but there were always people inside.
Through the glass front you could see them in the waiting room, all reading the same pamphlet.
The people who had allegedly been inside came out much different, drained yet at peace.
You knew several of them, even lived with one, and they told you about it in confidence.
The dark green wallpaper and the brown leather chair and the numb agony that haunted them.
You never knew what to say or why they insisted on telling you all of this.
The "peace" they projected just melted away when they were alone, they hid so much anger.
It was like they forgot that they had volunteered to empty their minds, asked for it even.
Seems the emptying involved far more than just negative emotions.
Whole chunks of their lives and personality were gone, replaced by this "peace".
At the end of these rants they frequently went into they always said the exact same thing.
Still, can't complain, can I? Don't tell anyone I said this, yeah? Don't want any trouble.
It was like they were running on a script, down to the minute pauses it was the same.
They always left soon after, making excuses and rushing away to somewhere.
You suspected back to the clinic to be emptied once more.
You never thought you would be among them- didn't even remember coming in.
Yet you sat there in that same waiting room you had always stared at from the outside.
A friend sat next to you holding that familiar pamphlet as did you.
Funny, you vaguely remember it being on your kitchen table, remember ordering it somehow.
A member of staff cheerfully interrupts your musing to tell you its your turn.
It was "cheap" and "painless" and never spoken about in public.
We all knew what they did but we never knew how or more importantly why.
What could they possibly have stood to gain from disposing of unwanted mental clutter?
Apparently enough to own quite a sizeable establishment.
You'd never seen anyone go in or out but there were always people inside.
Through the glass front you could see them in the waiting room, all reading the same pamphlet.
The people who had allegedly been inside came out much different, drained yet at peace.
You knew several of them, even lived with one, and they told you about it in confidence.
The dark green wallpaper and the brown leather chair and the numb agony that haunted them.
You never knew what to say or why they insisted on telling you all of this.
The "peace" they projected just melted away when they were alone, they hid so much anger.
It was like they forgot that they had volunteered to empty their minds, asked for it even.
Seems the emptying involved far more than just negative emotions.
Whole chunks of their lives and personality were gone, replaced by this "peace".
At the end of these rants they frequently went into they always said the exact same thing.
Still, can't complain, can I? Don't tell anyone I said this, yeah? Don't want any trouble.
It was like they were running on a script, down to the minute pauses it was the same.
They always left soon after, making excuses and rushing away to somewhere.
You suspected back to the clinic to be emptied once more.
You never thought you would be among them- didn't even remember coming in.
Yet you sat there in that same waiting room you had always stared at from the outside.
A friend sat next to you holding that familiar pamphlet as did you.
Funny, you vaguely remember it being on your kitchen table, remember ordering it somehow.
A member of staff cheerfully interrupts your musing to tell you its your turn.
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