Adams Symposium of the Reaper

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-6678-5051-1
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 128 Seiten

Reihe: Symposium of the Reaper

Symposium of the Reaper is a horror anthology featuring 13 short stories written in distinctive styles to take the reader through an experience like no other. Some are humorous and others are terrifying, though they are all rooted firmly in the dark and macabre.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Adams, Andrew

Leseproben

I Pavor Nocturnus Awakened by a sound of my own creation, exactly as the night before, and the night before that. 3:21 AM once again, but why have I awakened at this precise moment, like clockwork, from yet another slumber? There must be an answer better than no reason at all, perhaps the wonder of unconscious nocturnal musings? Pity that, I reject the thought, there could only be more. Something is the matter, for better or worse, a topic worthy of exploration. Mentally dancing, questioning my circumstances, the gestation of fate has already begun. I scan the room for anomalies to find nothing amiss, all is as should be except for that visitor, there. He looms in the corner, tall and blinding in his darkness, long and pointed hands stretched out at his sides. “You, there, why have you come to wake me yet again at this hour?” The figure remains steadfast. Did I do something wrong? I would rather think him friend, yet now I ponder if he has come to bring me harm? What an atrocious thought. “I say for the final time, why do you linger, dark figure? If you have nothing to say, I would assume return to my slumber.” The figure holds still, yet again, standing tall and thin. The crescent moon bleeds through the window pane, yet is unable to permeate deep enough to illuminate this being. I must resolve this at once, so that I may finally rest peacefully. “My humor has left me, dark figure, I do not care any longer. You may stay or you may go, it is of no matter to me. I only ask you to please keep quiet so I may sleep.” Yet he did not stay quiet. Just now and before, asking him for information, this shadow in the corner of my room was mockingly silent as a corpse. Now, with my eyes closed and in much need of sleep after several nights interrupted, there grows a whisper in my ear, awful whisperings, indeed. This could only be the jagged voice of this shape in the corner of my room, yes? Yet, I know this voice, I have heard it before, but where? It murmurs thoughts of doubt in my ear, telling me things I instantly recognize to be of a false nature, although how can I be sure? No, I suppose I cannot. The voice builds into a cacophonous symphony, until I bolt upright in bed once again to scold this creature, yet the corner is empty. Empty of shadows, empty of walls, empty of any corner at all. Where once a wall stood, now resides the black horizon in four directions around my bed, nothing as far as the eye can see. Is this death or a dream that plagues me now? Waves of reflection grow increasingly larger until the walls rapidly snap back into place, growing closer and closer still. My ceiling, before with ample room between myself and it, now rests on the tip of my nose, both arms secured in place by their respective walls. Stifling air of an acrid nature surrounds me. I would shout out if I were able to, yet the air is unfit for consumption, and thus, all that can be heard is a modest gasp. My chest and the lungs within, so reliable for so many years, now fail me in my time of greatest need, which is to say the present moment. Cinder blocks depress my ribcage downward into the bed, and further onward still, leaving me extraordinarily uncomfortable with an increasing knock below my throat. Is that my heart, beating harder than it has ever been asked to before? The rhythm between contractions grows shorter, as the pounding grows harder, harder, harder. Each successive beat could be the last, giving the impression that it could pump hard enough to split in two. The pounding has grown so forceful, it compels my body to expel a breath of air that is no longer there. My goodness, complete and utter darkness, hard walls surrounding me in every direction, now including underneath where my warm and cozy bed kept me safe until the moment of 3:21. This must be the final resting place, my very own coffin. I do not like it, I do not like it at all. If only I could fight, break through this paralyzing prison, yet the pesky cinder block on my chest pins me still. Surely, I do not deserve this? Certainly, my many faults notwithstanding, I deserve at least better than what lies in wait? No, I cannot accept this fate, I must resist, I must struggle in any manner at my disposal. The stench of stale, cryptic air floods my senses. This is it, a decidedly uneventful ending for an unassuming man, choked to death by nothing in his bed. I deduce somehow, some way, this must be my fault, for whatever I did, or did not do. Tingles crawl inward from my extremities to my core, bringing with them a caliginous chill. This shall be my final bow. The traitorous and treacherous entity lurking in the shadows, that must have been a cloak I saw, the flowing and tattered black cloak of Death. My lungs forcefully fill with air in a long, drawn out breath, creating both a whistling and rumbling noise simultaneously. Now replete with oxygen, the just recently vacuous chest cavity is sealed and ready to burst at a moment’s notice. The lump in my throat, froggy in nature, has a heartbeat of its own, syncopating with the timing of the one beneath my ribs. There must be great external pressure on my neck to prevent exhalation, yet to my horror, it is but my own hands grasping the throat they would know to be theirs. Paralysis pins me in this most unfortunate position. When I would have begged for a rush of cold before in the sweltering heat of this make-shift sarcophagus, I now wish for the return of warmth in any form. My face could only be blue at this juncture, and it is assuredly throbbing. My neck, cold to the touch, even beneath the clutch of two frosty hands immobilized by early-onset rigor mortis. What a sight to see from this vantage point, floating above the body which once was mine and staring down at it choking itself. I ask yet another time, surely there must be a purpose? I can conjure dozens of different reasons for these events to be taking place, with each one simultaneously absurd and also a very real possibility. As I arrive at the pinnacle of what I thought to be possible, the apex of human suffering, the pressure valve falters and opens to its fullest capacity. My lungs deflate, yet again, presenting a quandary I continue to have no answer for. I find myself able to breathe freely now, something I will not take for granted ever again. Oh, how delightful a moment to free oneself of the reaper’s grasp, yes, yes indeed. Yet, why am I free, and why did this come to darken my evening even further? How I long for sleep, the peaceful and harmonious enthrallment of hibernation. Giving one final authoritative squeeze, the wooden walls that have been pressing into me from all sides suddenly retreat in their respective directions, now resembling the catacombs of a tomb more so than a coffin. My ceiling, now back where it began earlier on this night, features a small white dot in the center. Might it be a star? No, stars should not typically move, and certainly not toward me. This mysterious white dot grows in my line of sight, now slightly resembling an egg. Closer, closer…it is an eye? A rather large eye in fact, nearly half the size of the ceiling and identical to one of my own. This giant eye, unblinking and unwavering, stares into me with relentless fervor. My thoughts, my fears…everything I ever wanted laid bare before it. The potential of all I could ever be, or fail to be, now awaiting judgement from a massive eyeball at three something in the morning. Hope is draining by the second, everything I thought I wanted previously is now but a shadow memory. I must ask myself at least once more, how many nights in a row have I been disturbed in this same manner? Sinking into the bed under the weight of this eyeball’s gaze, I find myself in the now familiar situation of being unable to move again. How unfortunate. What does it matter, anyway? Everything is this eye’s fault, I had complete control over myself until it showed up. I despise it, I despise the eye for everything it is. This THING sees me, inside and out, and now it mocks me for my lack of ability to sleep. Yet…why should I even sleep at this juncture? Feeling empty inside, lacking hope, hating everything around me and constantly questioning myself, what exactly is it I hope to escape from? Caring about, well, anything at all now suddenly feels like a herculean task unbefitting for the sleep-deprived. So be it, all of it. If this morning’s display is Death’s talent show, then be that as it may, I care not. This room, the creature, this bothersome eyeball, none are any more significant to me than a spider underneath my bed. “Goodnight, Eye. I hope you attained what you came to achieve, although I have nothing left to give you after you have taken what little remained of my night. The sun must be very nearly rising now and I have laid here awake for hours once again. Be gone with you.” The eye blinks and stares judgingly, yet it does not leave. No matter, I am now free to move at my own will, which I use to roll myself back to my side where this adventure began earlier tonight, where it began last night, the night before, and even the night before that. My newfound sense of apathy sends me right off into a deep and restful nap before beginning the day. I awaken now to a sound, unknown in origin, but at any rate, my morning can wait no longer. The room is still black with just the right amount of moonlight peering in. I must not have slept long, although long enough to feel a degree of separation from my nightly escapades. To my shock and surprise, the clock cannot lie, yet it reads 3:21 AM again. HOW exactly could this be? I tremble at...