I told myself I would post my writing progress every time I write in the hopes to destroy the perfectionist in me and break the taboo of the first draft. This is the unedited version of FairBanks Island (Title Work-in-Progress)
Tag: Horror
Upon the Sky – Poem
Upon the sky I put my gaze
A new light,
beside the sun,
had entered the frame
*
Upon the sky I put my gaze
Still shining brightly,
What could it be?
It’s a thing of beauty
Lets watch it with glee
*
Upon the sky I put my gaze
Two stars now shine upon our gates
Where did it come from?
Where is it going?
It shine so brightly,
in things unknowing…
*
Upon the sky I put my gaze
My eye they burn without shades
The land is dulled,
Nothing is green
It is so hot I cannot breath
*
Upon the sky I put my gaze
My hallow skull is the only shade
The light shine so brightly,
What do you know
Has the world been swallowed up?
Has the world become a stove?
*
Upon the sky my eyes remain
The sky is brightness
It is it’s domain…
© Christopher Stamfors
If you like this one, please check out Ghostly Creed.
Abandoned – Very Short Story
The floor was cold as I awoke. My jaw was sore and my body was stiff, and when I opened my eyes, I couldn’t tell where I was. It was dark. The walls were pitch-black but I could see a bed without a mattress. One of the springs were loose… I tried to stand, with some difficulty, and when my senses had gathered I endeavoured to move. I had no recollection of where I was or how I ended up here – whatever here was. There were large metal bars in my way that felt course on my hands. It seemed that I was a prisoner, of some sort, that much was clear. My attire confirmed my suspicion, wearing a grey jumpsuit, the one associate with criminals. I rattled the bars and felt them move. Pieces of the concrete rained on my head. A hard enough push and the bars would come crashing down, I imagined. But for some reason, I hesitated. Something was wrong. It was too quiet… Too dreary, or maybe this was common? I wasn’t sure. Had I deserved to be imprisoned? I didn’t know. Surely I was not?
In either case, I felt the bars and after some force, it all collapsed loudly on the floor. I stood paralysed as the crash echoed in my ears and through the hall, before it became deathly silence once more. I stepped out and felt cold wind on me. It whined through a broken window, which I approached. There wasn’t much of anything that I could see in the distance, only trees and an empty courtyard below. There was a lonely car parked near the entrance and I imagined it to be a means to my escape. I turned back to the hall and was engaged to find my way downstairs when I became paralysed once more. There was only utter darkness ahead, the light from the window seemed to die halfway down the hall and I shuddered at the thought of heading into it. But, seeing no other way I steeled myself and headed towards it. One could only wonder why the prison had been abandoned to begin with and why I was its sole inhabitant, so I did not, and focused instead on my escape.
Only now did I realise my feet were bare. The floor was course and a multitude of different things, and pieces, lay scattered that made me painfully aware of my naked feet. But I kept on moving, feeling with my hands on the right side of the wall to not lose my way. The wall disappeared and I imagined the hallway forked to my right, and as I was about to head that way, my feet became firmly planted on the floor. There was a scratching noise, like metal being dragged against the concrete floor and I froze. I remained still as it came closer, making efforts to breathe shallow breaths. Though I did not see it, I felt the strangers presence as it lurked past me and when it reached the light I became vindicated that I had made the right choice and remained still. He was a massive man, muscular and faceless. And the weapon, that seemed light for a man of his stature, was dragged along the floor, like it was his purpose to make his presence known. He stopped by my cell and inspected it.
I struggled to keep quiet as it searched my former abode, and when it deemed it empty, it returned the same way it came. Only when the sounds were distant did I dare to move. I decided that my only way of escape was through the window and I searched for anything to make a rope out of. I searched other cells too, though I avoided the locked ones in fear of making any sounds that would attract the monster to me. I gathered all the cloth I could find and managed a rope that I hoisted out the window. It seemed to reach all the way down and I did not hesitate to throw myself out into the world. It had started to rain, which made the climb more difficult, but I was in high spirit, when, from the window, a figured stared down at me. A moment later, I held onto nothing and I was falling, along with my makeshift rope.
They say that your life flashes before your eyes before you die. I can say with certainty that this is true, and as mine did I no longer feared death and accepted my fate.
© Christopher Stamfors
Art by ChrisCold
The Cursed One – Very Short Story
My sight of deathly glare that drains away that which makes you sane. Only at nothingness may my eyes peer, and as such, my curse be sealed. In the darkness I hear the walls whisper my name; water drip upon the floor, having coursed its way through the age-old walls. I kneel before the damp stones and taste the outside. It has a hint of moss and fungi flavour – the taste of home.
I am not bound by my limbs and can move freely within these room. Though my world is small, there’s a larger one within those walls that enclose me. I can hear them as I press my ear against it, the scurrying and the skittering. I moan when they do, wishing to be heard, but a response never comes. At least hearing my own voice is a reminder that I exist.
On rare occasions, the door opens and forth come men with heavy steps. There is no light on their presence for they know of my power; even so, I can hear their nervous breathing for I am one with the darkness.
They move clumsily within my domain and I encroach upon them, almost touching them, then I exhale my cold breath in one ear and then the next. They start and give off a shrivelled shriek, a short and manly one, but a shriek nonetheless. I picture their faces twisted in anger… the only warmth I ever receive.
The door close with a great clang. Left on the floor there’s a bowl of something vile, but I do not need it. I let it rest and I retreat back to my corner, feeling the scurrying through the wall.
They emerge and feast on my bounty.
Some nibble on me, as well, but they soon give up in distaste for there’s nothing inside me worth devouring. Strangely, I do feel pain, though, it’s not a displeasing feeling, one that I cannot recreate myself… I’ve tried.
Only teeth, or sharp objects, can penetrate my skin.
Such is the life of the cursed and here I’ll linger long before the Keepers had enough of me, when the walls will crumble and I once again roam the earth, catching eyes with those around me and savour their terror.
© Christopher Stamfors
Featured image by ChrisCold
The Necronomicon Consumed my Sanity
Some time ago, I bought a book called the “Necronomicon” it’s a collection weird tales from a weird author – H.P Lovecraft.
Lovecraft has a very unique style and endless imagination, which is the entire allure of his stories, but, I challenge you to explain to me exactly what’s going on half the time. His style of writing made it difficult to get into his stories, but what you need to understand about Lovecraft is that he wrote for himself and the only one who can fully understand his stories is he.
That doesn’t mean they are bad stories, for even if some sentences of fail to grasp you, you will be caught in his flow and submerge yourself in the dread he’s trying to convey, and that’s where he shines, to create real atmosphere of horror.
If found that my mind started to wander on other things while reading his tales, yet, I didn’t forget what I read. I came up with ideas for my own stories as if Lovecraft himself dug into my mind a surfaced them.
His work oozes inspiration.
But while you’re in that state, every once in a while, you’ll find yourself drawn back to his world, and then, nothing else exist. Your concentration is unparalleled and you can see the craftsmanship of each page, how he melds the real world with his mythos, real science with the supernatural.
His descriptions are vivid, though over excessive, at times. It is as if Lovecraft had visited these places himself, so detailed is his imagery, which is admirable. I, myself, prefer vague descriptions that allows me to use my own imagination, but as I said, he wrote the stories for himself, not anyone else. Perhaps he wanted to document what he’d really seen… He took inspirations from his own dreams, after all.
I’m ashamed to say, it took me about a year to go through his work. It began slow, but as I grew as a writer and a reader, the stories were consumed quicker and quicker until the last third of the book (which is 878 pages long) was consumed in a month.
I can’t recommend this book to everyone, but keep in mind that this is the first book that I ever bothered to write a review on, that’s how much of an impression it had on me. Pick it up if you are a avid read and if you yourself can imagine strange things, for if you cannot grasp the unknown, you’ll go mad with the imagery Lovecraft provide.
Amazon link
Night Call – Poem
Had a short poetry session with the artist behind most of my cover art, thought it was pretty fun…
Me: Cresent light shine upon me
Your way-ford light a reminder,
of times ahead
Your command the essence of my being
Tell me what needs to be done and I shall perform
Oh, crescent light,
Of darkness
And mischief
Him: Go where you see fit
Until you can’t see no more.
At the edge of the abyss
Where you’ll await my guide.
There we shall converse again and move forward
until that time the journey is sole yours.
Me: You speak of grander things
Chris the Cold
Of a time when the Dark Lord’s madness,
Were planned to unfold
But I have wandered between madness and the abyss
And I see no light and the end of the tunnel
Of guidance through the apocalypse
Don’t fool yourself with glory of a bygone past
We will never talk again
Unless you give up your soul,
As the master planned.
Invisible Touch – Poetry Story
Gusts of wind sprayed water upon the wall, the wind howled between the narrow windows that looked down at the shore.
The walls had protected the city for many years, but this night no invaders would dare to show, for walkers roamed in the darkness and everyone stayed indoors.
The streets were empty, there was silence, only the wind grew louder with compliance. Yet a lone woman scurried down the hall, her steps echoed hollow on the marble floor.
And out she went this restless night, her feet caked the mud, yet she did not slow, for what hunted her would not let her go.
With fear she ran without looking back, the darkness was thick and she did not see where she sprang. The void tipped her over, an invisible touch, the walker had decided this hunt was ending, her cries unamending.
For she was marked, her life was not her own, it would never let her go, with glee it watched her sob.
The creature was invisible, in the darkness of the night, though there were texts that made guesses, for the mere sight would end their lives.
The rain drummed on her body, her gown was thoroughly soaked, the cold made her shiver and fear made her lips they quivered.
But she did not sit for long, this restless night, her skin turned pale and cold, until the walker was satisfied.
Her eyes were empty and her body was the same, not a single drop had spilled, no markers upon her skin.
But the creature did not grin for this was not a joyous night, they once ruled the world, but now, they make due with one restless night.
© Christopher Stamfors
Featured image by ChrisCold
God is Forgiving – Very Short Story
Year 1246 of our Lord
Orwald Shilling writing:
I don’t know why I feel the need to write this. Perhaps it’s a desire to be understood, perhaps it is just one of those selfish acts which we human are so famous for? All people are born sinners, after all, and even men of God are not free from sin, however, some sins are more grave than others, naturally. Perhaps this is why I write? For the small chance of redemption in the eyes of at least one person? Indeed, that would be enough; and if this letter finds itself in the hands of a heathen, or a denier, allow me to preach God’s world to you:
God is the creator of all things, heaven and earth. He created man in his image in the Garden of Eden where humanity achieved happiness without sin. However, humans betrayed God, and happiness is now only sin. Man is born evil and everything that makes us happy is a sin. Life is meaningless because it is only in death that we can achieve true happiness, in heaven. However, sinners may live happy lives even so, blissfully unaware, or chose to ignore, damnation that awaits them.
I always thought sinners should be punished in life. Even the promise of eternal damnation doesn’t seem to deter them, nor does it give me any satisfaction knowing this very fact, not yet anyway. I remember witnessing my first execution, long ago, a thief was being hanged; and as I saw life drain from his eyes I was filled with a warmth I could not explain, perhaps it was gratification for he had resisted my words before committing the theft. I would like to believe God made him commit the crime to hurry his damnation, but then, there are those that live in excess and corruption all their lives without consequence… I know one should not question God’s will or try to understand it, even so, All sinners ought to suffer, even in life.
But alas, I’m alone in this.
God never intended for life to have meaning, for life is meaningless when heaven is forever. Thus we suffer to prove our worthiness to ascend into paradise; a test of our vigour so that you can appreciate the splendour when the gates of heaven open to you. However, the ones who fail in this test, no second chance is given… or so I thought. Surely, an outrageous act of true devotion should put you in God’s good grace once more? At least, there is no harm trying – hell awaits you either way.
Life is just pain, after all.
It is the flesh that makes us weak and women are the creators of flesh. Capturing our souls into the torment of life…
Women are damned from the beginning, I believe, their souls are lost and cannot be reclaimed. No wonder they seek to bring men of faith down with them; they do not want to spend eternity alone in the fiery depths of hell. She will not have the last laugh, though, because God has called upon me a second chance.
Where else could this idea come from than from him?
I stopped counting the bodies, after a while, there was no point to it as the act became less and less vile in my eyes. It helped, at first, to see them just as numbers but that itself was a sin, to look down on human life, even sinners are humans, after all. One should feel bad about killing, even if it is righteous. The first few victims were… difficult. I didn’t have the right touch and they screamed and struggled before they collapsed at the cut of my knife. Now, I can slice a man cleanly while they sleep.
Sleeping through one’s death… I wish my demise would be that peaceful, but suicide is out of the question and I don’t trust anyone’s hand but my own. I simply have to wait for the angels to take me, when they believe I’m worthy… My hands are getting shaky now and it’s becoming more difficult to make the clean cut like I used to. Even my back and knees hurt constantly. Growing old is a truly terrible thing. The only solace is that I’ll feel the sweet embrace of death soon, which is why I write while I still retain my sanity and a steady hand.
Don’t think badly of me. I’m but a humble servant of God, who made a mistake in his youth.
© Christopher Stamfors
Featured image by ChrisCold
Chilly Night Poem – Query
In the last story I made a lot of changes from the original to make sure it made sense, but now I’m curious, which one do you prefer? The last one, or, this one:
Look through the midnight winter
and the frost beyond your view.
Raise your hand in enjoyment,
we’ll have another victim soon.
Light the candle on the windshield,
show them we are home.
The gates are open
and we’ll greet them with warmth.
Their steps echo hollow in this empty house.
Nowhere to go, might as well stay the night.
They search the house, to find it abandoned.
Nothing have lived here, for centuries untold.
They don’t believe in ghost and creatures of the night.
Find the place comfortable enough,
it beats the air this chilly night.
We watch them sleep sweetly together on a makeshift bed.
The masters bedroom is upstairs,
even mortals have a sense to leave it alone,
even under threat.
They sleep through the night, everything was fine.
But as the hands of wakening,
they found something not right.
The healthy colour which normal humans shine,
was absent on her mate, his eyes cold as night.
Her scream echoed in the dusty halls.
She awoke the master.
Now she could never leave,
her mate her soul had been.
This version doesn’t rhyme as well and is written in the perspective of someone/something observing the couple. I’m asking because I kinda like both.
Chilly Night – Poetry Story
Through the darkness and the cold,
the house creaked through the winter storm
And on the driveway, in this winter’s night, a couple emerged
Banging on the door, trying to get inside
The door opened, without a sound
Only their footsteps echoed through an empty house
They search the home, to find it abandoned
Nothing else was living, for centuries uncaring.
Dust caked on the floor and the wind howled through the ceiling
A perfect place for ghosts and other unsavoury beings
But the couple didn’t believe in ghost and creatures of the night
So they find the place comfortable enough,
it beats the air this chilly night.
They slept sweetly on a makeshift bed.
Thank god they left the master’s room untread
They sleep through the night, everything was fine.
But as they awoken, the woman found something’s not right.
Cold and blue was the eyes of her mate
Frozen to the bone, there was nothing to reanimate
Her scream echoed in the dusty hall
The Master would have his call
Where nothing remained
Even in thaw
© Christopher Stamfors
Featured image by ChrisCold
The Horrors of Writing 