Join Date: February 22, 2006
Short story for English.
It's so dark. I hope you enjoy.
My pallid, skeletal hands grasp the cast-iron fence of the Holy Trinity church cemetery. The stone church building, draped in mist, stands yards and yards away at the other end of this bone yard. The steeple this night looks not like an ordinary steeple, but a watchtower. Who, then, would be watching me? Thin lips on my face pull into a taut sneer. I breathe in a whiff of cold Autumn Nightâ€™s air and scramble catlike to the top.
Swinging a long, thin leg over, I turn and look back one last time. Fog hides the dirt road on which I trudged to the cemetery. The silence around me stills me. My demonic green eyes narrow into the murkiness, searching for amorphous shapes. Nothing but trees stand near the cemetery gate.
But lo! A pair of chilling eyes flash. A creature is perched on the dead sycamore to the left. Eerily on cue, the fog parts and allows me to spot in the darkness a snowy white owl. I hiss between my stained, cracked teeth. I am an ornithophobiac. â€˜Tis a meaningless and idiotic fear. I have murdered and many a night, such as this, I have plundered graves, picked jewelry off of rotting corpses, but I cringe if a pigeon flies too close to me on the street!
It hoots before it swoops into the mist and is gone. I break out of my trance and swing over my other leg. I slide down the fence awkwardly, the instruments hanging from my waist nearly getting caught on the fence and causing me to fall. I recover myself, brushing dirt from my trousers. Standing upright, I firmly stride into the graveyard. Onto the soil of the dead.
Orange, brown, red leaves crunched underneath my boots as I walk meaningfully up to the mausoleum. That is where the richest souls are laid to rest. The richest are buried with some of their most prized possessions as well. In my opinion, it is foolish for relatives of the deceased to bury their corpses with such fine valuables. What good does it do their dead bodies? They send grandiose treasuresâ€¦ to waste. To rot with their late owners. I wasnâ€™t a plunderer. I was preserving treasures.
The mausoleumâ€™s golden-lined doors beckon, glowing by the reflection of the crescent moon. I hastened, making a beeline right towards the stone structure, when something caught my eye. A white figure of a person flitted away from the mausoleum, past a giant cross-shaped headstone and disappeared. I halt. The stories of the phantoms in this cemetery could not be true! And they werenâ€™t, I think decisively. It was a trick of light in the mist, or that owl. I gulp. Even if it were not a phantom, that it was but the snowy owl, it still would not comfort me.
Despite the unearthly sight I have just beheld, I resume to march persistently to the mausoleum, which is more like, to me, a den of fortune.
My lips pull into a petite smirk. Goodâ€¦ I finally remember what my goal is here tonight. And I am running out of time. I check my watch, trying to pick out the hour in the dim sheen of the moon. It is almost-
The bell in the steeple of the Holy Trinity church begins to toll.
The quick strides I take are no longer good enough. I hasten into a jog, the objects on my hip bouncing about and hitting my thigh lightly as I push onward. The mausoleum is so closeâ€¦
It pops up before my eyes at long last. While I catch my breath I canâ€™t believe how many times I stopped before coming before its doors. The chance at prosperity is right inside the small, marble building before me.
I remove the first object from my belt; a small hatchet. Swinging, concentrating most of my power into each hack into the chains that bind the mausoleum doors, I finally gain entry. Upon yanking open the doors, being hit in the face with dust, an odd smell wafts from the room, like a musty cellar with meat hanging in it. It is the smell of decay, but the scent contains a hint of gold as well.
I swooped down upon the nearest casket. My eyes search for the name plate, and I find it. Gold. I might grab that to melt and sellâ€¦
But then I realize the name. Annie Morton. My Annie. My former beloved. And the first victim to ever fall by my favorite hatchet, the one I hold in my hand. This hatchet, my weapon with which I stole Annieâ€™s life with, slips out of my hand. I gaze, my eyes bulging out of their sockets insanely, at the sharpened blade. And then I hear a soft call of the snowy owl. Right behind me.
Perched on a casket is the feathered devil. I wince at the sight of it. Its yellow eyes dig into my mind, my heart, my dark, twisted soul. My knees buckle helplessly, and I grab Annieâ€™s casket for support. Talons grab onto my emaciated hand. I hissed inwardly in the sharp pinch of the talons as I look over. It is a crow; my superstitions take over me now. This is a bird that surely marks death. The black thing lets out a screech. Out in the night, more of them respond. I hear the beating of countless wings approach by the sky.
A blackness of crows flies into the mausoleum, surrounding me. I cry in fear, ducking down, covering my head with my arms. The crows scratch at my arms as they circle me, endlessly calling. The shadow of birds flee as quickly as it arrives. I bravely peek out to observe my surroundings, and another blackness falls onto my eyes, accompanied by a dull thud. I realize what has happened in horror. The door had shut!
For one last time, the owl hoots, as if talking to me. I shakily look back at it, and in terror, I scream as it unfurls its wings and lunges toward my eyes, my green devilâ€™s eyes that have watched my crow-scratched arms do wicked deeds, deeds which provided stallions of sin down to the path into Hell. The hell of my mind, and especially this hell of isolation; just me, these bodies, and the One who comes to watch me cry out in despair at my entrapment, the snowy owl.