Short horror stories.

Devastating Love

“Hurry Claire!

I had posted this here before but I took it down when I was trying to get published. Since it didn't work out I'll put it back up.
Sorry this is another zombie story. I plan on writing some ghost stories soon though! I have a ghost/zombie story as well, but it hasn't been typed up yet. For now, here is Death Muse.

It all started without me knowing it, as silly as that sounds. The end of the world came and yet I was in my own world seeking beauty and perfection as always. That was how I made my living, at least until the thin line of “living�  became somewhat of a cruel joke. While I toiled away at trying to paint flowers in my studio, people just stopped “living�  without actually dying at all.
Whenever I got to work on a piece, my mind would be completely into it. Every brush stroke and line I took in the colors to get a feel for the painting. So when my best client dropped off a pot with rare wildflowers it was no surprise that she brought along a professional botanist that would see to the flowers. Most of my frequent clients knew how I breathed and slept only to paint, so if the subject of the piece needed attention that usually meant an assistant for the time being. This botanist was supposed to visit the studio once a day until my work was complete. Some days the botanist did nothing more than water the plant while other days I needed to stop while the flowers sat under a sunlamp. Overall I never paid much attention to the visits until I realized they had stopped.
It took me a moment to bring myself out of my painting and into my surroundings. What had made me realize the absence was in a telltale sign of the subject I was painting. It was beginning to wilt. But more than that, the botanist’s checklist sat on the table nearby without a single note for the last three days.
This wouldn’t do, I couldn’t continue until the flowers were in good health again. Dying flowers were not beautiful. I cleaned myself up with a paint-smeared cloth as I crossed my art studio for my phone. But upon picking it up I was startled to find no dial tone. I could have my head in the clouds a lot, but the clouds weren’t quite thick enough for me to forget to pay my phone bill. Maybe I would forget a meal or two, but my bills were always paid. I could not paint in a studio for free after all!
While moving in the opposite direction I had come from to find my cell phone I began to realize that something more was not right. Not just the absence of the botanist or the dead phone line. It was the city itself. I lived and worked in a very busy area. Everyday I had to tune out the sounds of sirens, road construction, cars, and even loud voices and gunfire from the streets below. That day for the first time I was tuning into the noises instead of out. There were no sirens, no jackhammers, and no honking cars. More importantly, I could not hear a single voice.
The windows in the studio were large floor to ceiling eyes into the city, something I never usually paid attention to. Maybe occasional glances here or there, but it wasn’t the splendor I was looking to paint. Buildings and smog ruined the skyline here, so the windows served for nothing more than letting light in. Until that day.
What I laid my eyes on confused me and froze the very soul within me. Fires smoldered in the distance, some of the buildings already gutted by flames that were just dying out. Below I could see countless cars, many overturned or smashed into storefronts. I could not tell from the floor my studio was on, but I swear the streets swam in blood! Even in all of this madness there were people in the streets. All of them shambled as if dazed covered in dirt and blood. The foolish thought of running down to help the injured ran through my mind momentarily until I saw a group gathered tightly around a mini-van. The automobile was still in tact, though it looked as though it had either stalled or run out of fuel. It did not take long for whoever was inside to try and make a desperate escape out of the sunroof. A woman in her mid-twenties climbed onto the roof in a shaken state, screaming and piercing the silence.
The group kept shaking the van and pounding at its sides, reaching their hands toward her in frustration only to be kicked away. The more she struggled the more it seemed that it was fruitless. She was surrounded after all, and the ruckus she was creating in her shrieks only seemed to bring more people to join the crowd. In the end she lost her balance on the rocky rooftop when kicking at another attacker. She disappeared within seconds amongst the mass of human bodies and could only howl in agony until her voice gurgled too low to hear.
I stood there in shock, wondering what I was seeing. Was it a riot? Were we invaded maybe? When the last of the group’s stragglers dispersed I could see nothing of the woman, just a large bloody spot and oddly shaped lumps I now know was flesh and bone.
I felt nothing but shame and guilt for not having done something, but I tried to reason with myself despite it. There was too many of them, I’m not much of a fighter, there was nothing I could do.
I was in a different kind of dazed state now. Instead of being lost in my art and thoroughly content I was lost for words, action, and panic was beginning to set. How had I not heard anything going on? Was I that able to make myself separate from the world around me? Apparently so, but it wasn’t the time to beat myself up over it. I needed answers! I needed to know what happened and what to do!
My steps were unsteady as I cross the studio to my TV set, which was covered in dust from rare use. My bed sat only a foot or two from the TV, so I eased onto the edge as though I may fall through it, the floor, and into the earth’s center. When I finally gathered my wits enough to turn on the TV a face of a very scared and unkempt reporter greeted me. His tie lay loose and undone around his neck, his once pressed white shirt stained with various unknown substances. One more likely was sweat, as his face was dripping with it. Behind him was nothing more than a blank blue screen while some kind of ticker ran across the TV reading various news stories in a few words.
“Do not go outside! Stay in your homes and barricade all windows and doors! It’s been confirmed that the dead are returning to life! They may be slow and lack intelligent thought patterns, but are still quite dangerous!�
He paused, his eyes looking far away as if he debated continuing or even if he pondered his own belief in these words. “One bite from these creatures ensures infection. We are as of yet unsure of how long infection takes to kill a victim, but… but they all come back. Do not attempt to harbor or save those who have been bitten…�
Again he paused with a pained look on his face. “Your loved ones will no longer be themselves once they have reanimated… Memory and emotions are lost on the undead. Once they turn you are just mere meals to them. You’re no longer a mother, a father, spouse, or friend to them. Remember! Survival means that you may need to stop anyone before its too late!� 
The reporter swallowed as if he had a large lump in his throat. His eyes closed tightly as he went on, sounding tearful. “Massive trauma to the head is the only effective way to kill the undead for good. A shot to the head, baseball bats, even severing the head are examples of defending yourself.�
His eyes opened. “Be safe, stay off the streets, and… don’t be a hero.�
The reporter sat silent for what seemed like hours before standing up. The camera was still live and showed just how much of a mess he was. The man’s shirt was covered in blood splatter. His desk had been blocking most of the ghoulish site the entire time, the screen behind him showed hints of blood splatter now that he was no longer sitting in the way. It probably explained the way with which the man spoke with such emotion. He probably did what he had to to survive. Just because it makes sense does not make it any easier to do nor live with.
I sat in awe even as the channel changed to a blue emergency screen listing everything to do, not to do, and information that was known thus far about the incident. Not much actually was known, it was only three or four days so those kind of questions or “what� , “who� , and “why�  wouldn’t be official yet. They listed theories like a super bug, radiation, pollution, and terrorism. None of that seemed to matter though, survival was first and foremost and the questions would just have to wait until there was a better handle on the situation.
I was lucky as a survivor goes; my studio was safe because of the elevator. If anyone wanted in they either needed a key or to be let in by me if I wasn’t out. It was the only access point I could foresee, aside from the fire escape. Though I had trouble imagining these… zombies managing to get to it. You had to reach up and pull the ladder down to even get access, which was a hard thing to pull off until you were ten feet tall! It would retract when no one was on the ladder just to prevent burglars from entering from the fire escape. Kind of like a no way in one way out deal.
The emergency channel scrolled more advice, this time on how to remain calm in this crisis. This reporter sounded overly chipper compared to the last one, especially under these circumstances. It was as if he didn’t notice the blood splatter behind him at all.
“Keep yourself busy! Though the zombies are dangerous, you own sanity could be what kills you in the end. Not only is this epidemic traumatic, but also those that lock themselves up for safety are likely to suffer cabin fever and even severe paranoia. Lack of sleep is also an issue if the undead are keeping you awake. It is important to remain calm and tend to your mental well being as well as your physical safety. If you have a hobby, do it to get your mind off of the tragedy outside. Dwelling on the undead could lead to an unhealthy state of mind. If you are safe, read a book! Play a game, clean, whatever it is that makes you happy!�
Happiness… Just one more beautiful thing in this world that has wilted. I had a hobby but now there was a flaw in it in making me happy even for a moment. The world was ugly now, not even worth painting. Fires in the distance blotted out the once blue sky, blood covered the streets, and every living subject I would have once painted was gone or down there chewing on someone’s brains!  All that was left was death and a downward spiral into the monotony of survival.
From the moment I heard the news, all I could do was pace my studio. Every once in a while I would look to the window but the site of these rotting husks lumbering about made my spirits lower. Even the wildflowers were beginning to die despite my efforts to rejuvenate them. For me, it was the last beautiful thing in the world. Would it too return after dying?
As the flowers withered further, so did I. I wept in a corner and mourned for all of the beauty in the dying world. Beautiful woman, newborn children, love, and of course friendship. This biological disaster had chiseled mankind down to its uglier traits. I watched men shove each other in the street into the paths of the wandering cannibals. Children once in a while were wandering abandoned in the streets. Although this made me feel sorry for them, I was beaten to my own basic ugly instincts as well. I just stayed there and never helped. Out of fear I only wanted to survive. My better qualities were extinct. So I allowed whoever needed help out there to die.
I began to do nothing but sleep after a while. I at least had the advantage of blocking out the world on my side. The screams and moaning never kept me from sleeping, but they sure helped in giving me horrendous nightmares.
I don’t know how long I just slept for, but I could no longer close my eyes. Frustration had gripped me in a tight hold that brought tears to my eyes. So I took it out on my own paintings. All of my completed works that depicted things that were only memories now and could never exist again. Screaming like a wounded animal I put fists and feet through canvas after canvas. Some broke freely until the first blow, others it took more than one. My tantrum continued only until I had nothing else to destroy. I don’t know when it happened, but I also realized I was bleeding. One rather large splinter stuck out from the side of my hand, though it only pained me slightly. Like an annoying reminder of the world as it was now and never would be again.
I did not remove it immediately, just watched it ooze. If I bled to death would I become one of those hungry for the flesh of my fellow man? Or did I have to be bitten to succumb to the curse.
My eyes became drawn to the window just as I saw yet another poor soul. This one was a young man fleeing across a rooftop from a group of these monsters. Inevitably he became cornered with nowhere to go but down. Surely, I thought I was going to witness the undead feast on him right then and there. But he surprised me in a way that baffled my mindset. Instead of trying to fight, he turned the gun on himself. The slightest hint of a smile on his lips, he pulled the trigger without hesitation.
He dropped dead where he had stood, collapsing into fragments of his skull and brain matter. The dead were not picky though and began to pick him apart while he was still warm. He never got back up and that is when I knew that he was free.
“Of course…�  I said, voice hoarse.
There was still beauty in this world, just not the typical kind that I had been so used to all these years. Those that died always got back up and killed. Then that person would get back up as well and continue the cycle. But by shooting yourself in the head when it was hopeless, you saved countless people from ending up in your stomach! Thus preventing them from becoming a zombie as well!
“There is beauty in death…�  I whispered. “…When you don’t come back.�
I began to laugh out loud as if it were the funniest thing I’d ever heard. I collapsed onto my hands and knees. I was shaking from the giggles I let loose, my face hurting from smiling for the first time in so long. But then I began to weep, and I wept for at least ten minutes. When my tears dried, I pulled myself to my feet.
Like a crazed man with purpose, I set about the task of painting the scene I had witnessed. Most was from memory, but the blood was still fresh and zombies still feasting. This would be my final contribution to the world of art. I didn’t have much time left anyways, food was running scarce in my studio and, though I had thought of eating the non-toxic paint I needed it now for my masterpiece. This would be my best work even if it were my last.
If you are reading this then you already know. I will not be returning.


Here is the painting that goes with the story.

Last edited by Ceres (04-08-2010 08:49)

Yeah it is. Don't know what made her think it didn't belong in art and creativity. lol

lol That's okay. I'd be lucky if I had a club of fans for my stories.

I'm not keen on zombie stories but other then that they are good, could be interesting what other horror stories you can do. I liked the first one with the idea of trapped awareness inside a zombie, that was different.

^^^^
well a story is usually 300 pages.
short stories are around 2 to 40.

P.S These are great, keep up the good work.

Thanks so much everyone! I'm working on a ghost story right now.

There's someone out there

Brianne and becky were the best of friends, always on the phone and gossiping. They laughed together, cried together, and got into trouble together. They were more like sisters than friends, so usually everyone just called them The Twins. They even lived across the street from one another in an upscale cul-de-sac neighborhood. They could see right into eachother's bedroom windows which only showed how inseperable they were even when they were in their own houses!

Then one day Becky's parents got a call saying that their college friend died in a car accident. They'd be going to his funeral and with drivcing there they'd be gone for a whole week. Becky was ecstatic when they decided to let her stay home alone. After all, she never knew their friend and she was a teenager who was more than capable of not burning the house down. The downside was that Brianne was grounded the whole week because of bad grades. So there wouldn't be any sleepovers. Brianne's mom said phone would be allowed since Becky was going to be ome alone. She wanted Brianne to be punished but she did have some sympathy for Becky. It's scary being home alone for so long!

"My mom wants to know before she and dad leave if you want them to pick you up anything," Brianne said.

"Oh that's so nice! But I already ordered a pizza with some of the money my parents left."

"A whole pizza to yourself. Careful or it will go to your thighs!" Brianne laughed.

"I'll bring leftovers tomorrow, don't worry! I'll shove them under your jail door," Becky retorted with a snicker.

Brianne stood up and waved to her parents, shaking her head as an indication that Becky didn't need anything. They smiled and blew her kisses before shutting the door behind themselves.

"I really do need to figure out something, Beck. I don't want to fail out the year and have you move on without me."

Brianne sat down at her desk, looking at the mess of papers, books, and pens.

"Well I can help with history, but when it comes to math I'm just as hopeless. Maybe you can stay after school," Becky said, the noise of a potato chip bag crinkling through the phone.

"EW! With that creepy Mr. Thurmond? Pocket pool Thurmond? NO WAY!" Brianne cried.

"Then what else do you plan to do? Would you be able to pass even if you studied on your own?" Becky was speaking with her mouth full.

Brianne opened her mouth to say something but stopped before she could even catch a breath. She squinted and dtood to look out the window.

"Hey... I think the pizza man is there. He's on the front steps."

"Huh?" Becky sounded confused.

"A guy on your steps. But it doesn't look like much of a pizza guy, Brianne restated.

"Um... I haven't even ordered yet. Was going to after we were dine talking," Becky said.

"Well then who is at your front door?" Brianne asked.

"I have no idea, I'll go check."

Brianne could see Becky through the windows heading into the front room. She even had a clear view of when Becky opened the door. Despite the man being tall and right in front of her, Becky didn't appear to see him.

"There's no one out here, Bri," She said.

"What? He's right there! Standing in front of you! Looks like he's built like a football player. He's wearing a wife beater. "

Becky took another look around, even in the bushes, before giving up. She turned and let the door glide shut.

"Really funny. I'm home alone and you want to scare me with a ghost story. Ha ha ha" Becky said, her laugh dry and sarcastic.

Brianne rolled her eyes. "I swear I saw him."

When she looked back there was no one out there. "But maybe I'm seeing things because of cabin fever. He's not there anymore."

"Maybe it's the guy that killed that teenage boy from Geneva! They found his body with no feet in the canal. Bunch of girl scouts discovered him," Becky laughed.

"That's not funny! I'm home alone too right now!" Brianne whined.

"Oh you're no fun. Anyways I do need to order my pizza, so go study!"

"Sounds good. And remember to save me a slice!"

"I will. Bye."

"Bye."

The next night as Brianne was studying at her desk, she happened to look out the window again. She saw the same young guy in the wife beater and jeans pacing the yard in front of Becky's house. Brianna frowned, her brows furrowing together in a confused expression rather than angry.

The young man pace a circled along the lawn onvce more befrore going to Becky's dad's truck. It had been left behind because of the faulty fan belt or something. Becky wasn't much of a car enthusiast. She watched as the young man opened the door and got in. Even from behind the truck she could tell that he was just sitting there and staring at Becky's house. Immediately Brianne picked up her phone and dialed her best friend. She breathed a sigh of relief when Becky picked up.

"Hello?"

"Becky, he's in your dad's truck!"

"Who?!" Becky sounded scared.

"The guy that was standing on your steps last night! He's staring at your house!"

"Bri, I'm not going to fal for this," Becky sighed.

"Just look out the window and tell me if you see anything. PLEASE!" Brianne was frantic now.

"Alright alright. Jeez," Becky groaned.

Brianne's eyes were caught by the moment of the curtain on the first floor. Becky was looking towards the truck when apparently she turned on the garage door lights. Upon doing so the man in the truck vanished.

"I don't see anything, Bri."

Brianne stared at the truck starting to tremble. "I-I'm sorry then.."

"Bri? Are you alright?" Becky said.

"Not really, I'm freaked out! I know I'm seeing this guy, Beck." Brianne stammered.

"I'm alright, Bri... There's no one there. Maybe you should take a break from studying. Go to bed early or something," Becky suggested.

"Yeah... I think I will. Goodnight, Beck."

"Goodnight, Bri."

Brianne woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat feeling as though something was wrong. She sat in bed shivering and holding herself for a moment before stepping out to the window. The floor was cold against her bare feet only making her wish she hadn't got out of beed. But something was drawing her to the window, the urge had even woke her up.

She had to take a deep trembling breath before she could look at Becky's house. The face of the young man stared back at her from the open front door. In his had he had what looked to be a hand saw. He stared straight at Brianne before turning and entering the house.

"MOM! DAD!" Brianne shrieked.

She turned and started running to her parents' room. Her mother was already in the hall grasping her daughter's shoulders. "What's the matter, honey? It's the middle of the night!" her mother said.

"I saw a man going into Becky's house! Mom, we have to help her, he's going to hurt her!" Brianne shouted.

Her dad reacted swiftly by grabbing his hand gun. He ran downstairs with his family in tow at a safe distance. While Brianne and her mom waited in Becky's yard, her father ran into the house. Painfully they waited, holding each other as her dad turned on the lights.

"Beck?" Brianne called, prying away from her mother.

"Brianne!" her mother cried as her daughter ran inside.

"Everything is fine! Come on in!" Her father called.

Brianne stepped back so she could wave her mother in. The two of them cautiously made teir way inside and into the living room where Becky and Brianne's father sat ib a couch.

"I've called the police just in case but I think it's safe to wait here," her dad said. "Now tel me exactly what this man looked like."

"He was wearing a white wife beater, dark baggy jeans, tall, um... and he had a crew cut."

She sat down next to her friend and hugged her."I saw him last night and the night before that too."

"Becky, you should probably stay with us until your parents get back.. Even if Brianne is mistaken I just don't feel safe with you being alone for so long," Brianne's mother said.

"I know what I saw.."

"I know sweetie."

They did not hear any sirens, but they could see the telltale lights of the police flashing in the street. Brianne's dad got up and looked out the window. After a moment he began to frown in confusion.

"There are two cars, two police seem to be going to our house and the others here..."

Brianne's mother took her husband's hand and went to the door with him to greet the police. Meanwhile Becky and Brianne had a clear view of Brianne's house across the street through the window. Two policement seem to be dragging a man out of the house. This man was completely different from who she'd been seeing.This one was much harsher in his features, older, and obviously violent by the way he was yelling and fighting.

Brianne had to look away, this was all too much for her. But it only got worse as she saw the newspaper sitting on Becky's coffee table. Staring back at her from the front page was the young man she had been seeing. The headline read "student brutally murdered found in the canal."
She felt like she was going to be sick. "That's him! That's the man I saw!"

Becky looked at the paper in awe. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"... But he's dead!"

It took two days of red tape and countless questions but it turns out that the intruder in Brianne's home had murdered that man. The police had recieved two phone calls that night, one from Brianne's dad and another by an unknown man who didn't give his name. The police found the mabn's missing feet amongst a collection of body parts in the suspect's car. The feet were under the driver's seat. Oddly enough, the care was the same make and model of Becky's dad's truck. As the crimes began to be pieced together, Brianne realized that the dead man that she did not know saved her life that night. If she hadn't of gone to check on Becky she would have been a part of the murderer's twisted collection.

ftw? its so long!!! i wonder youcalled it short!!! ^_^V