Pariah.
10-09-2011, 12:02 AM
My friend wanted me to write a short horror story revolving around being in a kitchen so he could illustrate it as part of his university course. I ended up writing three, although I think the first two I wrote were better they ended up taking on a life of their own and turned out much too long and in his words "immensely fucked up and disturbing." So I toned it down a bit and punched this out in about 25 minutes. Enjoy.
***
The air is stagnant; stale like a torpid breeze from a mine shaft or old well. Who could believe, who would want to believe that places like this exist, that someone would be capable of something like this, who would dare dream that the line that divided life and death would be decided upon by the quality of a meal or the turn of a day?
Liam Gray’s
RECIPE FOR MADNESS
The edges of the window are still fogged like some great unseen behemoth is breathing against the glass and waiting to get in. It’s always there; like the silent howling of tinnitus or the lingering and invisible presence that lurks behind you in the dark. It starts out small demanding and demanding like a starving baby or an itch. Edged on the periphery of your senses, riding the sweat down the nape of your neck, closing its gnarled claw around the rapid thumping of your heart, it is the first feeling, the most primal of all impulses, it has been called the mother of monsters and the great mind killer—it is Fear and these are her works.
Meet Gordon Stuart and in a way I guess Megan Cohen or at least what is left of her, those crimson plumes splattered across Gordon’s clothes, those unrelenting stains and unclean smells are all that are left of her now—a life time of hopes and dreams snuffed out as quickly as you might blow out a candle. She didn’t scream, she didn’t resist; she just sat and watched as Gordon killed her like it was a joke, like it wasn’t real, like a deer staring headlong into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
Don’t hate Gordon he didn’t do anything you or I wouldn’t have done in the same situation. If anything Megan got the easy way out, he did it for her—at least that’s what he tells himself. The cupboards were bare and he needed the ingredients. The doors were locked, the windows sealed, no one had responded to their cries for help for nearly a week, and whenever he picked up the phone all he could hear was the rumbling and gurgling of an empty stomach.
Events and circumstances, cruel jests of fate, nagging hunger, and ebbing fears, drawn out upon a canvas of flesh like a recipe in the mind and heart of Gordon Stuart—but by what?
Is it fear that guides his hand into the cadaver, is it fear that scoops her entrails into the sink, is it fear that cracks her ribs, or fear that cuts her flesh from her bone with the steady hand and expertise of a butcher?
In a world alone where monsters linger round every corner and nightmares threaten to slink free of the shadows is this madness the only sane response—is Gordon a murderer or a victim? The kitchen calls like it does every day at this time and he goes to it.
As soon as he step in he can feel it—it’s old and heavy and some deep part of him knows it’s watching. His heart is at threat to burst at the mere thought of what it is or may be, no, he dares not look up, it is enough to see the fog obscure the window, too hear the pane rattling in the frame or the squeak of the latch as it slides open, too feel its hunger, lurking, oppressive, looming about him like a cage. With downcast eyes he shuffles to the chopping block, what little courage he has challenging him to snatch up the knife and strike back and perhaps if it were a man, perhaps if he could name it or give it a face he might, but he can't and cannot so does not.
The creature grows impatient and like young Gordon that knife begins to tremble, faster and faster the blade dances in its hilt, squealing with a high-pitch, almost deafening, whistle until Gordon can stand it no longer. He snatches the blade and staggers to the oven… though as suddenly as they come Gordon’s convictions are stayed when his eyes meet with Megan’s; her severed head smiling back him from the counter, pristine and immaculate as the day they first met, gleaming with deadlight like twin keys to his shame, her ruby lips smiling so full of trust and life, even in death, even in fear, unshaken even in this nightmare—a grim tribute to the impossible in a realm where the only boundaries are terror.
Guilt and heartache tear through his mind like a pack of rabid wolves chasing down a boar and bring him tumbling to his knees and casting the knife from his hand across the linoleum.
Beyond the blur of his tears Gordon watches Megan’s bear breast bake and howls with lament. He shakes, and rocks, and cries, and relives the horrors of his captivity again and again but for the first time he is overcome with a fear more horrific than any monster could ever truly be… Gordon Stuart is alone.
The End
***
The air is stagnant; stale like a torpid breeze from a mine shaft or old well. Who could believe, who would want to believe that places like this exist, that someone would be capable of something like this, who would dare dream that the line that divided life and death would be decided upon by the quality of a meal or the turn of a day?
Liam Gray’s
RECIPE FOR MADNESS
The edges of the window are still fogged like some great unseen behemoth is breathing against the glass and waiting to get in. It’s always there; like the silent howling of tinnitus or the lingering and invisible presence that lurks behind you in the dark. It starts out small demanding and demanding like a starving baby or an itch. Edged on the periphery of your senses, riding the sweat down the nape of your neck, closing its gnarled claw around the rapid thumping of your heart, it is the first feeling, the most primal of all impulses, it has been called the mother of monsters and the great mind killer—it is Fear and these are her works.
Meet Gordon Stuart and in a way I guess Megan Cohen or at least what is left of her, those crimson plumes splattered across Gordon’s clothes, those unrelenting stains and unclean smells are all that are left of her now—a life time of hopes and dreams snuffed out as quickly as you might blow out a candle. She didn’t scream, she didn’t resist; she just sat and watched as Gordon killed her like it was a joke, like it wasn’t real, like a deer staring headlong into the headlights of an oncoming truck.
Don’t hate Gordon he didn’t do anything you or I wouldn’t have done in the same situation. If anything Megan got the easy way out, he did it for her—at least that’s what he tells himself. The cupboards were bare and he needed the ingredients. The doors were locked, the windows sealed, no one had responded to their cries for help for nearly a week, and whenever he picked up the phone all he could hear was the rumbling and gurgling of an empty stomach.
Events and circumstances, cruel jests of fate, nagging hunger, and ebbing fears, drawn out upon a canvas of flesh like a recipe in the mind and heart of Gordon Stuart—but by what?
Is it fear that guides his hand into the cadaver, is it fear that scoops her entrails into the sink, is it fear that cracks her ribs, or fear that cuts her flesh from her bone with the steady hand and expertise of a butcher?
In a world alone where monsters linger round every corner and nightmares threaten to slink free of the shadows is this madness the only sane response—is Gordon a murderer or a victim? The kitchen calls like it does every day at this time and he goes to it.
As soon as he step in he can feel it—it’s old and heavy and some deep part of him knows it’s watching. His heart is at threat to burst at the mere thought of what it is or may be, no, he dares not look up, it is enough to see the fog obscure the window, too hear the pane rattling in the frame or the squeak of the latch as it slides open, too feel its hunger, lurking, oppressive, looming about him like a cage. With downcast eyes he shuffles to the chopping block, what little courage he has challenging him to snatch up the knife and strike back and perhaps if it were a man, perhaps if he could name it or give it a face he might, but he can't and cannot so does not.
The creature grows impatient and like young Gordon that knife begins to tremble, faster and faster the blade dances in its hilt, squealing with a high-pitch, almost deafening, whistle until Gordon can stand it no longer. He snatches the blade and staggers to the oven… though as suddenly as they come Gordon’s convictions are stayed when his eyes meet with Megan’s; her severed head smiling back him from the counter, pristine and immaculate as the day they first met, gleaming with deadlight like twin keys to his shame, her ruby lips smiling so full of trust and life, even in death, even in fear, unshaken even in this nightmare—a grim tribute to the impossible in a realm where the only boundaries are terror.
Guilt and heartache tear through his mind like a pack of rabid wolves chasing down a boar and bring him tumbling to his knees and casting the knife from his hand across the linoleum.
Beyond the blur of his tears Gordon watches Megan’s bear breast bake and howls with lament. He shakes, and rocks, and cries, and relives the horrors of his captivity again and again but for the first time he is overcome with a fear more horrific than any monster could ever truly be… Gordon Stuart is alone.
The End