Darkness – An American Horror

Aside from Tolkien, King, and whatnot, one of the first books I remember reading was a paranormal thriller based upon modern murders. I do not remember the name of it or the author. I’m sure if I googled it, I would be able to find out. Maybe. In that same vein, I penned Darkness, a story about obsession.

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An American Horror


I was submerged in complete darkness, and I couldn’t see where I was. Silence surrounded me. Pressure thudded between my ears; my head pounded in my chest. My breath gushed out between my parted lips.

I don’t know where I am. As my shoulder throbbed, I tried to remember the last thing that happened to me before I awoke plunged in blackness.When I was journeying to my friend’s house for her Halloween party, a large animal darted out from the woods on the left side of the road.

Then, the dreaded thump echoed in my car as I ran over the animal. I didn’t know what it was, but it was as big as a large German Shepard.

After I got out of the car, a pair of bright lights obscured my vision of the animal beneath my vehicle. That was all that I remembered.

My long hair brushed against the wounds carved into my cheeks. I squinted. I was able to make out shapes–the floor beneath me slicked with blood–in the darkness.

I am hanging upside down! I screamed to myself. Rope lashed my wrists together, and another cord lashed my legs. There was a large hook that I was suspended from.

The hook suspending from the ceiling could have been anything. However, images of pigs hanging in a slaughterhouse as their blood drained from their bodies in torrents of crimson rivers flickered through the darkened confines of my mind.

“Help me!” I screamed and tried to move against my bindings, and the rope slid against my flesh. Agony erupted from my skin. Blood dripped down my fingers and with a splashing sound, my life fluid landed on the floor.

Another breath echoed in the small room. It sounded as if the other person was right next to me.

I’m not alone! The hair on my arms stood on end, and a shiver slithered up my spine. I struggled once more. However, all that managed to accomplish was sending my body gently swaying back and forth.

“Stop struggling, Elizabeth,” the shrouded figure spoke, his voice booming eerily in the immense darkness surrounding me.

Why is he calling me Elizabeth? That was not my name. Horror overwhelmed me. I was going to die because of a mistaken identity. I was never going to see my family again. They would find my car abandoned on that wooded road. Why did I insist on going to that party?

“I’m not Elizabeth,” I pleaded.

“Of course, you are Elizabeth. It had taken some time to find you, my love, but nonetheless, I have. I could never forget the curves of your body, the sounds of your screams as we join together. Remember how you started off rejecting me, but at the end you loved it?”

“Someone help me!” I screamed again. Tears course down my face, dripping off of my cheeks to join the pool of blood beneath me.

“No one can hear you, Beth. Just like last time, we are alone.”

He approached me, and he carried a container full of foul-smelling green liquid.

Feces! I jerked my head away from him and gagged. What did he expect to do with that? I had an idea. However, the thought was too terrifying to consider.

The man pulled open my mouth, shoved the malignant concoction inside, and I vomited. Vomitus slid up my nostrils, causing me to let loose another stream, and burned my eyes.

“We’re going to have so much fun,” he promised. He set down the Tupperware, retrieved a small knife from a table likely beside me, and held my face in a steel-iron grip with his other hand. “You always wanted to be a star, Liz. Like I did in the 40’s, I’m gonna make you a star again, baby!”

“Please!” I cried out. “Let me go. I am not this Elizabeth.”  I knew that my demented attacker still thought that I was another woman. Who I did not know? I have never wanted to be an actress. In fact, at twenty-two, I considered myself rather successful, but I was not a star.

I was to publish the first novel in a series of novels. After many rejection notices, I had secured my agent. She had bright hopes for me, and now, this man was ruining it all.

“No,” he protested again. “You are Elizabeth. You look just the same. Your dark hair was shorter then. But you are still my Beth. All mine.”

The knife sliced through the corner of my mouth and curved upward into my cheek. More blood erupted from my face. It ran down my skin in a hot, gory torrent.

I gurgled incoherently. If I could have seen anything, my vision would have blurred. How was I to know that he gave me a smile: a Glasgow smile.

He continued to work on my face, the knife slicing nicks through the flesh as it would have through butter.

Why is this happening to me? I didn’t know. I certainly didn’t deserve it. Every Sunday, I sat in the front pew of Father John’s services, and every Wednesday, I would venture down to the Food Bank to help those who were less fortunate.

Tears coursed down my bloody cheeks. I could barely feel my face anymore.

“You were always such a star, Beth,” he cooed as one who bore amorous affection for the other would. “Even when I found you on the streets of White Chaple in the 1800s. Even if they did pay for the experience, I could not allow those men to have that sort of knowledge. You were mine all those times as you are now. Mine.

At that moment, a wondrous feeling overcame me. I knew that I would die. The only hope that I had was that he would leave me where someone could find me. I did not want to be lost to my family.

As he lit a candle next to me, I finally saw my attacker for what he was. His sharp teeth–reminiscent of a Great White shark’s maw–sparkled in the luminescent light. It was his eyes that affected me the most. They were the blackest orbs that I have ever seen.

It was his eyes that affected me the most. They were the blackest orbs that I have ever seen and no pupils or whites in them. There was no emotion in those black voids.

“They will love you this time,” he cooed as he plunged the knife into my knee. “Maybe, I will even leave you in the same place as last time. Where was it? Near Leimert Park? How you opened yourself up to me then.”

The pain became too much, and darkness overtook me once more as I remembered my past experiences with him.


Source :

Every Writer

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Lydia lives in New York with her husband, a dark fantasy novelist, as well as their daughter. They are regular contributors to several charities, including the rescue of exotic cats from abuse.