We received many impressive Scary Story entries. It honours us that some were brave enough to share personal experiences and concerns about what frightens them. It was difficult to select one winner from a vast array of unique stories and talent, however the SingleJo Team has decided on Stephan Forbes’ entry, called the Witching Hour.
Please enjoy this scary read here.
Witching Hour (So it Begins)
I sit alone. Astonished by the seconds as they pass, so slowly. Time is cruel; it’s seconds seeping into hours like some form of torture, dripping away at my exposed forehead. A single crack in the mortar formed at the base of the wall my only detail as to the stage of nature’s day. Bright bursts of light once shone into the room exposing it’s many faults, but never had I once regretted it’s features or it’s safety. This ramshackle building where bodies once lay at peace with the world, now provides modest shelter; it’s occupants not to be found. Markings imbedded with cement dremels etched out lifetime quips and ageless monikers upon meager life’s boasting riches and families.
Less fortunate families reside a short mile away in a patch of land close to the tracks, where the droning rims of steel no longer bend pennies. I feel for the dead. They need not have their battles now for the ground in which they lay at rest was now open and unforgiving, spitting corpses upon the cold earth as if forbidding the ceremonies of the dead. Tranquil slumber no more.
The glass like shards of light fade fast, minutes, it would seem when first the light broke in through the frame of the mortuary. Sleep had been the enemy for so many hours only to take its reprieve when the light came. My eyes caked with sleep and old tears, sore visions of the bliss of rest.
“Mother” I no longer wept her loving name as I stare to her form across the room. A bitter pill would be that to see her only son pass on before her. She fought hard, age and fatigue her only weakness. Her glassy eyes still stared at me, as if prompting me to stand, to prepare for my fight; but they no longer shone life into my soul. Beautiful graying blond hair flowed about her shoulder, caressing her blood stained sundress, the lacy shawl torn from her neck. Her skin looked like peeled paint falling from her face.
“My God how long have I been here.” I wanted to weep but was not allowed. For in a few short hours as the sun sinks it’s glowing ember into the land, it will begin. Graves untouched by human hands for centuries will spew the spawn of hell.
I shall leak no tears; their eyes will steal to me, my fate relies on a steady head and ever-powerful heart. Soon, the dead will rise once more from whence they lay. Unknown glances of pain and agony on their faces, they know not why they rise but how they hunger; they hunger my flesh.
But I mustn’t fail or fall to the power that evil has dispelled upon my world. My world which was so small and humble, reality I had learned years before. Within this stone fortress I am stronger and one-day I will venture once again beyond these gates. For now I must protect my home. It is all I have.
“Mother forgive me.”
She knew not of the chance her death may bring, her body may rise to devour me; I must bring her down for it will not be her. There is no connection between the brain and the heart, just the stomach and the rotten soul, which now rests inside.
Only I can do this, her son. I will prove to you mother, I will survive, the Witching Hour.
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