I cherish no illusions that this
account will find me alive when the sun finally does come up, but I must write
down what I have seen. This wild place has already taken so much from me, I
cannot allow this, too, to die in the muck and filth of this lonely frontier
town.
It began only this evening. One of
the men at Molly Parker’s boarding house had just come back from a week’s sojourn around a northern
bend in the creek. There were nuggets out that way, he’d said, bigger than any
yet discovered so close to the town. Men warned him of the curses and traps
laid that far north by the hostiles still refusing to share their land, but he
went anyways. Honestly, none thought too deeply on the matter. Men get
desperate and wander off every day out here. One fewer men means two fewer
hands sifting the silt and bog for what might be your ticket home.
While he was gone, Ma took sick. I
found her on the floor beside the fire, clammy to the touch, eyes blank and
staring at the ceiling. She was mumbling something about how we should all
atone for the sins we have brought to this land, or The Punishment would come.
She kept saying that–The Punishment–as if it carried meaning of a particular
nature not just to herself but to anyone within earshot. My mother was a
righteous woman, but her righteousness came from a love for our Lord and
saviour, never from the fear of punishment that awaits those who do not heed
the Word. The doctor said it was a fever and to keep her bed away from the rest
of us.
Not two days later, Ma passed in her
sleep, and the man from Parker’s House came back with empty pockets and a fever
of his own. They took him to the boarding house, but one look at his sallow
skin and sunken eyes and Miss Parker ordered he be taken away. ‘I’ve enough of
a struggle as it is without his cursed soul comin’ down upon me,’ she could be
heard hollerin’ from the other end of town.
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They took him to the Church of the
Charitable Brothers and gave him a space behind the lectern to sleep and
recover his strength. His feet were rotten near to the bone, and a doctor was
ordered to amputate them. Foot rot is a common plague for the men of these
parts, but to hear the doctor describe it, it was as if the flesh had been
eaten clean off his toes, leaving naught but splintered, white fragments of
bone for him to walk home on.
I was at home with the chaplain,
arranging Ma’s service when I heard the first of the screams. It being
Saturday, we took it at first to be naught but the usual weekend revelry to
which our countrymen were so inclined. A moment later, though, the sound of
gunshots drew our discussion out into the yard to see what the commotion could
be.
Women were screaming and men loading
shot with clumsy, half-frozen hands. The church was half-burnt already,
belching smoke and flames into the night sky. I looked about for the bucket
chain that always attended such fires, but there was none.
“Why aren’t they putting it out?” I
shouted to the priest, as if his knowledge could exceed my own, having been
similarly occupied until a moment ago. But he offered no explanation. He just
stared with his jaw agape and his eyes as wide and full of terror as if he were
looking into the bowels of Hell itself.
“The church,” was all he said.
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“Yes, I know, but–” I let it go and
ran towards the inferno. Whatever help the man might have offered on Sundays
apparently did not extend to emergencies such as this.
As if in apology for the fire, a
vicious rain kicked up from above, pounding the buildings and all assembled in
the streets with frigid, furious fingers. A cheer went up among those
assembled, but a few men nearest the building were shouting and waving their
arms as if to push everyone back.
“Get away from here!” I heard one of
them shout. “It’s not just the fire, there’s a man in there! A demon!”
“‘Tis true!” Another man shouted. “I
saw him with me own eyes! He weren’t right, he–”
A beam fell behind them, taking with
it the holy cross stationed above the door. A shower of sparks exploded behind
the men and raced to disappear into the air as the cross caught fire and began
to burn.
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And that’s when I saw him, stumbling
from the smouldering ruin of our house of worship. His hair had been burned
from his scalp, as had most of the clothes on his body. His skin was melting in
impossible, waxy rivulets from his jaw and the tips of his hands, landing with
a hiss in the flames. His legs, cut clean away only that day, were half-height,
bearing him forward as if he were on his knees. Yet still he came towards us,
as if the cuts and the flames hurt not the least, and the only impediment to
his egress was the fallen beams barricading his path.
As he reached the road, several men
fired their guns. The explosion was deafening, erupting so close to my ears. I
saw that several shots hit him square in the chest and head, by the way he
twisted backwards, as if slapped. But they did not stop him. He kept coming at
us, bellowing this terrible moan. As long as I live, I shall not forget the
sound that came from that man. As if all the demons of Hell were arranged in a chorus
and told to raise their voices to an unholy A minor.
The crowd backed slowly away, but
the streets were only so wide, and there was only so much space to fill. One of
the women standing downhill turned suddenly and began to run. The man jerked to
the side, watching her go, and then, with an unholy pace of which I would not
have thought him capable, he raced after her, throwing sparks from his clothes
as he ran. Some of the sparks landed in the grass outside the other buildings,
and began to light.
But it was not those early signs of
our town’s destruction that drew our attention. Standing quite helpless and
frozen where we were, we watched as the man from the church threw himself upon
the woman like any hungry predator upon its prey.
The woman shrieked and fell to the
earth in a fiery swirl of skirts and pantaloons. The man upon her back had
ceased moaning and instead taken up the desperate, insane chomping and biting
sounds of a frenzied pack of wolves dismantling a fallen quarry.
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The woman’s shrieks subsided within
seconds, but it was an eternity to those listening. Flesh was torn from bone
and tossed aside in the mindless feeding frenzy the man now brought against her
body.
In a breath it was over, and the man
rose to a standing position beside the woman. Another shot was fired at the
beast, but it was as ineffective as its predecessors.
The man stared at us through
unseeing eyes. His face dripped blood and flesh as the unearthly white of his
skull, now fully exposed, shone in the moonlight.
He fell, then, flat on the ground as
if leveled by some divine hand.
No one spoke. No one moved a muscle.
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The woman beside him lay quite
still, dribbling warm, steaming blood onto the muddy street around her.
A man broke from the crowd and took
a few cautious steps towards her. I could make out in the flickering light that
it was our Baker, Mr. Thomson. No one seemed to notice or care that two more
buildings had begun to smoke and burn. The rain pounded our bodies, as if angry
with us. Our hair and clothes hung about us in damp sheets, pouring off of our
bodies as the burnings man’s flesh had done only moments before.
Naught five steps had the baker
taken towards the woman and man lying dead in the street, when the woman began
to stir. Not as a sleeping, broken body would stir, though, but abruptly and
with great purpose. Leaping to her feet, the woman turned towards us with blank
and crazy eyes. Her jaw was broken, and it hung slack, a few inches too low.
She was rigid, jerking here and there to take in the burning buildings, the
rain, and us, as if seeing all for the first time.
She bellowed, then, with a sound at
least as unholy as anything that had sprung from the burning man. Then she ran
towards the baker. The man hardly had taken a step when she landed upon him and
tore out his throat. His screams were silenced as quickly as they came, though
his arms and legs thrashed desperately as he tried to throw her off.
Most of us still stood where we’d
been, completely transfixed by the scene unfolding before us. Though I could
hear some in the back beginning to pull away, running desperately towards
whatever shelter might exist that could keep these demons out.
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A moment later, the woman leaped
from the man and dove towards another woman near the edge of the crowd. I
didn’t wait to see what happened to her, but I could guess by the screams, and
the sickening snap of bones being broken.
As I reached the edge of town, I
turned back in time to see the woman’s first victim rise to his feet as she had
done only a moment before.
My mind was all white with panic as
I reached our house. Pa wasn’t there, but I didn’t expect him to be. He would
have been at the river all day, and in the pub for the remainder, eager to
spend the spoils of whatever flakes he’d found.
I grabbed a lantern and a quilt and
stuffed them into Pa’s satchel. The screams were so loud outside my door, I held
my breath waiting for the door to burst inwards and all the demons to spill
into my kitchen. But none came.
I peeked outside at the desperate
mob down the street. Men and women fell upon each other in shrieking, writhing
piles of flesh and fear as the rain turned the streets to mud, but seemed to
ignore the burning buildings. Six buildings, I could see, were now ablaze, and
the whole of the town was illuminated with ungodly clarity.
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I turned and ran north along the
road, away from the fray. The town had never been home to me, but it had been
my residence these last eighteen months, and to see it descend into such fiery
confusion and calamity was, I’ll admit, almost too heartbreaking to behold. Not
the least of which being that it was the only establishment for fifty miles in
any direction, and were I to survive the night, I would need to start walking.
The bush was thick, but I didn’t
want to be seen on the road. Surely the residents of the ruined town would take
to the roads when the easy prey was exhausted, and I didn’t want to give my
body too easily to their ravenous need.
I picked my way as quickly as I
could over the rocks and fallen limbs, but after a while I could go no further,
and I made my way down to the creek to walk in the water. I recoiled at the
hideous cold of the water, but it was by far the most level of places to walk,
and I was getting tired.
The current crept steadily upwards
as I made my way along. The rocks were slippery and I lost my balance more than
once, but I pressed on; with the horrors behind me still so fresh in my mind,
what choice did I have?
Naught ten minutes later, though, a
particular fall brought my head beneath the surface, and I lost my footing. I
tumbled backwards perhaps a hundred yards before smashing against a log jam. As
I kicked to gain purchase, my right foot became lodged between two boulders,
and I felt a sickening crunch as the current pushed me sideways and snapped my
ankle like a twig.
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I howled in pain, but thankfully my
head was still beneath the surface of the water. I’d no idea as to the auditory
acuity of the devils back in town, but surely they wouldn’t have heard the
submerged shouts of a drowning girl.
I loosed my ankle and struggled
towards the nearest riverbank. My satchel, as if by some miracle, had not come
undone, and I had a lantern to see by once it had dried out a bit.
A rocky overhang no longer than my
own body jutted from the mountainside, and it was beneath that overhang that I
dragged my broken body to wait out the night.
The seconds ticked incessantly
onwards, pecking at my damp flesh like hungry mosquitoes. I listened with all
my strength, partly to draw my attention away from the pain in my leg, and
partly to listen for the ravenous horrors that were once my countrymen.
Every second that passed had me
believing I could hear them coming, but none appeared.
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I dug in my father’s satchel for
food or tools or anything useful, but found only a damp piece of parchment, a
pen, and a pot of ink. Whatever the next day was to bring, I could hardly
imagine it would be pleasant for me.
I blew softly on the paper, praying
for it to dry. The breeze had begun to pick up, as it usually did just before
sunrise, but even through the rattling leaves, I could hear limbs cracking and
voices moaning. They were distant, but undeniable.
I don’t know what value this written
account will hold for anyone who finds it. I can’t imagine anyone making it
this far north without first being accosted by the demonic men and women who
once waved good morning to me and sold me bread and eggs. I hope the lust for
gold dies down and people cease to come this way, but I can’t imagine it will.
The need for wealth is a deep one, and I can easily imagine wave after wave of
fodder making its way up here to meet its messy end and add bodies to the
hoarde.
Perhaps the natives of this area
will find this account first, but I doubt it will hold much value for them. We
speak different languages, them and us, and I can’t see this paper serving any
purpose beyond tinder.
Oh Lord, I can see them now–three
men and a woman staring at me from across the water. They seem unsure how to
cross the river. They keep falling in the current, but they’re still coming. I
can’t think of a way to stop them. I’ve
searched the surrounding area for anything to defend myself and have
found only a sharp stone. If it were a rabbit descending upon me, I might have
had a chance. But these demons are a far cry from rabbits. Perhaps just as
mindless, but capable. My God, are they capable.
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I beseech You, oh Lord, to save my soul. I offer my love and apologize for all my sins. I apologize for the sins of my countrymen, and I beg that you might forgive our kind. If this to be the final reckoning, I suppose my words hold little value. What else can I do, though, but plead? I can’t reverse the whole course of our hunger. But you made us, after all. You made us hungry.
Brianna Ferguson is a poet, short story writer and music journalist from British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in various publications across North America and the U.K. including Minola Review, Jokes Review, and Outlook Springs
So I just keep on going… Here are some more repaint porcelain figurines and other madcap painting. OK maybe some of them aren’t porcelain, but still totally redone.
This Pennywise clown started as some plastic figurine from Italy. I was drawn to this because of the pretty marble base. It’s a nice touch, don’t you think? I’ve seen others in this series and honestly they’re all kind of creepy to start with, so they really lend themselves towards repaint prospects. Perhaps I’ll pick up more to redo in similar ways later on… Oh, and the eyes are blacklight sensitive, in case he wasn’t creepy enough already.
With all of the new movie hype, I couldn’t resist a throwback to the classic Beetlejuice, and this little bride figurine and teddy bear were just too perfect. Featuring more blacklight sensitive accents, like her veil flowers. And I don’t know why she only has one glove, I blame it on the 1980s… Or maybe she was just that drunk (you’d have to be for that wedding)…
So yeah, all those preppers ready for the zombie apocalypse – you know some of them are gonna get bitten. It’s in the script, what can I say? More blacklight eyes, cause why not?
I admit I haven’t seen this film, but it sure looks fun. Mathilda, eat your heart out. Literally.
OK so this isn’t a repaint. Nor is it porcelain. What is it even doing here? Well, she’s cool and ready for a party and kinda reminded me of Abigail, so she sort of just tagged along. Sexy Sadie started as an Avon perfume bottle with a fragrance I didn’t care for (I think it was called Head Over Heels). Because honestly the bottle topper was all that mattered. And now she has her own disco dancing platform. What more could a vampish vixen want?
I wrote this script for Beyond the Veil awhile back, exploring the bond between two twin sisters, Edith and Edna, who had lived their lives together. There was a terrible car crash and someone didn’t make it. The other is trying to contact them beyond the veil…
Beyond the Veil Setting:
Two women reach out to one another individually in a séance setting.
One sits on one side of a dining table. The other sits at the other side. Each studies a candle just beyond her reach; there is darkness between the two candles. The long table is barely hinted at in the interstice between the two but it is clearly present.
The camera is stationary showing both in profile staring through each other.
The women are both portrayed by the same actress who is also the voice of the narrator, who is unseen. All three voices are identical so that it is impossible to tell which of the two women the narrator is supposed to represent.
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Both women are spliced into the same scene. They are together but apart. The two candles remain for the duration of filming so that the two halves of the film can either be overlapped (so that both women appear incorporeal) or cut and sandwiched in the middle between the candles (so both women appear physically present). It is possible to set the scene thusly using both methods in different parts of the story, with both women seemingly flickering in and out of being, both individually and apart.
Script:
I. Black, audio only.
Narrator:
I was riding with my twin sister.
We were in a terrible car crash.
The car drove over the median and rolled.
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It spun off the road where it caught fire.
There was smoke everywhere.
My sister didn’t make it.
II. Fade in to the long table with two lit candles; flames flickering.
Two women are just sitting at either end.
They stare blankly through each other.
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Call and Response
Edith: Now I’m trying to contact her…
Edna: …beyond the veil.
Simultaneous:
Edith: Edna, do you hear me?
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Edna: Edith, do you hear me?
Together (In Unison):
If you hear me, knock three times.
Narrator:
Knock.
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Knock.
Knock.
Call and Response:
Edith: I miss you terribly.
Edna: I miss you so much.
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Edith: Do you remember…
Edna: … the car crash?
Edith: We rolled…
Edna: … over the median.
Edith: There was fire.
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Edna: There was smoke.
Edith: I could hear the sirens.
Edna: They were coming…
Edith: … to rescue us.
Edna: But they were so far away.
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Edith: So far…
Edna: … away….
Simultaneous:
Edith: Are you okay?
Edna: Are you hurt?
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Together (In Unison):
Knock three times for yes. Knock once for no.
Narrator:
Knock
– pause –
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Knock
– pause –
Together (Syncopated):
What’s it like, on the other side?
– long pause –
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Simultaneous:
Edith: I miss you, Edna.
Edna: I miss you, Edith.
Together (Syncopated):
It’s so lonely here.
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Call and Response:
Edith: There’s no one here.
Edna: I’m all alone.
Edith: Without you…
Edna: …the spark of life…
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Edith: …is gone…
Edna: … so far away.
– pause –
Together (Entirely Out of Sync):
It’s so dark.
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III. Fade out to black
Narrator:
I was riding with my twin sister.
We were in a terrible car crash.
The car drove over the median and rolled.
It spun off the road where it caught fire.
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There was smoke everywhere.
I didn’t make it.
I had planned to actually turn this into the video for which it was written, but quickly discovered that my plans for recording required a space that was too drastically different from my new house (and new large gaming table) and that my vision for filming could not be well-fully executed or realized. So now it exists as a script only.
Yeah yeah, the insects tend to get ALL the attention here on Nightmarish Nature. But honestly, this one takes the beefcake. It’s the New World Screwworm Fly, and it’s as terrifying as the name suggests. And they aren’t limited to the Americas, there is an Old World version as well, as they can be found pretty much anywhere tropical or seasonably suited.
Revolting Little Buggers
The Screwworm Fly is a parasitic fly larvae that burrows into its host to feed, named because it seems to screw deeper and deeper into the flesh over time. This process is called myiasis and do NOT look it up online, you WILL regret it. They blur those images out for very valid reasons, trust me (and not because of pornographic content). And these maggots will continue to burrow en masse, rather than staying put as a botfly larvae would.
Do Not Do an Image Search on Screwworm Myiasis, Like Seriously – You Will NEVER Unsee That
The female Screwworm fly lays her eggs on an open wound or orifice of her chosen host… And not just one egg or a couple of eggs, no – hundreds, even thousands of them. Let’s let that sink in a bit, shall we? Or screw in as it were. Although any warm-blooded animal is a prime target, cattle are a fly favorite, costing millions of head of cattle to this sick and disgusting horror annually. And if beef isn’t on the menu, Fido or even yourself might be.
The Great American Worm Wall
In fact, this particular feature here on Nightmarish Nature is so terrifying that the United States has made agreements with all of Central America, even including countries that do not generally share its interests, in order to create a “Great American Worm Wall” to prevent them from spreading back into the United States. I’m not going to go into all of the creepy and juicy details of this bizarre science fiction freak fact, you’ll just have to watch it here on Half As Interesting’s YouTube channel.
Essentially, the Worm Wall is a complicated byproduct of scientists studying radioactivity on the flies’ maturity as well as the flies’ sexual lives and using this information against them to nearly eradicate the species and banish it from much of its former range. So, Peter Parker, if you thought everyone was messing with your love life before, be glad you weren’t bitten by a radioactive Screwworm.
If you’ve enjoyed this segment of Nightmarish Nature, feel free to check out some previous here:
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