Month: August 2014


©Tanya Grout

What everyone saw was a shining, articulate woman holding it all together – living her dream: the talk shows, the brilliant performances, the book release. She’d made millions. She was beautiful and smart. She made people laugh; yet behind that glossy image, a nightmare was beginning to unfold.

It was the fast insanity of it all, the dragging of her mind into a quicksand of Hell-bound thoughts. How could this happen: laughing one minute, desperate and lost in the next?

This thing that had crawled into her in the middle of the night was sucking on her soul, draining her life force, and was taking her down, fast! It had burrowed a hole inside that nothing could fill, had manufactured a terrifying emptiness, a darkness, an excruciating migraine of madness.

Was it a demon, a creature, a ghost?

Who could she ask? They would think her crazy. She’d become tabloid fodder, a joke. She would lose her reputation – lose it all. She knew she was sick, but she felt so alone.

Lee looked at the bottle of pills in her hand. It would be so easy: one snap decision to stop the suffering and just like that she’d be gone. Another celebrity overdose – an addict they’d call her, just like they did with all the others. But they’d be wrong and this thing would just move into someone else…


©kym darkly



After seeing her husband off to his weekly social function with a polite kiss on the cheek, she rushed upstairs to rip off her pristine dress and pearls, to unwrap the seductive presents she had bought for herself: stockings, corset, and a wig – black with bangs to cover her long, luscious strawberry locks.

Ashley threw on a trench and grabbed a tiny purse that would hold a lot of money, a few wet wipes and a sharp switchblade… to protect herself.

She felt like a femme fatal sneaking out of her gated home in this sexy disguise, catching a limo in the night.

She hadn’t been to the club in years, but lately she’d felt the calling. She’d been inspired by recent events. None of the girls would recognize her in her wig, which was just as well. It wasn’t a social visit.

Although she knew she shouldn’t be there, she instantly clicked into that old feeling of energy and power, something she’d missed and had to tone down in her role as perfect wife to a controlling banker.

She walked through the big black door, past the bouncers, through the neon corridor where the dance music first pumped its primal beat, past the heavy curtains into the underworld of black light, hot exotic dancers and animated businessmen.

She loved the charge of being in control, the power of being a sex symbol; loved wearing shoes with platform soles so high the heels hit nine steel inches; loved how they dug into the leather of the VIP chairs while she gyrated her flawless body above those execs, catching her own full neon lips and lithe undulations in the mirror above.

Her first objective: get a whiskey sour and score some E. Then she’d be off to a good start. She’d need some help tonight. She hadn’t been here since she’d married three years ago. She felt guilty, but it also excited her – this night ahead.

It didn’t take long before she spotted him: the easy target. He was drunk already and pawing a girl who wasn’t having any of it. Ashley made her way over and, removing her jacket, relieved the girl of his company.

It was clear that he couldn’t see straight as he was bombed, but Ashley was very strict with him as she stepped up onto the seat and towered above placing her feet on either side of his thighs.

He tried to paw her, but she pushed him back with a foot jab, a bit of heel. She grabbed his tie and made a noose to secure his hands together, which she pulled to the side holding onto the booth simultaneously to maintain balance. He seemed to like this.

“Kinky one. I’ll pay for that.”

“Yes you will,” said Ashley playfully as she slowly pulled the switchblade from her little purse. Crouching to his level, she flicked it open and held it softly to his throat.

“Whoa!” He joked, “You remind me of my wife, before I beat it out of her!”

Ashley brought her face very close to his – shaking, yet almost kissing. She stared into his big dazed eyes.

“Sweetie,” she said seductively,” I am your goddamned wife, but you never beat it out of me. I’ve just been saving it up. Happy anniversary darling.”

There was a hint of recognition in his eyes, before Ashley drew the knife slowly and deliberately across his neck.

She flew off him as blood spurted in all directions. She grabbed her purse and jacket and ran towards the door screaming. “Someone attacked him. Help, help.”

Ashley fled out the front door, as her husband was swarmed by dancers, bouncers and patrons; confusion erupted and police were called.

Ashley crept around the back of the club where it was quiet and dark. She put the switchblade back into her purse and tried to clean some of the blood. It would take a shower or two.

As police swarmed the front of the club a limo slipped past them, picked Ashley up and drove off into the night. Ashley asked to stop mid-way at a bridge. She took the switchblade out of her purse and flung it into the water, watching it sink into oblivion… Free.

© kym darkly




It had come again in the middle of the night, undulating under the sheets like a flat fish might swim at the bottom of the ocean.

Petrified, Bobby jumped out of bed. He watched the creature, with its wave-like motion, slink under the covers heading down to where his feet would always be, the place where it would wriggle before slipping off and away.

In his mind he thought he would catch it and maybe even cook it, if it was a fish, although his mother had said that ghosts couldn’t be eaten or cooked.

You’re not escaping this time, Bobby thought, ripping the sheet right off in an attempt to expose the mystery. But he didn’t see anything. It was invisible as ghosts tended to be.

Bobby got closer, bravely holding out his hand in the terrified hopes that he might touch it. He padded around until finally his delicate fingers landed on top of the slippery creature. Bobby yelped, but kept his hand there on the invisible eeewy fish, desperate to make sense of this thing that haunted him night after night.

The wires from his head sent out crazed signals to computers and machines that measured his brain for activity. Suddenly the sleep lab was full of personnel, but Bobby was oblivious. He was trying to hold onto the cold ghoul that kept escaping his grasp.

Suddenly angered, Bobby grew violent. He threw the sheet back on the thing to see where it was and grabbed his heavy Bible to kill it with. Slam, Slam!

“Ughh, it’s already dead,” said Dr. Rupert from behind the lab’s glass. Doesn’t he get it?

“No, he doesn’t get it. He’s just a kid,” said Rebecca – his striking sidekick.

“I know darling, but we need a kid who can catch one, so we can study it,” replied Rupert.

Bobby’s vital signs were in trouble. The beeps jolted them back to the computer screens.

“Its attacking him. This always happens,” Rebecca said, “Just stop it right now! We dont want to lose him.”

Ignoring her, Dr. Rupert gave a go-ahead signal with his hand through the glass.

The crew did what they were instructed to: sprayed the phantom with a new liquid that had been developed by the brilliant grad student: Rebecca McCauley.

This new variation worked and the crew grew excited as they could finally see a true ghost, albeit a vicious orange jelly that had planted its entire sticky being over Bobby’s face and torso.

Their own faces turned to horror quickly as they witnessed it sucking his brains, blood, tongue and other tissue out of his eyes, ears and mouth with a vicious pumping cycle, ultimately sending out a huge splat of blood back up at the glass of the lab.

 A flat line, and the ghost released its obliterated victim. There was no more live tissue to refuel its dependency needs and so it slipped back into invisibility and disappeared before it could be captured.

Dr. Rupert sighed – annoyance. “Call the parents, our condolences, he went mad, congenital defect and we couldn’t save him.”

“You fucking do it. I’m done,” Rebecca snapped. On her way out she slammed the door, torn over why she still loved this cold-hearted man…

In the blood splattered lab, Dr. Rupert reconsidered. “I’m not sure that’s a ghost…”

© kym darkly


©Tanya Grout

The finger broken, snapped open. A gasp. A fear escaping her startled eyes. His heavy hand cracking the digit further back at the knuckle, with rage. This was just the beginning for Marshall Shaw – leader of “the movement.”

He dragged her up by the hair to the open stage, onto the village platform and yelled out, “She just ain’t human!” There was terror in his voice.

The crowd’s eyes moved like marbles on sloped surfaces, searching for answers. They stirred. How could he treat her so violently? She was his wife!

“Come look at her,” Marshall cried. “Bring your vision, and your mind, and your judgment!”

The bravest went first towards the wretched woman, now on her knees, hair twisted in his fist. Marshall held out her hand for all to see: inside the skin was a strange machinery. It wasn’t bones and blood. It looked like cogs and wires and screws… but upon closer inspection they saw that the stuff inside was made up of other creatures, tiny ones they had never seen before – wriggling and writhing, each in tune with the other.

“She ain’t one of us,” Marshall yelled.
“Maybe she’s from the future,” Old Woman Wise snarled.
“’Nother planet is more like it,” came the preacher’s reply.
“A Witch!” Yelled Marshall, “with all them critters inside.”
“Let her be,” cried the woman’s sister.
“Are ya gonna meet yer maker tonight too, little sister” he snapped back.
She had children. She would be quiet.

“Friends,” Marshall addressed the crowd, “help me to break her open!”

Ten or more men rushed to the stage. They wrestled and fought with the screaming woman until they pulled her arms from their sockets, her torso in two and her head right off.

Big greasy sluggish ropes of flesh and detailed scuttle-spiders with cog-like qualities issued from her core. Fish-like entities and jumping eels flopped and flipped. Her face melted as creatures crawled from her head, out her eyes, nose and mouth.

When the last jellyfish of a miniature monster oozed from her bloated abdomen, the human body casing was dry. In the desert heat it sparked alight and flew up into the air like a balloon; then it blew right up, sending the men scuttling towards their wives.

“Whatever they are, they’re spying on us,” Marshall asserted. “And each and every one of you’s has got to prove that your wife ain’t one of ‘em.”
“How do we do that?” One of the youngest men asked.
“By lining ‘em up and breaking their fingers open…”

©kym darkly


©Tanya Grout

It was stuck between his teeth: that familiar tongue that should have swirled with sensual beauty and ease, but his mind had other plans and so he’d arrested its movement with his own.

It was an awkward moment. He just didn’t see her that way any more. She had become an investment and so her tongue was just a thick cumbersome piece of flesh that sent him into a rage he knew mustn’t express.

Truthfully he wanted to bite the damn thing right off, but that would reveal his deeper plan. Faking enjoying a kiss was sickening even to a man who’d accept sex from strangers. The best he could do was to pull away prematurely leaving her wondering, as she had as of late.

“Is it an affair?” She inquired, yet again.
No, it’s the fucking monster inside me, he screamed inside his own head.

The documents had been signed a long time ago, but he’d taken a calculated while to follow through. If he waited a year, he’d reasoned, the insurance company wouldn’t suspect the drowning, the poisoning, the strangulation, or whatever the Hell he was going to do. If he showed up at church with her on his arm, even better: people would say how devoted he was.

No, it wasn’t a goddamned affair! When greed possessed him he just wasn’t human, and that was all…

©kym darkly


©Tanya Grout

While smashing the tips of the flower stems, so they could absorb fresh nutrients and water that filled the heavy crystal vase, it suddenly occurred to her that she could smash her third husband’s head in.

Asphyxiation and arsenic were out of the question, as Melisha didn’t want to draw attention to the first two mishaps in her marital career.

Smashing would be excellent. It would relieve her of the hatred that had been building. She could really pound it out, crush his skull, maybe bash an eye out while he begged for his life from her dead, psychopathic eyes. How fulfilling.

She could pay him back for the derogatory comments, for the affair and for making her dependent once again on a man for money. What’s a gorgeous young woman to do?

It would be his fault. He was the one seduced to elope after just days of dating. He was the one who kept her imprisoned in this kitchen, cooking things he demanded like a spoiled child. He was the one who lifted her skirts and made her feel sick with his perverted demands. He deserved it: to die.

A hammer might be nice. She would buy one on her walk to pick up fresh bread, apples and wine. She’d buy two bottles. He’d be an easy target, sloshed and expecting freaky sex.

It would be a break in – a robbery. The police would never suspect her. It would be too violent for a woman’s hand, especially one with a perfect French Manicure and such a sweet disposition. She’d have to buy a knife too – a sharp one, one that wouldn’t hurt her too much when “the robbers” ripped it across her own delicate face.

It’s decided then, she thought, pulling a perfect apple pie from the oven.

A soft roaring drew her attention to the window. As Adam rolled his Royce up the granite driveway, she poured him a Scotch and wrote him a quick note: Make yourself comfortable darling. I’m treating you right tonight. Then she slipped quietly out the back to buy wine and bread and a hammer…

©kym darkly


©Tanya Grout

Home to addicts and whores, the lost and the forgotten, the needy and the cursed. What a fitting name: Bleeker Street. Bleak Street is more like it.

I ask myself how could just one hit do so much damage and why did you feel so alone in this world of seven billion who “care?”

Fuck the things we’re supposed to have and the things we’re supposed to be, the things we’re allowed to show and the things we are not. Who says this shit? Who makes these ridiculous rules, rules about us, about you?

You were good. You were true: smiling and honest, gentle with animals and tattooed like a son of a bitch that might scare most away – except those who knew your heart.

Yet in the darkness and the painful silence that closes in, emptiness still brought you down didn’t it? You never found the freedom, the love for yourself that couldn’t come from others. You never found the way in, so instead you chose the way out.

I barely knew you really, but I know myself and I know the depths of a broken spirit and a broken home, a self-destruct button and a need for… so much. Yet I can’t fathom it, and I’m angry: angry that you didn’t know people cared. And I’m sad, and scared for those little boys who may never understand…

You would have enjoyed it: after the priest prayed, they played heavy metal and we wrote all over your casket so you could be buried with some truth, with some heart and the respect we all came to give – respect we wish we had shown more freely when you were alive. I smile at the graffiti on your coffin. I can see you skateboarding over it with irreverence, laughing.

I only have fond thoughts except for one: the one that haunts me, the one that tells me I wasn’t there when you most needed my help. I didn’t know you were in that much trouble. Why didn’t you say more? Press me harder? That call didn’t seem so serious, but it really was. My God it was. Why didn’t I pick up on that? Fuck!

Alone in a stairwell on Bleeker street, really? Alone with a needle, truly? Alone forever! Alone…


© kym darkly


©Tanya Grout

It didn’t come with horns or cloven feet. It had come with a briefcase and in a crisp suit – with sublime sayings it had learned as would a psychopath, a predator. The creature had deceived with gifts, charm, and a moonlit swim, yet it had transformed while I slept over night, back into what it was…

Eighteen feet tall and burning alive with awesome anger, just that one hand clasped and thrust my cracking thorax twenty feet into the air. I instantly knew this beast was him: “the suit.” It had the same cold, ice eyes. The ones I should have fled from, ones I had seen before in others.

Its nails dug in deep like a clamp: how much blood could issue from a desire to break free, to wriggle from its grasp, away from that endless inner darkness?

Exquisite pain ripped through my chest, just a beat before the Devil that it was pierced this Teflon cage of ribs and flesh to freshly break my heart.

Would I ever again have the chance to run before it all got started, to detect the sickness of the monster before it mainlined poison into my soul? Or was I destined to live this eternity sweet-talked through an endless cycle of Hell… and more Hell?

© kym darkly


The smell of metal and gasoline, a dirty place.

Coming to in complete darkness. Rolling back and forth on her side, no arms. Where were they? Tied, tied behind. Knees tucked in so as to fit. Feet also tied… like a pig.

The stocking was making her gag. Too tight. Her tongue was swollen where it had been bitten. It must have been a horrible fight. Starving, parched. Blood flowing. It was hers. She sucked it in, drank it. Disgusting. Gagging, but strong willed. She was weak. She knew it was the right thing to do.

Memories: the woozy feeling at the bar after one drink. Drugged, led away, knowing it was wrong, bad. Wanting to yell out but unable to speak, hearing that man tell everyone he’d take her to the hospital, he’d take good care of her, she’d be okay… but did he intend to take her like this: naked, bruised and tied in a trunk?

A flicker of the dark empty parking lot: the pain of a smashed cheek. The hammer, how it came crushing in from the side.

The worst pain of all: her mother encouraging her to waitress at that snazzy club. She remembered the proposition and the cash, the emptiness beneath the glamour. She remembered her bad decision, and that this was only her very first trick…

© kym darkly