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VIOLENT VIOLIN – VOX – REDUX

This is a collaboration of a story I wrote earlier this year. Thanks to Jeff Clement for bringing even more life to this haunted tale of death and release.  I hope you enjoy it 🙂

Kym Darkly

 

You can see more of Jeff’s work at https://www.youtube.com/user/AuralStimulations

 

VIOLENT VIOLIN by Kym Darkly

Three a.m. every morning. She always visited. She had to – broken and forlorn in the shadows. He could hear her creep along the dark halls: those blood-splattered corridors that she’d been dragged down by a death-cord wrapped around her neck. He could feel her pass by him, could see the candles flicker and the curtains sway back as she took her seat.

 

If only she could leave her violin alone there might be some peace, but it was the thing that still tied her to this world. He knew this, and he used it.

 

Maybe it was guilt that made him put the delicate instrument out night after night, summoning her to draw fierce catgut across rusting strings. Maybe it was his way of giving her the freedom to express: to pluck out each emotion, replaying the terror and betrayal with notes and tones that narrated her own story.

 

Perhaps he was punishing himself for what he had done by repeatedly listening to her pain. But most likely he was pretending that she was still alive, giving him a private concert at his bidding. He was delusional after all.

 

Lately the sound had been sad and eerie – the kind that could cut through a soul, already lacerated and fractured, but this early morning was different. Linn’s spirit had been growing angry. On her way in she had slammed doors and thrown chairs, even ripped a curtain from its rings, and she certainly had refused to sit. She chose to stand. It would give her music more power.

 

Her husband didn’t mind the violence. It was comforting just knowing that she was there, invisibly shackled to him and his darkness.

 

This was Linn’s last visit however. The bruises and blood were fading and the burn around her neck had lost its terrifying command. She was reclaiming herself. She had learned a lot in the spirit world. She was tired of being his ghost, of being called involuntarily to haunt him night after night. She wanted to have done with it, done with him.

 

Strongly composed, she drew the bow deliberately across the strings as she would a knife across his neck. Deep, dark and mellow quickly gave way to frenetic sawing and screeching – an abrasive violence of notes that bespoke Linn’s fury. Gone was the demure, shy victim.

 

One last drag across that old violin and she snapped. She flew at him, lashing the bow hard across his face – the force sending him off the back of his antique Hitchcock chair. She jumped after whipping and beating him until the wooden weapon broke on his cheek leaving the flesh ripped and dripping with blood.

 

The startled look in his eyes made her happy. She only wished he could see the victory in hers.

 

Crazed with the need to be free she bashed the violin over the chair, breaking it in two. She dropped to the floor, knees on either side of his trunk and jabbed the half she still held under his chin, digging the splintered wood in deep.

 

“Alright, alright,” he yelped.

 

“Release me,” she commanded, jabbing harder.

 

He couldn’t let her go.

 

She twisted the violin, breaking his skin. She pushed it hard.

“Release me, or you’re coming with me.” She hissed.

 

As shards cut through muscle and tongue, he threw his hands up in surrender.

“I promise. I’ll leave you alone.” He yelped.

 

“Beg!”

 

“Please.” he cried.

 

Linn smiled.

 

Numbing and peacefully ascending she dropped the instrument and quietly floated up off the floor, showing herself to him for the first time since her death. She was beautiful. The spell had been broken. She was free.

 

“I love you,” he said.

 

This made her happy, for the most sadistic thing she could do was to prevent him from having her.

 

She laid back on the soft air in a deep peace and floated over to the window – out and up towards the clouds…

 

©kym darkly

BRAINS ON TOAST…

©Tanya GroutFOR AUDIO VERSION PLEASE SCROLL TO THE END.

“You want some brains on toast, love?” Mrs. Bennett asked.

“What?” I replied.

My head shot up from the Old English sheepdog, whose ears I’d been massaging.

I knew that English fare didn’t have a great reputation and that times were tight, but had the folk in this tiny town resorted to eating one of the body’s most treasured organs?

Mrs. Bennett held a small pot in my direction. I wasn’t sure if I should look inside.

“Beans?” She asked. “Beans on toast?”

In the firelight I could see the orange mush of what might be construed as either beans or brains, especially when as delirious as I was, but she had set my mind straight: They were beans.

“An English delicacy, Mrs. Bennett, I would love some, thank you,” I said cringing at my failed attempt to not be condescending.

I was actually starving. The flight overseas had been long and the train to the cozy B&B in Cornwall followed. In truth, I might have eaten brains on toast if that were on the menu, but I was relieved that my bread would hold a more savory item.

After my fourth “cuppa tea,” I finally convinced Mrs. Bennett that it was time for bed. I had lots of exploring to do tomorrow, what with beaches and castles to visit. Besides I couldn’t keep my eyes open another second.

She was reluctant to let me go but finally she agreed, after forcing me to eat just one more custard cream.

Very full, I ascended the rickety old stairs up to the snug attic I had rented.

“Best keep the curtains closed an’ the winders shut,” she warned.

I nodded my agreement, as Mrs. Bennett had a deep look of fear in her eyes that was unusual to the Cornish. She’d grown up in a rough part of London, I justified. It was a city thing.

I intended to do as I was told as I was spooked already, what with the wind whistling through each pane of glass like lost ghosts, but I chalked it up mostly to being exhausted.

The attic was dark and cold. I used an oil lamp to help me climb into bed, which snuffed out of its own accord, as I drifted off into a dark dream.

At three a.m. I awoke abruptly, falling. My face smashed onto the floor. I was instantly aware that I had been punted out, shoved by someone or something. I scrambled up quickly and flung open the curtains for light from the moon to see if there was an intruder, but all I saw was a wagging tail.

“Salty?” I whispered.

The dog snuck out from behind the bed.

“Did you hoof me out?” I asked, but Salty ignored me and ran to the window. He put his paws up on one of them and drew up to a tall stand, peering outside, curiously entranced.

I walked over and looked through the windows also, snuggling into Salty’s soft fur. There was such raw beauty out there. The ocean was wildly ravaging the cliff – each furious wave smashing the rock and throwing its white crust up to be licked by a silver lunar shimmer.

I took a deep breath. Suddenly I felt so alive, like I’d consumed something that gave me great power, exuberance, energy and joy – a feeling of being unstoppable, free and completely connected with everything and everyone.

I opened the other window so as to inhale the scent of the ocean breeze, but Salty snarled, then snapped at me and ran off with a whimper. I stared after him – what a strange dog.

But when I looked back, I saw them. At first I couldn’t believe it. Was I imagining things? They were coming in the hundreds, crawling up over the cliff like silverfish.

Coming into view, their forms seemed similar to humans, but a bit off. There was something odd about them, their movements perhaps. They had longer arms and glowing eyes. They appeared to be naked but had no organs to define them as male or female. They also had no hair. Their bodies had a soft silky sheen that slipped quickly towards the cottage.

As they drew closer I saw talons where there would be hands and claw-like teeth – protruding and sharp.

They had a way of jumping through time, jumping forward as if they had slithered a long distance within a fraction of a second.

Before long they had climbed up the side of the cottage and were suddenly scrambling onto the mini terrace outside. Overwhelmed, I tried to slam the window shut, but body parts got caught in the frame and there was no stopping them.

They glared with eyes that that seemed to communicate feelings and thoughts with shots of light, in different hues, that flew out and bent towards each other: receiving and transmitting.

Their tempers turned violent as I tried to hold them back. My hands received deep scratches and lashes. I was even bitten on my arms by their very sharp teeth.

I made the decision to run, but Mrs. Bennett was standing behind me holding a baseball bat.

“Best be movin’ outta the way, love,” she cautioned.

I ducked just in time as Mrs. Bennetts bat swooshed at a body, that had crept up behind me, knocking its head off completely. The Silken flesh fell back as its airborne noggin bounced off a wall and back toward Mrs. Bennett’s feet. She whacked the skull so hard that it spilt in two and the teeth fell right off. She then swiped it to the side ready for another go.

Mrs. Bennett did this to ten more bodies before she whistled loudly at which point, Salty came bounding back up and chased the rest of the intruders out. They seemed terrified of the dog.

She was in no mood to answer my questions, as I had broken her rules.

“I’m really sorry,” I tried to explain.

“Well now you know, she said collecting her loot in a laundry hamper.

Salty dragged the headless beings back to the window. I instinctively followed and climbed through helping to throw them off the terrace. This place had a strange effect on me.

As they dropped to the ground, the corpses were ravaged by hundreds of their own kind. It was a cannibalistic gore-fest, ripe with gushing vermillion – illuminated perfectly by the brightest moon I had ever seen. I had to turn away and move inside as I felt a need arise, one of wanting more. I closed the window and pulled the curtain shut.

I could feel that we were safe inside. If it weren’t for Mrs. Bennett, I thought, those things might have eaten me, but instead I felt invigorated and so did Salty.

I followed him out and down into the kitchen, where old Mrs. Bennett was shucking brains from skulls.

“Like some brains on toast, love?” she asked.

I nodded slowly, suddenly aware of why I felt so good. Those “beans” had been brains and they seemed to have a magical property, like a super-drug.

“Sure,” I said, “I think I’d like that.”

“We’ll have ’em buttered this time,” she winked.

“Lovely,” I said, “I’ll make the tea.”

 

© kym darkly

SCUTTLERS…

kym darkly 1

They were in the walls, scuttling. At night I could hear their blood-sucking probes chiseling at the gyprock. They were coming. They could smell me. It had been three days.

 

I’d heard about them on the news, but only on the paranormal Channels. No one believed in the Scuttlers, but they would when they saw the video. They all said I was paranoid, but they’d see.

 

The camera was set up across the room by Freddie Fangs. Nobody fucked with Fangs, well except me of course. Stupid, stupid! But I was desperate – jonesing. I needed the money, man. I woulda fucked anybody over for one more hit. Anyone woulda done it. Anyone. Well, anyone like me anyway.

 

Thudding drew my attention back to the wall. The first hole appeared in the plaster. My stomach lurched. A probe slowly made its way through. It was violet, glowing in the shadowed room. It had a beeping sound. And there were black eyes at the back of it – large, scanning. Its probe seemed to be communicating with the others, letting them know that it had broken through.

 

Hundreds, maybe more, thundered together. The buzzing and dull thumping of their bodies made my heart beat faster. Their probes pounded and cracked at the wall – all focused on the same little spot until it split right open.

 

Like a blast of neon purple light, they flew right at me, three inches long, each. They were in the thousands.

 

My hands flew up to fend them off, but I was shackled and my arms could only go so far. As one zoomed in at my cheek another stabbed my eye. I screamed and wrestled with the chains.

 

Another tore into my throat and slipped under the skin, ripping up and down the inside of my neck, sending searing pain up into my face and down into my chest.

 

One Scuttler plunged its probe deep into my ear and pummeled in and in and in until my eardrum burst.

 

“Oh fuck! I shoulda picked the oil drum and the cement!” I yelled thinking it a better death.

 

The Scuttlers got under the rest of my skin quickly, tearing up and down my whole body, cleaning the derma off from inside until I became a raw piece of breathing meat – skinless meat. I felt like I was being burned alive, the pain so intense that it finally disappeared altogether. Shock can do that you know.

 

Jabs between my ribs turned into entry points and soon the Scuttlers were inside the cage of me eating my guts and organs feverishly: sucking, chomping, inhaling.

 

I’m not sure at what point I died. It could have been the piercing of my heart or the savage rip of my aorta, but I found it more peaceful to watch it all from above.

 

It was like looking at art. They were beautiful creatures with their luminescent indigo hues and gossamer orange wings. I liked watching them clean my body of its tissue. I didn’t need it any more. They were economical, using every last piece of flesh to fuel their little bodies, in turn revealing my skeleton underneath.

 

I didn’t have to watch my torture and death like a coward on a video. I got to watch it first-hand. It was fascinating.

 

Acceptance blew over me. It was good to be free of needing a hit. They set me free, these Scuttlers. Maybe they knew I was a good one to take, given all the pain and anguish.

 

This was the best way to die, I considered. Having been consumed by them I became a part of them and I started to enjoy the lightness of their flight and the power in their attacks.

 

Though I felt at peace I also felt excitement. I couldn’t wait for them to attack Freddie Fangs when he came back for his tape. He’d be expecting to see a body eaten by rats, but the rats had been ravaged long before we arrived. I was looking forward to the terror on Freddie’s face when the Scuttlers swarmed him, as they had me.

 

Yes, it was going to be an interesting death…

© kym darkly

VIOLENT VIOLIN…

kym darkly 1

VIOLENT VIOLIN

Three a.m. every morning. She always visited. She had to – silent and forlorn in the shadows. He could hear her creep along the dark halls: those blood-splattered corridors that she’d been dragged down by a death-cord wrapped around her neck. He could feel her pass by him, could see the candles flicker and the curtains sway back as she took her seat.

If only she could leave her violin alone there might be some peace, but it was the thing that still tied her to this world. He knew this, and he used it.

Maybe it was guilt that made him put the delicate instrument out night after night, summoning her to draw fierce catgut across rusting strings. Maybe it was his way of giving her the freedom to express: to pluck out each emotion, replaying the terror and betrayal with notes and tones that narrated her own story.

Perhaps he was punishing himself for what he had done by repeatedly listening to her pain. But most likely he was pretending that she was still alive, giving him a private concert at his bidding. He was delusional after all.

Lately the sound had been sad and eerie – the kind that could cut through a soul, already lacerated and broken, but this early morning was different. Linn’s spirit had been growing angry. On her way in she had slammed doors and thrown chairs, even ripped a curtain from its rings, and she certainly had refused to sit. She chose to stand. It would give her music more power.

Her husband didn’t mind the violence. It was comforting just knowing that she was there, invisibly shackled to him and his darkness.

This was Linn’s last visit however. The bruises and blood were fading and the burn around her neck had lost its terrifying command. She was reclaiming herself. She had learned a lot in the spirit world. She was tired of being his ghost, of being called involuntarily to haunt him night after night. She wanted to have done with it, with him.

Strongly composed, she drew the bow deliberately across the strings as she would a knife across his neck. Deep, dark and mellow quickly gave way to frenetic sawing and screeching – an abrasive violence of notes that bespoke Linn’s fury. Gone was the demure, shy victim.

One last drag across that old violin and she snapped. She flew at him, lashing the bow hard across his face – the force sending him off the back of his antique Hitchcock chair. She jumped after whipping and beating him until the wooden weapon broke on his cheek leaving flesh ripped and dripping with blood.

The startled look in his eyes made her happy. She only wished he could see the victory in hers. Crazed with the need to be free she bashed the violin over the chair, breaking it in two. She dropped to the floor, knees on either side of his trunk and jabbed the half she still held under his chin, digging the splintered wood in deep.
“Alright, alright,” he yelped.
“Release me,” she commanded, jabbing harder.
He couldn’t let her go.
She twisted the violin, breaking his skin. She pushed it hard.
“Release me, or you’re coming with me.” She hissed.
As shards cut through muscle and tongue, he threw his hands up in surrender.
“I promise. I’ll leave you alone.” He yelped.
“Beg!”
“Please.” he started to cry.

Linn smiled.

Numbing and peacefully ascending she dropped the instrument and quietly floated up off the floor, showing herself to him for the first time since her death. She was beautiful. The spell had been broken. She was free.

“I love you,” he said.

This made her happy, for the most sadistic thing she could do was to prevent him from having her.

She laid back on the soft air in a deep peace and floated over to the window – out and up towards the clouds…

©kym darkly

OVUM: THE CREATURE INSIDE…

kym darkly 1

Sally dished the egg out of the boiling water with a teaspoon and washed it under cold water. Her gaze was far off, watching the latest abduction story on TV, “That poor little girl,” she said, “Only five years old. The terrors of this world.”

“Mom!” Evan cried.

Sally looked back. The egg was rocking on the spoon. Something was trying to get out, cracking the hard shell with little jabs from the inside.

“Oh dear lord ‘n Jesus!” She crossed herself. “If that’s a live chick in there, I swear I’ll never eat an egg again.”

But then she got curious; surely nothing could survive twenty minutes of boiling.
Sally moved her face in to get a closer look, but it wasn’t a beak pecking that shell. It was a blade-like limb that suddenly shot through the broken milky surface, just missing Sally’s eye. She dropped the egg into the sink with a yelp.

Evan stood on tiptoes to watch it shake, rumble and smash against the steel sides.

“Step back,” Sally urged.

As Evan leaned in closer, a sharp metal face broke violently through the brittle encasement. Evan gasped at its crystalline eyes, which held him captive in an instant. He was entranced.

Wretched spindly arms and legs covered in viscous white membrane reached out pair by pair and pulled the ghastly monstrosity out of its hiding place and into the sink. It then shook the white off, leaving itself camouflaged by the steel basin.

Losing sight of it, Sally screamed, “Where is it? Where did it go?”
But Evan could see. He instinctively reached into the sink and grasped the cold freak of nature, throwing it back into the boiling water, as the little monster bit a chunk off his hand.

Sally screamed, watching the gore of this psychotic animal eating her son’s flesh feverishly under the boiling bubbles. The hot water was an incubator, not a killer and this thing was growing.

Clasping her head, she felt insane, not knowing what to do. Sally scrambled for a tea towel to wrap Evan’s hand.

It took only two minutes in the pot before the creature jumped back out, hitting the ceiling and clinging there, enlarging to twice its size above the two of them. Sally grabbed Evan and attempted to run, but it sprayed her with a dark fetid liquid that made Sally freeze, mouth agape and eyes wide with fear, her head cranked up and back towards the ceiling.

When the grotesque beast jumped down, it enlarged once again – this time standing tall enough to tower over Sally. It threw open an angry jaw showing rows and rows of serrated teeth, blowing hard gusts of vile breath. It was hungry. It had a lot to accomplish in this world. It would need new fuel and these two pieces of flesh seemed like a good place to start.

When the chomping began, Sally could hear the bones crack, but she couldn’t tell if it were her own body or her son’s. She knew that she was doomed, but she prayed that Evan would be able to escape…

©KymDarkly

 

UNDERGROUND AND DOWN…

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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

NECROMANCY…

©Tanya Grout

The medium sat still in the shadows. He listened to Mi Li talk.

Her candle-lit face flickered of the Philippines, the nose, the eyes: almond shaped and beautiful. She was shaking. “Please help me,” she said, “Every morning, I hear the cat padding around the living room. I hear it yawn, eat its food, race up and down the curtains…”

“And that’s a problem?” The medium asked.

“Yeah, it is when it’s dead!” She said. “First my father died of a massive heart attack. The next day his cat jumps off the roof of the building, killing itself too. I find fur-balls everywhere, paw prints over my pillow and I wake up with scratches all over my body. It’s making me ill, I’m so upset.”

The medium slipped into a trance quickly and was soon shaking violently. He spoke in another voice that scared Mi Li because she knew it was someone dead reaching through from the other side. She hoped it wasn’t her father, as he terrified her some.

“The cat didn’t take its own life. Your father’s ghost did. The mad spectre dragged it by the scruff, screeching and mewling, up to that roof top and threw it off so he could have its company in the afterlife, but all he did was create an enemy…”

The medium slipped out of his trance. His eyes alive with warning: “You have a house guest: vicious and raging, out for blood with sharp teeth and razors for claws. Beware sweet Mi Li, Beware…”

© Kym Darkly