  Horror/Scary
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Scraps of Paper
Did you ever start a story and then abandon it because of one thing or another? Or find story ideas written on pieces of napkins or little slips of paper that you crammed in a book somewhere? Perhaps you lost interest in the idea, or maybe realized that it had already been done before and there was no reason to expound upon it.
This is one of those stories. I found it buried in an ancient computer folder, and after wiping away its skin of dust, I read it again. I felt inspired, and began to add to it wondering why I had left it in the first place. I recall thinking that it was an old story-line, over-used—done before. But I’m a story-teller, and every good raconteur worth his salt can make every story sound fresh and exciting.
You be the judge…
In his heart, he wished all the people dead, street after street of them, mile after mile, dead by the millions, and wished all the houses to ashes, and all the lawns to dust. The horror of it chilled his bones, his marrow. It left a bitter taste in his mouth as though biting into a hard truth could produce a flavor as acrid as chewing on dry aspirin.
Doctor Jim Wainscott was two people; the one everybody knew on the outside: warm, caring, ethical, God-fearing; while the other…well, let’s just say the other was a man no one would recognize, or want to be caught alone with; a man shrouded within a dark universe, aloof, and as distant as the stars.
Over the past years he noticed the change, as the other slipped through the cracks of its mental prison like a pool of blood that glistened upon a white tile floor and flowed beneath the doorway. His world was slowly turning into a nightmare carnival, where the people on the rides were really screaming, the people lost in the mirror maze were really lost, and the folks at the Freak Show looked at you with lunatic smiles and terror in their eyes.
Brilliant chains of molten-silver lightning flashed and rattled across the wedge of the sky, as rolling thunder shook the first fat raindrops from the clouds; they snapped and splattered against the glass, sizzled and danced on the wet pavement outside. As the flesh of the night pressed hard against the windows, the house popped and creaked with settling ruination.
Jim Wainscott sat at his table surrounded by his so-called friends who talked at him from both sides, breathing all over his dinner and his half-eaten salad.
“You must join us, Jim. We need you.”
He continued to chew his beef boudalier. Outside, arteries of dazzling white light pulsed through the body of the night.
Wainscott plucked his napkin from his lap and gently tapped at his mouth. “No, gentleman, what you need is to go home to your families and abandon all this foolishness.”
Nathan Turner, a prominent neurologist, slammed his fist down upon the table. “Is it folly to defeat death? You, of all people, know this discovery will change everything!”
Wainscott’s cheeks flushed with anger, his face hardened. It appeared to have been carved out of granite with broken chisels and snapped hammers. He quickly reined himself in, held his emotions at arms length. “Gentleman, please, you are not gods. You are but mortal men.” He glared at the neurologist, the other rippling like a fat slippery eel in his gut, threatening to swim up his throat and surge into his mouth. With difficulty, he held it at bay. “Not gods, I tell you—mortal. No more—no less.”
Richard Hammerstead, a former colleague of Jim’s who had graduated with him from the university joined in to try and diffuse the awkward situation. “But if there were a way, Jim…to bring the dead back to life, wouldn’t that at least warrant your consideration?”
A thin smile appeared at the corners of his mouth, yet so fleeting, that one could have mistaken it for a wince. “Listen to me, Richard," he said softly. "It is blasphemy. The Frankenstein Society is taking an old myth and moving forward with it as if it were truth. This is folly. You are meddling with something that goes against God. Abandon this path or it will destroy you in the end.”
Anyway, that’s what I got so far. Although, I enjoy the beginning, I always get stuck with that stale idea of bringing the dead back to life. Of course, there is something increasingly wicked running through the head of that Dr. Wainscott, heh? 
Don’t ever throw old ideas away. Keep ‘em, store ‘em, hide 'em under your bed, whatever…just don’t toss ‘em out. You never know if it will inspire you again later.
I hope you don’t mind me sharing these unfinished stories with you. There is no better way for me to teach than by example. I trust that my writing has helped you to improve yours.
Until next time,
billwilcox
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READ THIS! REVIEW IT!
Excerpt: His curiosity coaxed me to abandon the shadows. At first, he smiled, thinking that I would bend at his will. His sapphire eyes glowed in anticipation of another victim falling for his shallow charm.
The image I projected of beauty beyond words weakened his knees. I caressed his smooth face, puckered my lips, and with tenderness, planted a kiss.
"Is this real?" he asked.
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#179673 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: Becky Sue sat up, pushing away her mother's hands, and called, "Daddy, he hurt me! Make him go away!" She held out a scratched, dirty arm in Frederick's direction, as if to ward him off. Warren looked over his shoulder at her voice, thinking of how young his Becky Sue was. With a roar, he took a step closer to Frederick, aiming the gun quite a bit lower now. Frederick was no fool--he saw what was on Mr. Tait's mind. Without another word, he turned his back on Becky Sue, the Tait home, and Warren's gun, and headed for the woods at the foot of Mt. Grace.
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#1142282 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: Thane smiled with pure glee and quietly opened the tissue, holding it out for his company to see. Inside were two fingers, bloody and crooked, still shaped as if they looked for the hand they once belonged to.
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#1145497 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: One plant in particular stands alone. This must be the thing you seek. The plant was said to have once belong to Nostradamus and then to Rasputin. A few clippings over the last hundred years have been sold but the price is not only high financially, but in others ways as well.
Excerpt: Looking into a window is not the same as looking through it. Windows are like doors opening into other worlds--worlds left better undisturbed. Even now, a fresh spring garden lies before me. I can see the sunlight falling upon the trees and sweet grass, smell the scent of mushrooms growing in the moist shadows, hear the gentle gurgle of the stream and the hum-buzz of insects.
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On The Corner Of A Napkin
Jaye P. Marshall 
Submitted Comment:
Hey, Bill, great newsletter!
Had to tell you that I think you have an excellent beginning in your Nursing Home story. The haunting by past residents - which is what I'm thinking - is definitely one I've never run across.
Elaine's Beary Limited*~ 
Submitted Comment:
This is a wonderful scary story, or at least the beginning of one. I have watched horror stories in hospitals and mental wards but I dont think I have ever heard of one in a nursing home.Good job. I really liked this story and will be waiting to read more.
werden 
Submitted Comment:
That was an intriguing story. I would like to read its entirety when it is finished. Fear of a nursing home is very real, a fear that almost everyone shares if they are honest with themselves.
drifter46
Submitted Comment:
I'll have to pass this along to my wife since she is a nurse in a nursing home. I've been with her on more than one occasion so there's nothing you can possibly write that, as far as I'm concerned, would be impossible. I've personally seen a spindly old woman who spoke in several different voices while balanced on the bed rail at the foot of the bed. Talk about your demonic possession.
KimmieK
Bill,
I can tell this is going to be a very gruesome story.
Just a couple of things - is the nurse called Maria or Rosa? Bob thanks Maria and then Rosa is afraid of the room and the empty bed.
When the unseen voice whispers about Rose being a rotting corpse, delete the word eventually. Eventually gives way too much time. If you delete eventually, the sentence becomes much more immanent and therefore, scarier and ickier.
That's about it - keep up the good work!
-Kim
Right you are, Kim. Although my mind's eye saw the nurse as Rosa, it was too close to the wife's name, Rose. So I changed it. I guess I missed a part. Thanks for the headsup!
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Horror/Scary: June 03, 2009 Issue [#3081]
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