Ghosts of New Year

A ghostly tale that keeps you in suspense until the great twist at the end.
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Richard M. Ankers - Author

Ghosts of New Year

City236.jpgHave you seen it?

“What?” I said looking around.

The Past. The Present. The Future.

“I’ve seen two of them,” I replied and jumped behind the fridge. There was nobody there.

Such a shame. Such a shame.

The voice ricocheted around the room as though the last lonely echo fleeing a subterranean tunnel.

“John, is that you?”

I had no idea why I said it because I’d only ever known one John and he’d died in a car crash aged seven. There was just something about the voice that made me panic, set my heart all a jitter; it unnerved me.

I wish I could show you the future as I see it in colours and sound and cascades of gold. I can’t, though. No, not yet.

“Look whoever you are!” I growled in as fearsome a tone as I could muster. “Who are you? Where…

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Fine Dining

This appealed to my darker nature.
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livingauthorssociety

wine

“Refinement,” Albert said, raising his glass high. “That’s what’s missing from society these days. A sense of class. Culture.”

Light glinted on the rim of the round glass and danced over the little ripples in the golden wine. Albert watched it in silence for a moment, studying each little movement. The wine’s aroma filled his nostrils. He took a small sip and let the taste linger on his tongue.

Yes, he decided, this was an excellent vintage.

“What a shame,” Albert continued, “that our society no longer values such things. Such wonderful, wonderful things.”

His gaze swept over the room and he smiled a cold smile, one that never reached his dark eyes.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked.

There was no answer. Ten eyes stared pleadingly at him from terrified faces. Twenty hands struggled with the ropes that bound them to polished wooden chairs.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Albert said…

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Killer Tales 1 – Slips

(Note: This story is not for the faint of heart. There is extreme violence and murder – this is after all about a serial killer and told from the serial killer’s pov)

There she is. You wouldn’t notice anything unusual about her, but I’ve been watching her now for three weeks. She has that perfect sway to her hips. Time to get down to business.

“Excuse me. I am trying to get my grandfather loaded into my van, but the lift is broken. Can you help me?”

I’ve been using my grandfather for years now. He has no clue what’s going on. He just sits and drools. I know, it’s a lame excuse and has been done before, but just wait. It gets more original.

She leaves the safety of her car and follows me to the van. She goes in first to gently hold my grandfather’s head. Such a nice woman’s touch. As soon as he is loaded in, I slam the door shut. She tries to get out of the side door, but it’s bolted shut. The bulletproof glass that separates the back of the van from the front keeps her from beating the crap out of me as I drive away. I do enjoy the sound of her fists pounding on the glass though. The oxygen mask over my grandfather’s face isn’t just for looks, nor for his health. I flip a switch and the back fills with nitro gas. Grandfather is okay, but my mark has passed out.

Back home, grandfather is tucked safely into bed. I descend into the basement where my mark is naked and strung out on a table – hands bound together above her head, her mouth gagged so I don’t have to hear her screams too soon and her legs separated by a metal bar bolted between her ankles. She’ll stay fairly still this way. I go to my work table and lay out my tools – a boner knife, a mallet, several ice picks, a whip and a bottle of vinegar.

She stirs. I hear her moans and I know it’s time to begin. I turn with the mallet and an ice pick in my hands. Her eyes are wide with fear. You should see how she writhes and shakes. Sweat beads up on her forehead. I stand at her waist and press my thumb into her hip until I feel the hip bone. Then I place the ice pick over the spot and with a swift pound of the mallet, I drive it deep between the hip bone and the thigh bone. There’s the sound I’ve been waiting for – the slight crunch of cartilage. Her scream is muffled, but tears stream down her cheeks. You would have pity for her, wouldn’t you? Not me. I proceed to the other side of the table and drive a second ice pick into the other hip. She is secured.

I grasp a boner knife in my hand and return to my mark. I run the tip of the knife along each cheek, across her chin and down the center of her throat.

“Shhhhhh… don’t move or I may just slip too soon,” I whisper into her ear.

With expert precision, I begin slicing away tiny strips of her flesh – first from each forearm, then from each thigh. Each strip is hung on one of the lines that runs from one end of the basement to the other. My trophies. Hundreds and hundreds of strips of flesh.

Back to my mark once again, I run my knife along each breast, close to the bone, just enough to separate, but not remove them completely. I return to my work station and grab the vinegar and whip. Finally, I remove her gag. As I pour the vinegar over her bloody flesh, I bask in the sound of her screams. With the whip in hand, I strike her flesh over and over again. Watch as whelps rise upon her flesh. And the pièce de résistance – I pour on more vinegar until she passes out from the pain.

Ahhhhh… you should have heard her. If I could only get you to understand how beautiful her screams are, how they gladden my heart, then perhaps you would know how empowering this feels. This has been hours of pleasure.

I stand at the top of the table and pat her face until she awakens. As I hold the knife out in front of her face, I whisper, “Nothing personal, dear,” and then quickly slit her throat.

I stroll back to my work bench and turn on my computer. I pull up the file of mother dancing with me as a child, my feet on top of her feet, my hands holding on to her hips as she sways. You’d think this would be a happy, cherished memory, wouldn’t you? That dance led to helping in the kitchen. To filleting a fish. To the slip of the knife that cuts mother deeply on the thigh. And then a beating moments later. She strings me up in the closet, throws vinegar on my whelps and laughs as I scream. She doesn’t stop until I pass out. This isn’t my first punishment of this nature, nor the last, but mother was my first kill.

©2016 Lori Carlson. All rights reserved.

(853 words)

 

June on A Whispered Wind

June will be an exciting month here on A Whispered Wind, well at least it will be for me! I will be writing 30 original Killer Tales! Tales about Serial Killers. So if you are a fan of serial killers, you may want to tune in. Each story will be between 500-1500 words.

I will also be writing “small stones” daily, but I may not get around to many reblogs.

See you tomorrow!

Friday Fictioners: Mocking the forgotten dead

hauntingly beautiful flash
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Word Shamble

JhardyPHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Shutters make the windows turn a blind eye – always a blind eye. A breeze blows the limbs of skeletal trees, bony twigs ticking a non-rhythm. Gates hold tufted grass and last year’s crisply fallen leaves prisoner.

A Death’s Head moth – woken early by a fragile burst of sun – batters his powdery wings against the bars. Once, twice, he bounces against the metal then away, flitting over the condemned cells, the exercise yard – the long drop – his careless freedom mocking the forgotten dead.

The breeze steals away to brighter places and leaves the building to its past.

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Saw this lovely photo prompt (originally from Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioners) on Ga H Learner’s blog and had to join in. Two pic prompts in one day? What am I like?

See the full rules here.

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It was Fur Elise

This story will leave you in awe, as will the music (click the video and have a listen!). Check out the rich descriptive language!
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Random_Michelle

In response to photo-fiction #31

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It was Fur Elise we heard, as we hid in the woods.It was the song  Nan had played on the old baby grand. To get us to sleep, or to be quiet when Mama had reached the end of her wit and Papa was not there to quell us with his stern expression.

We had listened to her play the night the men had come. Stopping abruptly the music and the spell of sweet Nan, who smelled like peppermint and her tincture for her fingers and old age. Stopped it with shouting in their harsh voices, the splintering of wood as the door frame shattered beneath their boots and the wailing of an old woman, and the arguing of an old man. A ruckus made only to allow Mama to herd us all out the kitchen, across the way and to Papa, the Rabbi and…

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All Grown Up

a beautifully penned flash fiction… when one is forced to grow up
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The Write Project

“It had been a long fight.”

She stared up from her chair. She didn’t even recognize this guy. Who was he to tell her, like she didn’t know?

“Yes, it had been. Thank you for letting me know.”

The man drew back for a second, stunned by her sharpness. Then he recovered and gave her a patronizing, sympathetic smile before walking away.

She hardly remembered any of the others who kissed and greeted her. Yes, I’m okay, please go ahead, I’ll just stay here a bit more, thank you, thank you again… She lost count of how many times she repeated herself, over and over and over.

It seemed to take forever before they were all finally gone.

The grave diggers started tapping their feet, and the driver of the rented car checked his watch yet again. She just kept staring at the coffin, oblivious that there were even any people still around.

All her…

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