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Fiction Writings :: Dead Girl In The Dark

Dead Girl In The Dark
by ray hom
©2002

Writhing like a shark out of water, Molly floated in her own pool of blood. I sat a mere two feet from her as I watched her be consumed by death. I had killed her in my own self-defense as well as for the children’s.

She was a big, strong woman, which enabled her to have kidnapped me. It was a bitch overpowering her when I had the chance. At one point, she had broken my jaw with a sledgehammer. (I was mostly gums when I smiled at her corpse.) But I had managed the opportunity to wrestle her weapon into my possession. Forced to choose my life over hers, I swung hard the hammer from various angles as she relentlessly rushed at me. My actions broke one of her arms, her legs, and crushed her bodily organs inward towards her heart. All six feet of her fell forward, as intestines exploded outward of her spine.

When her life finally admitted defeat, Molly’s contorted face showed an emotional rage of suspended anger as if no god cared to receive her for rest.

#

Molly and her husband, Jeff, had believed adults had lost their souls. “We force children to believe things that are harmful,” Molly said. “They are born innocent. It is the adult’s responsibility to keep them innocent. Adults have ruined the image of children. But it has become impossible to save their innocence because the adults choose to indulge in guilty pleasures.” She spat adult as if it was a bad word.

Molly, who seemed aged beyond the beginnings of adulthood, was the mother of three dead children. Jeff was recently executed by the state for multiple murders of the young, including his own. Though the bodies of his own children have never been found, he admitted his ghastly actions with no sense of guilt or shame. He even led the authorities to a shack where he kept his young victims “from any more harm of the adult world.” No guilt or shame. And because of the judgment that was placed on Jeff, Molly believed that in order to continue protecting the children, it would be the adults that had to be punished.

Naively heartfelt but deranged on her actions, she blamed the adults who have corrupted the power of influence on children. Like a snake spitting venom, she spoke with an aggressive but disciplined confidence of a better world. She railed against movies, video games, atheists, teachers, books, homosexuals, the government, religion, sex, the radio, TV, comic books, foreigners, rap music, sports, the media, swimsuit calendars, make-up, home gym sets, and computers; she incoherently blamed everything. “There is no need to know such things because they made you into adults – impure creatures,” she concluded.

How did I fit in all this? I was a local elementary school teacher who taught 4th and 5th graders. “And you’re at fault!” Molly accused me. “It’s people like you that wrong this world.” She was referring to us, adult educators, whom she believed took away the parent’s roles in responsibility of humanity’s young.

Despite Jeff’s execution, Molly believed there was still hope to make the world safe for children. I was unclear of what she exactly wanted of a perfect society for children. But I had feared her final solution was to start a holocaust against the entire human race, adults on trial and children purified.

Molly boasted to have already killed many adults; this I did not dare to ask for any proof. But I had witnessed about ten adult corpses of both sexes laid against a wall piled high enough to a barred window. No doubt these were the victims of Molly’s sledgehammering and I was next to be placed on top of that mound.

When I killed Molly, I became alone in the basement with the dead.

The late night chill of the basement told me not to stick around to see what happened next. I needed to find an escape from the basement. I looked to the barred window above the pile of dead human flesh but the thought of climbing the deceased to freedom seemed morbidly disrespectful.

Therefore, my eyes turned to the only other escape. Twenty-five steps led up to the only door out of this basement. It looked distant especially since I’ve been comfortably immobile on the ground ever since I was responsible for Molly’s death. I felt fatigued and carried a fear of fainting, which gave me an antagonist to my hope of survival.

But I’ve had enough of death. I spewed phlegm from my misplaced jaw onto Molly’s corpse and began to crawl up the stairs. On all four, my body ached with cry for more rest. But persistence to flee the deceased gave me good reason not to stay. Both hands were placed on steps as I pushed myself up for my knees to follow. Time awareness was no longer a factor as I was counting each single step up. This act didn’t take longer than I had expected because I’ve had to strength to give me the will. And after only have counted 20 steps instead of twenty-five, I had reached the door; it was too heavy for what strength I had left to open it. I cried scratching to reach the doorknob but it seemed too high for my legs to ascend for.

As I was about to give up, I heard a knock on the door. I did not hesitate to scream,”In here! I am alive!” This had caused my toothless gums to bleed again. I continued to cry.

#

I yelled incessantly; I banged bloody knuckles on wood and metal for all that lived to hear. But no one had answered my plea to open the door.

With lost energy, I fell back and rested for an unknown passage of time. This had caused a minor rejuvenation of enough strength to boost myself up and turn the doorknob. I managed with the weight of my body to push open the door, only to see a dark, empty hallway that led towards the front of the house. The presence of death awaited me there. To the left and right of this hallway were doorways that led to dark places I did not wish to know what had died in them. A flight of steps near the front end of the hallway led upstairs. In between all this anatomy of a seemingly empty house, a front door anticipated me. But I thought I had heard tiny footsteps flitter above me causing me to believe that I was not alone.

On hands and knees, I began to crawl forward, forcing myself to yelp ‘Somebody… help me…’ with only a faint whisper. My joints ached as my muscles pushed and pulled at my body’s command. Every crawling inch, I saw chipped paint on walls hugged by pictures of dead ancestors perversely leering at me to join them. The ragged rug, which I crawled on, was decorated with dirt crumbs shaped in images of footsteps from many past visitors of the dead. The front door was illuminated by a dying light bulb causing me to see light spots that resembled patches of what I imagined would be hell’s face. I continued to crawl… and whisper my plea.

Pushing like a reptile with limp limbs, I begged for the door to come closer. I was about 20 feet away now, pulling forward with the rest of my numbed body following. My tears have dried and my hardened face felt puffed with heavy eyelids.

By this time, my elbows had preferred to stable my crawl because my calloused hands finally refused to work for me anymore. But they popped and cracked, as I had to lean forward with every move, elbow by elbow.

I froze as I suddenly heard a faint whisper of a purr that had caused an eerie heart pounding response in my being. I looked up at the door as if it wanted to talk to me. Like a fade-in from a dark movie screen, an eye began to appear in mid-air. Than the second eye winked out of thin air next to the first as the rest of the face – dark nose, pale lips, floppy ears -completed the vision and became the head. Like red paint racing down a white wall, the body of this apparition became apparent. I focused my eyes to see.

She floated in front of the doorway blocking my escape. I laid frozen at the sight of a pale, adolescent dressed in white (with bloody patches) as her long, black mane trailed down her back. Her dark, marbled eyes bled red tears as she hung in mid air with no limbs – no arms and no legs. She did not speak as she opened her lips to form an ‘O’ shape as if to suck in my soul. The faint purr became a screeching of child’s scream. My body ached. My ears popped. And my eyes became watery, again. The sight overpowered me with dread causing dizziness. And that’s how I had first witnessed the dead girl in the dark.

#

In my childhood years, my father would drive home from work through the local park. It would be dark by the time he checked out as a desk clerk of a local politician which he worked for. There were no public lights within the park, therefore the only light source were the car’s headlights.

I had accompanied my father to work on occasions and on our way home through the park I had my head bowed fearing to look left or right into the darkness. But curiosity caused me to look up and take a few glimpses into the rearview mirror, as I was tall enough when I sat in the back seat. All I had witness was a void of darkness that had no end. But I had felt a presence of something that was beckoning us to turn back.

#

I fear ghosts. I fear them more than any god because just the thought of ghosts could awaken you unexpectedly when you slept. Gods didn’t exist when you need them most. But ghosts lingered in the dark when you need them the least.

I awoke afraid.

Shrouded in darkness, I had awoken on a bed. I only saw the faint silhouette of a dresser with a mirror too wide to see the edges within my peripheral vision. Those damn mirrors. I remember the rhyme, which kept me awake at nights as a child:

Look into the dark mirror
And stare and stare and stare
The ghostly face you seek will appear

I had never seen the ghostly face but it was always inferred to be the ultimate evil that will eat you. What was it like to be eaten by evil? This darkness that I’m encompassed in gave me the feeling of having been swallowed, yet I feel alive. Some people are afraid of heights, others are claustrophobic, and others will never get onto an airplane. No, I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of what could be visible in the dark but can’t be seen in the light: ghosts.

My strength had recuperated; yet, I am afraid to move. I continued staring at the mirror only to see a muted reflection of myself as the moon faintly penetrated the silk curtains of the only window that dared to look into the room.

By instinctive impulse, I turned to my right and pulled a cord, which lit a night lamp. I sat back to see the reflection of the light on the mirror illuminating my body with no head sprawled on the bed. There were bloodstains on the bed sheets that have not dried. I concluded that I haven’t been long here because I felt the stench of death was still fresh upon my headless body.

I was left alone decapitated. The questions had not crossed my mind until now – How had I gotten here? Where was here? Had I died and this is my hell? Why was I still aware?

I sat shocked seeing what is left of me in the mirror. What eyes was I using to see? Where’s my head? I raised both my arms to logically see them rise in the mirror also. I screamed with no voice causing my body to convulse with no head. Where’s my head? Where’s my head?!

Suddenly, I was in a state of confused terror. Fear is a two-bit, backstabbing emotion. It creeps upon you when you have realized that what you never hope to wish for became true. You ignore, you pray, you do all that is humanly possible to not believe. And whatever malevolent force had given me reason to express, I damn it to where courage gives no cure for such an emotion.

I continued to watch the reflection of my corpse with a sense of curiosity mixed with horror. I was scared but from my point-of-view, I did not hurt. Than I understood what was letting me see. I was looking from within the mirror out onto my headless, but living, body. The mirror became my eyes. I am unable to explain this but it seems to be an ability that one has when one has died, I guess. And using my instinct to control the impulses of my body, I animated the headless corpse to get off the bed. Where should I go? What should I do? I saw but I could not think. Then I made what was left of my body walk towards the door. Or was it some other that made me do this? I continued to watch. My hands opened the door and the rest of me walked out. From my angle, the mirror did not reflect beyond the room, so I could not see where my body had exited. But my sense of touch allowed me to know my feet was pounding floor and my hands were grabbing walls. Then, I heard a large rumble of flesh against wood. The pain of hard jabs against my body was felt, as my consciousness was lost, again. I was soon to find out that my body had fallen down a flight of stairs. I had died twice.

#

I was whole again. I regained consciousness at the foot of the steps. I quickly grasped the space above my neck to find my head reattached. Had it really been removed? I did not worry about what had happened at that point because as I looked up, I saw the front door of the house again.

The house had gotten darker than the last time I was here. No light source existed now except the voyeur of the moonlight through the window shades. The only light bulb of this part of the house had died.

I had gotten up with ease as I felt the tingling of my blood awakening every sleeping limb of my body. I turned the doorknob and swung the door wide open. Looking out into the night, the moon seemed to smile to me for being alive. I will sort out what happened here when day arrives again tomorrow morning. For now, it was time for me to make a final run back to civilization.

I skipped down the steps of the house without a care of looking back at what I was leaving. What was before me was nothing but dark forest. Trees, which stood tall enough to hide the sky, hugged each other to prevent me from going further in any direction. Their limbs extended outwards as if to claw me to death, if I dared get any closer. But I was Man and did not care what trees could do to me; so I ran forward.

It only took me two steps until I saw her again. I froze with curiosity as if expecting all to be explained now.

The dead girl walked from within the dark woods with two companions. Perfect in her own image, all her limbs I observed had been seamed together with tree roots to form the whole of her. As she walked, her legs twisted left and right as she forced them both to move forward. Holding her hand on the right (my right) was a little boy with no left arm. No doubt, I believed this to be her brother. How did I know this? She let me know by her nurturing of the boy as he was being tugged to walk faster. Her other hand dragged the dead body of an older girl, probably her sister. This older sister had a knife stabbed into her cranium as spittle dropped out from her wide-open mouth. I saw no blood. Ghosts didn’t bleed unless they did it for effect of fear, didn’t they? This stabbed-head hung by its broken neck like a ragged doll. Walking with a frown, there was a look of no peace for the dead girl, as she seemed to be burden with responsibility of family even after death.

I felt my soul had escaped leaving my physical body alone to die. The torment of such imagery bore no mercy for my heart. The chill of a fever – hot and cold – came on to me, hard and quick. Nausea surged from my stomach climbing bile up my throat. I fell to my hands and knees trying to scream,”No more!” But my throat was caved in with dried blood from my toothless gums, which prevented me from having a voice.

The dead girl had let go of her big sister, causing the body to drop with a thud. The little boy giggled as he ran to the dead big sister and continously slapped her with his one arm. “Bad sister!” he continued to giggle. What would of warranted someone to be continually abused even when dead? “Bad sister! Bad sister!” the dead, one-armed boy portrayed a creepy innocence of himself.

The dead girl continued to sloth towards me, leaving her brother to play with big sister. The eyes of her face rolled out of their sockets following the bloody tears streaming down her rosy cheeks, as she lunged both arms toward me. She could cry no more.

This sight caused me to shut tight my own eyes. I was beyond frightened to dare look anymore. My childhood fears crept back and I was a child again. This was what I feared in my father’s rear-view mirror. No! Go away! I did not go back, so it came to me. I squinted my eyes hard enough for my cheeks to quench. This pained my face until my eyes produced tears. Go away! I wish you away! Leave me alone. I spoke with a child’s squeal.

I was soon to realize that it was not my face muscles that quenched my cheeks. This is what actually happened: contact with the dead. The dead girl had sunken her fingers, as if they were claws of a bear, into the sides of my face. The pressure of both her hands against my cheeks popped my eyes open. The pain bit me hard as I cried for her to stop. She smiled with natural, pink lips as her eye sockets stared back at my own eyes, while I felt her cold flesh seemingly meld into mines.

The voice of the dead girl descended to a quiet, baby-like tone as she began to speak to me. Innocent in her cry as she continued to stare what’s left of my soul out of its home – my body. “I don’t want to sleep anymore,” she pleaded. Her simple request didn’t jibe with my sense of what was happening.

I squirmed but the stability of the dead is unmoving.

I saw the dead, big sister rose from her dead sleep. She stood up on both legs. “Go away, you pest!” big sister said, as she pushed her little brother to the floor. Then she slumbered towards the dead girl and me. She removed the knife from her cranium and raised it towards the sky. Blood surged from the wound on her skull, liquid-thickening her hair.

The effect of fear had definitely set in for me now. I became too weak to push back and too desolate to cry. Behind the dead girl, I saw the big sister raising her right arm with knife in hand towards me. The living dead was hungry and I am subdued cattle.

Weakness wasn’t strong enough of a word because I could not find the motivation to be strong. I lacked physical motor abilities to move. I had no strength in me to fight this young child that made me soulless.

“It’s your turn to play dead,” said big sister. There was an eerie sarcasm in what she said that prevented me from not laughing. With a bellow surging from the pit of my stomach, the chuckle forced my toothless smile at the dead girl. I coughed dried blood.

I knew what was to happen next and neither hope nor courage was within me to sense the strength to care. The big sister forced the knife down upon my forehead, which caused my blood to squirt on both sisters. They did not show humor in all this; therefore, I assumed they took all this seriously. For reasons, I am unaware it did not hurt as much as I had anticipated. At least, not yet.

The force of adrenaline mixed with physical pain surged in me. I grabbed both her arms. Like soft, frozen meat, her flesh had no life. I felt nothing ethereal about all this. She was as real as life is allowed. But she is dead.

With both my hands pushing her back, she screamed as if she felt the life in me. She received my touch with a sense of humble gratitude as her smile became less wicked but happier. I said a mumbo jumbo prayer because I did not understand what was happening nor was I religious.

The dead girl’s body began to throttle forward while the last of her bloody tears painted my hands the color of death. I forced both my arms even harder, pushing the dead girl towards the direction of the dark forest. She burst like a balloon as the residue of her existence dissipated like ferment being thrown in a New Year’s Eve party. Her brother and big sister followed in the same likeness. Where had they gone? That’s the scary part. Just feeling the presence of things out of the corner of your eye but you can’t see them.

I grabbed the handle of the knife, which stuck out of my forehead and pulled. I was alive? I was still conscious? I saw no mirrors. What was this thing about death? I did not understand? I threw down the knife and had thanked it for not killing me. I was aware that I had just talked to an inanimate object and did not care because that could not be any worse than talking to the dead.

I also had become aware of my body. My legs. My feet. My arms and hands. And my head. They were all accounted for.

I got up facing the dark forest, again. It looked easy but the fear of what may still be waiting beyond made my knees wobble and my ankles buckle. My two feet felt as if they were backwards. I took the first step and a teardrop fell from my left eye. Another one followed from my right eye. I was finally crying. I felt lonely and helpless, trapped forever in my mind even if I make it out of this place.

The numbness of my head felt the sudden urgency of pain. At that instance, I understood, she had entered my head.

Fear has become even darker as I could not see my antagonists. Alone, they have become myself. It’s like having no sense of life yet I feel the presence of, not necessarily evil, but something that keeps coming back because it believes it should harm me over again. It’s like riding a roller coaster and falling off onto the tracks only to get run over again by the same roller coaster. A senseless but coincidental suffering that will teach you that this world is wickedly not fair and you unknowingly feel guilty because of it. Yet, you will never accept it because it is wicked to begin with… too wicked for any lesson to be learned.

Her voice rang inside my head causing pain to pulsate as if Molly was bashing my head again with the sledgehammer. I could not make out what she was saying to me. It sounded like the jumbling of many children crying and screaming as if praying for a sense of relief.

“You whore!” I screamed at nothing in the darkness. I normally was not the type to cuss at children (dead or alive) but what occurred brought out the darkness in me. I wished to show my masculine strength even to a dead female – like a father to a child, a husband to a wife. But courage had neither name nor purpose here. “Please…” but mercy may.

“Mommy. This one has a bad mouth,” voices echoed in my head.

“I killed your mommy! It was for you! Please!” I shouted.

After that moment, she became sexless in my thought, like an androgynous creature intent on making me become like it. She has accepted me. And the pain in my head subsided. She has left me for still hope of a peaceful death.

I fell back tired crying for sleep. But I dare not sleep. If I fall asleep, something will awaken me suddenly. And I hate being surprised. Darkness is hell for me.

I saw the moon glow as the quietness of the forest was accompanied by the chirping of crickets. The trees have raised their branches and I felt no fear for the first time before Molly kidnapped me. I took a few breaths and believed that I should not stay expecting a bad ending to a horror story.

I stood up and ran, happy knowing the moon still shined, the trees still uprooted. And I saw the signs of a midnight carnival lying ahead. I heard the cheers of laughing people and saw the winking lights of entertainment beckon me to become part of the grand show. But as I reached ever closer towards the living, everything went dark.

#

A family of three had stumbled upon my lifeless body. I had somehow managed to crawl into the Hall of Mirrors before death had overtaken me. “Look, ma! Look, pa! A dead body,” said the little boy of age 7. The mother screamed and the father gasped; they saw multiple reflections of my contorted torso with one of my arms twisted over my back as if reaching to protect my heart.

#

I had become diseased with death. I was no longer able to fend for my life. I had passed on and accepted such a fate. Because being a coward, death did not allow Heavenly rewards.

I saw from a distance of what was left of me. Distance? Time? Point-Of-View? They were removed from this new world where one was suppose to rest. It had become a bigger existence, this here supposed afterlife. There was no sign that I had arrived in a Heaven, nor a Hell. There was no longer a need for a god. I moved hard and fast, believing that I was no longer longing for sleep.

Other than myself, I did not feel the presence of adults. But I witnessed many children upon me unafraid; they were eager to learn what the living did. There was a sense of a civil demon cultivated in each of their individual urge.

A fiesta of the young and dead had begun. Why did the teacher in me continued to beckon for nurturing of the young? Why was the world full of copulation with death? Yet, why was the innocent filled with an aggressive eagerness? Here, the dead also told ghost stories. I spoke of Molly and the children she had kept in the dark.

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