Author: Sketched Text

CR Evans is an Australian writer. She is an avid horror fan and has been writing since she was a child. She has previously had a short story, “Shut-In” published by Flame Tree Publishing and plans to write an office-based horror novel. CR Evans has a longstanding interest in sci-fi, fantasy and horror and finds that in stories, the unknown elements are by far the most interesting.

Sacrifice

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I’m glad we have a moment alone. We don’t have long, but I have something very important to ask you. I know it doesn’t look good outside. We have limited resources, and God knows we’re crowded. But there’s a way out for you.

You’re not like the others: you’re smarter. We’re going to need people like you in the future. But with what supplies we have, only ten percent of us can make it. And you need to be one of them.

There’s a bunker below, only a few of us knew about it, and I think I’m the only one left who still knows about it. I’m assembling the best group I can and hunkering down for the long haul.

No, it’s just you. You’ll have to leave them behind. But you’ll survive. Unless you’d rather someone take your place?

No?

Good. 6am. The door will be unlocked.

Hello everyone. First time addressing everyone as a group, I believe. It was lovely getting to speak with you all individually, and to hear your answers to my question.

Happy to answer any questions you might have, although they may be answered by the following:

Yes, I expect that the screaming and banging on the door will stop soon. There’s nothing down there.

Tourist Attraction

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The temple was famous for the sound produced when the wind blew through. A faint kind of wail, almost like choral singing.

Sarah stayed as long as her tour allowed, but the sounds of other tourists kept her from hearing it clearly. She’d hoped to record some of the sound for herself. Her frustration must have been visible, because the tour guide offered to bring her back after hours if she paid extra. Sarah immediately agreed.

Standing in the courtyard that evening, Sarah was finally able to hear the sound without interruption. It was not a continuous noise as she’d thought. It rose and fell in intensity, but not in relation to the speed of the wind. In a moment of stillness, the noise continued, much fainter.

There were words within it.

Help me

Hel-

Sarah woke in darkness, the only light from a vent above which flickered open when the wind blew. Around her, starving figures screamed towards snatched glances at the sky. Below her lay the bodies of those who had fallen silent.

Sarah screamed.

Return and Burn

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Littering was Joe’s biggest pet peeve. He could be having the best day of his life, but the sight of someone lazily dropping trash would put him in a bad mood for hours.

So already stuck in inching traffic, staring at the debris on the side of the road, Joe was on a hair trigger.

The blue car ahead of him, who didn’t give him so much as a wave for letting them merge in front ten minutes ago, rolled down their window. He saw the driver fiddle with something in the centre console. He saw them drop the disposable coffee cup out of the window.

Traffic moved slightly. Enough that Joe could open his door to retrieve the cup. What contents hadn’t been spilled were cold, no longer drinkable and thus discarded.

Joe put it in the cup holder. He’d recycle it later.

Five minutes later, he saw the driver of the blue car drop the remains of a cigarette from the window and found himself unbuckling his seatbelt. A few moments later he approached the blue car on foot. The driver’s window was still open, the driver exhaling after drags of a second cigarette.

The cigarette butt was thrown in first, the movement enough for the distracted driver to turn and notice Joe, holding the coffee cup with his fingertips.

There was a blur. Then searing pain. Then screaming.

Joe returned to his car. Those disposable coffee cups really are the worst, he thought. The lids pop right off, and they barely hold in any heat. Plus they get floppy after a while, so it burns when you try to refill then. He gingerly screwed the lid tightly back onto his half-full thermos. The coffee inside was still too hot to drink, and he’d hate to get himself burned.

Unheeded

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There is power in the unheeded.

Agreements hidden in the introduction to a recipe, skipped over and agreed without perusal. You have agreed to take on the burden of that witch’s anxiety, shared between you and anyone else who makes her kale and zucchini bread. It had 3 reviews and was on the second page of the search results. Consider medication.

Minutes of your life are stolen between the last time you looked at your watch and when you look at your car’s clock. You’re certain it didn’t take you five minutes to put on your shoes and walk to the car. You are right. You have personally added two weeks to the lich’s lifespan.

The dreams you forget are the best ones. You probably didn’t deserve them, anyway. Gregory the Night Thief deserves them. You deserve restless sleep and dry mouth.

Actually, that might be the anxiety talking.

You should share that recipe.

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I had to attend a funeral today. I’ve tried, but anything I wrote today will be influenced by it, and it’s not something for horror or fiction

Going to write something longer tomorrow

Two Sentence Stories (part 24)

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Upstairs and warm in bed, Anna reached sleepily to pet the warm, furry creature next to her in bed.

Downstairs, her pet cat stood proudly over what turned out to be the second rat that had come through the cat flap.

She edited her photos so much that none of her dates could recognise her in person. This meant that when they returned home dejected after being stood-up, none of them could identify the intruder.

His friends has assured him that the worst thing she could say was “no”, but on bended knee with the ring glinting in the light, her response broke him.

“who are you?!”

Covers

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It was a simple but clever display, Marsha thought. A dozen sculptures, all hollow, made of cloth and glue. Each looked like it was fabric draped over a famous sculpture – the kind of works the museum could never dream of housing.

It was a popular display too. People enjoyed guessing which sculpture was meant to be underneath. Marsha’s favourite guess was from the middle aged man who insisted to his teenage daughter that the outline of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ was one of those Ronald McDonald sculptures they used to put on benches.

There was concern about damage from the public. Being hollow, the sculptures were fragile and very light. They were also unsteady: the artist gave them uneven bases, where the fabric did not quite reach the ground. This let the audience see that there was nothing underneath, but meant that some were a little wobbly.

Marsha was locking up that night. She collected her purse from the office, then walked through the gallery to the exit. She held her keys in her hand – Marsha’s manager already locked the doors an hour ago when she turned the main lights out. Marsha had stayed behind to count the till and close up the gift shop. In the dim light from the front door and the exit signs, walking through the room of draped figures felt like passing a ballroom of frozen ghosts.

Entering the room, Marsha felt something was wrong.

Halfway through, she realised what the problem was.

She continued at the same pace, trying not to let any outward signs show. She forced herself to hum, rather than hyperventilate or cry out.

Trembling, she unlocked the front door, looking at her reflection to see if anything approached her from behind. Once she was outside and the door was locked again, Marsha bent down and pretended to tie up a zippered boot.

There were now 13 sculptures – one more than there should be. And from her low vantage point, Marsha could see there was nothing under any of them. Someone must have snuck in their own work, she deduced.

Now that she knew it wasn’t an intruder hiding under a sheet, Marsha stood up and looked more carefully. She had to press her face against the glass, cupping her hands around her face to block out the streetlights.

Scanning the familiar shapes, Marsha frowned. It was obvious immediately, because it was so plain. Slightly shorter than the others, it was an outline of a person standing straight, with their arms at their sides. A less-skilled copycat, then. Not the artist adding a late contribution.

Marsha got her phone out of her purse to take a photo. Looking through the screen, she gasped. It looked closer.

Looking up from the phone, she was certain it was. The sculpture was now placed at the edge of the entry carpet.

Marsha took one step back. The figure took one step forward.

Marsha ran, and did not look back to see if it followed.

The next morning there were twelve sculptures again, and Marsha did not offer to lock up for the duration of the exhibition.

Direction

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Ethan was immediately obsessed with the ballerina. He sat too far back to make out her features, but her fluid movements, weightless leaps and unceasing smile reached him from across the theatre.

Rose was delighted that he had enjoyed the show, as he had been so reluctant to attend when she suggested it. She laughed when he approached the ticket booth to purchase tickets for the next night’s performance. She stopped when he purchased only one.

Ethan hardly noticed Rose’s swift withdrawal from him. He only wanted to see her.

The programme had only her first name: Marion. 

The next night, Ethan sat as close to the front as possible, waiting for the lights to dim before darting forward four rows to place himself in an empty seat in the front row.

His fear of being ousted was immediately forgotten when Marion glided onto the stage. Ethan was still not quite able to see her face clearly. Though as close as possible, it seemed that the orchestra pit pushed the front row back further than normal. Still, her smile was apparent to all, her movements in perfect tempo.

The only annoyance to Ethan was that some member of the orchestra was using a metronome. The clicking was faint, but noticeable in the lulls.

After the performance, Ethan joined the dozens of fans waiting at the doors of the theatre for the Marion to sign autographs and greet her fans. A cheer erupted when she appeared at a balcony above them, smiling as an attendant worriedly kept her from the edge. She stood only at the edge of the doorway, the light behind her crafting a perfect silhouette. She even waved perfectly, turned her gaze to each person below.

Ethan gasped when she looked at him. He knew it was different than it was for anyone else. Years from now, he knew she would recall seeing him for the first time. She would laugh about gazing at him a moment longer than all the others and sigh as she spoke about knowing he was the one.

He just had to give her the chance.

It took weeks to learn the choreography of the theatre itself. What is seen on stage is only a fraction of the machine hidden behind sets and curtains. But Ethan was patient. He learned who did not pay attention and who could be paid to lack attention. He learned which hallways went to the dressing rooms, then learned that Marion’s room was next to the producer’s office.

Ethan would save her from that impropriety, he decided. The producer, from what he saw, kept busy. He was always in the rafters, demanding lighting and any hanging props be moved.

Ethan did not see Marion in that time, except on stage and at the balcony attached to her room. He decided that he would need to approach her before her performance, and before she was somehow transported past her fans without being spotted.

As he approached the door, the producer was in the rafters, dealing with a light Ethan had shifted.

It wasn’t locked, as though Marion had known he’d need to enter quietly. He wondered if she was already packed, waiting to be saved.

He found her asleep at her vanity. She had fallen forward as though modelling sleep. Ethan called her name softly. Marion remained still.

Ethan knew what to do. He walked forward confidently and embraced her.

As Ethan wrapped his arms around the hunched figure, two things happened in unison: the bell calling for the audience go take their seats rang, and Ethan realised something was wrong. The arms under his did not yield. No gasp or breath escaped the body he compressed. Her hair was immaculate, yet he felt loose hairs like spider webs across his skin.

Over the pealing bell, Ethan heard the quiet chorus of ticks as Marion’s joints tightened and she began to stand. What he thought were gossamer hairs tightened around him. Strings pulled Marion to a standing position, straining with the extra weight of Ethan for a moment. Then the pieces fell away from her.

Marion’s painted smile never faltered, and her glass eyes never blinked as she walked to the stage. She would not understand the horror at her dripping form. It was not what she was made for.

As he lay bleeding on the floor, Ethan knew that that he should not have looked so closely at perfection.